I am heating an unusually large cup of coffee. I put half-and-half in it, no sugar. I hope it will cure me. He woke up each day to feelings of __________, _________, and having to take a shit. That’s all he ever did, _______ and took shits. Plus he drank coffee, beer, whiskey, and smoked ____. It sucked. Typing was an activity that felt strange. Typing was like reading, but reading your thoughts. I feel like every sentence is some kind of gimmick. I don’t like what I write. I probably like 10% of what I write. I don’t expect anyone to like what I write. It’s mostly stupid, doom and gloom, bullshit. I find comfort in contradictions though. (wtf am i talking about?) I guess the purpose is to make me feel better. I guess that’s all I really care about and I guess that seems really selfish. But I’m actually a pretty nice person with a lot of potential. Sometimes I forget how happy I should be. He wrote pages of bullshit, stored on his laptop computer, until one day a virus corrupted his hard drive. Nothing was lost, but everything was lost. “It was the best of times, and the worst of times” It is a dream so real that when you wake up, it takes a little while to realize that it never happened. I am almost finished with this cup of coffee and feel a shit coming on. Some of my hobbies include drinking coffee and taking shits. It was very nice to meet you.  I will begin typing a new story:

            Finished cup of coffee.

            “Philosophy is just interesting, hard to understand questions. I would like to see myself as someone who enjoys asking interesting questions.” The other day while driving I thought this. I wanted to write something down then, but I was driving. I texted “I have to go on vacation, type abt the things ive done” Sometimes I am unsure whether or not I ask interesting questions or have done interesting things. I thought I was having interesting thoughts that were interesting enough to be written down.

            If you open all of the drawers on my dresser it will tip over. It doesn’t sound like Sartre, or now that I just smoked, Klosterman, but instead I wouldn’t mind if it sounded like Twain or Brautigan. I hope it sounds like music. This is a mixtape, jj’s Kills. I am listening to this mixtape right now. It sounds like E.E. Cummings. 

It is written in a manner which, when listening, reads better. Itreads instantly the eye meets the screen/page. 


While driving, I also thought about music criticism, partly because I listened to some NPR discussion, and realized I should never write about how much I liked the albums or how good I think they are. Instead, how the music has come into my life, and the permanence of its existence. The process of falling in love with music often begins on a bad note. But over time/listening, things even out enough to make accurate opinions/create strong bonds. Familiar music has more/less memories attached to it. That’s why most music critics... I don’t have a Polaroid camera. I'm not part of the vinyl revolution. Why argue over something like music? Sometimes music culture/criticism gets in the way of the crescendos, bass lines, and 6/4 time, along with guitar solos. Leave them alone. I’m not saying that talent isn’t attached to commercial success, but fuck anyone who ever thought that popularity, commercial success, or “virality” is relevant to the successes of art. I apologize; bad language is a side effect of my inability to creatively describe my emotions. I don't like this tone. This piece of writing may simply be a bumbling tumble of gumballs, spit in a gym locker. 

             I wonder what writer will be the first to publish a novel on a smart phone, or maybe this already happened. But like, the first writer/artist/musician to be known in the future of history as the original. He or She is alive right now. We may never learn his, her, or their names. Is that a correct sentence?


The snow is melting, Notorious B.I.G. is rapping over this jj shit.

One sip of coffee left.

            So the moral of the story is that coffee is delicious, and music is good.

Takes last sip of cold coffee.

            This is a tale of bravery, of choosing the music to have and hold forever. Searching the internet in a quest for the most relatable, rocking, rolling, jamming, melodic, chick singers, band/musicians with original sounds, to be blessed with the flooded-abundance of undiscovered music floating off in the far clouds of the internet. In my experience, some of my favorite music did not sound appealing at first, and that truly enjoying music is part of a process. I do not wish to be a slave to relevancy and seek out new bands just to say I listened to them first. But that does not mean that my opinions cannot stand up to, or be better than those of the most relevant music critic alive I wish to not only listen to the music of my closest friends, but also to seek out music for myself to call my own. I am selfish at times and do not want others listening to my music.   But most of the time I want to be no Johnny, but Songgy Appleseed, to spread enjoyable sounds and unique musical gifts. I will write as if I am the best music critic alive, implying that in order to be the best critic alive, one must believe he is the best musician alive. Last name ever, first name greatest. I am not the greatest rapper alive and neither is/was Lil Wayne.  I don’t know if I should publish this.


on a side note:I’m listening to this song called “I do not care for the winter sun” by Beach House. GvsB loves Beach House.

"The most elegant, visceral, sensual release of the year comes from one of our favorite bands in the history of this blog. Teen Dream was born of a fully evolved vision and the indefatigable connection between Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, whose voice is quickly becoming an iconic one. And, it has the best songs." -gvsb.

There alright I guess.

didn't even make any lists...maybe next year.

            

On Atlantic City

           The snow fell like a million tiny skydivers without parachutes. Waves were small, but clean. Oceans. The word ocean plural. Atlantic City looked like a cat puking, filled with several hundred drunken existentialists, enemies. The casinos were warm. However, they were not minimal, nor animal. The roads were left unplowed and the cars arms shoveled themselves out. A pull of a lever, a roll of the dice, a ball spinning on a wheel, basically any attempt at making money became overshadowed by the parking garage. It cost a ten and a five to park. We left our cars.
        
            Enter blinking, bleeping, and dinging. Homeless people are not robots that like techno. No, actually, homeless people are pretty cool I guess. People’s eyes were red, not glazed, something creepy. Slowly falling around the building, each snowflake was a parachute for two hydrogen and one oxygen atom. The human body is made up of a high percentage of water, and somewhere, right now the concept of beach houses is drowning. We also require oxygen to breathe. insert: The concept of beach houses. What is that thing called; that. The lapping of brilliance, stupidity caged, on ice. Six dollars for a pitcher, and you are allowed to drink straight from it. They won't kick you out. They didn't kick me out of the average life span of a human being. I believe there is only one ocean.

             This is Atlantic City! It came to me in a revelation, in an elevator, a middle aged woman telling us to be careful. No dreams. Some people say they are afraid of their dreams, but never trust statistics. Does only a fool trust facts?  Remember when people actually used pens and pencils? Not in Atlantic City, no, not there. Or maybe in Atlantic City.Everything will be alright. I’ll walk to the boardwalk; I’ll talk like a salesman, the faces overwhelming, the ocean re-affirming your love, by the water you sound like a dolphin. This is not Atlantic City. If I was a snowflake I would hope to land in the ocean.

On Music

Not any particular songs or bands, but the entire concept of music. Making it, baking it, kneading the dough, and not burning it. Have you ever watched the Food Network with a bag of Doritos glued together, forming a pine tree? Didn’t think so, didn’t even think. It is intrinsically good I guess. Seeing live music is fun, but when people with big egos, or whatever compulsions they have acquired, get drunk they like to make a mess. But not like spilling a gallon of milk, rather, like punching someone in the face or yelling “come at me bro!” Tired, so tired, of the killing, and fighting. Some people just want to have a good time, are you drunk already? Hung over the banister of the fanciest casino in the city, like Borgata or something. Yeah man I'm Donnie T. about to go swimming in my pool filled with malt liqueur. Like some kind of essay or something, but neither an essay nor something, not anything, no never anything. It is the opposite of singing, whatever that sounds like, perhaps a cross between a whisper and a scream. Are there such things as sentences for sentences sake? Worker Bee is my favorite band. ..Warpaint is my favorite band.

           

we made miis for everyone in the room. every detail changed by a signal through the air.
"what if you had a really ugly friend and you were making them? how awkward would that be?"
we laughed at the funny faces. we made a stereotypical black man. we didn't play games and the cat scratched the screen on the window so I let it in.
we gathered around a laptop to watch videos
we watched drinking out of cups because C had never seen it before
it sucks being the last person to find out
when everyone is in on the joke
we repeated words and laughed
no way, not once, not never
we learned by watching Bill Dance outtakes and laughing
we left one by one saying goodbye to each person in the room

calling all agnostics atheists, drunks, and junkies it’s Christmas eve and your families want you in church doesn’t matter if you go cause he knows what you did Santa won’t bring you coal but you’ll be cold and can’t take a shit she said

“we’ll bake her an angel cake

because she’s in heaven”

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

This is my aunt’s army jacket. It’s real.
I like that it has a lot of pockets.
The other day I thought to myself, “Imagine how many people died while wearing one of these jackets.” Bullets have probably put holes in every square inch of the fabric.
I thought about soldiers freezing in the snow.
I thought about the collar protecting the back of their necks from wind.
There I was, standing on an American porch, like an idiot, smoking a cigarette.
I put my cell phone, keys, bowl, and wallet
each into a separate pocket, however they were meant for ammunition, grenades, and the essentials of war.
Unlike most outerwear, the zipper begins at my belly button and there is a snap below it, connecting the coat tails.
It is not very heavy.
There is no down stuffing or any type of padding whatsoever.
There are places this jacket has been that I will never see.

(I thought for a second “Is there anything I didn’t do?” and then thought “Yes there are plenty of things I have never done.” After returning from a break it was the one thing that was most important. But then I thought maybe small things held some significance that added up to something.)

My fingers have become enchanted with post rock[1] man, mondo great for writing, or at least the act of writing. “its like the words are yours to write” sounds cheesy, then I thought “the words I write don’t go to this music” and that was it.

In google chrome I’m on behindthename.com. Lagina is a “combination of the popular prefix La with the name Gina.” It is of the English language, African American, and rare. I wonder if the I in Lagina is pronounced ee or ii? I would speculate that it is pronounced both ways, and possibly with higher variation in many different parts of the world. Layton is another cool name for a character. It means “settlement with a leek garden” in Old English.

Oh old, old, old English, Bold English, Bad English, Sloppy English, WooWoo in your face English. You try taunting a bike cop. There are powers superheroes would kill to obtain, wired into his brain. He will say “What’s your name?” and you will be zombified by the sheer amount of auburn flowing hair-chest beard. Zombies! Video Games! Huh.

We are all Roman soldiers wearing U.S. Army Jackets. Drinking Old English and riding bicycles. Old bicycles, like, cool ones. And our hair is too long, and we only care about the present. And its all both bad and good. Bad, Good, Bad, Good, Always the same.

And not knowing which song to put on. Bad enough at a party, but completely alone. Meanwhile, acoustic guitar and the human voice create the most beautiful sound on Earth.

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

There is something about songwriters, true one man bands, Dylan, Smith, Sam Beam, and Young. As well as Johnny Cash, and Keller Williams is my dawg. 

“Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they’ve known and there all gonna say what you should and shouldn’t do, but they don’t have a clue” sang Smith. 

I thought “If I never illegally downloaded music as a teen, I would be retarded right now.” but then thought this idea was unfair to people who were born with any kind of politically correct health condition?

I like the song “When I’m With You” and I’m not afraid to admit it, but it kind of sucks. Best Coast fucking suck. Land of Talk has been so good right now. This Microsoft word document already looks faded, worn, and tattered. It looks like it was printed in an office in New York City in 1988. I’m currently listening to the song “May You Never” by Land of Talk; loving the vocal harmony.

 I’ve told maybe one or two people about what I thought about the army jacket the other day. One of my friends was like “You don’t even know the things I think of” and I said “What?” and he wouldn't tell me anything more. 

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

---

doc watson

now that you know
now i dont want to anymore
johnnys on the squeezebox,
something, on the pavement
thinking bout the government
sunglasses sunglasses

oh and barbie girl
in a barbie world down by the river
living in a van oh yeah
something bout the milk smells funny
the sound of water running
im blue aba dee aba die

ginsberg probly sucked his cock
black coffee with sugar
evan williams, vermouth,
and maraschino cherry juice
hmm hmm hmm
the beets, no beats

don't smile, laugh
where you going no
my slip? your slip
stomach, head
looking out the window
thinking bout the government

kurt cobain and that skinny guy from deerhunter
silence, glance, laugh
scratch
thinking bout the government
stream of cronsciousness
down by the river

crunk juice nigga

i'm jealous of bird watching
binoculars
just wanna build a cabin in Alaska
with a saw
and my hands
catching trout
in the lake

poison silver surface
floating over the ocean
burned into the air we breathe

i was a killer
i was a whale
i drank the water
my liver failed

i have a headache
i have a home
what happened to sail boats
they left me alone

and the japanese
are killing us off

I will find a way, no I will find a way

it happens every day,

you think its what you want, 

because forever you will live

don’t take what you give

away away, away from all the piles of hay

I will find a way; no I will find a way

some excuse for, bought some more

we’re fighting a war, 

like a story about the wise and the poor

the cold train rolls summer tide leaves

through the moon's backdoor

I will find a way, no I will find a way
she is the moon

deep inside our warm,

post-rock basement lagoon

I will find a way, no I will find a way

systematically blistering digits,
filling instruments with blood

till the cables all get plugged in

passionately tapping sustenance,

a seriously overworked apathetic,
ashtray forest fire