Here we are at the Official End of Summer. School is back in session for just about everybody. This summer went fast. Much faster than any other summer I can remember. Summers seem to speed up as you grow up; how you spend your time during your summer also changes. The things you do, the people you see, the trips you do or do not go on, the music you listen to, the places you listen to it, the food you eat and the clothes you wear are all very different this summer than they were just one year ago. So now I'm going to look back on and review this above-decent, mostly fun-filled and occasionally crappy summer, the summer that was, of course, The Summer of 2007.
Let's start with that all-important element of any summer, music.
Best Musical Discovery:
Dandelion Gum by Black Moth Super Rainbow. The perfect summer album. It's full of sugary synthesizers, disembodied vocals and very summer-y song titles like "The Afternoon Turns Pink" and "Lost, Picking Flowers In The Woods."
Top Chill-Out Songs:
"Rollerdisco" by Black Moth Super Rainbow
"Ego Tripping (Ego In Acceleration Jason Bentley Remix)" by The Flaming Lips
"That's The Way" by Led Zeppelin
"Ramblin' Man" by Lemon Jelly
"Hallogallo" by Neu!
"The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
"Like A Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan
"Strawberry Fields Forever" by The Beatles
"Stevie Nix" by The Hold Steady
"Comfy In Nautica" by Panda Bear
"5 Years" by Björk
"We're Always Waiting" by Yacht
"Second Hand News" by Fleetwood Mac
"Small Stakes" by Spoon
"Justin" by Against Me!
"Memory of a Free Festival" by David Bowie
Most Partied-To Songs:
"Buy U A Drank (Shawty Snappin')" by T-Pain
"Umbrella" by Rihanna
"Waters of Nazareth" by Justice
"Stronger" by Kanye West
"I Want To Love You" by Akon
"The Way I Are" by Timbaland
"Massive Nights" by The Hold Steady
"Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses
"Easy Love" by MSTRKRFT
"International Rock Stars" by The Punk Group
A tie between "Summer Love" and "LoveStoned/I Think That She Knows (Interlude)" by Justin Timberlake
"Eagle Eyez" by Mr. Flash
Worst Thing Ever/Second Best Musical Discovery:
Night Ripper by Girl Talk. For just over two weeks at the beginning of the summer this album was the best thing anyone had never heard. Then everyone heard it. Then it was all that got played. Now it's awful.
Best Song Titles (these don't nessacarily have to do with summer, but they're good names for songs):
"Let's See If Any Ghosts Are In Here, Yeah?" by Fuck Buttons
"Sleater Kinney Sucks" by The Punk Group
"Spinning Cotton Candy In A Shack Made Of Shingles" by Black Moth Super Rainbow
"Moonage Daydream" by David Bowie
"Jealous Guy" by Art Brut
Best/Cheapest Musical Find:
Rock Off And Fuck On by The Punk Group. With songs called "My Space" (about how it's easy to find someone to have sex with on MySpace), "I'm Not Wearing A Tie" (about, um, not wearing a tie) and "F-U-C-K-Y-O-U" (about the possibility of you fucking off) all sung as straightforward-ly as possible and set to so-crappy-they-rock synth refrains and guitar riffs, this album was well worth the 99 cents I paid for it at Easy Street.
Best New Release:
† by Justice
Most Looked-Forward Release of the Fall:
Graduation by Kanye West (out 9/11 on Roc-A-Fella)
I think that pretty much sums up the music portion of the summer, now let's look back on TV, books, movies and all of that pop culture.
Best/Funniest/Most-Quotable Summer Movie:
Superbad.
Essential Summer Phrase:
"I am McLovin."
Runners-Up:
The Bourne Ultimatum, The Simpsons Movie, Knocked Up
Most Intense Movie I Saw This Summer:
High Tension. From the very same French hipsters that brought us The Hills Have Eyes comes this violent, lesbian-ist thriller. It's creepy-good!
Awesomest YouTube Video:
"Chocolate Rain"
Best New TV Shows:
Rock of Love with Bret Michaels on VH1
The Hills on MTV
Best Shows To Just Chill and Watch:
Family Guy on fucking douche-y Adult Swim
Seinfeld on every channel ever
Entourage on DVD
I Love The [insert decade]'s on VH1
Best Week Ever on Friday night on VH1
Best Late-Night Music Video Source:
Nocturnal State on VH1
Best Late-Night Bad Rap Music Video Source:
MTV2. They premiered Yung Berg's "Sexy Lady"!
Best Overall Summer Channel:
VH1. No question about it.
Worst New Summer Show:
Newport Harbour: The Real Orange County. "The people, the locations, the drama...Are all centered around Chrissy's strict parents!?" No thanks.
Biggest Item of the Summer:
Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows by some crazy English woman
Best Read:
Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman
Classiest Read:
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I want to live in the 1920s and be an alcoholic.
Number of Books Read By Me:
8
That covers all of the things we read, listened to, bought and watched this summer. Next comes the stuff we created ourselves. And the stuff that we said. And the stuff that happened to us.
The New Thing to Call Bobby Morris Field:
"Cal Anderson"
Most Facebook Albums About One Weekend Made By One Person:
3
The Top Three Types of Parties That Did Not Happen Enough:
1. House
2. Beach
3. Dinner
Best Rediscovered Food:
Domino's Pizza
Days Spent Working:
Too many
Hold Steady Songs That We Recreated In Real Life:
"Stevie Nix"
"Party Pit"
Best Words/Phrases/Quotes:
"Bro"
"Chill"
"I dun even know, I'm just tryna get zooted"
"Zooted"
"Are we seriously listening to Girl Talk?"
Anything Bret Micheals says on Rock of Love
Number Of Things I Did On My Summer List:
9
Number Of Things I Didn't Do On My Summer List:
12
Well, there you are, The Summer of 2007 pretty much summed up. Kind of. So much more happened that I can't really remember but it was certainly not a bad summer. It was not quite what I was expecting and it was definitely a little strange but it sure had its moments.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Metro Life
Recently I became an employee at my local highish-end grocery store, Metropolitan Market. The job is not difficult by any stretch of the imagination. I am a courtesy clerk (read: that guy who asks “paper or plastic?” and then puts the food in whichever bag the customer chooses and then asks if he can carry those bags out to the customer’s car and then, if they say “no, I don’t want help,” insist, insist and beg until they let you take their groceries out, because there is a “100% carry-out policy in effect…) and the pay is not at all terrible considering the ease of the job. The schedule changes from week to week, which is simply a nuisance but it’s fairly flexible and I like most of my fellow co-workers. With four exceptions.
Firstly, there is the jaded, angry courtesy clerk. He’s about sixteen, working at a classy supermarket a handful of days a week: the whole cynical, tired thing doesn’t really cut it in this case. During one of my first days on the job, he was showing me the ropes and I was thrown into the following conversation:
“Gawd, the manager’s such a dick,” he said as soon as we were far enough away for the “dick” not to hear.
“Really,” I asked just to make conversation. I was well aware that the manager was a perfectly nice guy.
“Well, if you get on his bad side. I’m on his bad side.”
“Gotcha,” I replied. I thought, That makes sense.
Then, again completely unprovoked, came: “You smoke? I dunno if you do but if you’re on your break, don’t smoke in the parking lot. I learned that the hard way.” He related this information to me in almost a whisper as we walked down the cat food aisle with a broom and an enormous dustpan. This entire conversation seemed to be engineered by my co-worker to let me know just how badass he was: He smokes, he learns things the hard way and in some unexplained way he is now sitting comfortably on the perfectly personable manager’s bad side. Cool, bro.
People, especially this type of people, seem to think learning things “the hard way” somehow earns them cred. Other people, especially smarter people, know that learning things “the hard way” is exactly what it sounds like––hard. It would be far less trouble to have simply asked someone more knowledgeable if you could smoke in the parking lot. That way you wouldn’t have to learn anything the hard way and, more importantly, people would still know that you smoke cigarettes.
Then there are the customers. These customers somehow seem to think that they run the store, which in a way I suppose they do, but in actuality they don’t know shit.
Some of the best interactions I have had so far:
A woman approaches the check stand. As the checker begins to ring her up and I begin my courtesy clerking duties, the shopper begins to talk to us:
“Can I make a suggestion?” This is not a good start. The checker and I glance at each other. “If you put two things of sanitizer wipes on either side out there I think that would help a lot.” Outside, next to where the carts are kept, there is a small plastic canister full of sanitizer wipes to clean off the carts’ handles. It is completely optional to use them and most people don’t bother. In short, they are not in high demand, at all.
“Yeah,” the checker says. “I think one is enough, but if that one is empty we would be happy to go get more.”
I finish bagging her groceries and hand them to her. “Have a great day,” I say. She walks out of the store.
An elderly woman carrying a container of fresh-made soup and a large box of saltines is in line. Now it’s her turn to pay. Before I even get a chance to ask her bag preference she holds up the box of saltines, which is quite damaged, and asks us if we have any other, less-smashed up boxes of tasteless crackers. The checker calls up the grocery manager, who quickly checks and lets us know that there are no more boxes in the store. The checker tells the woman this.
“Okay, well is it okay if I just open this box and see if they are really broken?” She asks.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
She opens the box and pulls out the tubes of crackers. Each tube is about 20% dust; the crackers are broken up sorta badly.
It occurs to me that the only other item she bought is soup. The crackers are obviously for the soup.
“You know, we have little packets of saltine over by the soup for free,” I say.
“I don’t like that flavor,” she retorts, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world and there was nothing unusual about holding up the checkout line to examine a box of crackers. I look closer at the box. She’s right, or more accurately, she’s oh-so-wrong; the saltine crackers she has in her hand are unsalted. What?! In fact, the more I thought about it, as I stood there looking at the line forming behind her, the more flaws I found within her entire issue.
“Could you just, like, give me these two?” The woman says, holding up two of the least-crunched tubes of saltines. The checker and I look at each other again.
“No, I can’t do that,” the checker says, somewhat taken aback.
“Well, I just don’t see why I should have to pay for them.”
I fight the urge to tell her all of the things wrong with this argument: Because you’re buying groceries; The crackers are just going to be broken up into the soup, what does it matter if they’re half-broken all ready?; Who the fuck buys unsalted saltines?; and finally the pièce de résistance that I already told her about: WE HAVE FREE SALTINES NEXT TO THE SOUP.
Of course, I don’t say any of this and instead the woman asks me how long her soup will stay hot for because she wants to go to another store to look for the crackers. The checker and I look at each other once again. “About an hour,” I say.
“I don’t know…” the woman says again, seemingly expecting us to make up her insane mind for her. “I think I’ll go home first. Then go out again,” she tells me as we make our way to her Toyota.
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her, turning to leave.
There are a few not-crazy customers, too though. One day, for instance, Susan Hutchison of local news “fame” bought me a hamburger. That was awesome.
Basically, it is a pretty fine job. It provides me with laughs, some money and a bunch of cool people to talk to in order to balance out all the really not-cool people I don’t want to talk to.
Firstly, there is the jaded, angry courtesy clerk. He’s about sixteen, working at a classy supermarket a handful of days a week: the whole cynical, tired thing doesn’t really cut it in this case. During one of my first days on the job, he was showing me the ropes and I was thrown into the following conversation:
“Gawd, the manager’s such a dick,” he said as soon as we were far enough away for the “dick” not to hear.
“Really,” I asked just to make conversation. I was well aware that the manager was a perfectly nice guy.
“Well, if you get on his bad side. I’m on his bad side.”
“Gotcha,” I replied. I thought, That makes sense.
Then, again completely unprovoked, came: “You smoke? I dunno if you do but if you’re on your break, don’t smoke in the parking lot. I learned that the hard way.” He related this information to me in almost a whisper as we walked down the cat food aisle with a broom and an enormous dustpan. This entire conversation seemed to be engineered by my co-worker to let me know just how badass he was: He smokes, he learns things the hard way and in some unexplained way he is now sitting comfortably on the perfectly personable manager’s bad side. Cool, bro.
People, especially this type of people, seem to think learning things “the hard way” somehow earns them cred. Other people, especially smarter people, know that learning things “the hard way” is exactly what it sounds like––hard. It would be far less trouble to have simply asked someone more knowledgeable if you could smoke in the parking lot. That way you wouldn’t have to learn anything the hard way and, more importantly, people would still know that you smoke cigarettes.
Then there are the customers. These customers somehow seem to think that they run the store, which in a way I suppose they do, but in actuality they don’t know shit.
Some of the best interactions I have had so far:
A woman approaches the check stand. As the checker begins to ring her up and I begin my courtesy clerking duties, the shopper begins to talk to us:
“Can I make a suggestion?” This is not a good start. The checker and I glance at each other. “If you put two things of sanitizer wipes on either side out there I think that would help a lot.” Outside, next to where the carts are kept, there is a small plastic canister full of sanitizer wipes to clean off the carts’ handles. It is completely optional to use them and most people don’t bother. In short, they are not in high demand, at all.
“Yeah,” the checker says. “I think one is enough, but if that one is empty we would be happy to go get more.”
I finish bagging her groceries and hand them to her. “Have a great day,” I say. She walks out of the store.
An elderly woman carrying a container of fresh-made soup and a large box of saltines is in line. Now it’s her turn to pay. Before I even get a chance to ask her bag preference she holds up the box of saltines, which is quite damaged, and asks us if we have any other, less-smashed up boxes of tasteless crackers. The checker calls up the grocery manager, who quickly checks and lets us know that there are no more boxes in the store. The checker tells the woman this.
“Okay, well is it okay if I just open this box and see if they are really broken?” She asks.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
She opens the box and pulls out the tubes of crackers. Each tube is about 20% dust; the crackers are broken up sorta badly.
It occurs to me that the only other item she bought is soup. The crackers are obviously for the soup.
“You know, we have little packets of saltine over by the soup for free,” I say.
“I don’t like that flavor,” she retorts, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world and there was nothing unusual about holding up the checkout line to examine a box of crackers. I look closer at the box. She’s right, or more accurately, she’s oh-so-wrong; the saltine crackers she has in her hand are unsalted. What?! In fact, the more I thought about it, as I stood there looking at the line forming behind her, the more flaws I found within her entire issue.
“Could you just, like, give me these two?” The woman says, holding up two of the least-crunched tubes of saltines. The checker and I look at each other again.
“No, I can’t do that,” the checker says, somewhat taken aback.
“Well, I just don’t see why I should have to pay for them.”
I fight the urge to tell her all of the things wrong with this argument: Because you’re buying groceries; The crackers are just going to be broken up into the soup, what does it matter if they’re half-broken all ready?; Who the fuck buys unsalted saltines?; and finally the pièce de résistance that I already told her about: WE HAVE FREE SALTINES NEXT TO THE SOUP.
Of course, I don’t say any of this and instead the woman asks me how long her soup will stay hot for because she wants to go to another store to look for the crackers. The checker and I look at each other once again. “About an hour,” I say.
“I don’t know…” the woman says again, seemingly expecting us to make up her insane mind for her. “I think I’ll go home first. Then go out again,” she tells me as we make our way to her Toyota.
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her, turning to leave.
There are a few not-crazy customers, too though. One day, for instance, Susan Hutchison of local news “fame” bought me a hamburger. That was awesome.
Basically, it is a pretty fine job. It provides me with laughs, some money and a bunch of cool people to talk to in order to balance out all the really not-cool people I don’t want to talk to.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Summer Update
So, here we are, a few weeks into summer. Anything good happen yet?
'I’m having an awfully strange summer, all things considered. I used to have strange summers semi-annually, but strange summers tend to dissipate as you get older. In 1991, I lived with two guys, one of whom was a collegiate pole-vaulter; we had pole-vaulting poles lying across the floor of our living room for three months, and we tripped over them constantly. I played video games all night and never had any money. There was a Mexican guy in our apartment complex who worked on his van 11 hours a day, and we referred to him as “Van Guy.” We would play Skid Row on maximum volume at 2 A.M., and nobody complained. This was the kinds of housing development where nobody complained about anything, ever. Van Guy would actually ask us to turn our stereo up if we happened to be playing “Monkey Business.” One night, a drunk girl broke into our apartment while I was sleeping on the couch, but it turned out she was simply confused (she thought she was breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment). I fell in love with one out our neighbors; her name was Heather, and he would rush over to our apartment every time MTV showed the Alice in Chains video for “Man in the Box,” coquettishly claiming that the video’s imagery terrified her. We went to see Point Break together, but nothing happened. That, obviously, was a weird summer.'
–Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live.
'I’m having an awfully strange summer, all things considered. I used to have strange summers semi-annually, but strange summers tend to dissipate as you get older. In 1991, I lived with two guys, one of whom was a collegiate pole-vaulter; we had pole-vaulting poles lying across the floor of our living room for three months, and we tripped over them constantly. I played video games all night and never had any money. There was a Mexican guy in our apartment complex who worked on his van 11 hours a day, and we referred to him as “Van Guy.” We would play Skid Row on maximum volume at 2 A.M., and nobody complained. This was the kinds of housing development where nobody complained about anything, ever. Van Guy would actually ask us to turn our stereo up if we happened to be playing “Monkey Business.” One night, a drunk girl broke into our apartment while I was sleeping on the couch, but it turned out she was simply confused (she thought she was breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment). I fell in love with one out our neighbors; her name was Heather, and he would rush over to our apartment every time MTV showed the Alice in Chains video for “Man in the Box,” coquettishly claiming that the video’s imagery terrified her. We went to see Point Break together, but nothing happened. That, obviously, was a weird summer.'
–Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Sometimes I Wish I Was Part of a Weird Bus Couple
Weird bus couples. I think I see one every time I ride the bus. You know the ones I mean; they get on the bus talking very loudly. They have no regard for anyone else, they are audibly making fun of the people sitting in front of them and not giving one ounce of a shit about it. They will probably start making out before you get off of the bus. There are probably teeth missing from both parties. At least one of them will be wearing a cracking leather jacket. They are probably much younger than you think; you ballpark them at around 50, maybe 40. That figure is probably closer to 30, but that many cigarettes and who-knows-what else doesn’t do wonders for ones appearance. There is certainly a mullet involved. Probably a WalkMan, too. So why, why would I ever want to be a part of a grubby couple like this?
Simply because, underneath the missing teeth, questionable fashion choices and way-dated cell phones, they seem happy. They have a simple, fun-loving, compatible relationship: they don’t care what anyone thinks, they are obviously not very concerned with very many material things and they can have fun––I assume––anywhere they are. I mean, I’m not saying I would want to grow a mullet, wear black New Balances and knock out a few of my teeth just to get into a relationship of this caliber, no, but the attitude behind a relationship like this is definitely appealing––when applied to your own life.
Think about it. You are dating someone you don’t have to constantly worry about impressing; you are comfortable enough to talk about anything you want (I guess you could wear anything you want, too) and the both of you do not care at all what your friends––or random strangers––think about your relationship because you know it’s a good one. I dunno, but that sounds pretty damn good to me. Plus, you can be a total douchebag on any mode of public transportation you find yourself riding and nobody will say anything to you. And if they do, they’re just jealous. Or really offended. Or both. But forget ‘em, because you’ve got your woman at your side and as soon as you pull that cord thing and request a stop and you’re off the bus you can make fun of that guy for the rest of the afternoon. Hell, you could even make fun of him while he’s still sitting two seats away from you, what do you care? You’re a weird bus couple now.
Simply because, underneath the missing teeth, questionable fashion choices and way-dated cell phones, they seem happy. They have a simple, fun-loving, compatible relationship: they don’t care what anyone thinks, they are obviously not very concerned with very many material things and they can have fun––I assume––anywhere they are. I mean, I’m not saying I would want to grow a mullet, wear black New Balances and knock out a few of my teeth just to get into a relationship of this caliber, no, but the attitude behind a relationship like this is definitely appealing––when applied to your own life.
Think about it. You are dating someone you don’t have to constantly worry about impressing; you are comfortable enough to talk about anything you want (I guess you could wear anything you want, too) and the both of you do not care at all what your friends––or random strangers––think about your relationship because you know it’s a good one. I dunno, but that sounds pretty damn good to me. Plus, you can be a total douchebag on any mode of public transportation you find yourself riding and nobody will say anything to you. And if they do, they’re just jealous. Or really offended. Or both. But forget ‘em, because you’ve got your woman at your side and as soon as you pull that cord thing and request a stop and you’re off the bus you can make fun of that guy for the rest of the afternoon. Hell, you could even make fun of him while he’s still sitting two seats away from you, what do you care? You’re a weird bus couple now.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Summer Is Here!
Alright, so it really is summer now and we know we all need good summer lists. Here's mine. And don't even think about stealing any of the things off of this list. Just don't even.
(Click it to make it bigger.)
(Click it to make it bigger.)
Monday, June 4, 2007
How Does It All Happen?
After having a somewhat debauched evening the other night, some friends and I decided to go get on a bus and head downtown to drink coffee, iced tea, chai tea and imported Mexican Coca-Cola (it tastes better, so shut up!) at a stylish place that was strangely crowded for being 10:30 at night. Okay, simple enough. Things got interesting, if not a little cosmic, though, when we walked up to the bus, which was stopped at the stop for a layover, or something, asked how long we’d have to wait (10 minutes) and then sat back down on the stone wall, which, also somewhat strangely, surrounded a cemetery. The five of us were sitting for a few moments before the bus driver leaned out of the bus and asked us what we were up to that night. We told him we were just at the park, etc. He pointed to the cemetery and asked if went there. We said we didn’t. At this, he got off the bus, stood in the street and began talking to us about coincidence; launching into this obviously preferred conversation topic by using the cemetery’s proximity to the park and the fact that that proximity was clearly “no incident” as a segue. He had a thick, relaxing Eastern European accent and we were eager to listen.
“Do you, you believe in destiny?” He asked each one of us, going down the line. We were transfixed. It was evident that he was a strong believer in this destiny business, and to illustrate this belief, he told us a story. I am fairly hazy on that story’s actual plotline, details and conclusion, but I remember that it was some 2,000 years old, took place in Arabia or something and vaguely proved the theory of destiny. The “destiny” (the belief that your life will unwaveringly follow a predetermined path) versus “free will” (the belief that you have explicit control over your actions and decisions) discussion is an old one, and a very interesting one to have every now and then––especially with a bus driver who has a soothing accent late at night outside a cemetery. I believe in a final destiny, but I think how we arrive at that endpoint is pretty much up to us. I told the bus driver this. He seemed to agree, although he believed that someone else dictates our individual actions to make us aware of the fact that we are not in complete control. Ever. He has a painfully good point; a brain-hurtingly good point. “When have you ever planned something that turned out exactly like you planned it?” was his next question. We all answered honestly: Never.
It’s true; nothing you yourself plan ever can possibly turn out exactly how you plan it. Although, you’re never going to plan every single detail of something––you just plan the big picture––and however that plan changes is just what happens, right? For example, you’ve got a big party coming up. Sure, you plan the theme, you invite who you want, you decide what music to play, you decide what catering company to use…but any number of things can––and will––occur that you could never have ever planned. Like two of your guests will have a conversation. That conversation will be about the new Gwen Stefani album. You would have never possibly have been able to conceive that. And you have no control over it. Except you hosted the party where the conversation took place. Would that exact same conversation have happened anywhere else? I don’t think so. But it happened at your party. Is that destiny? Let’s see: (a) You planned the party; (b) People come to it; (c) Person 1 and Person 2 both happen to be standing next to the buffet at the same time; (d) “Wind It Up” starts playing; (e) Person 1 says that she really likes that song. And there you have it, the conversation has begun.
You have no control over this. No one does––not even the people talking, really. So who decided that these to people would spend four minutes of their night talking about the way less good follow-up to Love.Angel.Music.Baby? Is this destiny? Because it can’t really be free will, I don’t think. Or is it just something totally different? Is it human nature? It’s human nature to just talk about shit and roll with a conversation, sure, but why did that conversation take place to begin with? Furthermore, if those exact two same people were standing in a different place at the party, the song was playing, and they were talking to each other, would the same conversation still happen? That shit can’t be planned out by anyone, yet stuff like this happens every minute of every day. Do we actually have any control over our actions?
Think about it. Yeah, I told you it was cosmic.
We all exchange looks of awe and excitement. Come to think of it, is randomly meeting and talking to this guy destiny? It sort of has to be, right? How could any of us ever imagined and planned out that later that night we would linger on a corner, cross the street, sit on a cement wall and have a philosophical discussion with an Eastern European bus driver? That’s not the kind of night I’m “planning” yet it happened like that. It just fucking happened. Everything just fucking happens.
It’s been ten minutes. We climb into the bus; the he’s still talking to us. We’re, obviously, the only people there. We try to pay. He waves his hands and tells us not to worry about it. We genuinely thank him and then take seats at the front in order to easily continue our conversation. Now it’s our turn to ask the questions. First we want a name. He tells us his name is Lola. He tells us he’s from Ex-Yugoslavia, he used to be a chemistry and biology teacher there, he’s been a bus driver in Seattle for three years and he has a son graduating from the University of Washington this year, and another in his sophomore year. Think about that. What could have possibly led him from Yugoslavia to Seattle? From a chemistry teacher to a bus driver? From sitting on the bus alone 15 minutes ago to talking to the five kids he is now? Sure, he made all of those decisions, in the earthly sense: He decided Yugoslavia was too _________ (Dangerous? Maybe.) and had to leave, he bought the plane tickets to Seattle because he heard it was _________ (Amazing? Yes.), he applied for the job as a bus driver because it would _________ (Be a good opportunity to read a lot? Of course.), he decided to get off the bus and talk to us because he was _________ (Bored? Probably.). Yeah, that’s how it all goes. We all know we make our own decisions, and we know why. But why?
Destiny? Probably.
More people eventually got on the bus and we had to stop talking to Lola; he had other people to deal with, though he didn’t say anything to them; he just stopped talking to us. We came to our stop near the trendy coffee shop, got off, thanked Lola and wished his sons good luck in college. What a night.
Similarly, yesterday I went to a small taco stand for lunch. There was an extremely not-Mexican guy sitting in there reading a book on Italy. It was a large coffee table-style book; lot’s of aerial pictures, very few words. As soon as I entered the place this man stood up and sauntered behind the counter to take my order. He worked there. I told him I wanted three shredded chicken soft tacos. “With cheese, sour cream, guacamole?” He asked, in some sort of European accent––French, or possibly Italian. How immensely interesting, although it probably wouldn’t have struck me as such if I hadn’t met Lola one night before. And of course I wanted cheese, sour cream and guacamole. As soon as he gave my order to the very-Mexican woman in the kitchen, he lifted up the removable piece in the counter and came back out to read his book on Italy. I asked him if he was going to go to Italy. “Yes, yes, I always go to Italy.” He said he grew up in France but his mother was Italian so they spent every summer in Italy. This prompted me to make him aware that I went to Italy last summer. He asked me whereabouts in Italy. “Florence, Rome, Sorrento, around Tuscany; Assisi,” I replied. He looked happy, he told me that he always goes to Venice and how beautiful the ocean is, etc. I told him I was in Sorrento the night that Italy won the World Cup. He found this very, very cool and went on to say how Italy hadn’t really been playing soccer at all. “There was no finesse, it was violence.” This is probably true. I really couldn’t give less of a shit about soccer, but my new French-borne taco stand worker friend seemed to love it (and a lot of my actual friends do too, actually) so I continued the conversation by telling him that I went to the soccer game at Qwest Field last year. He knew exactly which one I was talking about. “It was okay, not too exciting,” I said. “Yeah, they’re fine. It was an exhibition game,” he offered. “If you want to see real soccer, go to Brazil or Africa.” We talked for a little bit longer about the merits of young African players (“Everyone over there is young, if you get too old, you die,” he insight-ed. I have to say, I agree.) before my tacos were ready and I waved good-bye and headed out. Granted, this conversation was not nearly as profound––or random––as the one I had the previous night with a certain chemistry teacher-cum-bus driver, but I still found it strange and intriguing. Just the fact that this French man who visited Italy every summer and played lots of soccer in his youth––and still visits to this day and would play soccer, if he hadn’t “hurt my knees when I was twenty”––now works at a hole-in-wall taco stand in Seattle astounds me for some reason.
I think this is why: (1) I am in a very destiny-y mood because of that aforementioned late-night encounter. (2) I do find all of that stuff really interesting and I want to know what made him change his life so drastically. Why the hell is he now living in Seattle and selling tacos? Doesn’t that sort of have to be destiny? (3) The whole phenomenon of just plain old starting conversations with strangers––and having them be meaningful, deep conversations, no less––never ceases to amaze me. (4) This phenomenon seems to happen a lot; too, in just one weekend I had two such conversations with people I will never––most likely––see again. (5) How everything works together = motherfucking mind-blowing.
All of this, of course, ties back into my topic du jour, destiny. I mean, why did I decide to go to that taco stand? I wanted some chicken tacos. Okay. Why did I start talking to the guy reading the book on Italy? I dunno, I felt like it. Fine. But really, is it all total coincidence? I went to Italy last year; I had something to talk to him about. Something actual to talk to this guy about. What are the fucking chances of that? What if I had ordered beef tacos? Would I still have had the same soccer conversation? Would my entire day be the same as it was with the chicken tacos? Would my entire life change if I ordered beef tacos? Would I have gotten in a car wreck on the way home, because I ordered beef tacos. I mean, I ordered chicken and I got home perfectly safely, but would beef have changed that? Whew.
Life really is amazing. Honestly, it is. Forgetting about this whole destiny thing for a moment, life itself is an incredible thing, no matter how it’s controlled. Is it all a web of completely unrelated things that, because they are all happening at once, occasionally turn out to be connected? Or is everything actually connected? So connected, in fact, that most things appear to be totally disconnected? It’s pretty much impossible to say for sure, but it’s overwhelming to think about.
“Do you, you believe in destiny?” He asked each one of us, going down the line. We were transfixed. It was evident that he was a strong believer in this destiny business, and to illustrate this belief, he told us a story. I am fairly hazy on that story’s actual plotline, details and conclusion, but I remember that it was some 2,000 years old, took place in Arabia or something and vaguely proved the theory of destiny. The “destiny” (the belief that your life will unwaveringly follow a predetermined path) versus “free will” (the belief that you have explicit control over your actions and decisions) discussion is an old one, and a very interesting one to have every now and then––especially with a bus driver who has a soothing accent late at night outside a cemetery. I believe in a final destiny, but I think how we arrive at that endpoint is pretty much up to us. I told the bus driver this. He seemed to agree, although he believed that someone else dictates our individual actions to make us aware of the fact that we are not in complete control. Ever. He has a painfully good point; a brain-hurtingly good point. “When have you ever planned something that turned out exactly like you planned it?” was his next question. We all answered honestly: Never.
It’s true; nothing you yourself plan ever can possibly turn out exactly how you plan it. Although, you’re never going to plan every single detail of something––you just plan the big picture––and however that plan changes is just what happens, right? For example, you’ve got a big party coming up. Sure, you plan the theme, you invite who you want, you decide what music to play, you decide what catering company to use…but any number of things can––and will––occur that you could never have ever planned. Like two of your guests will have a conversation. That conversation will be about the new Gwen Stefani album. You would have never possibly have been able to conceive that. And you have no control over it. Except you hosted the party where the conversation took place. Would that exact same conversation have happened anywhere else? I don’t think so. But it happened at your party. Is that destiny? Let’s see: (a) You planned the party; (b) People come to it; (c) Person 1 and Person 2 both happen to be standing next to the buffet at the same time; (d) “Wind It Up” starts playing; (e) Person 1 says that she really likes that song. And there you have it, the conversation has begun.
You have no control over this. No one does––not even the people talking, really. So who decided that these to people would spend four minutes of their night talking about the way less good follow-up to Love.Angel.Music.Baby? Is this destiny? Because it can’t really be free will, I don’t think. Or is it just something totally different? Is it human nature? It’s human nature to just talk about shit and roll with a conversation, sure, but why did that conversation take place to begin with? Furthermore, if those exact two same people were standing in a different place at the party, the song was playing, and they were talking to each other, would the same conversation still happen? That shit can’t be planned out by anyone, yet stuff like this happens every minute of every day. Do we actually have any control over our actions?
Think about it. Yeah, I told you it was cosmic.
We all exchange looks of awe and excitement. Come to think of it, is randomly meeting and talking to this guy destiny? It sort of has to be, right? How could any of us ever imagined and planned out that later that night we would linger on a corner, cross the street, sit on a cement wall and have a philosophical discussion with an Eastern European bus driver? That’s not the kind of night I’m “planning” yet it happened like that. It just fucking happened. Everything just fucking happens.
It’s been ten minutes. We climb into the bus; the he’s still talking to us. We’re, obviously, the only people there. We try to pay. He waves his hands and tells us not to worry about it. We genuinely thank him and then take seats at the front in order to easily continue our conversation. Now it’s our turn to ask the questions. First we want a name. He tells us his name is Lola. He tells us he’s from Ex-Yugoslavia, he used to be a chemistry and biology teacher there, he’s been a bus driver in Seattle for three years and he has a son graduating from the University of Washington this year, and another in his sophomore year. Think about that. What could have possibly led him from Yugoslavia to Seattle? From a chemistry teacher to a bus driver? From sitting on the bus alone 15 minutes ago to talking to the five kids he is now? Sure, he made all of those decisions, in the earthly sense: He decided Yugoslavia was too _________ (Dangerous? Maybe.) and had to leave, he bought the plane tickets to Seattle because he heard it was _________ (Amazing? Yes.), he applied for the job as a bus driver because it would _________ (Be a good opportunity to read a lot? Of course.), he decided to get off the bus and talk to us because he was _________ (Bored? Probably.). Yeah, that’s how it all goes. We all know we make our own decisions, and we know why. But why?
Destiny? Probably.
More people eventually got on the bus and we had to stop talking to Lola; he had other people to deal with, though he didn’t say anything to them; he just stopped talking to us. We came to our stop near the trendy coffee shop, got off, thanked Lola and wished his sons good luck in college. What a night.
Similarly, yesterday I went to a small taco stand for lunch. There was an extremely not-Mexican guy sitting in there reading a book on Italy. It was a large coffee table-style book; lot’s of aerial pictures, very few words. As soon as I entered the place this man stood up and sauntered behind the counter to take my order. He worked there. I told him I wanted three shredded chicken soft tacos. “With cheese, sour cream, guacamole?” He asked, in some sort of European accent––French, or possibly Italian. How immensely interesting, although it probably wouldn’t have struck me as such if I hadn’t met Lola one night before. And of course I wanted cheese, sour cream and guacamole. As soon as he gave my order to the very-Mexican woman in the kitchen, he lifted up the removable piece in the counter and came back out to read his book on Italy. I asked him if he was going to go to Italy. “Yes, yes, I always go to Italy.” He said he grew up in France but his mother was Italian so they spent every summer in Italy. This prompted me to make him aware that I went to Italy last summer. He asked me whereabouts in Italy. “Florence, Rome, Sorrento, around Tuscany; Assisi,” I replied. He looked happy, he told me that he always goes to Venice and how beautiful the ocean is, etc. I told him I was in Sorrento the night that Italy won the World Cup. He found this very, very cool and went on to say how Italy hadn’t really been playing soccer at all. “There was no finesse, it was violence.” This is probably true. I really couldn’t give less of a shit about soccer, but my new French-borne taco stand worker friend seemed to love it (and a lot of my actual friends do too, actually) so I continued the conversation by telling him that I went to the soccer game at Qwest Field last year. He knew exactly which one I was talking about. “It was okay, not too exciting,” I said. “Yeah, they’re fine. It was an exhibition game,” he offered. “If you want to see real soccer, go to Brazil or Africa.” We talked for a little bit longer about the merits of young African players (“Everyone over there is young, if you get too old, you die,” he insight-ed. I have to say, I agree.) before my tacos were ready and I waved good-bye and headed out. Granted, this conversation was not nearly as profound––or random––as the one I had the previous night with a certain chemistry teacher-cum-bus driver, but I still found it strange and intriguing. Just the fact that this French man who visited Italy every summer and played lots of soccer in his youth––and still visits to this day and would play soccer, if he hadn’t “hurt my knees when I was twenty”––now works at a hole-in-wall taco stand in Seattle astounds me for some reason.
I think this is why: (1) I am in a very destiny-y mood because of that aforementioned late-night encounter. (2) I do find all of that stuff really interesting and I want to know what made him change his life so drastically. Why the hell is he now living in Seattle and selling tacos? Doesn’t that sort of have to be destiny? (3) The whole phenomenon of just plain old starting conversations with strangers––and having them be meaningful, deep conversations, no less––never ceases to amaze me. (4) This phenomenon seems to happen a lot; too, in just one weekend I had two such conversations with people I will never––most likely––see again. (5) How everything works together = motherfucking mind-blowing.
All of this, of course, ties back into my topic du jour, destiny. I mean, why did I decide to go to that taco stand? I wanted some chicken tacos. Okay. Why did I start talking to the guy reading the book on Italy? I dunno, I felt like it. Fine. But really, is it all total coincidence? I went to Italy last year; I had something to talk to him about. Something actual to talk to this guy about. What are the fucking chances of that? What if I had ordered beef tacos? Would I still have had the same soccer conversation? Would my entire day be the same as it was with the chicken tacos? Would my entire life change if I ordered beef tacos? Would I have gotten in a car wreck on the way home, because I ordered beef tacos. I mean, I ordered chicken and I got home perfectly safely, but would beef have changed that? Whew.
Life really is amazing. Honestly, it is. Forgetting about this whole destiny thing for a moment, life itself is an incredible thing, no matter how it’s controlled. Is it all a web of completely unrelated things that, because they are all happening at once, occasionally turn out to be connected? Or is everything actually connected? So connected, in fact, that most things appear to be totally disconnected? It’s pretty much impossible to say for sure, but it’s overwhelming to think about.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
I ♥ Björk
So Sasquatch! was really fun this year; it was different, but fun as fuck. As some of you may––or may not––know, I was seriously considering not even going this year. My plans had changed so extremely in so little time and I was left scrambling to attach people to the unaccounted-for tickets that I now found myself with. Fortunately for me, it was not too difficult to find a couple of people willing to drive a few hours to see the likes of The Hold Steady, The Blow, Viva Voce, Arcade Fire and Björk live.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
DETAILS OF THE WAR
The best song ever? Yes.
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Friday, April 27, 2007
Some More Things You Hate
Other things that really piss you off:
-Ingenuine people.
-When you leave your cell phone at home in the hopes of having like a billion voicemails, missed calls and text messages when you finally return to it. This never, ever happens. You get back to your phone, after having left it alone for, like, the whole day, only to discover: (1) No missed calls, no text messages, no voicemails or, (2) three voicemails from your mom wondering where you are, a text from cingular alerting you about a cheaper text plan, and several missed calls from all of the people you hate and don't want to talk to.
-Mediocre music: It's not terrible, so you can't just shit all over it and never listen to it again, but it's just not very good. So, for all intents and purposes it is terrible. But you think that there might be that one decent song on the album, so you keep listening, then you listen again, because there's that one song you remembed from the first listen that was okay, but it's really not okay, and you just blew a couple hours of your time and one of the following: $15 at a record store; $10 on itunes; or $0 and a whole lot of bandwidth at some illegal, free site.
-Ingenuine people.
-When you leave your cell phone at home in the hopes of having like a billion voicemails, missed calls and text messages when you finally return to it. This never, ever happens. You get back to your phone, after having left it alone for, like, the whole day, only to discover: (1) No missed calls, no text messages, no voicemails or, (2) three voicemails from your mom wondering where you are, a text from cingular alerting you about a cheaper text plan, and several missed calls from all of the people you hate and don't want to talk to.
-Mediocre music: It's not terrible, so you can't just shit all over it and never listen to it again, but it's just not very good. So, for all intents and purposes it is terrible. But you think that there might be that one decent song on the album, so you keep listening, then you listen again, because there's that one song you remembed from the first listen that was okay, but it's really not okay, and you just blew a couple hours of your time and one of the following: $15 at a record store; $10 on itunes; or $0 and a whole lot of bandwidth at some illegal, free site.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Lately...
Lately, or not so lately, it's actually been going on for a while now, just normal things and people have been pissing you off. A lot of the time, honestly, you'd rather just be alone then spend time with some of the people that you're forced to spend time with on a daily basis. Seriously. There is nothing wrong with just being by yourself, sometimes seeing people is simply no fun, not worth the effort and turns out badly. So many people are douchebags and really should not talk about half of the things they talk about. Things they know nothing about, or things they've done, or anything. This feeling comes and goes of course, and there are people who you could not live without and who you look forward to seeing and talking to, but then, then there are those other people. And it's not really the people themselves, sometimes it is, but sometimes it's just the things they do or how they do them that bothers the hell out of you. You'll be standing somewhere at school, doing perfectly fine by yourself, and a bunch of people will just be standing there talking about something incredibly stupid. You don't care about it, you don't give half a shit about it, but at risk of being "that kid who doesn't talk to people" you join in the conversation, where you get stuck for way too long talking about homework or something. Why do you do this? It happens so often. You love people, you love talking to them if you like them and you're interested, but sometimes you'll just be in a bad mood for some reason, or in a i-just-don't-want-to-not-talk-to-anyone mood but someone will always start to talk to you. And you're not going to get mad at them, because you're not in that bad mood because of them and you're not going to just blow them off (though you really want to and sometimes you really should. You really should.) but, depending on who's talking, it may make you even angrier to talk to them. It's a vicious circle.
The routine just really wears you down. Wake up, school day, sport, homework, maybe some music, maybe some TV, not enough sleep, wake up, repeat. It's really tiring and that alone is enough to create a bad mood. That and the people that inhabit the various activities––school, sport, etc. Something else, something bigger yet less routine also generally happens to get you down, but soon that just becomes routine as well. Everything just gets to be a routine. Which gets to be draining.
The other thing is the homework. Homework is not the only problem. Ever. If "too much homework" is someone's biggest problem, then they have way bigger problems. Too much homework does, however, add insult to injury on the worst of days. You just had a terrible not-wanting-to-talk-to-people bad mood day, except, of course, you talked to and interacted with people you really want nothing to do with. You talked to and interacted with useless people about useless things, making your already bad mood even worse. You're finally able to go home and just do whatever you want, probably just listen to music, when you realize you have a huge mountain of homework. It's just there, although, unlike the other problems, like people bothering you and not wanting to be involved in a lot of things, you can deal with the homework. You can make it go away. But, like the other problems, it keeps coming back every single day. At a steady rate. Sometimes it increases, too. That's the worst.
This whole "not wanting to talk to people" thing is not just emo bullshit, either. It just happens––a break up, bad stuff at home, an annoying-ass kid at school, sometimes several annoying-ass kids at school, girl problems, boy problems, being stuck in a routine–– any number of things can piss you off. People just piss people off. Some much more than others and some permenantly. But it happens. So whatever. The best thing you can do is have at least couple friends you can, and really like to, be around and talk to and just kick it with. It's fine. Something will get better. Your homework load, the weather, your love life––something. And if you're lucky you might even want to talk to, like, everyone again. But, of course, you don't really want that. The other way is more fun. Sometimes. At least it's more fun to talk about.
The routine just really wears you down. Wake up, school day, sport, homework, maybe some music, maybe some TV, not enough sleep, wake up, repeat. It's really tiring and that alone is enough to create a bad mood. That and the people that inhabit the various activities––school, sport, etc. Something else, something bigger yet less routine also generally happens to get you down, but soon that just becomes routine as well. Everything just gets to be a routine. Which gets to be draining.
The other thing is the homework. Homework is not the only problem. Ever. If "too much homework" is someone's biggest problem, then they have way bigger problems. Too much homework does, however, add insult to injury on the worst of days. You just had a terrible not-wanting-to-talk-to-people bad mood day, except, of course, you talked to and interacted with people you really want nothing to do with. You talked to and interacted with useless people about useless things, making your already bad mood even worse. You're finally able to go home and just do whatever you want, probably just listen to music, when you realize you have a huge mountain of homework. It's just there, although, unlike the other problems, like people bothering you and not wanting to be involved in a lot of things, you can deal with the homework. You can make it go away. But, like the other problems, it keeps coming back every single day. At a steady rate. Sometimes it increases, too. That's the worst.
This whole "not wanting to talk to people" thing is not just emo bullshit, either. It just happens––a break up, bad stuff at home, an annoying-ass kid at school, sometimes several annoying-ass kids at school, girl problems, boy problems, being stuck in a routine–– any number of things can piss you off. People just piss people off. Some much more than others and some permenantly. But it happens. So whatever. The best thing you can do is have at least couple friends you can, and really like to, be around and talk to and just kick it with. It's fine. Something will get better. Your homework load, the weather, your love life––something. And if you're lucky you might even want to talk to, like, everyone again. But, of course, you don't really want that. The other way is more fun. Sometimes. At least it's more fun to talk about.
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