On Sting (and other crap)
Things I Say to My Dad, Because (like myself) He Thinks, Irrationally, He's Going to Die Soon
Why Hipstamatic Was Invented
Happy Mother's Day, Y'all
Black Pear Tree (Guest Post from John Darnielle)
I have recently become obsessed with the music of
I have no idea what Bosque Brown is. Is it a person? Is it a band? Is it a?
I don't really care at the moment.
And I really can't understand what she's singing, at least on this recording. Sure, if I tried harder, I could transcribe some lyrics. But I don't need to. At least not for me. Not right now.
The sound is what does it. The unexpected major chord that doesn't fit in that particular minor key.
I hear the sound of something wronged that doesn't know why. And it sighs as if "why" matters, when really there's just what is and what is not.
The more literary and scholarly folks around this place can give me a better definition of what "gothic" is, ‘cuz really, I don't exactly know. And, again, right now I don't really care.
Gothic, to me, is a fatal flaw. Sometimes it's the fault of circumstance. Sometimes you just get screwed. But most of the time, it's your own damn fault.
So you build foreboding towers with giant spires and call it ‘architecture'.
I'm totally wrong about this. I could wikipedia the hell out of ‘gothic' if I wanted to. But I don't. I'd rather go with my own definitions.
I just looked in the mirror, and there's blood all over my face.
Apparently, I cut the ring finger on my left hand and rubbed my face with it. I don't know how I cut it. I don't know when. I don't remember.
It's a shame. I thought I was lookin' so good today.
The other night, at 2:47 A.M, I got a text message from an old friend I hadn't seen in ages.
"Whatever happened to the good old days?" she asked me.
I wish I had an answer.
The World/Inferno Friendship Society