Sunday, June 30, 2013

in the city there's a thousand things I want to say to you...

The weekend starts out with cheap Salvadoran food on the west side and I realize that I don't really like the concept of critical mass but such dissension would cause flame wars in a more public part of the internet. This person explains my difficulties with the movement better than I could.  

 I get the feeling sometimes that I'm an equal opportunity offender, aghast at the more extreme on all sides, and wondering if everyone really wants morality legislated, just as long as it's their morality and that's an icky thing to do especially when it's done by incredibly morally bankrupt bunch of people who will use sanctimony as an excuse for disenfranchisementBut that's a whole other thing, and I feel like I already step on the toes of everyone I know as it is, because I get riled at the wrong issues, the untrendy ones, the ones involving valuing the lives unborn babies and the kids I work with who get bumped up two grades who can't read and people who worship Allah and immigrants who have the nerve to come across the border and do all the things we don't want to do for way less than we'd ever stand for. This leads to vigorous and logical objections from both sides of the aisle, but I digress. That's why I don't tell most people I have an interblog, and you probably already regret linking me.

Anyways, I meet up with a guy I once went out with to see a couple bands play, one of which is College Radio Homie's. He told me he played guitar but I didn't know he sang, and I liked their sound, somewhere between Queens of the Stone Age riffery and shoegazey distortion-drenched sweetness. The next band was more math-rock-instrumentalness, which I dig live even if I don't listen to it all the time, then I was tired so sleep called and I answered. I'm glad there's no expectations when we hang out, with him leaving for three years and all, and me doing what I usually do. 

A game of softball the next afternoon, drinks and pizza at my favorite watering hole, a party in the parking lot of a welding shop, a bonfire in a barrel, a punk band playing, people milling around, I have nothing to drink in my hand since I've already can taste the leftover residue of porter and lambic on my breath, know nobody for the first hour and end up finding the other people who know no one, and we trade tales of exploring abandoned buildings.  I feel square in my basic black t-shirt grabbed out of the laundry basket on my friend's kitchen table, no jewelry because of the game, and jeans that aren't completely worn through, there's a lot of tattoos, tall bikes and back patches and such, which makes for great people-watching. Sometimes I get the feeling people want to talk but some of us don't have enough liquid courage.

It's kind of nice to be somewhere where you don't know everybody, it makes this small town feel a little less small. It reminded me of that line from the Jawbreaker song about "makeout sessions, bicycle messengers, punks and art school dropouts" but in this case I'm not enough of a scenester to know any drama so I just exist there, catching up with former classmates and mutual friends before heading back to oversleep and miss half of church.

Such is life, and despite everything, it's still beautiful here in this strange lost city. I was so tired today, but a "hangover smoothie" full of ginseng and spirulina got me back on kilter, I got my hands dirty in the garden, and gave my sister some furniture that she couldn't afford to buy. I guess there will always be the strange aspects, and that's not entirely a bad thing.

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