Pork as Fork

I cannot find my copy of Slant 6's "Soda Pop Rip*Off" and it is breaking my heart. I can't remember if it was sold or stolen. This is because I am old, and whatever happened did so a long time ago. I am certain that Unwound's "Fake Train" and a Monorchid record were stolen from me in 1998, and it still makes me angry. I know who did it, and I forgive you, for we were young, and believed that the records we owned would make everyone like us.

Two posts in one day because I decided to read. I decided to read Cometbus, which I decided to buy at Quimby's, and I never go to Quimby's, but I did yesterday in part, I believe, because there is a debate aflame in the Choir about what is punk rock, what are we doing, who are we, do we actually like each other, etc. In this familiar and actually tender pile of semantic poo, the siren song of zines called to me. They still make MRR. I suppose I thought that world ended when I landed in Chicago, and decided I was done. Over. Hurt too much.

But now I am feeling the crushing weight and exhilarating potential of a do-over vis-a-vis St. Renegade and Punk Rock and groups of people united by the thought that they love music more than other people do.

Once upon a time, I lived in a punk rock world and punk rock house and loved it like an abusive partner, never feeling at home, always waiting for the next crushing blow. This is no surprise, as I had never been comfortable in my home, body, neighborhood, family, or country. However, I thought punk rock would be different. It was different in that there were bands and zines and thrift store clothes everywhere, but everyone was still scared and selfish, just like at home.

I am an adult, now, and not as scared, aware that I have as much right to read Cometbus as anyone else. I chose Cometbus #50, which just so happens to have interviews with Ian Mackaye, Christina Billotte, and Blake Schwarzenbach. Aw, guys. I miss you.

Aaron askes the giant bearded guy from TV on the Radio, Kyp: "Are you more concerned with staying true to your younger self, or what your older self will think?"

Tough. Kyp is more mature than I am. I am 31 and still find myself answering to a very wounded 16-year-old version of myself.

Eh. I don't have a handle on all this. Last week, J. Hopper put a Dog-Faced Hermans video on her blog, and I wrote a little email saying, hey thanks! That was, for reasons still mysterious to me, very difficult to do.

I have got to get down to Pilsen. Tomorrow, though, I have decided to take my record player into the kitchen and listen to Jonestown and Bratmobile while baking cookies for my Choir. If vegan punk rock cookies cannot bring us together, only love will tear us apart.

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was the culmination of Melancholia Week, and I'm convinced the force of my ennui caused all the snow. Chicago, if you will not crawl up into the lonely cavern of my head, I will at least trap you in your houses. I could not shake the blues, even using exercise! I did something called Boot Camp that hurt me and reinforced my abhorrance of the armed services. It works out well, though, for my abdomen feels pummelled, the physical embodiment of hurt and enjoying hurt and hurting some more. I was walking around all week, out of it, and today I realized: yesterday was my mother's birthday.

Seriously, that may not have anything to do with anything, but I cancelled my therapy session and I went to my old workplace to feel at home and then I went home and attempted maudlin drunkenness but I was getting too many phone calls. At no point did I think of my mother, and then this morning--duh. So, in the ultimate tribute, I spent her birthday in a self-protective bubble of repression and avoidance. I could have sent her yellow roses--her favorite--but what meaning would that have? Yellow roses are for friends, melancholia is for adult children of borderlines.

There's a foot of snow on the street, whiskey in the bottle, and they were out of the shade of high-end lipstick I tried to buy, so it's the right time to be sad. Two boy babies were born last week and I will be unable to maintain this crushing lonliness when smelling and holding little dudes, so I shall take advantage. It's clockwork, it's biology: February in Chicago. I have got to learn to play the harp. There is a song in here somewhere.