Here’s a fun little number by The Forgetters, which is the current project of Blake Schwarzenbach (Jawbreaker/Jets To Brazil). I admire all of his work and he is one of few contemporary artists that continues to surprise and delight me. I’m very fond of this song and would recommend checking out the original, as well as the band’s full length release that came out last year.
Schwarzenbach is real good at incorporating a personal narrative into a larger commentary on human condition (particularly the American experience), which is a songwriting approach that is rarely done successfully in my opinion. He’s also got a knack for poetic (and sometimes cryptic) verbiage; my favorite line in the whole number has to be “I’m a straight up ghost in a tattered cape.” That’s just fantastic.
So here I am butchering his fine, fine work for the sake of “staying in practice.” Whatever the hell that means.
Go to end of entry for soundtrack selection to be played whilst reading.
I recently went through all my old records and zines and show flyers and posters. It brought back a lot of memories for me, some cherished and others rather painful.
Before I met you, my main hobby/vice was collecting records and punk paraphernalia. I was obsessed. I would spend every dime I made at my job on records. I’d scour eBay for hours looking for the ones I wanted, in addition to at least weekly visits to the local records stores.* I was a teenager: I didn’t have any bills or alimony or child support and I hadn’t yet met you, so I had a lot of disposable income. And how I disposed of it, Dionysus.
I had what I like to believe was the most impressive punk rock vinyl library any teenager ever amassed. If I liked a band, I would seek out every last seven inch they ever did, in addition to any compilations they appeared on. One of my favorite compilations was a late 80s ten inch called “Make The Collector Nerd Sweat,”** which had a caricaturist drawing of the proverbial audiophile on the front sweating profusely as he scoured through scores of records.
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Today I’d like to get into a topic that I know you find exceedingly fascinating: teenage girls.
My experience with girls at seventeen was limited to my short-lived debacle with Medea. However, I thought about girls and meeting girls and doing things with girls (both romantic and sordid in nature) as much as any teenaged heterosexual male, I suppose. Probably more, actually: Once I met you, Dionysus, I thought about them constantly.
I was still a virgin at this point, and was likely still too cowardly to do the coital quadrille even if I had a willing partner. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t try, just to see how I measured up.
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