There’s only so much one man can do with Garage Band and an acoustic guitar. With that said: Here’s Demo #3. It’s not going to be like this for much longer, though. Hopefully it will do some different things. Who knows?! Not I. Maybe Mason? He’s in Arizona though. With no internet.
I’d like to thank Miniature Tigers for the melody I ripped from them, and everything else I will rip off from them in the future. Amazing band. Their new album is out now. Mine isn’t…
I almost wrote that I made it toady, but I didn’t make it toady. I made it good. I shouldn’t share it because my collaborator, Mason, hasn’t even heard it. So this is a demo. Also, our band name isn’t Fruit Snacks.
A song must be written and performed in order to be a song.
Songs are analogous to human bodies. The part you write is the skeleton. The part you perform is the flesh. But songs happen primarily in time, not space. This analogy will not hold up under scrutiny, but it can be useful.
I think there’s a trough, as your age becomes equidistant from Max Fischer and Steve Zissou, where it’s important that you act all better than Wes Anderson. At least, it seems to be an important rite of passage for most of my friends and contemporaries. It was probably most acute for people exactly my age (I’m twenty-seven) who were in high school when “Rushmore” and “Tenenbaums” came out, then went away to college only to discover that what made you unique in high school (you liked the films of Wes Anderson) made you the very opposite of unique at your hippie-dippie art school, or in the hippie-dippie arts clique at your gargantuan state school. It was there you discovered that dudes who, like me, probably did not realize Max Fischer was more of an anti-hero than someone to be revered the first time they saw “Rushmore,” so blinded were they by the cool blazer and ambitious auteur school plays and girls whose highest aspiration was to be a third-rate Margot Tenenbaum were a dime a dozen and still overpriced. In fact, Wes Anderson fandom was merely the tip of an entire iceberg of things that had set you so gloriously far apart from your peers in high school that, in college and then in your twenties, would only serve to make you so painfully like everyone else sharing in the well-educated-hipster mono-opinion.
But to front on Wes Anderson, as I have, passionately, deliriously, running as far away from that opinion monolith as my skinny white legs will carry me, is to A) front on how important he was to you and to B) front on how, you know, great he is. But I’m not here to defend Wes Anderson to you. I’m just here to point out something I thought was interesting that I realized after recently seeing “Rushmore,” “Tenenbaums,” and “Life Aquatic” again on the big screen at The New Beverly here in Los Angeles (which is, by the way, the best place in Los Angeles). This thing has probably already been observed a million times, but to my knowledge, never so hastily or so ill-researched, so it’s worth doing for that reason alone. There may be more examples of the thing I’m about to describe in “Bottle Rocket,” but I haven’t seen it in a while, I only saw “Mr. Fox” the one time, and I’ve never seen “Darjeeling,” as it fell smack dab in the middle of my Anderson Effrontery Trough (or A.E.T. if you’re trying to save time while hitting on someone in a bar by passing this observation off as your own.)
Chances are you won’t be able to read this. I don’t know if atheist heaven has tumblr… But I’m so glad I met you, and I wish I could have done something to make you feel like your life was worth living. You have a lot of friends, man. And a family who loves you. I just wish you could have seen that.
I went hiking for you the other day. At garden of the gods. I remember you asking me if I wanted to go, but I had to say no, because my main pair of shoes had a hole in the bottom. You said you wanted to go hiking before the weather got bad, but you killed yourself 2 days before it got better. I wanted to try and say something at the sunset for you, or to you, but we left early.
I remember the trail mix your sister made for you and how you shared it with me and the rest of our directing scene cast even though you only had what was in the bowl. I thought about leaving some trail mix on your porch, and saying a few words. Maybe I still might.
I want to apologize to your dad. I saw him today and couldn’t look him in the eye. I didn’t talk to him, so I’m not sure if he was your dad, but he was packing a u-haul that had your car towed behind it. And he looked just like you. I was just trying not to cry.
We could have been better friends. I thought I had more time with you, to be honest. None of us saw this coming, Evan.
I’m so sorry. I know i could have tried harder to spend time with you, or something. But you should have told someone how you felt. You should have said something.
I’m sorry Evan. You were so talented, and funny, and welcoming, and nice. I will miss you so much. And I know that sounds like bullshit, but I really did love seeing you around. I should have talked to you more. Fuck, I don’t know, man. I’m sorry.
I hope this message find you. I’m so sorry, Evan.
Rest in peace.
You: Cute hipster girl with a bit of your head shaved on the side. You talked to your pixie haired friend as she held your hand about wanting to “fuck” a boy in your sociology class, passing me on the sidewalk as you said this. Me: clad in sweatpants and a beanie that didn’t quite match my outstretched striped sweater. Me: not the guy in your sociology class. But I could be that guy.
I have Boat shoes too match yours, and I promise never to wear socks in them. But, I’d wear the hell out of some fake glasses for you. I’d never shave or take off the wolf sweater I bought from a thrift store, for you. I’d smoke clove’s and read only Hemingway. And not the novels. Oh no. I’d read only the short stories. We could listen to b-sides and rarities and watch Truffaut films. I’d support your venture into straight bang territory and you’d never question my sexuality as I went through my neon shorts phase. I’d drink the hell out of Pabst and white wine, and patronize anyone younger than me. All my t-shirts would have printed quotes on them from what I assume is the asshole glossary of 2008. And there’d be so much mustache memorabilia.
So how bout it? We can hate the world together, on top of a mountain of our unwashed clothes, whole foods tote bags, shotgunned beer can wreckage, and reservoir tipped sheddings. We can tweet our love while scoffing at twitter. I want to be a hypocrite with you. You blue and white backpacked goddess. You are who I see in my cathartic self induced hallucinations. A Ramona, a Clementine, a reference so obscure, only 24 year old, post grad, brooklynites will know it.
If any of this sounds appealing, find me in the used record store of your heart.
(Seriously, that girl was gorgeous.)
(Also, that isn’t my real e-mail.)
After happening upon a surprisingly lackluster journal entry penned by my roommate, I was reminded of the long time it had been since I wrote anything, public or otherwise. It has, indeed, been months since I had taken the time to eloquently describe my escapades. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe they’ve been lackluster as well. I think I’ll try to do better.
Let me start with some exposition. From my window I can see a grassy knoll in front of the building where they serve meals here; “here” being the University of Evansville. I’m off to the left of the grassy knoll in Hale Hall, or should I say All Male Hale. Hale is notorious for its light but ever present scent of scrotum and unkempt bathrooms. Occasionally, one would find themselves breathing in the stench of the feces that permeates in one of the unflushed toilet bowls. Or maybe they’d find themselves subjugated to the hypnotic allure of a collection of curly black hairs shimmering in a sink or strewn across the floor. For those reasons and more, I choose to spend my time elsewhere. My side of the room has become nothing more than a clothing stockpile below a lofted bed.
I occupy my time the way anyone in college might: I dine, I wine, and I whine. The food in the cafeteria, dubbed “Cafe Court” by the Sudexo corporation, leaves everything to be desired. The student body does not. Well, the student body within the Theater Department. It’s almost a fraternity of talented individuals with a hankering for debauchery. It’s exclusive as hell, but incredibly welcoming. Once in, it’s not hard to find yourself with one hand on a bottle and the other clutching a lit cigarette. The department itself is decked to the nines in history, traditions, and rituals: and information concerning all of them provided on request by any of the students within the department who have been there over a year. The only problem is knowing what tradition to ask about. I can readily recall several occasions in which I was unintentionally ostracized for not knowing a chant of some sort. And of course, there is whining. Mostly on my part. As usual, I have been chasing, both figuratively and, unfortunately, literally, after women. Only I’m more inebriated than usual. But not just on alcohol. I’m intoxicated by the people here. I want to befriend almost everyone I’ve met. Never before have I found myself so enthralled in individuals as I am now. It’s terrifying me.
“For me drama exists in one thing—the knowledge that each of us
believes himself to be a single individual. But it’s not true. Each of us
is many individuals, many—each of us has many possibilities of being.
We are one thing for this person, and another for that, and each of them
is quite different. Yet we suffer under the illusion that we are the same 25
person for everyone. But it’s not true. Not true. We perceive this—
perhaps tragically—when suddenly we find ourselves caught in midact. And realize that not every possibility in us was involved in that act.
It would be an atrocious injustice to be judged by that act alone—to be
held responsible for it throughout eternity—to be pilloried—as if all of
our existence had been summed up—in that one act”—6 Characters in Search of an Author