Subtract 33 years from the date of the Tweet. 2021 = 1988. 2022 = 1989. A representation of a special time and place through the medium of microblogging.
The basics: Most observations and musings quoted directly from scribbled notes and “journals”. All named characters are real people. Major, vivid events are real. Some minor events, that easily could have happened, were invented to fill in gaps in the written record.
Been listening to Northern Hemisphere Live with Todd Mormon and Bill Burton quite a bit lately. Last week somebody called in complaining about the programming at WXYC and man did they nail it…
…”Because everything you’ve ever heard is crap, and the only thing really worth listening to is something somebody recorded in their bathroom at 2:00 AM on a cassette tape and mailed it it in to a radio station right before they slashed their wrists and killed themself”….
Crow keeps saying that Metal Flake Mother is ripping off The Pixies: play real soft, then PLAY REAL LOUD, then play real soft again. A gimmick? Still takes talent, or lots of practice at least. Mary Gunn says a band called Nirvana played the Cradle in May and did the same thing.
Lot's of great music at Cat's Cradle these days. Royal Crescent Mob last night, Metal Flake Mother tonight, Bob Mould tomorrow night, and Superchunk on Wednesday.
Goofing around at Devil’s Courthouse, Blue Ridge Parkway. Just like Suttree, we are driving around with the top down, taking sips from a flask of brandy. I keep quoting Suttree’s girlfriend: it’s fucking beautiful.
S: “The way you listen to those tapes of you playing the guitar, it just seems weird to me - a little, I dunno, narcissistic.” Me: “I don’t listen to those demos because I’m conceited. I listen because they are among the best damn musical recordings ever made. By anyone. Period.”
Our cat Jimi. He thinks the best way to kill a bird is to climb to the top of a tree. Because that’s where birds are, right? In trees. Mockingbirds tease him mercilessly. He’ll figure it out.
Frustrated trying to tape songs off Orange County Special today. Triangle Slim is out of town and his sub hasn’t played a single bluegrass/old time/ traditional song. Unless you count the theme to “Petticoat Junction.”
Landscaping front and back yards for Catherine’s neighbor Lisa, who owns Modern Times. Her daughter Lia is a model and she sometimes drops by. She’s very pretty but so are the dahlias we planted out by the street. They look amazing! Yesterday we drove to Mebane to buy rocks.
My education was such a long strange dream. I developed a tone of voice which I may never use again lest I attend grad school. Don't know if my personal standards are disciplined enough for such a project. But they weren't adequate for college either & it seems I did quite well.
It’s a beautiful Saturday, dogwoods blooming, and I have a little money, being employed and all. I think I’ll mosey over to Skylight Exchange, eat an African tuna melt, and maybe buy some books. Then maybe browse Internationalist Books across the street and chat with Commie Bob.
I’ve been fascinated with Vaclav Havel lately. Electrician, playwright, dissident, soon to be president of his country. He got to meet Bush, and Gorbachev (who now seems to be a lame duck)…he even got to meet Frank Zappa!
Herb at Aurora introduced me to Catherine Ward, who runs a landscaping company out of her home on Pritchard Ave. I work for her now. Crew leader, named John, drives a truck delivering milk from a local dairy. Family business. A real milkman. I didn’t know they still existed.
Things proceed. Or do they? They recede. Re-seed. Where am I headed? Nowhere, man. Nowhere. Whatever you do for a living in the U.S.A., you’ve gotta love it. I should be able to, as Allen Ginsberg said, go into the supermarket and buy whatever I want with my good looks.