Button Down

I am totally feeling Roky Erickson lately. That howl. There's this restless hunger. Maybe it's spring. Maybe it's staring down the barrel at the funnest vacation of all time (1 sleep! Or rather one night of staring at the ceiling hoping I don't forget to bring pants!) that I am secretly a little bit afraid I'll never recover from. Restless unsatisfied, in spite of so many nice things right in front of me. Maybe it's that I can see (sort of? I think?) where I should be/want to be and have no idea how to get there. My friend Fish (smarter and better than most) said we're "like cats staring at meat through glass". That seems right. It's a weird thing to be shaking with impatience to get to the next thing and to have no fucking idea what that is or how to start to get there. (Sorry, I know it is brutally obvious to post this video, but I LOOOOOVE this song. I LOOOOOOVE it. I don't care how many shitty cheesy compilations it has been put on. It shreds.)

Things felt a little sparkly for a while there. That's done now. It was all nice hearing about friends taking over Berlin and inventing art and ideas faster than our wine mouths could say them and having Coe in town and feeling like this was a different life, a freer more glamourous one,  and seeing beckoning options, enticing, in all directions. I forgot how things are for a sec. Nothing gets me hotter than a lost cause usually, but eventually you get tired of listening even to really great records. A little break from Dirt Town is coming at the perfect time. I'm going to worry about being at multiple shows at once rather than contemplating the complexities of human emotion/developing protection strategies for the damage people are determined to inflict on themselves. Who the fuck do I think I am, anyway? Excuse me, I am going to be over here minding my own business via this bottle of whiskey.

Who just posted this on Facebook the other day? I can't remember. It is a Roky Erickson cover that is pretty rad. Thanks whoever posted that first. Joe maybe? I don't know. Whatever.

That is all. I am adopting buttoned-down cynicism as my method of surviving SXSW with the rowdiest group of friends one could imagine travelling with. Maybe we'll see you in a week. Maybe never again. Who can say?

Also baffling: this is a thing. Gabber. Fucking weird. If you want to feel like you are being jabbed in the brain with a dick, follow the link to the music. Jesus. I like the testimonials about dudes seeing these wasted people in matching colourful sweatsuits and thinking 'man, I NEED TO DO THAT'. I don't understand anything at all.

xo