n'est pas

STATE OF THE SUBCONCIOUS, AS IT IS THE ONLY BRAIN ACTIVITY NOT SHUT DOWN DUE TO NEED OF NAP.

POST PREQUEL: PREQUEL VS. SEQUAL VS. JASON, WHICH WAS TECHNICALLY RELEASED AFTER THE SECOND MOVIE. AND "SUCKED ASS." (though it would have been ok if the first one weren't so good)

(this one is called: I will sleep when I run out of semi-unexpected but mostly derivative references in this post which is like a roller coaster ride for your subconcious filing system, who is tired of being compared to christopher walken because he is actually christopher walken and instead of filing he is busy being in every movie. Including the one with the plot description detailed in the post introduction Part 4, sections 8-11.)
If it weren't for italics and bolding and commas and parenthesis some of my posts would read like one of those poets that just like to drag you all over the place only to learn in the last five minutes that there is no unifying theme. Just a second grader who has been awake for four days trying to diagram my sentences, only stopping to freebase Ritalin. If he's lucky he'll grow up to a lovely VP title and silver BMW number something instead of being an over-educated cynic forced to model their thoughts around the equally infuriating school of thought
POST POST MODERNISM: (which is actually based upon the foundations of some German guy's unifying theory of him and reality, as seen in his original set of dialectics as penned on a napkin during his smoke break from being resident barista.)
post post modernism is a school of thinking way to far into things, making way too many pop culture references, subcategorizing musical genres until they lose all meaning, and waiting for your head to explode as slowly revert back to your unforgettable mirror phase of 1982 while constantly being reminded that the eighties are back. After attempting to analyze several schools of thought using this theory PHd candidates came to the same conclusion as with other theories that use complicated paperwork to throw you off
course: they would not be trying to answer your stupid semantic queries if they were having sex instead of dog-earing Kierkegaard. And they woud not be enduring Kierkegaard whining if he were having sex instead of, ya know, thinkin.

I BLAME DAVE EGGERS FOR THE REST OF THIS POST, AND FOR MOST OF THE ABOVE, ON WHICH I PARTIALLY BLAME THAT BITTER GUY AT YOUR COLLEGE LIBRARY CIRCULATION DESK WHOSE WRITING TECHNIQUES ARE FAR MORE MATURE THAN EGGERS AND WHOSE TITLES WERE LONGER AND WITTIER. YOU CAN SEE HIS PAIN IN THE DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE WHICH DOMINATES HIS I-TUNES AND CUTS STRAIGHT TO THE ANGER. YET HE CANNOT HELP BUT ENJOY THIS VOICE OF HIS FOREBEARERS WHO CAME OF AGE DURING GRUNGE, ONLY TO STAB GRUNGE IN THE BACK WHEN IT BECAME TOO WARM TO WEAR FLANNEL AND THE ENTIRE GENERATION WAS TOO APATHETIC TO REACH AROUND GRUNGE TO PUT THE KNIFE IN THE SINK.

Michael Stipe tried to pen a song about it but instead became crushed under all the wayward metaphors and the weight of having to replace 9/10th of Temple of the Dog's original lineup. Though I am going to list him in the liner notes as "guest flailer" whenever I find my cassette taped Singles Soundtrack.

They are going to be vaccinating against self-doubt if the SAT scores don't improve.
They never take my advice and just make the freaking test easier. Ask more questions about Hemmies in Dodge trucks. Children love hemmys like they love the unconditional comfort of the tv set.

Some people have war flashbacks during insomnia. Some of these people have been in a war. Some are just flashing back to that week all those world war two movies came out at the same time Coppola Reduxed an old movie and tried to trick us into thinking the extra footage wasn't just Sean Penn trying to weasel his way out of actual "acting." I have flashbacks to starting this post three hours ago.

You won't believe me now but this post has a surprise plot twist harkening back to grunge. And intrigue. Depending on what you consider intriguing.

Do not worry I was not up doing anything rash like penning the prequel to the passion of the christ, which I shall now wittily title the passion of the baby jesus (about how he faced the no vacancy sign with the conviction of an unborn child and claimed his birth was a brave stand against abortion. it turns out myrr is archaic for crack, and the movie concludes with a solid three hours of the reason for the season being slowly weaned off myhrr with a explanation that the virgin mary was recently born again and saved from her dangerous foray into drugs and higher education. (christian rock/rap song about how great it is to be white and male and american, while teaching us the evils of the art house). oh yeah and it's gotta be directed by that guy from Creed because he's totally feeling the power of Jesus, either that or his ego has become so big that it's taken the form of a guy that kind of looks like Jesus. I AM TOTALLY WRITING THAT MOVIE, BOOKING BETHELEHEM, CHECKING IF THERE IS ANY WAY AUSSIE OSCAR WINNER NICOLE KIDMAN CAN PLAY A MIDDLE EASTERN TEENAGE CRACKWHORE VIRGIN AND GETTING SOME THOM YORKE SIDE PROJECT TO MAKE "AWAY IN A MANGER" NICE AND VAGUE.

POST ORIGINAL BEGINNING:
Another post that started as something remotely intelligent but instead took it's usual tangent to ridiculing hipsters, music elitist snobs and the variety of Lemmings that choose to drive their Landrovers over the cliff because they live OTP (off the plateau, yo). It's the same-ol, same-ol bitterness that screams hey you can tell she's spending sunday alone instead of with the sole other rock fan swimming against the pounding bassline by listening to goodbye ruby tuesday inside baumer's tent. Plus my entries would probably vaguely reference that I did "just say no" to drugs back during the Reagan administration, and I am now "just saying no" to the nations growing obesity problem by "just saying no" to my digestive system so thanks again you health concious Republicans for making me pretty, which is my way of indicating who was on what and when in simple "when politics go wrong" code. It's real street, yo. Mad cul-de-sac underground. Of course you can tell I'm not bitter because my rage would be palpable in the form of multisyballic slightly altered words constructed in a code that only me and practicers of my philosophy could possibly decipher
As many parties as my journals would indicate I attend, I'm not exactly a willing social gad about room. The problem being that I know entirely too many people only on a surface (i.e. that friendster you added to win the "let's see who can amass the most friendsters thereby making us look really really popular in the eyes of the same twenty people we always see oh hey did we ever determine when this game ends maybe when Friendster becomes nonhip though I'm not sure how we'd know because its not a hot pink variety 'florida- we have old people and only one person on earth still thinks this is a vintage t-shirt but hey this totally says that though I usually listen to John Mayer, one time Jet came on and I totally rocked out with the top down of my lime VW convertibug hey I'm outta room for more slogan, so check out my pierced navel and lower 67% of my freakishly tan torso-" marked down on the rack at Urban Outfitters so in order for it to be officially uncool someone in the upper hipster echilon has to delete their account but that would mean they'd just have to guess where the Faint afterparty is and god forbid they miss dancing with "ok this hipster looks kinda new" guy in band so I guess the contest- like the movie it's oh so ironic to love- is neverending.") level. I know that contest sounds really complicated but keep in mind that it takes several days just to log in and years to get a message through, much like in days of yore. (I think the mid 60's are the current hip days of yore.)
That was quite a tangental parenthetical (also the title of beck's next track 4- and what beck and I shall dance to at our upcoming nuptuals, the title of which shall be "hey, check out this bougeois social convention we're totally about to partake in and have witnessed by trained seals and a guy with tourettes just for some good old fashioned anti-pc backlash but you can tell we're not serious because our formal wear is vintage yves san laurent which we CAN pronounce, and instead of the wedding details here's a list of my favorite notes: B sharp, B flat or just B natural baby in my seafoam pontiac sunbird beep beep beep beep beep on the radio.")
I like really long tangental parentheticals instead of a short title that make fun of hipsters, the rest of the population, and even poke fun at the smartasses who have no one better to make fun of then the hipsters they associate with around the dance floor.
Me looking uncute= she's wierd lets leave her in the corner.
Me looking cute=she's quirky! like the kind of person who provides the comic relief when the cd skips and the electro crowd cheers.

Being considered quirky is a great advantage because it makes the transition to drug addict nearly invisible (morosity too pervasive to budge) and the slip into complete insanity near flawless. In fact, if replaced by a real-enough looking eighteen-year-old, nobody will even realize that you are sipping Tab whilst hoping your Hazeldon juice bar house band will be the next Neutral Milk Hotel with complicated lyrics previously obscured by Parliament lights and that one cartoon you remember from 1st grade and you can't believe they show that at- oh fuck is that the sun? You will start to remember what life was like before electrorockclash and pointlessemocore descriptors. You find your Washing Machine T under a large pile of trucker hats, hang your journalism degree on the wall and remember what it was like to compare bands to Weezer. (Post-"Pinkerton" pre-"Why can't this be more like 'Pinkerton'?" Weezer.) You remember using witty phrases like the previous quip when reviewing the latest Elephant 6 all-slide whistle cover of "Pet Sounds", bonus material includes a cover of "(something really taboo like "Country Feedback" oh yeah we went there and we obscured it behind this 98 song cd just for you! Stipe actually guests on slide whistle...he comes into my rectangular pizza cafe all the time so we're tight, check the liner notes.) You and your bandmates attended Lollapalooza as wide-eyed innocents believing that indie rock could survive anything...and then you remember that one Lollapalooza where a bunch of shit went wrong and all the bands worth seeing vowed to never do it again and the only reason you went the next year was to see the Breeders. And then you get into an arguement where you kind of defend the Cranberries because that one song wasn't so bad and your friends go home in a huff and feel all cool and stuff while listening to Marquee Moon and out of blind rage you accidently pick up your old Casio and start electroclash. And develop a drug habit. Somewhere along the line you switch from first to second person. POV. And then the cycle starts all over again, thus proving the validity of post post modernism (allowing for the theory that it can get away with less substantiation because it's just a sequal).

Oh yeah, I just remembered the point I was making: So as You Can See We are quite busy evading any real productivity or logical thought. Next year we hope to make more connections between Left Bank Cinema and Reese's Pieces Blizzards.

Reception to follow. I mean, cigarette to follow.

Is there really a genre called "shoegazer?" What the hell is it? And what's with the lack of core-ness? Hardcore Softcore Nocore, come on throw me some useless context here!

signed
steve, accounts payable




ps. I am in love with Stephen Dedalus. But I'm only on chapter three.
I certainly hope this goes better than the Jake Barnes incident, or I'm moving on to protagonists with a dream! An American Dream!
more to come...