Monthly Archives: February 2012

I will not be your astronaut

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Or actually can you keep it down?

can you do Brooklyn you would like to finally ask them to shut this is delicate music this is SCIENCE! could you please shut up back there we did not elect to hear live could you please shush the shut trap-pings put down the goddamn your blocking my sh did your drummer shoot you in the face in Amsterdam? No and would you please for once try not to make us listen to you when you don’t even have the attention span to do so could you actually this is a really delicate harp and vocal arrangement actually the choir and Björk is a lot like a Tesla coil except way way better this cannot happen in vain or in vein of the cellular respiration otherwise known as the fact that this cannot be your justification and wig denial and for the love of dynamics you should interrogate your own scowling in the back and scowling? so that I do not have to leave a dangling. There is exactly so much to be harmonized from such plate tectonics and it is a fingernail growing a fingernail every decade set against the backbeat of a more geologic frame of chronology. No and no loudmouth ass telephone camera flashing mother flock of shut up inducing. It is so the brand new spiral staircase this ribosome this beautiful protein beat making and I happily sagging sack of ectoplasm and head nod and the virus the virus

 

 

-Mark Gurarie


A Salty Nitrogen Cured Heart

In the shape of beef. Jerky.

Heart. Jerky.

I Heart beef

& you are the perfect preservative

For my jerky heart.

-Mark Gurarie

 

 


Ode to a Buzzcut and a Beard: Or How I Learned to Stop Shaving and be the Bomb

 

What with all of this we have perhaps forgotten our bearings, our trajectory, the not-quite fully formed behemoth that spews forth from pick-your-favorite orifice and insert here. In time, you shall see that this is meant to be accompanied by bouquets of flowers, beautiful and fragrant but ultimately poisonous. The diagonal cuts accentuate the nature of the diagonal line as it approaches the human form. And there is something meta-militaristic in what we are seeing these days: the Viking berserker in boat-shoes headed to boot-camp. Without rhythm you shall cavort haplessly undrunk until exactly one minute before 6, and lose your owl-shaped glasses. In terms of objective measures, you will win, while I sink deeper in the mire in which I appropriate snark because I know not what else to do. I no longer fit in my too-small t-shirt, though I am the same size. Clumsily and as if in hiding, my footsteps are no longer footsteps because upon me has been bestowed only a somewhat well-rounded education that has effectively neutered my street-cred quotient. I will not turn this fifteen minutes into fifty thousand dollars, but goddamn if I don’t try, can of gold spray-paint at ready, pocket of pointless rhymes, a buzzcut and a beard. I should not blog therefore I imagine myself “downtown” and “avant-garde,” because yes, I attended that loft party in 2007. Yes there was nothing of note that happened before 2007, I saw some of it, and I was taking notes. It was all the danger of a beard, tempered by the discipline of a buzz cut. It was a flawed platform shoe, and almost nothing else. But of course, only the very tall have a long way to go.

 

-Mark Gurarie

 


A Grudging and Tardy Defense of Steven Tyler

@sabri2006 He is fucking 63 years old.

-pinkmullet4  3 hours ago

For I knew I was wretched

-Samuel Beckett

 

One I never thought I would find myself in the position to muster. So long ago the skin only slightly less saggy and irrelevant seeming. I remember a tiny Aerosmith from the nose bleeds I remember nose bleeds years later I remember cocaine and the urgency of a self-important bathroom stall (in eighth grade ohmigod in eighth grade my math teacher…) I remember hitting the notes and never making love in an elevator unless by elevator he means             well, never mind. The stadiums are packed and blood lusting. “Why don’t we call it grid-iron like the rest of the world?” one sheep bleats and inverts the classic football-in-the-rest-of-the-world-vs-soccer-in-the-U-S-A-U-S-A nomenclature paradigm. Steven Tyler flubs one note early on and millions cry murder, TV anchors and bloggers unite, collect the wood, build the gallows and there is something Salem (actually Peabody) Witch Trial about this display. Nobody likes age or for that matter fat in this rapidly aging and morbidly obese country. The Stones prove to us that dinosaurs can be at the helm of an organization that nets 8.8 million in one year. It’s cool because they are scaly and their eyes are deeply recessed into their skulls. They are better imagined as today’s birds, or as petrified forests, their tattoos are hieroglyphs, precious because they are original in a world of artifice. Still, Steven, it’s fine, you did fine, and reader, HE DID FINE. Forty years of rock’n’roll and I actually sort of kind of certainly grudgingly like that rasp. Yes that rasp stands in for its intended, “actual” note like football stands in for our latent gladiator lust. Or, you know, latent something else. Excuse me, dear reader, for what follows is intended solely for Mr. Tyler. Listen, I hate the songwriting, I never really got into your band not even at 11. Yeah, when I was younger I figured you guys for a low rent Led Zeppelin and the fact that I don’t really give a shit about Led Zeppelin these days doesn’t excuse the previous charge. BUT, hey buddy, as pinkmullet4 stated some three hours or thirteen days ago, you are fucking 63 years old. Also, for the life of me, I can’t seem to pen a charting single. I guess I have much to learn from my elders.

-Mark Gurarie