u s e y o u r h a n d s

My God, does a song have power.

I’m listening to Beck’s “Lost Cause” from Sea Change, his break-up album. I used to listen to this song while working in the basement at United, on a staticky, ancient radio that was only set to XRT.

I loved when this song would come on because it was one of the few times that I let myself admit that my life as it was sure wasn’t working. The person I lived with didn’t want me there, I hated my job and I didn’t really have any friends. And sometimes, it’s hard to admit that shit to yourself, unaided, arhythmically.

The webbity is back. I’m going to update it more. Here’s why:

1) I’m getting married this fall. Don’t worry. It won’t turn into a lamer bride blog thing.

2) I’m trying harder at life.

3) Because it’s my blog, you know? And I don’t like letting things die.

And how have you been?

I’m just about to the age when waiting in line for several hours to get good seats at a rock concert is just stupid. But not quite. And that’s why my feet hurt after two nights of Morrissey. Two nights, the first at Chicago’s Aragon Ballroom, the second at Milwaukee’s Eagles Ballroom.

Morrissey’s nearly 50. On his recent album, he says “You knew I couldn’t last.” And that’s what we are afraid of. Many of the people at this weekend’s shows had seen him before, 10 years ago or so. I remember everyone going to go see Morrissey when I was a junior in high school. I didn’t go then, but I’m glad that I could go now and get so close to him. And though I prefer to keep Morrissey more myth than man, but I got to channel my not-so-inner angsty teenager just feet from the legend himself.

Many thanks to: Morrissey for two great performances; for the Milwaukee crowd for being badass; and to the fine folks at Nokia for inventing a way to steal a few blurry memories.

Here are some photos from the Milwaukee show, taken with my cameraphone, the only thing I could sneak in. The Chicago show was a total gestapo experience.

Oh, you silly bitches! Like I could ever go away. There’s nothing that will make a blogger recommit to blogging like the threat of saying no to cgi. You dig?

Anyways, updates:

I bought some Roy Orbison off iTunes. This should be illegal, or it should come with booze and a ’57 something. Because it just makes me feel like I’m a depressed extra from American Graffiti. Which, coincidentally was set in the next town over from mine.

Have you seen American Graffiti. NetFlix it, motherfuckers. Almodovar will wait. AG is a laudable George Lucas-penned flick staring Ron Howard. It is lovely. And it is set in Modesto. I grew up in Merced. For you Chicagoans, this is like being from Morton Grove and seeing a movie set in Skokie.

I have seen a totally non-ironic statue of some George Lucas characters (including Opie) frolicking. Yes, yes. It is next to a Denny’s and a gas station, this homage to cruising in el Valle Central, land of mine and Lucas’ birth and rearing.

Have you ever dropped a, well, drop of something on your clothing and watched it absorb? The geometry of it! Quadrants of absorption, a poem about surface area and cotton. Notice the inherent beauty of seeing something, even a drop, go to nothing. Like watching an advanced-motion film of sunrise to sunset.

I recently received a comment on this here webbity about how I used to say such things (!) before this fella came along. And this got me to thinking (and all other things -ing). Has my creativity been stifled by this man?

Or has it been stifled by the appearance of a certain tiny Belgian psychiatrist we’ll call Dr. Burroughs?

In the meantime, and before I answer whatever question I can think of, I will tell you about the songs that have assaulted me today:

Black Velvet by Alannah Myles – I walked into my cubey thing after working out and found a nearby radio playing this piece. It reminded of me of a family who lived at the base of the hill. Down the hill from the family who owned the turkey farm, in the house where we all knew the turkey farmer’s wife had been raped repeatedly by an intruder. A house I had vomited in. Once, the wife of the man who had rented this accursed home had picked me up from school. This was on her radio. We listened to it in front of my stuccoed school by the cemetary.

The Shining, Badly Drawn Boy – We have called off our wedding. Though this would have been a nice song to dance to, in a lovely gossamer dress (in which I no doubt feel Kennedy-thing) and dance and dance. A co-worker recently told me that a Muslim can divorce by saying “I divorce you three times”. I feel that you can be married by dancing barefoot at the foot of water while people watch you and weep. It’s all about water and rhythm. And I am afraid I am off the beat. One, two, four.

That one song from Liz Phair’s sophomore effort (Dance of the Seven Veils) – Because I have always thought of this song when I can’t figure out the boys. Because I spent no time dwelling on this in high school. Or in college. Or in ….

Deep Red Bells by Neko Case – We saw Neko Case with Nick Cave. I always,always refer to Nick Cave as Nick Drake, upon which timie people say “Isn’t he dead? Didn’t he kill himself?” Yes, Nick Drake did. And Nick Cave is Australian — and alive. Neko Case opened for him at the Chicago Theatre. She was drowned by echoes.

I will conclude this long, blah-blah entry by saying that the Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony is playing. And I lament that they had to shell out to the Stones. Because when did the Stones ever have to do a good video?

And when did you?

Except for those you create every day when you hum and walk at the same time.