In 2007, a much younger me sits silently, perched on a black-lacquered stool in an awkward pose. His legs extend upward towards his chest, because, you see, the rungs of the stool are set a little too high, forcing the young man into a most un-flattering semi-squat. Refuge from tortured soles maybe, but most totally grotesque and unattractive. This particular furnishing is an antique, but uncharmingly so. Chips in the shiny black coating, reflecting in panes of silky even light, only to be broken apart by harsh chip marks, solid evidence of heavy usage and abuse, and apropos obviously, for the human condition. This skinny memory is the security guard for one of the many Madison Avenue Upper-East Side fashion-peddling installations.
This one’s a spinner On a frosty winter’s eve, as I sipped mulled wine in front my roaring fire, for a moment I mused on the finer points of obscure British literature. It was then I discovered Kyle Craft. Haha, nope not true. Sounds fancy though. I think it was via Reddit I first heard the haphazard caterwauling of Kyle Craft’s defunct band GASHCAT. I can’t really remember. But what I do remember was how I was totally lost in a vision like an old 30’s serial, all black n’ white, a phonograph hurling the grotesque and beautiful divergent folk pop of this band called GASHCAT. Kyle Craft returns with re-workings of some old favorites, and some new disjointed rock opera entries. This
Right now, at midnight, I have two shots of gin in me, and I'm listening to Hemingway's "Pretend to Care" for the first time. There's some grunge in there somewhere, then some of that same stuff that laced every Thursday record, but I can't forget got the slow-burn-swagger that gave Nirvana personal hit after personal hit. In my imagination, I lift my hand and stare at this blood that's oozing across my palm. It's the same blood that ran through my veins as a 16 year old heartbroken kid. I'm lying flat on my back on my old bed. This weird grey/red paisley comforter my mom got on sale at Macy's is all that separates me from the sheets I haven't changed
Going back several years, I always felt let off the hook by “Big Girls Don’t Cry” because technically, I’m a male human. Therefore, it’s cool if I listen to all these all these weepy young-bloke bands until I grew up. I didn’t know it was possible at this point in my life for these "old bones" to be so into a band like Turnover (band page). I imagined by now I'd be donning turtlenecks and acid wash jeans. I'd be sipping on a Tom Collins, grilling Oysters on the beach while Adult Contemporary radio takes barely-discernible withdrawals from my already waning testosterone levels. Thus the testosterone medication. “Peripheral Vision” gets 4 out of 5, which on my scale ain’t bad. This is the