A Lost Dog

He was already missing when the kids passed through the unlatched yard gate, and walked through the empty yard carrying their colorful backpacks and textbooks. When they walked inside the house they found their grandparents frantic, their arms reaching for a haptic augmented reality where a dog was still present. They thought the kids would not understand the meaning of loyalty, disobedience, and irresponsibility. Tobi was gone.

He could be at a park chasing pigeons, or walking around the streets sniffing his way back home now, but the kids wouldn't believe it.

"He's dead," they screamed at their grandparents. "He's dead!"

They were old enough to understand the irony of a dog lost from home becoming a refuge for fleas and maggots. They've seen it on television and on the sides of freeways. A bloody rag of fur, intestines strewn near the center divider. It was sick and amusing.

Vampire Pomeranian

While I was walking my dog the other day a stranger asked me, "Is that a Vampire Pomeranian?"

I said, "No."

Rant On Dylan

I'm sick of people criticizing Dylan without even listening to the his albums. It doesn't make sense to bash an artist just because you don't like his or her new style of singing. Isn't there more to a song than just a voice? When I first started listening to Dylan I couldn't stand his gravelly voice. The first Dylan record I ever bought was World Gone Wrong. I was a junior in high school, and to say the least I hated it. I hated his voice. I didn't understand his guitar playing. I stopped listening. It wasn't until I got into college that started listening to that album again. I still didn't understand his singing, but I was floored by his picking styles. I've never heard anyone play like that. From then on I started getting my hands on other albums. And with each new record, I was always surprised with his music. Not the songs as songs, but his songs as musical pieces--instrumental, where lyrics aren't just lyrics to make a song, but a musical nonsense (if that makes sense). Whether he was playing with his band or by himself, his records were always musically brilliant. His lyrics and singing were always secondary for me. As good as his lyrics are, I know I would have never got engrossed in his albums if he and his bands played like shit.

(I started writing this before work, and now that I'm back home, it seems that I don't care anymore. It's been said a million times before. It doesn't matter. If you hate him, cool. If you like him, you should probably hate him.)


Dylan - Things Have Changed

Dylan doing what he does best--eating a cheeseburger.

BASS!

I got hired and fired in a 48 hour period. It felt pretty good being employed, even if it was just for 8 hours.

(This is 8 hours of feeling good: wake up at 6:45 am, drive down to K-town, get to the office, paper work, ride the metro to Silverlake Junction, stand in the sun canvassing to hipsters, make fun of those said hipsters, get on the metro back to the office. Happiness ends with debriefing, then being fired.)

But unemployment isn't so bad. I had time to go fishin the other day and caught a bass. It was a good size, about 13 inches. I cooked it today for breakfast. It was my first time filleting a fish. I cut two fillets, about 1 1/2 oz each. I seasoned them with garlic salt and cooked them with butter, chopped onions, and sliced garlic. I should have taken a picture of the end result. Here's a picture of the bass before I cooked it.


Look at that head.

¡Grita!

I work at a discoteca-turned-video store, but the store is still called Discoteca. A few days ago I was rummaging through the rack of what's left of our Mexican cds looking for some sweet Mariachi music to dance my way through this, so far, depressing summer. Being unfamiliar with the bands, I wasn't quiet sure what I was looking for. So I just flipped through the rack looking for the album with the best cover. For the most part every album had the same cover design: a portrait of the band posing in their colorful, matching charro outfits, some of the band members carrying their instruments. Kind of like this:

(Band: Mariachi Internacional)

Anyways, I found a cover I liked. The band was dressed sharp. They had mustaches, sombreros, and these awesome checkered jackets--each square had a picture of a Looney Tunes cartoon character, i.e. Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner, Taz, Tweety, Elmer Fudd, Wile E. Coyote, and (my favorite) Marvin the Martian. I like it. It's good music.

Walk I Think About When I Think About Running

:Cauliflowers. Gretsch guitars. Bottle caps. Tone cap selectors. Sunblock. My soles. Water. Fathoms. Bathos. Hooks. Arm. Ties. Hair.


the mountain goats - this year

It's a God-Awful Small Affair

"No cheap tricks." -Geoffrey Wolff

So this is how I start this thing.

At breakfast this morning I threw up blood. At first I thought it was Kool Aid, only to realize I haven't drank Kool Aid in about ten years. The blood was red, so it shouldn't be too bad. Brown blood is no bueno. But red is a better sign.

It's always fun seeing your own blood. In my guitar case I still carry around a napkin I saved from when I had bad nose bleeds after my father past away. That blood was red too, but now it's dark. Black. Smells of iron. I hold it up sometimes when I take out my guitar, and people get grossed out by it. I think it's nice. It would be strange to see Mars transform like that. Turning from red to black. So black you couldn't see it even if you looked with a telescope. It would just blend in with the space.