Stuff From Old Notebooks Returns

Just random nonsense I wrote back in 1987. That was a long time ago. You do the math. I'm like a bad 45 flip side: depressed and kind of feeling morbid. "Put The Bone In" anyone? Although come to think of it the A-side "Seasons In The Sun" is even more depressing. Obligatory Terry Jacks reference. My 1st grade teacher Miss Wilson would play that song almost every day during our nap time before putting on some Peter & The Wolf album. I want to be different this time. Just pretend you don't know me or that I'm Gibby Haynes's brother. Ok. Let everything spin away from my touch. Take a pink pill and try to make a break. Back to New Years Day 1981 walking along Prindle Avenue hand in heart with _____. Years I can't believe who I was. Her hair looked like the Sixties and Abbie Hoffman came by too. [editor's note: I was obsessed with Abbie Hoffman during my early 20's] Pavement was so hot nobody could relax at all. You know what I mean. Gray sky ladies walking by. Nothing like a worn in pair of sneakers. I want to learn about poetry. Tell me why the sky is blue. Why can't I fall in love with you? Blades of grass in your fingers. Dandelions twisted between your toes. Another steeplechase. Got kicked by the Berlin Wall. It all seemed different from the last time. All he knew was he needed sleep. Fast! Damn it. Thoreau: We should be men first, subjects afterward. Waterbugs sulking in a corner. The screenplay "It Came From Mr. Ed!" lies in a crumple pun the tiles. The first scene is a tight closeup of TV Guide then black out. Steadicam moving through the darkness of Mazzio's Pizza and out of the walk-in cooler emerges Doug Camp. Cut to a closeup on punker's mouth screaming. He turns to someone off screen. "This movie really freaks me out. It's so real. Why don't we watch something else." The channel is flipped to a televangelist with a huge pompadour and a bright red suit. "Send me all your money viewers or you will end up in HELL!!!!" The channel is flipped again. The televangelist is now on every station. "Shit! I really need to get cable," mutters the punker. I won't faint when I see your true self. I will accept it. And then I will write about it. The girl with the felt tip shoes left her footprints all over the bouncer's heart. A six pack of Coors beer, pulp novel, and a cold shower and there was nothing left but ink stains. Dawn broke and it sounded like trains.

It's 1992 Up In Here

I've run out of things to write about. I'd like to think it is but a temporary lull, but even if I had some ideas I don't have the time. So to keep this dead horse on its feet, let's stuff it full of things found from one of my old notebooks circa April 1992. You see, I once fancied myself as a creative type - rock and roll songs, fanzine creator, and just general mayhem maker. I'd get these spiral notebooks from M.T.S.U. and keep these quasi diary stream of consciousness babble junk food language feasts.

This entry will be drawn from one I titled Wally Thunders Shangri-La. I wasn't a Bangs then. I only flattered myself with pretensions to heroin chic rock stardom in those days. So lets journey back to more innocent days and see how 1992 was treating me:

Rock and roll is our epiphany. Sound the trumpets, spring is here. Shake the sleep out of your eyes and dance to the tune of romance. Hand in hand the lovers go while I sit at home alone. What a lousy movie, what a lousy life. But meanwhile on the bright side, the Manic Street Preachers are soon to arrive. The days count down like the sand through the hourglass, like a mainline heroin injection time rushes by. "Nothing gold can stay."

Nothing could stop me. Nothing will. It's a movie, a ball game, a coffee maker, red Corvette, it's a pop culture genocide. We're all looking for a little shangri la, longing to find out what's never been told while all the artists hope they die before they get old but end up as fashion suicides.

Reinvention? Most types of people bore me, ignore me, or deplore me. But like W.C.W. I am the happy genius of my household, stranglehold of the senses - creation desperation. Clothes make the man so let's get fully clothed in the know. Books mean knowledge. Reading takes meaning. I'm in a band baby...let's go out.

So there's the first couple of pages. It appears I didn't have much to write about back then either, but somehow I found the time and energy to much ado about nothing. Hmmmm. It may not be much on the blog post richter scale, but it makes the now me feel a little better.