New stuffs.

Butch Walker is in a new band! They're called 1969 and you can pre-order their cd here!

ALSO, Death Cab for Cutie is coming out with something new in May, I think. I haven't heard too much about it. I loved Death Cab once, but those days may be over? Eh, it depends on how much they try to make it cost, I suppose.

woohoo!

I got three poems in Stillpoint, the UGA literary magazine.
They are: Glossy, Brittle, and Inner Predatory.

Yay!

this is a cop out post.

It's been a rough week. An awful week. I haven't listened to this much Brand New since high school, and it's sort of embarassing. However, the rest, I think, is nothing to be embarassed about. I love love Bon Iver. if you haven't listened to him yet, you should. Or you should at least google him, because he's got a pretty neat story that other bloggers have covered exhaustively. I like him, I think he sounds like Iron and Wine. Perfect for a rainy drunk afternoon laying in bed. (So is Dylan, for that matter. Can you tell how I've been spending my time?)


Still, I listened to too much brand new this week. I WAS SAD. GIVE ME A BREAK.
(that's the thing about last.fm. it shows people your embarassing tunes, too.)

i love vests! why don't i have more of them?

DO IT

Paint Cute

go there! go there! go there! go there!

check it out.

also...

can I just say how much I love the Victoria Beckham/Marc Jacobs ads?

cause I love them a lot.

Cowboy Song for a Fashion Spread- J.S.

I like this!

Cowboy Song for a Fashion Spread

Jared Stanley

The ravening errant hair
of the clothes horse made tough

in dire nature, by the Lear Jet,
by the mesas in stormless
weather, demonstrates
the romance of the basics:
"goatskin blouson with a fox
collar."  We forget.
Cut to messes in the pass,
my thirsty boots look good in this
situation, thirsty and miserable,
dragging myself into a fort
named for a smallness of spirit,
too cowboy chic in my scorpion
belt buckle.  Our desserts
left darkling, shivers blast
the fine fur at my collar—
a little wrankling thinness
into a wild of shadows pressing.

see it here.

I will always love...

MaRVELOUS 3!

just sayin. I know, it's old stuff, but it definitely makes my list of top albums of all time. How can you not love the way in which everyone can relate? It's definitely rock at its grimy 1990's finest.

so anyway, I'm just chillin at the desk right now, getting paid to do some productive internet stalking? In other music-nostalgia (talk about old high school favorites!) news, I'm super bummed that the Ani Difranco show at 40watt is sold out. (note to self: stop procrastinating.)
But I just recently found out that the 40watt will be hosting: Phantom Planet (3/25) The Weakerthans (4/8), Kimya Dawson (3/29), & Tokyo Police Club (4/7).

These definitely all excellent bands, and I'm super pumped. Now, just to come up with the funds for all the tickets?

boo!

it's been a good couple of days. the nice weather makes me lazy, so i spend a lot of time sitting outside, and even more time cruising around the internets looking at videos and articles. I've stumbled upon Tilly and the Wall's new music video a few times in the past couple of weeks. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm a huge Tilly fan, and I have been since high school--but this song? I liked them because they didn't do stuff like this. Honestly, this may be stupid, but where is my tap dancing???

color me bummed.

The video is pretty rad, though.
check it out here.

my garden v.2

(this is an edit of the poem i posted a few days ago. mad props to chris for some Pound-esque help.)


let us consider, then, the methods of poetic endings.
I've been wearing funeral clothes for seven days, waiting on a
magic number or a tombstone that, when received, will
suspend my skepticism.

(there's nothing to hold in my
spirit's core but bitter nasty syllables and
waking dreams, and)

you're dead anyway,
so.
about my disbelief?

but I will tend your garden for you--
sit with my proverbial shotgun of wits and means,
ready to keep the rabbits
from the lettuce. I am
perched in your tree, which does not exist, suspended--

I alone am bearer
of the garden snake that died, when
the field was plowed under.
(you don't know me, but
I will
I will
tear your bedrock up)

Off my memories.

your garden.

let us consider, then, the methods of poetic endings.
i've been wearing funeral clothes for seven days, waiting on a
magic number or a tombstone that, when recieved, will
suspend my disbelief in god's existence.
but there's nothing to hold in my
spirit's core but bitter nasty syllables and
cowboy dreams, the key to which lies in quieting your
conscious mind. and you're dead anyway, so
what do you care about my disbelief or otherwise? but,
i will tend your garden for you--
sit with my proverbial shotgun of wits and means,
ready to keep to keep the rabbits from the
lettuce and the vultures from the memory. i am
perched in the tree which does not exist
anymore, suspended above the hidden ant hill,
like they don't even know
that everything as it was has ceased to exist and
i alone am bearer of the garden snake that died
when they plowed the fields under for a
subdivision. (you don't know me, but i will
tear your bedrock up
off my memories.)

elliot smith.

"to vanish into oblivion is easy to do
and i try to be but you know me
i come back if you want me to."

I've been wearing funeral clothes for three days.

LP for W (1)

I take pictures of bar lights, long after dark.
you nicknamed me neon, and
if poems were like paintings, I would write us
oversaturated. brilliant red mouth and
(I can only give you as much sex as I know.)
when your eyes change from aqua to
midnight and I know the spectrum and the
dark of your profile against the grey of the sheets
and the light is weak, demanding yellow when it
comes in, then
this is a love poem. because
this day blurs into the next, in the dead hours of
four o'clock when I am
master of the pitch black shade,
i spend a lot of time buzzing,
overstimulated and flashing,
dreaming in your shadows
behind my open eyes.