One of the first things I wanted to see. The prick with the stick: James Joyce.

From my window I can hear the staggered passings of nocturnal taxis, the occasional group of drunks and the muffled echo of a tenor singing covers at a nearby pub. Of course he is singing U2. It seems the entire city has a collective hard-on for Bono. Or is it just a front for tourists? There’s proof to support both theories.

Supporting the hard-on theory is a free map of Dublin showing the proposed site for a phallic U2 tower. Further proof finds the band the fifth richest business in Ireland, according to a “Lonely Planet” ripoff.

Yet, every native I talk to can’t stand the band.

So, yes. This is my temporary home: Dublin. I live above a convenience store painted bright red and named after the nearby monument Spire. My bed sits by the window and is one of three beds crammed into the room. There is another room by this one with another three beds. The building is old and everything smells musty, but it is kept relatively clean.

The flat has a large living room, dining room, kitchen and utility room (which houses the toilet and shower). It is an awkward setup, tedious to explain, although amusing to witness. One roommate theorizes that the building is shaped like an upside down triangle. That explains the lack of 90 degree corners in the flat.

The place is like a small-scale UN meeting in its diversity, but with more booze, laptops and twin beds. Also, there is less talk of peace and disarming North Korea than at a typical UN get-together. Hong Kong, Japan, Poland, Brasil and the USA are all represented in the flat.

Both of my Asian roommates have taken up Christian names to make it easier for westerners. I am finding it a common practice here. It would be neat to come up with my own name in some other country.

My Japanese roommate works all too many hours as a chef at a Japanese restaurant and when he comes home, he likes to drink a beer or two and watch “every sport, but Cricket.” We talk about what little attachment I have to Japan and I throw out butchered Japanese phrases — any I can remember.

My Hong Kong roommate works at an Asian grocery store and promised me I could get fifty-percent off if I came in while he was working. He offers this in a very grave and serious manner, which is hilarious. He enunciates each word, lowers his head and widens his eyes. I cannot tell whether he is intentionally being funny or not. He has only been here a month or so and laughs often at his laptop screen. He has a friend who is often at the flat (living here really) who is also from Hong Kong.

My Polish roommate wants to be an actor and is moving back to Poland very soon to be in a play. He watches many movies. By many movies, I mean a few movies over and over. The apartment only has about five DVDs, which he cycles through. In fact, he has watched “Billy Elliot” at least three times in the past two days. He considers Sylvester Stallone a great actor and likes his mumbling.

My Brazilian roommate is short, extremely outgoing and sounds like a guru with his accent. He likes to talk about women and go out to drink. He is the self-proclaimed God Father of the flat. He takes the money and keep things in chaotic order. He works in the pub below our flat. Both the pub and flat are owned by the same person.

When I first arrived, he brought me and my Hong Kong roommate to a dinner at his French friend’s flat. It was a grand time with the two friends constantly making gay jokes about their close friendship at the expense of the French guy’s Mauritian girlfriend.

Before moving to Dublin, I had never heard of Mauritius. Since living here, I have met three people from there. In case you are as ignorant as me on the subject, Mauritius is a small island off of Madagascar. The population speaks English, French and Creole. The dodo bird lived there once. That is about all I have gathered.

My last roommate is the token female of the flat. I think just about all the roommates are in love with her on a basic instinctual level. She is a pretty Brasilian who prances around the place in fairly skimpy outfits (by prudish Protestant standards). All I know about her is she sings along to Cold Play and smokes on the balcony.

I was surprised to find Dublin such an international mixing bowl. I had a misconception that is was overwhelmingly native.

In my defense, this boom in immigration has occurred only in the last decade, according to many spoken sources. It s interesting to hear professors talk about Dublin pre-2000.

To go back a bit, I arrived in Dublin on the last day of August. My mother came with me to help me find a place and get me settled in. She is a flight attendant, so she has been to Dublin, but never for more than 24 hours. We stayed at the Maldron Hotel and the next three days were spent perusing local restaurants, searching daft.ie for potential shares and stopping by a few tourist traps.

While walking, we found Dublin’s “China Town” on Parnell Street and were treated to some of the best Chinese and Korean food I have ever consumed. I at first called it China Street, a more accurate name, but was corrected by a hotel attendant who asked me if I was talking about China Town. It is much less a town than a street, but Dublin is not a very big city so maybe the scale is skewed. Virtually every restaurant on the street has a great all you can eat breakfast for 5-7 euros.

We did a traditional Irish breakfast in the hotel restaurant. The Irish breakfast is very ham oriented, so I was a little disappointed since I don’t eat pork. The black and white pudding is a little nauseating to think of concerning basic ingredients. The name is due to one of the puddings being colored with blood.

The obligatory fish and chips and pint of Guinness was handled by an overpriced pub on the main city centre vein, O’Connell Street, near where I now live.

The good eats ended when my mother (and her purse) left. I was thankful to have the jump start, though. We looked at some places  while she was here, but none appealed to me completely.

After she left, I found the cheapest hostel online and stayed there for a week. It was a blur of people and names. I especially became friends with a group of French girls, a Texan attorney and an Italian lawyer who always wore suits.

The Italian lawyer was especially amusing to me. “If I cannot wear my suit, I will not go out!” he said in a Mario Brothers voice when told he was already overdressed and to just come to the bar as he was. His demands were met and the whole group waited for him to get dressed.

Two of the French girls seemed stand-offish and stereotypically snobbish at first, but we eventually became friends. They were bitchy in some of the best ways. It started with a core group of two girls, but grew to about four or five French girls toward the end of my stay at the hostel.

It is sad to watch so many people slip through your fingers, but that is the nature of the beast. An awward cliche, I know. The beast of traveling? I am sorry. I couldn’t do better at this time of night.

An Australian girl and experienced traveler told me that although going through so many people is slightly depressing, “you get used to it.”

Those temporary friends can certainly be useful later. One might be able to take advantage of them for an empty couch sometime in the future.

There is so much to catch up on. I have only made it to the beginning of October in my story, so I will take a break here. I think my life gets more eventful and amusing from here on out. Things to look forward to include pigeon murders, meeting other Americans, awkward Pulp Fiction dances and my new college burning down.

No kidding.

I think someone I know has this.

I just got back from the Keys. I went with a friend’s family, which made the experience extremely cheap. All-in-all, I think it cost me about $25: $10 for sunglasses (I forgot to bring any) and $15 for the best Cuban meal of my life.

My posts on this blog are getting more and more sparse as time progresses.

It has been difficult getting around to updating this thing. Any minor effort at compiling my daily activities to display on the internet has been reduced to sporadic, A.D.D., Twitter posts. You know, Twitter, that revolutionary micro-blogging tool that is so popular amongst the young crowd.

In that vein, I have decided to end this blog post with a series of embellished Twitter posts of mine.

*** Went to hemmingways bar hangout last night: Rows of bras, photos of jimmy buffet, bad pop country covers, & a tree trunk.5:31 PM Aug 14th from txt

This bar was only a few steps off the beaten path, but that was enough to make it at least 50% less crowded than the other bars in town. It’s called Captain Tony’s Saloon, named after an interesting character who died quite recently. The place is a smoky, cosy old bar with a rich history that includes a prior-to-fame Jimmy Buffet (his first gig there was for $10 and two Budweisers) and Ernest Hemmingway’s (supposedly his original hangout). The Sloppy Joe’s down the street claims the title of being Hemmingway’s choice bar, but it should be noted that Captain Tony’s was the original Sloppy Joe’s in the ’30s.

There are plenty of hanging bras, business cards, dollar bills, photos and framed newspaper articles to please any drunken eye. The middle of the bar even has a tree trunk shooting through the roof. My gang had a blast there and I especially enjoyed learning about the place (because I am a nerd). Also, the house beer was delicious — a mild, but complex dark beer. The night ended with hiccups, two knocked over trashcans and a broken flip-flop; all contributions from one of our party who doesn’t drink nearly often enough for my amusement.

***An obese, unfriendly pediatrician seems kind of contradictory, but alas i have met one.11:46 PM Aug 12th from txt

This describes one of the family friends in our group: “the papa bear” and owner of the main luxury boat we used. Maybe, if I knew him better, I would think differently. As far as first week impressions go, he was kind of mean. I am glad to have gone snorkeling at Sombrero Reef on account of his boat, though. I had never seen a sting ray in the wild. I am also grateful for the bountiful seafood brought back each night by this fishing and lobstering crazed group of manly-men.

***The Fl Keys. Wish you were here! Raping the oceans with gas guzzling boats, excessive fishing and reef snorkeling.3:32 PM Aug 12th from txt

This same group I was with represents so easily how we are destroying the planet. After a day of only catching “smalls,” lobster that are too small to keep and thus illegal to eat, they decided to grill them up on the boat and eat them anyway before heading back to shore. So much for the lobsters repopulating. I think there’s a reason for their complaints of less lobster this season compared to past.

***I love tacky key west houses. Looks so much better in mass rather than just that one lonely house on your local neighborhood St.1:28 PM Aug 9th from txt

It made me think of a Tallahassee friend who’s parents have a very Key West house. I think they would be very happy in the Keys, a place full of arts, crafts and contradictions — like its cultural homogeneity of laid back solitude and excessive partying.

***Not sure if i really miss this place. Going to the keys in a couple days though. At least its somewhere new.4:40 AM Aug 9th from txt

Of course I am talking about Gainesville: My home, my hell. The Keys was definetely a new place. I was surprised to see wild iguanas and a species of tiny deer called Key deer.

***I don’t think UF’s international center could be more incompetent and confusing.7:56 PM Aug 7th from web

They are trying to screw me out of money. I will hopefully handle the situation next week when I visit Gainesville.

***More moving madness.4:41 PM Aug 4th from web

I believe I was helping my girlfriend organize the chaos.

***Wow, @DiannGoff892 wants sex, no strings attached. I better jump on that with the money I’ll be making from that nice Nigerian prince.1:57 AM Aug 4th from web

Junk mail can be highly entertaining for me. When my brothers and I were little, we would fight over the junk mail that was sent to our house.

***@roysyourboy Thanks. It’s like part of me is at the Screaming Marlin too.11:22 AM Aug 1st from web in reply to roysyourboy

So many of my belonging are scattered across Florida.

***I am becoming a moving pro. I think I should start tackling grand pianos on pulleys.12:45 PM Jul 31st from web

I seriously am considering it.

***Mouth party! I highly recommend Boca Fiesta.5:32 PM Jul 20th from web

Warren, owner of Boca Fiesta and previous drummer for Against Me!, talked about avocados with me! I was star-struck and enamored.  The food was genuinely (and I must admit, suprisingly) good.

***The grass IS greener on the other side. If you’re going to Ireland.5:29 PM Jul 20th from web

I leave on my voyage on the 27th of this month.

***Thought this was funny for all those “crab core fans” DSXF better jump on this band wagon/sensation quick. http://tinylink.com/?drjQBT…10:42 AM Jul 20th from web

Whenever conversation goes to stupid YouTube videos, this has been my contribution. The band is Attack Attack. Their genre is crabcore and yes, they synchronize a guitar flip over their heads in the music video. It’s a mix of screamo, electronica and everything bad in music. It’s glorious, side-splitting material.

***It is nice to see all my friends in Gainesvile.6:38 PM Jul 19th from web

Despite the short nature of Tweets, I think I got everything across in this one.

***@roysyourboy Late nights are depressing. I think it’s because they’re technically mornings. They can’t even be labeled coherently.

We were both up way too late/early.

***@p4tr1ck Is that the tv you spent all your grownup money on?3:22 AM Jul 16th from web in reply to p4tr1ck

He was a good roommate. I miss many aspects of the house on 5th Ave. That specific kind of chemistry will probably never be found again.

***Harry Potter has inspired a new literary generation! http://www.fanfiction.net/t…6:48 PM Jul 15th from web

I believe this is where I left off in my last blog post and thus, I end this one. You (the reader) are now caught up on my extraordinarily boring life.

Yes, I am using Ebony as a pun (for both an awful fanfic character and an infamous black culture magazine). Throw in some cultural relevancy with MJ and we have ourselves a sub-par blog photo.

I am living in Tallahassee. I sublet an apartment from a friend for cheap. My girlfriend is living with me because her roommate is a terrible person. Let me elaborate: her roommate is a bigot and leaves too many passive-aggressive notes.

I have yet to find work. I go through periods of trying very hard and then cycle to depressed discouragement. I worked on an organic farm one Saturday for $50. I tried to keep that going, but it did not pan out (many tedious factors contributed).

When I went to Japan, my grandparents gave me an embarrassingly huge sum of money that has fueled me through this summer and also made me feel extremely guilty in a spoiled kind of way. My grandparents live humbly yet dig deep to help provide for me. I don’t even know what they’re saying half the time — half being a very generous estimate. I am determined to learn more Japanese.

Somehow, I have managed to entertain myself in Tallahassee.

According to my Twitter posts this has included:

Visiting my parents (did some crafting with my mother, did some golfing/racquet ball with my father).

Visiting Gainesville and finally being 21 (went to free beer/karaoke and actually got to participate in the hoarding of plastic cups).

Getting ready for Ireland (mentally as well as physically)

Watching Ichi the Killer, Up, The Watchmen, Delicatessen, Cash Back, Battle Star Galactica and The Office (confusing, depressing, not as quirky as Amelie, charming, worth some of the hype, reliable — in that order).

Applying for places like Target, Kmart, Jimmy Johns, Borders, etc. etc. (I only got an interview at Borders and I was the seventh one that day).

Staying up too late (like tonight).

Playing nurse for my girlfriend who had a 102 fever for a few days (which I don’t think I caught, thank God).

Jogging in the evenings on the rape trail (I am not worried about being raped because the trail is scattered with “rape poles”)

Twittering @pattons (Yes, I am caught in the craze)

and today…

I picked out a frame at Crank It Up and am going to start building my own bicycle!

I think there was some jamming on my guitar in there as well.

Oh, and my girlfriend and I turned into middle schoolers and read terrible Harry Potter fan fiction and laughed our asses off all night. It was way better than seeing the movie’s premiere and much cheaper.

Here is the infamous “My Immortal,” which I only now discovered:

http://myimmortalrehost.webs.com/

And here is a tongue-in-cheek Wikipedia-esque article about the above mentioned fan fiction:

http://encyclopediadramatica.com/My_Immortal

I think our middle school selves devolved pretty far. We started looking up words on Urban Dictionary.com and making really immature jokes. We also started our own Harry Potter fan fiction, to be published soon under a pseudo name. If you ever stumble across an awful piece of fanfic garbage full of lewd sex and violence, all involving the Harry Potter cast, it may well be ours.

Neither of us like Harry Potter.

This is a story as published in the January issue of The Fine Print, which I talked about in my last post. After having it taken down from the Fine Print website, I decided that I wanted it on the internet somewhere — even if on my personal blog. I hope I am not asking for trouble. The names of the people in this story has been changed to protect  their identities. It is something I maybe should have considered when it was first published.

The YouTube video is what came up when I typed in censorship. I found it amusing.

Punk Crust Beauty

by Shaw Patton

Anne is sitting on the floor of a friend’s house, sewing dental floss into a shirt tie-dyed with her own blood when I ask if I can profile her. She concedes, but seems puzzled as to why she was chosen.

“Where do you get the blood for the shirt?” I ask.

She looks at me, confused.

“I mean like, where on your body. Do you vomit blood or slit your wrists?”

This devolves into an inappropriate tangent, but I eventually get the information I want.

“No, I just poke right there,” she says, pointing to where her arm bends, a popular place for IVs. “It bleeds a lot.” She emphasizes and repeats, “a lot.”

And she wonders why I choose to write about her.

The shirt looks like any other tie-dye creation, except instead of hippie Day-Glo colors, the splattered pattern is a uniform rusted brown-red.

Anne Crusoe is one of those people whom I see everywhere: on the streets, around campus and at just about every party or show I attend. I recognized her long before we formally met in early September.

I never dreamed that we would ever converse. This was the girl who seemed to be in the trajectory of every daily routine of mine, but whose identity would remain a mystery forever.

Granted, Anne is not hard to miss. I describe her to other people as “a tall black lesbian with a fro-hawk and about a billion facial piercings.” A billion being a rough estimate.

Anne embodies what it is to be a Gainesville DIY punk. She is a perfect example of the depth of personalities I meet in the group and what can be judged from appearances.

I am happy to announce that we are now on a first-name basis. Whenever Anne sees me, she likes to scream my name in a strangled “I’m being stabbed by Freddy Krueger” voice. She does something similar with everybody’s name when they stand in her presence. Her voice can also hit an operatic sing-songy timbre for those especially dear to her.

The place where Anne hangs out most often is dubbed “the little blue crack den,” because of its resemblance to one — although I have yet to see another little blue crack den to compare. It sits on NW 3rd Avenue and is a perfect example of why anarchy might not work as a political system.

The communal chores are never done: dishes pile up with rotting food, attracting flies and cockroaches; beer bottles and fast food containers litter the floor, automatically becoming ash trays; drinks are spilled, strange substances are tracked in, and the yard has turned toward a natural state of angry Florida swamp-jungle.

The house is also a perfect example of why anarchy is so tempting as an alternative. A high notion of utopia permeates the dwelling and just being there makes one feel warm and fuzzy. The place has developed a tight-knit communal spirit that reminds me of a glorified ‘60s hippie commune. Most seem content and happy in the rundown little blue crack den.

As a testament to her character, it is Anne whom I witness do dishes the most often, even though she does not live there. This observation is supported by the housemates I interview.

“I figure it’s like my rent for staying here so much,” Anne says. “I spend about half of my time here and half at home.”

As for a specific constricting label for the group of people Anne hangs out with, I am torn between crust punk and folk punk, having only a limited understanding of either term.

Craig Lark, a resident of the little blue crack den, often uses the term “crustie” when describing himself and those around him.

I gather the meaning of the term through context clues.

“I don’t shower very often,” Anne tells me.

This is my first clue.

Wikipedia also helps fill me in on the crust punk genre and lifestyle. Most everything the page describes as far as the general appearance of crust punks rings true for Anne and her friends.

Dreads are popular, showers are not. Clothes found in dumpsters are popular, Abercrombie and Fitch is not.

“I wouldn’t say any of my friends are crusties, but Anne would be the closest,” says Melissa Marsalis, another resident of the little blue crack den.

Although I usually meet Anne at the little blue crack den, I have been to her residence once when I crashed a knitting circle there. She lives in a second story apartment near Sorority Row with her ex-girlfriend and now just friend, May Rowe. The place is often referred to as “the tree house.”

The tree house has a pear tree growing next to it. I once witnessed Anne knocking down pears with a broken rake while standing on the roof.

Besides pears, her diet consists of mostly starches and squash, all of which she prepares with peppers and hot spices.

She likes hot foods, but nothing is as hot as her most hardcore and endearing hobby: fire- breathing.

“I breathed fire like every day for a year and didn’t get chemical pneumonia,” she says.

She picked up the hobby from an old friend. Her fascination with fire is evident. Even while I interview her, she lights a piece of trash on fire and puts it out in an ashtray.

“I was fidgeting and not paying attention so I lit something on fire,” she tells John Tyler, a resident of the little blue crack den, after he asks what the smell is.

Outside the walls of the little blue crack den, Anne attends UF as a biology major and says she is “a junior and a half.” Perhaps she excels in biology because of the genes passed on by her parents, who are both doctors. She also attributes her “craziness” to her parents.

“I’ve seen her house [in] Westchase, which is a nice part of Tampa,” says Clarissa Lebowski, a frequenter of the little blue crack den and friend of Anne’s. “Anne is different. She probably grew up with things. She just chose to reject it all.”

It goes without saying that Anne’s unique appearance often attracts gazes from passers-by. Some people are very forthcoming with their opinions.

“So many people told me I was beautiful today. They were following me for some reason. They ambushed me essentially. ‘Oh my god, you’re so beautiful. I love your hair. Nah, na, nah, nah, nah.’”

She usually enjoys the attention, but treats it with the same confused wonderment as to why I would profile her, the reasons which I hope are more than apparent by now.

Quite frankly, Anne is a refreshing person to stumble upon in a town where stereotypical gator fanatics and Greek insignias meld into one indistinct populace. She is unique inside and out.

A quick update since writing this story: the little blue crack den was condemned in early December, and Anne has relocated from the tree house to a friend’s apartment downtown where she sleeps in a loft above the bathroom.

"We're judging you."

People will always label.

45-year-old conservative, stiff collar, shined shoes, trimmed mustache, a dozen people under your supervision at the office … meet 21-year-old punk girl, torn clothing, seven facial piercings, a mohawk, 12 credits of biology for fall semester at the local university.

Sympathy, disappointment, anger are all present as an article I wrote last year surrounds itself in drama.

It is a sad state of affairs: A profile I did of someone gave him/her a bad reputation that I did not foresee. The profiled person was unable to sign a lease because of a narrow minded landlord who read the article and said something to the effect of “everything you touch turns into a squat house.”

So there came sympathy.

No one seems to actually read the article. The profiled person did not even live in the house that the landlord refers to. Still, I got the story taken down by the editor so that no ensuing troubles would happen. I was so proud of that story too…

There’s the disappointment.

Later, I got another call from the profile person, vilifying me with outlandish claims like I never gave heads up that the story would be published. There was a photo-session for the story for Christ’s sake.

There were assaults that I did not know the profiled person well enough to profile him or her.

I don’t think  intimate details are necessarily required. It is a profile. An impression of a person, like a Claude-Monet painting. One takes the most interesting aspects of a person (usually not their favorite color and flavor of soup) and writes a summary as a part of a narrative.

I wrote observations exactly as I saw them. I made fun of my ignorance to punk culture in the article even pointing out aspects that I was not knowledgeable on. I merely pieced together what I witnessed  in (what I thought was) a humorous and light-hearted article.

I am not the devil. I did not foresee this ridiculousness. And I am sorry I labeled the profiled person as a certain sect of punk — I know how careful and with what emphasis punks spout self-labels. But the truth is, everyone is labeled. It is impossible to escape. I thought I did the article justice when I mentioned myself having trouble finding a “constricting” label to put the profiled person in.

I guess I am the only one who got the punchline. I am laughing a my own joke. At least I gave punks something else to be angry and frustrated with.

They look so clobbering and meaty. It's like pieces of ham having a bout.

I wiped my computer clean the other day. Reinstalled Bill Gate’s graphical interface.

I was sick of it being bogged down by ghouls and confusion. Every time I rebooted, it was that damn, incessant “initializing narrator” female, crackpot robotic voice. No matter what I did, short of nuclear warfare on my laptop, she would not go away.

I am glad to have my laptop back. Especially during this move to Tallahassee. The keyboard is not altogether right still, but at least it is functioning.

It is always nice to have a fresh start. I am enjoying the semester’s end and accumulating/downloading all my favorite, reliable programs: Winamp, Firefox, uTorrent, Audacity, Open Office …

Today was lazy. A lazy Sunday, if you will. Many of the places that I could have been productive in were closed today or closed too early for me to bother.

Last night was a Lisa Frank party. You know, Lisa Frank, that commercial artist for girls elementary school supplies; folders and stickers adorned with gushing, fantasy creatures in hideous shades of purple, pink, orange and green that would make a sane person commit suicide.

It was fun. For the most part.

There was a lot of aggressive pheromones in the air. Men flexing and baring their teeth. Very strange for a party themed around such an innocent sticker and school supply line.

Needless to say, there was a fight after I left. I guessed the two culprits right away: The one that looked like Hagrid (yes, a Harry Potter reference) and the one that looked like a trashed fourth member of the Blue Man Group. The two drunkenly duking it out must have looked like a bad Farrelly brothers comedy. I am not 100 percent sure why that is my visual.

Maybe a better visual is their opposite statures, like a modern rendition of “Of Mice and Men.”

I have been listening to/watching my bassist’s roommate play “Street Fighter IV” for far too long. It is driving me slightly insane. Before that I watched “The Venture Brothers” for far to long.

Now I am scrolling on the internet for far too long.

Time to stop.

I have not updated in awhile. An obvious enough statement.

Been to Tallahassee to visit my girlfriend quite a few times in the past couple months. For the most part, if I am not there for the weekend, she is here in Gainesville.

One of those trips involved going to Waylon and Meg Thorton’s little farm. We watched a bad monster-themed movie, talked trash and watched Meg be domestic. Oh, and of course pet ponies.

There was a really terrible show back there at some point too. I had not slept for 36 hours or so when we played (the result of an all-nighter creating a childrens magazine proto-type). There were other reasons to be cranky: It was the reunion of my band in the vein of an unabashed, political, money grubbing Sex Pistols … like the five or six times they reunited after 1996. Oh, except we don’t make money when we reunite — Just embarrass ourselves. We never started a revolution in the late ’70s either.

My bassist and I could not get in tune because my singer had stepped on the blasted thing earlier during practice. It was a brand new tuner. One of those fancy ones I splurged on that clip to the head of your guitar. That would not have been the end of the world, but I unfortunately cannot handle stress when on stage.

School is pretty much over. I have one final exam next Friday. It was a very stressful semester, but I survived.

As I usually do.

I have a crazy scheme to live in Tallahassee for the summer with my lovely girlfriend. We can cook wonderful things and grow tired of each other.

I need to find a job, though. Stat! I am going to Tallahassee soon to look for one.

It is quite urgent. I am digging myself in debt so very fast. I may be homeless soon, but that part is of my own volition. A guy is interested in my room and I am interested in Tallahassee and not my room. It works out and saves on rent.

I just got my computer back from the warranty shop. This is my second keyboard replacement since having it. I think they get squeakier every time they are changed out.

I am going to Ireland hopefully in the fall. I can brush up on my nonsense Lucky Charms accent. I am actually going to take a Spanish class there.

I think everything will be okay.

I stole this from a blog by a woman named TseYui, but I am not sure where she stole it from.

I have a lot to read tonight, but need to get these things out before they fade from memory. I can already feel them flitting out of my mind through my ear canals.

I’ll start with today and work backwards:

Monday

I woke up early to meet my group for magazine management class. We are creating a childrens magazine prototype with a focus on education and nurturing bonds in family.

Next was Editorial and Op-Ed class with a guest speaker. He has a large nose, deep voice and receding hair line. He is extremely intelligent and has been successful in journalism as a publisher and editorial writer.

I remember him interning in my editing class. He taught some classes on basic math for the stereotypically numerically challenged journalism students.

I then went to Wayward Council and scrounged up enough change for some CDs. I brought in a Painted Black CD that was in randomly in a Paul Beribeau CD case that I had purchased last time. I didn’t realize Paul Beribeau was sitting right there when I announced this fact. He joked about it being a bonus disc. It was weird. It’s really cool that he is in Gainesville now. I also dug in the free bin for some various patches, a Stress Face sticker, an outdated Vote 2004 poster and a flathead screwdriver with a wooden handle. A good hunt.

Now that I think about it, my bike is still in front of Wayward.

I’ve been reading a lot for a busy day tomorrow. “The Algerine Captive” and “When Species Meet” if you must know.

Sunday

A rough day after I broke up with my girlfriend for the second time. My bandmates kidnapped me and we went and ate at Saigon Legend. We roamed around town for the day. I went home and they went to a show.

Saturday

I can’t quite recall the day, but it was mostly spent hanging out and watching my bassist and his roommate play Street Fighter 4 and intermittently playing our guitars. Making Eyes then had a fun, intimate show at The Kickstand with For He Who Hung The Moon, Little High Little Low, The LefT its and The Koda Kit.

Afterward, we got word of a punk folk show at Hell’s Kitchen (a diner open really late and praised highly in a Fest brochure). We went and I met a member of Mythological Horses. He handed us a flyer without knowing that we were there to see him. He had a lot of stories to tell. He’d been on tour for well over six years and told me about the random connections he’d made on the way. The flier that he had handed me earlier was drawn up by the Ren and Stimpy artist. I looked at it closer and was surprised by its signature style, bad-ass unicorns with eyes straight from my childhood cartoon. He also had been touring with Kimya Dawson and roomed with a Voodoo Glow Skulls saxophonist. He was extremely nice and gave my tambourine player a cardigan since she was cold.

He then played a small show in the food storage room of the restaurant. The words were clever and catchy. He totally blew me away. It was anti-folk at its roots. His girlfriend, under the name Saucy Yoda (a silly hip-hop moniker), performed next, but I didn’t stick as it was late and my tambourine player wanted to go home.I meant to see her at the Kickstand show Sunday night, but we all know I didn’t make it out to that.

That night my tambourine player and I had a falling out. She ended up going to a friends’ and I layered up and biked three or four miles home.

Monday through Friday (16th- 20th)

Lots of school. Somewhere in there student government election campaigning started and I was bombarded with pamphlets and people following me as I walked. On Thursday me and my tambourine player celebrated a “hand-iversary” (the months we’d been together could be counted on a hand) with fancy cheeses (we picked terrible ones), wine and a dirty movie. Afterward we spent some time at the Atlantic to hang out with friends.

Friday’s major event was a free show at the Reitz Union. Band Marino and Wait Wait played. A band that supposedly sounds like they ripped off The Beach Boys played, but we left before their set. It was a fine time and I saw many people that I know. I ate free popcorn and chugged free soda.

Valentines Day Weekend and before

Valentines day was the first falling out between me and my tambourine player. The day before Valentines day was a Friday the 13th house show with Making Eyes, Dirty Fist, Toothache, some other girl, Little High Little Low and Dante Campanero. Thursday was a sweet show for the V-Day Fest (V standing for V.A.G.I.N.A., which in turn stands for Violence Against Girls is not Alright) with Madeline, Ghost Mice, Chelsea Carnes and Cassette.

Somewhere around the 10th or 11th

I rented a Uhaul and managed to incur only about $25 moving across town to my old house. The stuff is still stacked everywhere and is quite chaotic.

]]> http://shawp.wordpress.com/2009/02/24/travel-back-with-me/feed/ 2 shawp Remember http://shawp.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/i-move-tomorrow/ http://shawp.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/i-move-tomorrow/#comments Wed, 11 Feb 2009 07:53:12 +0000 shawp http://shawp.wordpress.com/?p=299 ]]>

I constantly go back to old posts and edit for grammar and spelling (never content) even though I know no one will go back and read the changes and think more of me.

Lately I have been missing the hay days of Live Journal. The site has been replaced by a plethora of other mediums, including Facebook, but in the end I feel like Live Journal had the most substance. Of course it depended on the person.

It’s not all bad. My favorite part of Facebook is the network of photographs that people tag and comment on. It is an amazing feature. I love scrolling through the photos and seeing how everyone knows each other and witnessing how people have changed. Some of the pictures are stunning. Even the most amateur  photographer can capture a gem every once-in-awhile by pure chance. The same reasons apply to why I love Flickr.

My social life is entirely dependent on the Facebook events application. I am sad and happy to admit this. From free films to local parties to shows,  Facebook has truly revolutionized the way we interact.

I realize that all these comments are a little outdated, but I am in a unoriginal contemplative mood.

Mostly I am sad because I feel like text-based, longer forms of blogs like this one are dying. This is no Tumblr or Twitter. I enjoy those, but they are like the ADHD version of blogs.

I have a weird compulsion for this. It comes out in the music and blogs I write.

On to other things:

As far as my relationship goes, things have smoothed over a little. I will give it some time and see.

It is an almost morbid thought, but I constantly wonder if my ex would take me back. You know you are officially cut off when you cease to even be Facebook friends. That makes two ex-girlfriends. Not that I’m counting. But I am.

I think this post is a result of reading too many damn “25 things about me” lists on Facebook.

Amazing, Levon Helm is playing on Conan. The Band is one of my favorite bands of all time. My girlfriend recently bought me some of their vinyls in excellent condition during her stay in New York. Helm’s singing and drumming are such an influence on me.

Speaking of music I love, both Madeline and Ghost Mice will be playing later this week.

I love being into folk punk. Albums and shows are always cheap. Oh, and the music is grand, visceral, real.

A writer for the Huffington Post owns this dog.

The following is very emo. I deserve any of the anonymous rude comments that these kind of posts tend to attract:

So, I don’t know if I’m falling out of love and projecting those feeling on her or whether she really is starting to hate me. I would like to believe it is mutual, for conscience’s sake. Beneath every sentence and action is constant tension waiting to surface. It’s aggravating. We are aggravating.

Continuing with the sef-centeredness, but on a much happier note: tonight’s show.

I don’t think my band did amazing, but we were surrounded by so many epic musicians.

Kathy Sohar was first and despite it being extremely early, the turnout was great. I liked her song called “The Devil Gives Good Head.” It was clever and catchy.

Lars Din played next, backed by a old trumpet guy who would go into spurts of maniacal laughter, and a curly hared fellow who played hand drums.

I did not realize until the show that I had seen Lars before at Tim and Terry’s with Dirty Fist.

Tonight he played all depressing songs. He said that ‘s how he has been feeling as of late. I thought the performance was great. Lance is a charming guy with his early graying hair, sad eyes and obscure lyrics.

Next was Waylon Thorton and the Heavy Hands. The married duo erupted with energetic, hard-hitting tunes. Meg hits her drums with such an unexpected ferocious attitude . It goes perfectly with Waylon’s wail and crunching guitar.

I had Facebook messaged Waylon the other night about how much I liked his past projects and how I looked forward to playing with him. He’s a really nice guy. He even jokingly dedicated a song to me during the show. It’s always great when the people behind your favorite songs happen to be cool, like Sean and Ben in Andrew Jackson Jihad. Waylon and Meg also played the Cara Del Gato favorite, “Fruit Bat.” As I creature I wish to reincarnate into, the song is close to my heart.

Anyways, I got to talk to Waylon for a bit and that made my night. My band member got his number and there is now vague plans to go to Meg and Waylon’s farm outside of town and ride their pony and maybe record some music. They also have a tepee, I hear.

After them it was time for Making Eyes. I joked that we were sandwiched between such great bands and were unworthy. We were like rotten lunch-meat between gourmet slices of bread, or something to that nature.

A few things that went wrong:

During sound check it was discovered that my pickup was broken. Jen from 1982 lent me her acoustic guitar. I ended up breaking a string after a few songs. Waylon then handed me another guitar, a beautiful hollow body. My hands were not liking the switch-ups, but I got through fairly unscathed. Not that I didn’t mess up everything, but I rolled with the punches. Mostly, I was upset that my voice was not working, a result of just getting over a cold. I resorted to barking like a dog, although a friend says that this is not what I sounded like. I had trouble hearing myself. My girlfriend was even worse off though as far as scratchy voices go. She caught my cold and was still sick.

In the end, I had a blast — no matter how much I complain in these posts. I love playing my songs and hope I can do this for the rest of my damn life.

Gainesville Liberation Orchestra was next. I love the way in which the three singers meld together. They each have such distinctive voices. Jen is the female punk voice in the band a la Discount. Sterlo has more of the pop punk voice reminiscent of Blink-182. Jon owns the raspy punk voice that reminds me of Hot Water Music. Combined with the fiddle and the hilariously misplaced, badly timed elderly tambourine player, they are a hell of a band.

Last was Three Legged Dawg. Honestly, I heard their MySpace and was not too impressed. I obviously should have given them a harder listen.

My singer wanted to leave before they started, but I convinced her to stay for a few songs out of politeness. We ended up staying for the whole set. Their take on alt-country is fun and refreshing. Krissy Mae is one of the best drummers I have seen in Gainesville. She is charismatic and musically, knows just what fills to put in and what beats to hammer out. Her voice adds so much to the band. I think what is fundamentally wrong with the tracks on their MySpace is that the recordings put the guitar in the forefront, when it should obviously be her drumming. Their self proclaimed genres of country, garage and crunk on the MySpace page says it best.

I bought a pear baked good at the show for $2. It was delicious. By the way, the show was a baked good sale benefit for a local radio station, WGOT 94.7. A station I personally enjoy on the weekends for their crazy variety and true alternative tastes. They are run through the Civic Media Center.

That was my night and now it is late, so I better go. I wonder where my girlfriend is at this hour?