3

More or less, the three types of band photos are tough, contemplative, and zany:

• Tough. Pretty basic. You got four or five metal dudes in a semi-circle folding their arms and looking either society’s-fucked pissed or it’s-hate-crime-time pissed. Preferably, the metal dudes are asserting their dominance from above the camera (no, no). Unity of destruction.
• Contemplative. Most popular. Whether you’re an indie demi-god or a local acoustic rockin’ assclown, this is your shot, because it’s versatile–just like your sound. You probably want the lead singer to be crouching down in front of the band or maybe jump kicking the camera. Please don’t try to be all egalitarian and stand in the back unless you have clearly marked yourself as the frontman with your age, beauty, or feminine gender. Or by scratching your head. Contemplative shot locales: field, alley, backyard, junk yard, back seat, brick wall.
• Zany. Use discretion. This shot is favored by members of oldies, cover, ska, Christian, pop-punk and feel-good jam bands. Unfortunately, it is sometimes incorporated into an otherwise Contemplative photo by the band cut-up (usually a member of the rhythm section and/or “the ugly one”).

Kyle

Kyle lets the Girls watch him lackadaisically scoop his ice cream. They stand close together and he wears a tie dye shirt.

Kyle: Don’t worry, I’ll leave enough for you.

Girls: Ha-ha, we know you will.

Kyle: It’s really good stuff.

Girls: Ooo, it is. Yum-yum, we–

Kyle: –I especially like it in the winter.

Girls: But won’t you get cold?

Kyle: Naw.

Girls: Kyle! Of course you will. You’re crazy.

Kyle: (not wanting to dispel their belief) It’s just ice cream.

Girls: And you’re wearing sandals. It’s winter, geez.

Kyle: (looking at his trusty sandals) It’s not that cold out.

Girls: Whatever, it’s like a bagillion degrees below zero.

Kyle: Well, I’m not cold.

Girls: Kyle!

Kyle: What? When I left my dorm today, I took like four steps through the snow.

Girls: You must have been freezing.

Kyle: Naw.

Girls: I bet that ice cream will be good.

Kyle: Yeah, probably.

Objects

Whenever I misplace something, I like to put myself in the object’s situation, like, “If I were a bottle of contact solution, where would I be…” I’ve found this is the only real way to search, because the object is never somewhere I would have a reason to put it. It’s always on a the top of a bookshelf, in the vegetable crisper, or–in the case of glasses–on my face. Then I get pissed at the object, like, “Well, hat, you could’ve at least given me a hint you were sitting on my head. Stupid hat.” I’ll occasionally make half-assed attempts to damage the object by striking or throwing it, but I tend to lose my nerve. I will then justify that by appealing to some realm of knowledge unfamiliar to me, like, “Well, I better not slam this set of keys on the ground too hard cuz they’re always saying how dirt particles will get into the cylinders…”

Stickin’

I’d like to be black so I could stick it to The Man. I’m not accusing black people of overdramtizing their misfortune, I’m just saying I would. You could deduce that as a middle west, middle class, middle weight, middle white man I don’t get much opportunity to stick anything to anyone. You’d be correct. For me, anything less than a sex offense is merely “a phase” to be laughed off 20 years from now at The Legion or in the den of some souless lodge.
“Remember when I….ran…vomited…cut…”
“Eh, every man’s gotta get out there and sew his wild oats, chum. Am I riiiiight, boys?”
Consider the following scenarios in which either choice I make is highly nonoffensive to society:
- Voting Republican vs. voting Democrat
- Owning a firearm vs. not owning a firearm
- Criticizing the judicial system vs. expressing faith in the judicial system
In spite of any combination of choices I might make, your father-in-law is still going to take me out to play golf. But if I was black (I’m holding out hope), I couldn’t even move with sticking something to someone. If I play my music loud? Stickin’ it. If I enter an electronics store? Stickin’ it. If I read a historical biography? Stickin’ it! And what if I forget to comb my hair? Oh-so stickin’ it.

Ra

Let’s break down the dream journal(ist) demographic:
- 13-year-old girls with an estranged family member
- High school girls who are rumored to be lesbians but actually aren’t
- Middle-aged women who have recently left a Protestant denomination
-Elderly women who are also (good/bad/uncommitted) witches
These subgroups will necessarily overlap being that they are also the life stages of a dream journalist. “David, David. We prefer dream voyager. Will you not tarry with us but a night’s slumber?” And, yes, all dream journalists are women but, not only that—they are women you’d like to have sex with if you knew they wouldn’t make passing reference to energy, Ra, or both.
To be fair, I am appreciative of dream journalists though mainly because no one gives two shits about anyone else’s dreams unless they’re in that person’s dream–preferably in a flattering role. “Soooo, you getting chased down the hall of your elementary school? What. What?? Okay, what the fuck ever. Where do I come in and do something cool?”

Letters

Middle and window seats of a sedan. Removing winter coats as the heat kicks in. New Year’s Eve.

Dave: So you got a job, Kimmy?

Kim: Yeah. I’m a lab tech.

Dave: For the “math” depart.

Kim: Yes.

Dave: Well, I’m an English major.

Kim: You know I know this.

Dave: Letters are better, numbers suck.

Kim: Um.

Dave: Letters! Letters, letters, letters!

Kim: I don’t get it.

Dave: Letters!

Kim: I….

Dave: Now you shout “numbers!” and then I’ll shout “letters!” and it’ll be like an argument. You know?

Kim: Actually, I only really work with letters in my field.

Dave: (pause)

Kim: Dave?

Dave: Letters!

Glory

No one ever means “Well, maybe I’m I wrong on this.” They mean, “Well maybe I’m wrong on this”, which is to say, “I’m right as shit and I don’t see why I have to belabor the fucking point with an assclown like you.” However, when you’re proven wrong on a given point, you can go back and say, “I did say, ‘Well, maybe I’m wrong on this.’”

Hey, I liked Oasis, and what’s more, their lyrics will, hypothetically, move the poetic soul of any midnineties pre-teen. Who else could mend the generation gap like Noel? “Whoa, this is how mom must have felt when she listened to The Beatles!”
Some then-profound/now-ridiculous lines from (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?:

1. Kiss the girl, she’s not behind the door/ But you know I think I recognize your face, but I’ve never seen you before. (“Roll with It”)
2. And all the roads we have to walk along are winding/ And all the lights that lead us there are blinding. (“Wonderwall”)
3. Slip inside the eye of your mind/ Don’t you know you might find a better place to play. (“Don’t Look Back in Anger”)
4. Today’s the day that all the world will see another sunny afternoon/ I’m walking to the sound of your favorite tune/ Tomorrow never knows what it doesn’t know too soon. (“Morning Glory”)
5. Slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannon ball. (“Champagne Supernova”)
6. Some day you will find me caught beneath the landslide/ In a champagne supernova in the sky. (“Champagne Supernova”)
7. Wake up the dawn and ask her why/ A dreamer dreams she never dies. (“Champagne Supernova”)

Eddie

I like how the computer monitors on campus have pictures of Central Hall set as their wallpaper like, “You go here.” Blueprints, on the other hand, gimme them. They’re like building x-rays. Or treasure maps. That was retarded.
Classes I’m taking this semester:

• French 201. Intermediate French
• Math 105. Finite Mathematics
• Philosophy 493. Knowledge, Thought, and Society
• English 402. Theodore Dreiser Seminar

So, 45 minutes into my first math assignment, I find myself Googling “dividing fractions” (1) because my $145 calculator only computes in “decimals” and (2) I’m not fucking Friedrich Hirzebruch. Fortunately, Eddie Z (1 2 3 4 5 6 7) of the Charity Case Band rocked me on.

Crabs

I wonder if currency is offended by the term “loose change”.

Usually, there’s two hermit crabs to a hermit crab cage. Reasons:
1.) Hermit crab wedding.
2.) It’s fun to think of them of them as cantankerous old men sharing an apartment. Doo-da-do-doooo.
3.) A cage with more than one hermit crab? A hermit crab monastery. Friar crab? I went there.

Bic

Among the buckling of necks and swashing of Five Star whiskey (tucked under Big Fizz cola), I heard the most of most absolutely disgusting phrases: stripped membrane. It was on par with picturing a Bic razor running across my eye. Eye shavings.