Wednesday, March 17, 2010

A Simple Mistake, or Everyone Loses It to New York City

Whenever I confuse train rides with romanticism, I happen to sit behind the tobacco-chewing fraternity brothers--hand-over-crotch, looking for ass to tap, comparing spring break rendezvouses (which are "the shit")/tropical beaches ("the shit")/blunt binges (pot is "the shit")/Jamaican godfathers, spitting into empty Cherry Coke bottles. One says, I'd fuck Katie. The other says, I know tons of fucking girls way fucking hotter than fucking Katie. Wow, I struck a chord, the one says, when really he means, Wow, I struck a nerve, and I can see how the two could be confused, chords and nerves being as similar as trains and romanticism, and I can see how we are all, at some time or another, careless or lazy or, rather, overeager, but now he has me imagining all our little nerves--especially the ones connected to women named "Katie," maybe covering her, shroud-like, or maybe more like a web--are ill-tuned guitar strings and to strike them is something of a rustic serenade, something like Will Oldham, maybe, or the queen of discordance, Josephine Foster, veiled in a tangle of her own hair, singing "Crackerjack Fool": shrill, tremulous and intoxicating.


  1. alright so listen:
    I don't usually actively follow people on blogger, but today I was looking for Kerouac's Four Inevitabilities, and came across your blog about him. I read it all, and a few other posts, and really fell in love with your prose. You've got talent. The stuff I've read sounds strangely similar to the thoughts in my head... only... more coherent and easily read. Just thought I should let you know, from one stranger to another. Oh and as a side note, Kerouac was gay. Not that it's too important, just an interesting fact, and maybe explains why he made fun of them so often. Sort of a denial thing I suppose. In conclusion, you're brilliant. G'by.