dead rock star for sale

Last year, after selling a 25% stake in her husband's song catalog for $50 million, Courtney Love also sold Kurt Cobain's image to the National Entertainment Collectables Association (NECA) for an undisclosed sum.
For $19.95 you can purchase the NECA Kurt Cobain Lunchbox. Here is the actual item description: "Come as you are. Come to lunch with this collectible tin lunchbox and show your coworkers that you are a child of the 90s. Featuring an iconic image of that Seattle grunge rocker, Kurt Cobain, this full size lunchbox is a unique collectible that features the former Nirvana front man."
Not interested in this tasteful item? How about the $14.99 Kurt Cobain Mini Flask Keychain? Again, here is the item description provided by NECA: "Smells like teen spirits. This mini flask has Kurt Cobain's signature and photo printed in high-contrast black & white on the face. Convenient keychain hook makes it easy to add and remove from your keyring. Order yours and we'll drink a toast to Kurt's genius together." Simply disgusting.
If neither of the above items strike your fancy then preorder the Kurt Cobain 7-inch Teen Spirit Action Figure for $16.99 (the 7-inch MTV Unplugged figure is coming soon!). NECA's item description: "Can you smell the teen spirit? From that infinitely famous Nirvana video for "Smells Like Teen Spirit," comes the action figure debut of Kurt Cobain. He stands 7-inches tall and comes with his Fender Mustang guitar and a gymnasium floor display base. He didn't enjoy the spotlight, but he might enjoy your living room." Wait. "He didn't enjoy the spotlight, but he might enjoy your living room"? Unbelievable.
Sorry, Kurt.

mc

twenty-one days

Twenty-one days until Interpol's highly anticipated third release, Our Love To Admire, is unleashed. This will be the band's first release on a major label (Capitol Records), so I'm hoping they stick to the sound that's kept me company on many a lonely night. Judging from their first single, "The Heinrich Maneuver," it sounds like Paul Banks and Company stuck with the melancholic formula that made Turn On The Bright Lights and Antics must-have albums of 2002 and 2004, respectively.
Click on the banner above to hear "The Heinrich Maneuver."
(I'm also extremely psyched about Interpol's show at The Murat's Egyptian Room on 31 July 2007. I feel like a kid in a candy store just thinking about the forthcoming show.)

mc

A T.S.Tv.S. BONUS!
From the forthcoming album, Interpol perform "Pioneer To The Falls." Simply amazing.

it was a lie

Earlier today (Saturday), Mother called Hometown Police Department to verify if Sister had indeed filed a police report relating to the alleged mugging and raping mentioned in my previous post.
At 11 AM my phone rang. It was Mother calling to inform me that no report was filed.
Mother asked me an obvious question: Why would Sister claim such a horrendous act had occurred? Did she fabricate the incident to deflect attention from the previous thefts of Mother's cash and jewelry?
"I don't know, Mom. I just don't know," I replied.
I'm at a loss for words. I no longer recognize Sister; I suppose I've failed to recognize her for some time now. Occasionally flashes of the sibling I once knew materialize, but these instances are rare.
Mother, Father, Stepfather, and I thought her demons died with the birth of her son, Austin, seven months ago -- we were wrong.
At the height of her drug and legal problems (how long has it been? Two years? Three?), which are documented in this blog, I stated that her ending will not be a pleasant one. The dark jaws of an early death or prison await. In light of recent events, this haunting premonition has replanted itself deep within the confines of my being.
Sister is no longer the sibling I once loved. She is a poor, lost stranger whom I still love; however, loving the unrecognizable is a difficult and heart-wrenching exercise.

And on my stereo Thom Yorke sings, "No alarms and no surprises, please."

mc

o sister

Because of a weekend scheduling conflict, Thursday I drove to Hometown to visit Father and Stepfather for Father's Day. Unfortunately the day was marred by Sister's strange behavior. She and her seven month old son were at Mother's, and something was visibly and emotionally wrong with her. She appeared to be under the influence of something and it certainly wasn't alcohol. She was lethargic and behind her sunglasses hid pinhole-sized pupils.
Outside of her presence I asked Mother about her odd behavior. Mother told me that cash and jewelry -- including a pair of diamond earrings -- had gone missing in recent weeks. Upon visiting Hometown's pawn shops, Mother was told that Sister was a frequent visitor, pawning a variety of items -- including jewelry. None of the shops had any of Mother's missing jewelry; the pieces had already been sold.
Sister's name is now in the pawn shops' databases and they will no longer accept items from her.
Hours later, after I had arrived home, I received a phone call from Mother telling me that, according to Sister, she was mugged and raped Wednesday night. Normally, Mother, Stepfather, and I would be shocked by such claims but after years of lies and ridiculous denials it's, unfortunately, difficult to take such allegations seriously. She said she filed a police report, but was a rape kit administered? I believe Mother said, according to my sister, no such action was taken, which sheds serious doubt on the validity of Sister's claim.
After hearing of the alleged assault Mother and Stepfather visited Sister's home. After a lengthy discussion Sister denied any drug use and miraculously returned Mother's diamond earrings. As for the stolen cash and other missing jewelry she denied any involvement (bullshit). Sister also said she would have killed herself long ago if it wasn't for Austin, her son.
Poor Sister... I don't know what to say. She loves Austin so much and she has the potential to be a terrific mother, but she's so confused and misguided, and it hurts to see your little sister in such a state knowing there's very little you can do to aid her to true happiness.
Poor Mother feels so helpless. She asks me for advice and guidance, which is odd for me because our belief systems are polar opposites.
"Things just happen and we're fools if we try to attach some higher meaning to them," I told her.
I relayed to her a wonderful quote from Mark Twain: "When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained."

mc

twenty-nine candles

This is my blog's 300th post. Today is also my 29th birthday.
Lately, much has been on my mind.
Some people seem to believe that I have used this space as a weapon, a tool to retaliate against someone I care about very much. Those people are wrong.
This blog is my journal. I use it to post a variety of things: writings, thoughts, feelings, and photographs. I do not consider the reader when I'm posting because this blog is my personal space. You, the reader, make the choice to read what I have written. Some bloggers use their space to post news stories, music reviews, and other material specifically meant for public consumption.
Since I started this blog I have received comments from individuals that I'll never meet. These people have found something comforting in some of my more painful writings; I feel less alone when I read such comments.
Some people might question why I would publish such a graphic post like Soldier Boy. Again, this blog is my journal and I have found confessing certain actions or exorcising the darkest of demons to be a therapeutic experience.
In closing, none of my 299 previous posts were specifically written to retaliate or attack anyone. Some posts might express anger, disappointment, regret, etc. about someone, but I've never used this blog to attack anyone personally.

mc

age

"Age" photo by mc
(Click picture to enlarge)

fourth exit

"Fourth Exit" photo by mc
(Click picture to enlarge)

don't walk away

Atmosphere

Walk in silence
Don't walk away in silence
See the danger
Always danger
Endless talking
Life rebuilding
Don't walk away

Walk in silence
Don't turn away in silence
Your confusion
My illusion
Worn like a mask of self-hate
Confronts and then dies
Don't walk away

People like you find it easy
Naked to see
Walking on air
Hunting by the rivers
Through the streets
Every corner abandoned too soon
Set down with due care
Don't walk away in silence
Don't walk away

bluebird

Last night, Ry drove down for the Yeasayer, The Impossible Shapes, and Frog Eyes show at The Bluebird. The entire evening was surreal considering my mental state the previous night. I wore a vintage zip up hoodie to hide the seven slices on my right arm.
Indie rock chicks that I'll never touch, much less speak to, wandered about with beers in their small hands -- not that I was looking; I make eye contact only when necessary.
Once Yeasayer took the stage I shut my eyes and attempted to let their sound remove myself from myself. Throughout the night I felt so displaced.
The Impossible Shapes were next and played a loud, tight, and relatively short set.
Before Ryan and I left for the 'Bird I had three whiskey and cokes, and at the show I had three New Castles, but I couldn't shake the melancholic glow of sobriety that seemed to hang over my head throughout night.
Frog Eyes closed the show, and the emotional vocal stylings of Carey Mercer capped my night perfectly.
Ry spoke briefly with one of the band members, I drove us back to my place, and Ry headed home. Roommate wasn't home and the apartment was eerily silent -- a silence that screamed loneliness.
I prepared a bowl of apple and cinnamon oatmeal and called it a night, the slices on my arm reminded me of so much yet so little.

mc

Go here to listen to Yeasayer on MySpace.

soldier boy

I have enough pills and booze to kill an army, but I'm merely aiming for the lonely soldier trembling in the rear of the battalion. Red spiderwebs span the whites of his glazed eyes. His weapon is unsteady in his quivering hand. His heart races and he tightly closes his eyes. The battalion recedes into the silence swallowing the night. As he reluctantly opens his eyes he discovers his unit gone and two speakers are emitting lamentable sounds; an LP spins on a record player. A yellow flame from a candle flickers, broadcasting shadows that dance on a floor, four walls, and a ceiling.
Soldier boy carefully puts down his weapon and lays on the floor. Staring at the ceiling, he recollects on the number of battles he's lost -- how many times he shot bullets into the hearts of friends, lovers, and strangers. Every time, as his or her mound of flesh lay dying, the only words he could utter were "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to." His tears would mix with their blood and he knew he would never see that friend, that lover, or that stranger again, because some things are impossible to retreat from and some deeds leave an impression that only die with the body.
Soldier boy continues to gaze at the ceiling and the shadows shift and transform into flashbacks. He sees ---- at her doorstep -- a cardigan and a kiss. There's soldier boy and ---- at a park tossing a Frisbee. Watching the ceiling a tear falls from his eye and he says, "She could never throw that damn Frisbee." The flashback skips and he sees himself driving on an interstate, stars glimmer above, and in the passenger seat is ----, fast asleep. He stares at her with adoring eyes and carefully places his hand on her lap.
Various flashbacks continue to flicker on the ceiling: a warm embrace, a kiss, two bodies asleep under sheets at 4AM, and an awkward first meeting at an all night eatery.
The record abruptly stops and faceless shadows return to the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to...I don't know," soldier boy softly says.
The room is silent.
An unsettling yet familiar emptiness fills soldier boy's heart.

From the floor he reaches for his weapon
And places it in his hand,
He turns his right arm over
And under the dancing shadows
His pale skin faintly glows.

He thinks of his friends
Now faded portraits in houses abandoned,
He thinks of lost love
Now birds skimming treetops beautiful and free,
He thinks of the strangers
Now stillborn shadows following his footsteps.

He stares at the under side of his right arm:
Hairless
Pale
Perfect
"The sweetest canvas," he says to himself
And soldier boy surrenders...



He rises to his feet
On his arm are beads of blood
Leaving trails like seven creeping snails,
They descend down his thin arm
To his wrist
Over palm
Reaching fingertips.
A release.
Absolved.
Emancipation.
The sweetest canvas,
The sweetest surrender.



Soldier boy has enough pills and booze to kill an army, but I'm merely aiming for the holes inside. As I stare at my uncomely reflection, I'm haunted by the demons lurking behind that reflection. In light of recent events, I'm a confirmed walking contradiction of epic proportions -- a fuck-up.
I'm tired of taking meds.
I'm tired of unintentionally "destroying" people.
I'll be 29 years old in a couple of weeks and my younger sister is getting married in September.
I'm tired of battling myself.

mc

shining

Five cigarette butts lay in the ashtray
A glass of whiskey and coke sits within reach
Candlelight dances near an open window
And I'm staring at an empty bed --
Unmade and uninviting.
I light a cigarette
And finish the whiskey and coke
While outside my window
The indecipherable voices of two lovers penetrate the midnight air.
Under eyes that glimmer like aged marble
My senses are dulled and dumb
And I'm staring at this unmade bed
Saying to myself,
"Her body was there and I was next to her --
Asleep and peaceful.
Her warm body was pressed against mine
No words were spoken
And I was never a selfish asshole
While we slept.
Sleep is a cease-fire and you drop the weapons of your personality and submit to the inconceivable
The sky is naked and unashamed
And the moon beams its silent glow on lovers and soldiers alike.
Yes, she was there and so was I.
Every moment is a memory waiting for conception --
Some you cherish and hide forever in the sacred chambers of your heart
Others you regret and spend your remaining days attempting to erase
But regret stains bone and soul.
Regret is the constellation that burns through your bedroom curtains and penetrates your eyelids as you sleep.
Regret is forever.
And her body was there --
Next to mine."
I extinguish the candle
Crawl out of my chair
And lay on the floor.
Closing my eyes, sleep is near
And regret begins to creep through the window.

mc

an end

One day shy of our five month anniversary, L has broken up with me -- and I can't blame her.
Last weekend was a mess. I'll spare this post from any specific details; however, I will say I was ungrateful, uncooperative, and, at times, very cold and unresponsive. L didn't deserve that treatment.
The last two months of our relationship tormented me and thereby affected the relationship. I missed the freedom and solitude of being single; conversely, I was overjoyed that someone actually loved me -- unconditionally. I never doubted her love, and I had never experienced that feeling, yet I remained emotionally torn over the sacrifices required of me to sustain a working and healthy relationship.
Last Saturday night, I was writing at my table while she slept on my bed. I put down my pen and stared at her peaceful body. I pitied her because I knew my indecisiveness about our relationship was hurting her as much, if not more, as it was me. I was emotionally trapped: I loved her so much and didn't want to lose her, yet I frequently doubted if I could give her (and the relationship) what she needed -- all of myself.
I never consciously intended to hurt her; I hope she understands this.

Today, I've been aimlessly wandering throughout my apartment. She's vowed to remain friends and I have no reason to doubt her. Maybe someday -- someday soon -- I'll collect the remnants of the shipwreck inside my head, we will reconcile, and begin anew. I believe fate, destiny, whatever brought us together for a reason -- not to be friends but something more. Regardless...
I love you, Panda Bear -- and Pookie always will.

mc

guardian unlimited's review of control

From the UK's Guardian Unlimited

Control
Directed by Anton Corbijn

Review by Peter Bradshaw from the 2007 Cannes Film Festival
Four stars out of five

The Brits may not be in the official competition at Cannes, but a British film has certainly scored a sensational success here, opening the director's fortnight sidebar. Anton Corbijn's Control is about the troubled life and times of post-punk legend Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division, who killed himself in 1980 at the age of 23, depressed by his epilepsy, his failing marriage and by the uncontrollable intensity of the nihilistic emotions displaced by his life into his art - emotions that consumed him.

Corbijn's movie is shot in a stunning high-contrast monochrome, perversely turning Macclesfield's grimness into grandeur. It effortlessly revives a British cinematic style that you might call beautiful realism, reaching back to Christopher Petit's Radio On, and further back to Tony Richardson's The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner and A Taste of Honey. And in fact Ian Curtis's working-class married life, with its pram on the step and the stark laundry hanger in the kitchen, looks straight out of the 1960s.

Sam Riley gives a superb performance as Ian Curtis, intuitively recreating his on-stage mannerisms, from the stock-still hunch over the mic, with eyelids lowered, to the crazy, elbows akimbo running on the spot routine, which like nothing else made him look like some sort of visionary outpatient.

Samantha Morton gives an intelligent, sympathetic performance as Curtis's wife, Debbie, whom he married when they were both in their teens, as virtually child-bride and groom, and Toby Kebbell is outstanding as Rob Gretton, the wisecracking manager.

Riley sees Curtis not as a self-destructive gloom-monger but a thwarted Wordsworthian romantic who loved two women equally, and simultaneously feared and longed for a loss of control: an escape into music and an escape from his body. Corbijn does not indulge in the cliche of seeing epilepsy as an ecstatic state, but certainly suggests how the convulsiveness and jittery subversion of Curtis's music might imitate a pre-epileptic state: culminating in a full-blown episode live on stage.

To men of a certain age (and I admit I am one) the period music detail of this movie makes it a very powerful madeleine, and when John Cooper Clarke came on, I pretty well levitated out of my seat with happiness.

The gentleness and wit with which Corbijn recreates Curtis's uncool day job in the unemployment benefit office are also a treat. It is in a way comparable to Michael Winterbottom's 24-Hour Party People, in which Riley incidentally played Mark E Smith, but far fiercer, and bleaker, and darker. Control gripped the audience at Cannes; it had atmosphere.


Direct link to story

who says driving a bus is a bad gig?

Last night, Feist performed "I Feel It All" and "The Park" on The Jimmy Kimmel Show -- while riding a Santa Monica public bus. Pay your fare, take a seat and prepare for a mellow, beautiful ride.



mc

seahorses and and a sword

Here are two hilarious YouTube videos. Enjoy!


Baltimore Shopping Network

Dan Deacon & Liam Lynch "Drinking Out of Cups"

mc

PS...I really do love seahorses.