Ghosts in my House.

Sometimes I might say to Dallas, let's invent a fake author, and say that he's a legendary ancient historical figure, and then say we found all of these writings (that we really wrote ourselves) and then people'll be like dude, that's fucked up, where'd you get this stuff?

And then I remember Ossian.

(jellz)

For the Boys

Everyone in Winston has a nickname except me.

One Version

The morning starts, always and forever, like this: Rising from a sheetless bed, covered in bunches of shirts and socks, stepping over strewn unconscious bodies and through a steamy, human smell. No one who lives here really lives here. The kitchen scum is eating every inch of counter surface, and the fruit flies thrive enough to have a burgeoning middle class. Towers of wine and whiskey bottles line the counter walls, crumbs belched from the toaster are grit between my toes. My one respite, a stainless steel holy grail--metaphorical, very physical--a screw-together stovetop espresso machine is hidden in a cupboard meant for stencils, rope and extension cord. It is the only article in the house that is both cleaned and polished regularly. I step up on my toes, I reach, I grab it. From another drawer containing a forgotten mini-cassette answering machine I produce a pound of coffee and a grinder. The beans are sent, whirring around with the edges of the turbine, chewed to pieces as they spin. The first metallic, drilling sounds of the morning reach the--now groaning--living dead, scattered over couches and sleeping bags throughout the house's first floor. Bodies shift and shiver, pillows are clung to in defense, the lolling, muggy quiet begins again as my mechanical work is finished. The finely ground substance is funneled into the small chamber, the end of a bottle of water dribbles into the bottom of the pot, just enough. I can see my reflection; baloonish, bent, on the shiny round surface of the chalice as I screw together its pieces until they click. I place it neatly on the stove, turn the gas to light, and nothing happens.


RJ's new book "Deathcamp" is out. The party at family was a blast. You should buy a copy now it's beautiful.

jams

So.

How much weight can you hold,

stomping through the bitter climes
of a barely known soul?

Sunday

RJ has a book opening at Family this sunday (aug 5). We (brother reade) and Mike Runion are playing. Why's everybody all on John Fante? Henry Miller's better on a bad day. (Quiet Nights in Clichy crushes Ask the Dust Easy.)


Shots fired.

yams

This summer

Daytime:

equal parts Yerba Mate, Fresh Squeezed Cali Oranges, Sparkling Water.


Nighttime:

Fresh Squeezed lemon juice, Very Berry, and 1 1/2 oz chilled vodka.


boom.


If you're around on sat, the barbecue in Silver lake should be fun.


james.

What you Tolkien 'bout, willis?

J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis had a literary group together, called "The Inklings". I'm going to re-instate it. Who wants to be down with "Tha Inklingz"?

Required summer reading for "Tha Inklingz":

The Remains of the Day (Ishiguro)
Mythologies (Barthes)
Dark is Rising (Susan Cooper)
Giovanni's Room (James Baldwin)
The White Album (Joan Didion)

and the "firestorm" of modern religious critiques, The Satanic Verses (Rushdie). Congrats to Sir Rushdie on his once-again Bachelorhood. In his honor we revisit this 600-page banger.

I been gone. I been chastized. Many things happened. I'm officially back from the dead. With a new album. PS, it's evolution summer. Mutate!

Jams F. Kennedey.

Once.

If large and open living rooms--where copious light intrudes thoughtful curtains--cry out with promises of things like "managable rent", "true love really lived", or "a simple and rewarding life"; then we hear them like sirens. How many times have we wept for these shoals? How many faces could have been ours, in a flash of excitement that stretched out into that fabled victory lap we'd imagined would be "the rest of our lives"? Who are these people who so freely feel the soil beneath their feet, or the crisp wind urging across their skin? A porch, a swing, and an hermetically sealed paradise, unshattered by everyday vulgarities.

Juicy

I don’t know what you thought about 2006. For me it was lucky. It was a year of excitement, anticipation, and getting free. I think most everyone I know has been working their ass off lately on their long-term goals, and towards the end of the year the mood was type restless and hungry for something more.

If you were there, you know what I’m talking about. If you weren’t I wish you were. The party was situated in downtown LA, in a warehouse that had been transformed into a private skate park (thanks and love to Steve Berra and Eric Koston for the spot). As people began to filter in through the small crack in the sliding steel door and crowd around the stage made of skate ramps and the tusk sound system, the tension in the room felt like gathering thunderheads. It’s difficult to explain. I normally try and remain immune from things like holiday introspection, but at eleven thirty it really felt like the future was laid out before us. When we (Brother Reade) took the stage there was already a critical mass at the jam, and people were still pushing into the space. We played a few new songs and things were really getting riled up, and at eleven fifty eight I could feel those clouds I was talking about earlier twitching in bothered anticipation. Desert Eagles was called to the stage to open a bottle of Dom P that Justin Hollar had given BR as a gift for the New Year. It was eleven fifty nine, and it was time to count.

As Desert Eagles peeled back the foil on the bottle, I thought about everything that had happened to me in the last year. Also, I thought about how I had never really imagined that things could be as good as they had gotten. I was with my closest friends and 1500 of their closest friends having what seems so far like the time of my life. We had a new lease on things, new horizons, and new ambitions to explore them. When the count began, I found myself washed of any specific expectations, but completely open and in awe of whatever might be to come. The closer we got to zero, the more the room urged for the future. The clouds trembled. Desert Eagles pushed his thumbs to the cork at the count of one, and then pushed the cork off the bottle. Then came the rain.

After that, things had proverbially popped off. Bobby and I powered through the rest of our set, then he and Desert Eagles killded it. Them Jeans? Killded it. DJ Franchise? Killded it. The night ended with tangled bodies kissing and touching, and a small handful of harmless melees. Some spectacles and some jackets were lost, and a girl cut her foot and sanitized it with champagne. Everyone got home safe. All in all, the jam was perfect, and complete. I hope your year is.

Yours,
Jamz (on behalf of Brother Reade).

Thanks to: Steve Berra, Eric Koston, Stacey, Rabbittusk, Obey/Giant, Studio no. 1, Day19, Eagles, Jeans, Franchise, Cobrasnake, and everyone who came out and crushed it.