home again.

it's weird. being back on butler's campus when nobody else is here. it almost feels like i am in a ghost town. it would be a lot more fun if you all were here. atleast then i would be able to be bored with my friends around.

damn. i miss you guys.

can't help but hope

An intelligent man proposed an idea to me a while ago. He said that if people really want peace, we should have the leaders of the world play in a string quartet. Put all pretenses aside and work together to create beauty. Like most ideas of this nature, it reeks of lofty, high-headed, romantic, impracticality. However, ideas like this make me hopeful; hopeful for something to work for and hold on to. I can't help it. I live for this kind of stuff.

You Shouldn't Let Other People Get Your Kicks For You

One night two summers ago my cousin and I were enjoying ourselves at a party-- well maybe he enjoyed himself more than I did. I couldn't bring myself to finish my fourth beer, as I was then painfully convalescing from the consequences of the previous night's drunken revelry. Anyway, my cousin got a little crafty and approached me with a serious look on his face. He gripped my arm tightly and vehemently expressed his concern that perhaps one is entirely unable to watch a movie or read a book or listen to a musician without first hearing about it from a reputable source- be it a friend, relative, magazine or website. He said, "Would we have watched Dr. Strangelove last night if it hadn't been named one of the greatest films of all time?"

At the time, I understood what he meant, but his qualms have stuck with me and influenced me to retain as much autonomy and individual interest as possible when encountering unexperienced aspects of media. So when I flipped through someone's copy of the latest Rolling Stone this weekend and discovered an article listing, in depth, the "70 Greatest Bob Dylan Songs," I experienced an amalgamation of several feelings: elation at seeing many of my favorite songs on the list, confidence that just like Rolling Stone writers and Dylan-worshipping musicians, I knew what made these songs great, disgust with certain songs I felt should have made the list but didn't as well as the ones included that I felt shouldn't have been, and inspiration to listen much closer to songs I may have previously ignored or misunderstood.

Obviously, everyone has different taste. But when it comes to Dylan's greatest songs, it's understandable that many people would share the same favorites. I think it's important to have this sort of mutual understanding, but I am really proud to have my own choices in my own order, be them on The List or not. So I'll list here my five favorite Dylan songs to give you a taste of how I view Dylan's work, but keep in mind my favorites vary depending on my mood,. the weather, the time, where I am, what I'm doing and blah blah blah blah blah. The following is the most enduring Top Five:

1. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right [Demo-Recording] - No Direction Home Soundtrack (The Bootleg Series, Vol. 7) - 2005

The studio recording was the eighth track on 1963's The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, but I prefer the demo because although it excludes the bluesy harmonica, its stripped-down and mournful sound more accurately paints a picture of desolation and leaving a relationship.

2. Santa-Fe - The Bootleg Series, Vol. 1 (1991)

The lyrics are indecipherable and don't match up to their written documentation, but from what I can understand, they detail a life of endless wandering, the thoughts of a man who can't e tied down to a single place or person. It was recorded in the basement of Big Pink with The Band before they were The Band, so of course, the musical accompaniment is richer and upbeat. The seemingly comforting line "Don't feel bad, no no no no don't don't don't feel bad" kills me every time.

3. Like A Rolling Stone - Highway 61 Revisited (1965)

Honestly, this is one of the most important songs of all time, so it would make sense that it would be Rolling Stone's number one pick (though the fact that it is the magazine's namesake and that it was already chosen as their pick for the greatest song of all time eased any anticipation). Over time the song takes on added significance, and I find myself singing it scornfully and acidly in my head to certain girls I hate to love. Bruce Springsteen has rather articulately expressed his first encounter with the song, in a way speaking for most people, saying "The first time I heard Bob Dylan, I was in the car with my mother listening to WMCA, and on came that snare shot that sounded like somebody'd kicked open the door to your mind."

4. Idiot Wind [Alternate Take] - The Bootleg Series. Vol. 2 (1991)

Dylan haphazardly recorded most of the material on 1975's Blood On The Tracks without much help from a backing band in Minneapolis before revamping his songs and releasing them. This song is notable because it features simply Dylan on acoustic guitar and harmonica, desperately whining a depressing nine minutes of heartbreak and anger with a past love who done him wrong. In the end, though, Dylan places the blame not only on his ex-lover, but on himself, too, stating, "We're idiots babe, it's a wonder we can even feed ourselves." However, the lyrical imagery is overshadowed by the minute-and-a-half harmonica solo at the end of the song, a solo which most vividly relates Dylan's pain.

5. Chimes Of Freedom [Live] - No Direction Home Soundtrack (The Bootleg Series, Vol. 7) 2005

In my opinion, maybe the greatest of Dylan's folk-protest songs, and perhaps the greatest protest song of all time. Though instead of pointing fingers Dylan describes a truly epic thunderstorm whose lightening and thunder clang out the unjust derogation of all types of people and which is seen by everyone in a strange experience of global unity, from the outcast, the mistitled prostitute and misdemeanor outlaw to the poet, the lonesome-hearted lover and ultimately, "every hung-up person in the whole wide universe." I don't often listen to the original studio version on 1964's Another Side of Bob Dylan, instead favoring the live concert version recorded in 1964 at the Newport Folk Festival.

I love Bob Dylan. And you should, too. I know Bob Barrick does, ask him about the time I gave him "Bob's Dylan Mix."

the rain song.

for the past two weeks, 14 days, that i have been home. i think that it has rained for about 9 days. atleast. i'm sitting here, in my backyard, the sky is creepy and dark. everything looks yellow. the thunder is rolling in, and i see the reflections of lightening in the windows of my car in front of me. oh, and the sirens are going off.

was yesterday really supposed to be the end of the world? or is that today...

FEAR NOT!

Don't worry! I know you were! I haven't been sucked up to the sky by my chest yet! Just thought I'd keep you posted. Sorry I'm so terrible at posting on this blog.

I love and miss you all.

So this is what I waited for

On the train to the city

speeding past houses

then apartment buildings

then the crawling junkyard

the communal lifting bench

the psychedelic owl pressed against the wall of the overpass

Alone in my headphones

Yep, worth the wait

SUMMERTIME BLUES...

For a week now I have felt like a complete bum,
my days filled with Real Housewive marathons, Wendy Williams, Gaga/Spears,
and sleep. I AM SO BORED. Is anyone else experiencing such a depressing summer thus far?
Ugh, I don't know what to do with myself. I've applied for 9 jobs now. The weather has
been absolute shit so I've had zero beach time with my girls. It sucks. Not too mention (and
this may be TMI but oh well) I'm like having sex withdrawals. As a man and a homosexual
going from sex everyday, TWICE a day to zero times is kind of drastic. Good news though I go to Indianapolis this weekend for 5 days which should be very fun, and fulfilling.

I've been thinking in my many seconds of boredom, that we should possibly have "themed" weeks sometimes? I know we wanted to keep everything free and open to whatever but I think it would be more enjoyable to read and post if we have a week of a common topic in order to share opinions and ideas about certain topics. What do you all think? Just a thought that ran across the rainbow in my mind one day.

I'm spending the day in Chicago so I was hoping, if my camera to allows me, to take a video of my adventures for the blog. I think that would be different and fun. Because honestly I can't contribute such creative ideas, short stories, poems, and such.

Well it's time for this homos beauty rest I have tons of errands to run tomorrow and a date with Mr. Zach Kukla which requires lots of energy. Ha!!

Talk to ya next week bitches! ;)

Alphabet Alliterations.

am i always acting awfully,

between the bruises and the bumps?

can i close my creaky closet,

do my dreams downward dump?

eating everything that echoes,

fast and furious are my feelings.

growing greatly graciously,

having horrific feelings.

inside i'm interestingly intimidating

so, just jump in.

killing my kicking knowledge,

leaping from lazy limbs.

my mind meanders motionless,

not nestling near.

opening others offers,

pleasing precious peers.

queens quite quietly

rest ready with rewards

seeing somebody sweet,

to talk and tangle towards.

understanding upsets us

very carefully we validate

while we wait willingly

xoxo's will excruciate

you're young and youthful

zigging and zagging.

mehhhhhhh.

Eighth Grade History: A Stoner's Perspective

A collaborative idea posed by Brendan & Bob

Okay, so, like, there's these guys in England or something who look at their posh lifestyles with their uppity accents and their lavish mansions and boring families, and they're like, "Fuck this material horseshit. I want to live." So they called up Sir Walter Raleigh to get a charter to start a settlement across the Atlantic Ocean in the New World, which was originally founded by, like, St. Brendan of Ireland, I'm pretty sure, and then Columbus stuck his dirty fucking paws in there and raped and pillaged and stuff because he was a huge fucking asshole-

But he wasn't the only one! Practically all of the goddamn Spaniards and Frenchmen decided to put in their two cents worth and found something.

Francisco Pizarro, like, made Moctezuma II trade him rooms filled with gold and silver and shit, and in exchange, he fucking chopped his head! But Pizarro's like, "No, that's not enough. Now I'm going to rub salt in your veritable wounds and give your entire nation diseases." So he did.

Then there's fucking, Cortes, man, who very well could have been a bigger asshole than John Smith and Christopher Columbus combined. He just marches right into Aztec territory and by pure fucking chance looks exactly like their god, Quezecoatl, so they applaud him and bow down while he's riding in on his dumb fucking horse, and they boost his goddamn self-confidence and arrogance through the goddamn roof. And does the same thing as old Pizarro and rapes and pillages and spreads smallpox and eradicates the entire fucking Aztec nation so he can take as much gold as he wants-

Which brings me to the biggest fucking joke of a conquistador ever, CORONADO, who- hahaha what a fucking idiot- scours the entire American southwest looking for the fabled seven cities of gold. He spends years and years searching and all he can find are the coolest Indians ever, but he doesn't care because none of them in the Southwest have any gold. Eventually he realizes they don't exist, and I don't know what he did after that, but I hope he fucking killed himself because he was a worthless piece of shit.

-So yeah, anyway, Columbus does his dirty deeds, but, like, Amerigo Vespucci made a map of the land eventually, so for some bullshit reason he got to name it America. In any case, Old Raleigh heads over there and sets up Roanoke or Jamestown, but it doesn't really matter which he set up because they both disappeared. Isn't that messed up? Like, every one of the settlers that settled there just up and vanished. They say they were probably murdered or taken captive by the local natives- with their fucking SUN HANDS- no, get this, they were Indians with, like, deep connections to land and nature and stuff, so they had the power of the Sun and all that, and they killed these settlers. It was a fucking travesty.

So the Brits call up John Smith, who was probably the biggest fucking self-interested douchebag of all time, and they went back and tried again. Only this time, some stuff happened and I don't really know if the settlement worked or not, but Old Goddamn Awesome John Smith hooked up with Pocahontas and decided he was going to bring her with him back home, but she didn't have a fucking choice! Because she wasn't only an Indian, but she was a woman, too! So they head back to England, and Pocahontas marries John Rolfe and succumbs to tuberculosis while John Smith ditches her and writes a bunch of phony testimonials about his dashing adventures in the barbarous wetlands of America and makes a shitload of money.

So then more people settle, and in come the goddamn Puritans and the fucking pilgrims, who make up probably the biggest bullshit story of our country ever. Fucking Thanksgiving's a joke, man. You honestly believe the Indians were like, "Oh let's help out these pilgrims because they ran out of food and don't know how to hunt and build houses and all that jazz," and that they came over and feasted with them peacefully for THREE DAYS STRAIGHT where they taught them how to make fucking POPCORN? That's just a...a facade, man. It's a goddamn lie.

So more people settle, and America is built up, and blah blah blah the colonial times and the goddamn Founding Fathers- this group of phony politicians who just sat around and smoked weed out of their stupid fucking pipes and took all this credit for founding the United States of America just because everyone else was just a bunch of pussies who were tired of paying taxes and stuff. Fucking Tea Party, man. Pass that bowl, would you?

Agh! so anyway, a bunch of shit happens and then we just fight wars forever and ever amen, because we're a bloodthirsty nation and if we're not fighting we're bored. So you've got, like, the Mexican War for Independence, the Civil War, WORLD WAR ONE, the War of the Worlds, WORLD WAR FUCKING TWO, because one is not enough (I could say the same for fucking Hollywood, but don't get me started on that piece of shit), the Korean War- which was no goddamn police action, I'll tell you that-the Vietnam War, the War on Poverty, the War on Drugs, numerous wars in the Persian Gulf and the Middle East, then the worst war-related travesty of all time, which resulted in death much more severe than physical death, the War of the Worlds REMAKE. Jesus, I need a cigarette.

So it's all really a bunch of bullshit, and you can't trust anything you learn in grade school because they sugarcoat the shit out of it, man. It sucks, man. It's really a goddamn shame.

shlame

this is the first time blogger has let me get on it in almost a week. lame.

A Short Story With No Title

This is a lazily-edited shortstory that I wrote in a flash last week in case Daisy failed to come up with one of her own for her class. In this story Daisy narrates a series of surreal experiences that transpire after she moves in with Bob's family.

Halfway through Sean Hannity’s hour-long display of political douchebaggery and self-interested bravado, I realized I’d had enough. It wasn’t just Hannity that did it, but he certainly exemplified everything I detested about my parents. My first year away at school unconsciously created a nearly palpable rift between my parents and me, as I became suddenly privy to the way their extremely right-winged political views molded their behavior towards me. So I packed my father’s stupid rolling suitcase with necessities (everything else would be provided by my boyfriend Bob’s family) and split. Well, not right away. As always, I felt like I needed to impart some profound message to increase the significance of my leaving, so I faced my blanching mother and speechlessly dissatisfied father and summoned up the only words that felt appropriate: “Goodbye’s too good a word, babe, so I’ll just say fare thee well. I ain’t saying you treated me unkind- you could have done better, but I don’t mind. You just kind of wasted my precious time, but don’t think twice, it’s all right.”

Bob was already waiting for me in the driveway as I nobly exited my front door for the last time. Even from about twenty feet away I could hear Wilco blasting from inside his car, where Bob thrashed his head violently in accordance. Wilco’s effect on Bob really symbolized what my new life living with his family would be like: carefree and liberal to an extent. I felt entirely satisfied with my decision to leave home, and comfortably sank into my seat, wordlessly kissed Bob on the cheek and fell asleep.

After what seemed like seconds, Bob goofily shook my shoulder to announce our imminent arrival at his house in Noblesville. I rolled down the window to take a breath of fresh air and prepare myself for a new life. When we finally pulled into the driveway, Bob’s parents were resting smilingly in a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch, anxiously fanning themselves in the evening swelter and awaiting our arrival. Chuckling to himself, Bob said to me, “Look at those fucking porch monkeys.” He was always making some sort of offhand comment about other people, but the manner in which he spoke betrayed nothing more than comedic, purposeful insensitivity, and in any case, I didn’t really care because I loved him and his red hair and his ignorant comments.

Bob ran inside with his mother, who said she needed some help setting the table for a late meal, which left his father and me alone on the porch. “Let me get that for you, Daisy,” offered Bob’s father, a humble minister from the South. I handed him my father’s suitcase just as a tall man walking his dog on the sidewalk cast a quizzical look sideways at us. Bob’s father continued, “Some of the people that live around here aren’t very trustworthy, and I’d hate to see them steal your things on your first day here.” As we ascended the stairs and entered the foyer, I could feel the rhythmic thud-thud of the stereo system of a low-riding car passing behind me, an image I could trace back to my home in St. Louis.

As the week progressed, I began to feel more and more at ease, secure in my decision to leave home. And Bob’s family was even more hospitable than I had imagined beforehand, and I particularly enjoyed gathering together for dinner each night, where there were always plenty of laughs. One night particular Friday evening, we carried out a massive order from KFC. As we sat down at our places at the table, Bob’s father motioned with his index finger in the air and said, “Alrighty boys, you know the drill.” At this, Bob and his brothers stripped down to their boxers (Bob’s bore the Confederate flag) and selected their favorite chicken parts, leaving their parents fully clothed and my mouth agape. Bob’s brother laughed and informed me that it was a custom in their house to eat fried chicken naked so as not to get grease all over their clothes. Luckily for me, I was exempt from this ritual, so the meal was much funnier to be a part of. However, I felt slightly unsettled when Bob’s mother leaned over to me, gave me a wink and muttered, “All that’s missing from this feast is a watermelon and an old uncle finger-picking his guitar.” But I figured this is where Bob’s off-color comments came from, and learned to appreciate the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

The following Sunday morning before Mass, I woke up early and decided to take a walk and contemplate all that had happened in the past couple weeks. Observing a pair of children pushing each other into a spouting spray of water from the fire hydrant, I felt as if I had aged incalculably; I could now see all the faults that lay in my parents and how unhappy I had been in St. Louis. I decided living with Bob’s family, though foreign at times and always hectic, was far superior to miserably being bound to the shackles of my parents’ narrow-mindedness.

I walked on in the lazy summer heat, exploring my surroundings and trying to memorize the layout of Bob’s- my- neighborhood. As I rounded the corner at the end of Bob’s block to head back home, I could feel a pair of eyes following me from behind. I nervously turned around and recognized the man I saw on my first night here, once again walking his dog. I anxiously picked up my pace to a quick jaunt and made no sign that I had seen him.

“Hey! Excuse me!” he shouted, quickening his pace as well. With only a few houses to go until I could reach Bob’s, the man caught up to me and I yelped, horrified as I cowered in his shadow. He extended his hand towards me, and instead of thrusting a gun into my abdomen, he held my coin purse in his wide palm. I realized I must have unconsciously dropped it while I tried to speed away from him previously, so I took the purse from him and thanked him for his services. He introduced himself as Wilson, and asked me if I was a relative of Bob’s family. I told him that I was Bob’s girlfriend and that I had moved out of my house to live with his family. Wilson told me that when he first moved into the neighborhood, he was once friends with Bob’s parents. But one night they were invited to dine at Wilson’s, and after meeting Wilson’s wife, Tasha, they made some excuse about having a family emergency and promptly left. They hadn’t talked to Wilson or Tasha since then. I looked across the street at Wilson’s porch, where his wife was watering flowers. The sun reflected itself beautifully on her moist, black skin and I remember thinking, I wish I was as gorgeous as her.

“So let me know if you ever find out why he hasn’t called back in a while,” Wilson implored of me. I promised him I would, and walked the last few yards back to Bob’s house, where everyone sat patiently in the living room, waiting for me. In a revelatory daze I stared at their watchful faces- the boys in their pressed khakis and neatly ironed white Oxfords, and at Bob’s mother who wore a dress with a blinding floral design of edelweiss, and finally at her husband, standing in a billowing white robe which he wore as minister of the Mass. Having just gotten out of the shower, he absentmindedly ruffled his wet, snow-white hair which now stood on end. He asked me if I was ready to go, and I thought to myself, “I guess growing up is tough everywhere.”

wide eyed leaver, always going.

i really hate packing. the idea of rolling away my clothes (yes, i roll them. it takes up less space) makes me super depressed. i know that it shouldn't. because they are just clothes. but they are also memories, i guess. a lot has happened this past year. in these clothes. i graduated high school in these clothes. i turned nineteen. i started college. i met some of the greatest people i have ever known in these clothes. i experienced love and loss. i laughed and i cried in these clothes. i grew closer with my family and friends in these clothes. i figured myself out, learned a lot, grew up, fucked up, made good decisions and bad choices in these clothes. and i learned how to appreciate my life more than i thought was possible. in these clothes. just like the memories you make, and the clothes you own, you have to pack them all away eventually.

*tip for future packers: you only wear about 2/7 of the clothes that you actually bring to college. so pack lightly.

Summertime, Livin's Easy...

I just drove 9 hrs, drank a GIANT glass of milk, had a warm brownie, took a shower without shoes, and got into my bed that is twice the size of the dorm beds and comfy as FUCK.... Home is gud. :)

The Cinco from HELL!!

Hey Bitches!

So yesterdays events that transpired were quite...can we say SHOCKING. I just want to formally apologize to anyone I came in contact with, made out with, grinded on, choked, cried on, ran from, or threatened with a knife. :)

Bye bitches

Summertime

I noticed last night, while jamming with a buddy, that my voice has begun to take a more raspy tone. Now, I'm not sure if its the effect of the hardest hit a bong has ever given me, or if it's my mother's John Mellencamp obsession of my youth coming through (if that's the case, then I'm well on my way to becoming an chain-smoking wife-beater), or if it's reminiscent of Janis Joplin's pained voice she gives our fair season.

Ah, Summer. I mean, not quite yet. But, ah, the end of school. A set of what I assume are lesbian parents are sitting outside on the bumper of a Town & Country. Earlier they were bickering at Ian over how to fit a stand-up plastic drawer into the backseat. This really begs the question, is Ian the son of two lesbians? Ah, Summer.

Over Winter Break, I willed my ass off Skype to get Taco Bell. Taco Bell was closed, so I went to the gas station for my usual blueberry slushie and candybar. I found myself surrounded by flannel, which shouldn't have been all that uncomfortable for me except that these people were sporting the wool seriously. They awoke at 4 A.M. to be at work by 5 A.M. I smoked a cigarette outside the gas station, eagerly waiting for someone with whom I could discuss the Fleet Foxes.

Thus is the root of my problem with the coming season. I come from a parking lot town. Please, don't make me a target (Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga 1).

Bobdammit

herro fwends!

okay, so blogging. hmm. i think that i am more a visual blogger than a wordy blogger. because i have this problem where i can't say what i mean in word form and then i just end up rambling like a fool much like i am currently doing. so i have i feeling that i will be posting photos and videos and then saying how much i like or dislike them and then rambling some more about my feelings towards said visuals. so why not start out with a bang, eh?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GGP8aY4gBo

since we're all a little hip at heart, can i just say.. HOLY FUUUUU. yup.

sorry for the lamest post in the history of blogging. i ruvvv ewe arrrrr.

g'day.

The Queen Has Arrived...so watch the fuck out.

I'm super excited about this blog idea taking flight! I have a lot of fun ideas and love that I can bring the all things gay perspective to The Flannel Underground (because let's face it...Zach won't post).

Since I am the more "mainstreamed" and "nonhipster" person in the group I can provide all things Gaga, Beyonce, penises and rainbows.

So let's all have a blast and be the best bloggers ever!!! Maybe this can translate into a vlogging thing in the near future???

Bye Bitches

ps. Jarron says hi!
pss. I can't see/feed the fishes...I'M PISSED!!!

The Blog: Part II

-Brendan Cavanagh

This is a sequel to Bob's blog post because sometimes sequels are better than the first installment, and they often further explain previously presented information.

So after struggling for a couple weeks or less to come up with a suitable name for the blawg, we decided on The Flannel Underground (because we're hipsters. And hipsters wear flannel and listen to the Velvet Underground. Fyeah.), so here it is. I don't know what we'll write about- which is the beauty of such a free-form blog. It's like...it's like structured blogs are like rock n roll...and ours is like jazz, man.

We post stuff that's "hip as shit," including music, literature, cinema, lists, general observations, teenage-angst belly-aching and voiced exasperation at the banality of our daily lives (Barrick 1).

We write daily with the hope that the blawg will serve as a way of documenting our thoughts at this point in our lives, and ultimately as a means of communication with one another over the long, hot summer, given it ever warms up outside.

Tentatively, our list of writers includes:

Maggie
Brendan
Bryce
Matt
Daisy
Bob
Kelly
Zach
Kate

These are the founders, and THIS IS THE BLOG.

The Blog

Hey man, we did it. There's fish. There's Twitter. There's several people. It's a blog now. A newborn baby blog. Treat him/her (depending on how you gender inanimate objects) well.