like, 1996, or something

I have this one song stuck in my head... turnip farm, by Dinosaur Jr., and it's taking me back to, like, 1995, or something like that. I wore flannel shirts then, as I do now, and tried to have kurt cobain's hairdo, and I had a metal screw pipe you could buy at the Health & Harmony Festival, that I used maybe twice. If I could go back in time and talk to the 15 year old me, I would tell him "Hey little man... it's going to be ok. Keep riding your bike, and don't stress out so much. Puberty won't last forever." I would also tell him that rap is not a fad, and that turtle necks never came back in a big way, like I thought was going to happen, so I should just give up on that now and focus on my homework a little more. If I remember correctly, my grades weren't so awesome. Then again, if I got better grades, that would alter the future, so the me from now might not exist, or be doing something else entirely, and not have come back to the past in the first place. This all goes to show that time travel is a complicated matter, best left to professionals.

hater ass bitch

Monte Rio Tigers, never lose & represent!


Later, we accidentally sneaked through the artist's entrance into the Russian River Blues Festival, generously brought to us by Southwest Airlines and Budweiser. Past beer-fed security guards to where the yellow wristbanded and barbwire tattooed hoi polloi slept and burned under the sun to the sounds of Johnny "Kevin Bacon with Soul" Lang and his AM gold commercial tween blues pop band.

Over on the other side of the river, a menagerie of characters from the alleys and underbridges of Suttree's Knoxville. Weird saw-toothed, patch-haired old men and haggard looking ladies (like the one in gold lamé pants and a dirty black tank top), the smell of weed joints and pee, and crumpled cans of bud light like loose cobblestones littering the path to free dirt seats at the river's edge.

Metamorphosis

This morning, I went for a jog around the Nevers Field track, and I saw that they had made a hall out of Eugene DeSoto. This is the first time I have personally known someone who has died and become a building.

I tried to look him up on the internet, but he didn't exist there anymore, if he was ever there in the first place.

I hope they keep DeSoto Hall clean, and I hope it's air conditioned, and I hope they play Sinatra and Dean-O over the intercom.