assorted, vol. 1

1) Jack Kerouac, everyone’s favorite proto-hipster, once wrote that if you own a rug you own too much. I first heard that at a time when I thought that following his every word and action would lead you to a fulfilling, dangerous, adventurous and compete youth (this was also before I found out, apparently, that he was kind of a whiny, immature dick, but I digress). In a way, this is a totally applicable statement—your baggage (get it, baggage) will eventually weigh you down while you (sorry for the cliché) journey through life as a young adult. These thoughts came rushing back to me today as I was packing for my next contract when, after carefully folding my black dress shirts into my large suitcase, I looked down at what lie before me and I thought “wow….that’s a lot of stuff.”

To be fair I’m not packing (packing, not cramming, I can confidently say) so much out of impulse; it’s out of necessity. Those two bags that laid out in front of me like bloated, cumbersome corpses on the ground were not filled with things I wanted, but rather things I needed for this job. Black dress shirts (my new favorite formal commodity), a new suit (a rather dashing European cut, if I do say so myself), khaki docker pants (not preferable), Hawaiian floral print shirts (hate them) and polo shirts (hate them more) are some of the required attire for this gig, for better or for worse, and I accept the fact that, in a sense, I’m a sellout for dressing so decidedly preppy because the Man tells me I need to. I say “sellout” because the me of yesterday would shout that same hurtful word at the me of today for choosing this life, to which I would promptly should out “I’m going to the Caribbean and playing guitar for money,” to which the me of yesterday would shout back “really? Never mind…”

Still, symbolically, it’s a bit of an odd transition. I attached to playing the guitar through Green Day and Pennywise, bands who embraced the general counterculture sentiment, and now my first quasi-legitimate job involves my beloved six-stringed weapon of choice, but I look less like me and more like an alternate Sears catalog version of me. Odd, indeed, but in retrospect I have no reason to complain about this stage in my life, nor do I want to. I’m satisfying my restless desire to get out and away from what I know all too well, and I’m playing guitar alongside great musicians doing it—all is well with life, y’know? If I could just wear flip-flops, jeans and a shirt of my choosing, I’d never stop smiling.



2) Michael Cera is awesome. True, Arrested Development was better than Juno, which was still good and better than Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist (which I never saw but one could assume), so in theory fame’s a bitch, but I don’t care. Even if I discredit his actually ability as an actor (which I can’t), I wholeheartedly stand for and respect the goofy, awkward character he’ll perpetually be, even if in his next movie he’s pumping stereotypical bad guys full of bullets and knives while nailing Jessica Alba and Jean Malone (all at the same time). It didn’t hit me until just recently, but no matter what he does with his acting career, he’ll always (at this age, anyway) represent the shy, dorky, timid masses of middle school and high school kids everywhere. For that, the Andy Juriks aged 13-18 across the nation thank you, good sir.



3) Mickey Rourke deserves an Oscar for The Wrestler. To side with the hype, Heath Ledger deserves an Oscar for The Dark Knight. Everyone involved with Slumdog Millionaire nominated for any Oscar in an capacity deserves it as well, especially Danny Boyle. Actually, Boyle deserves one on principle alone. WALL-E, the character, not the movie, should be constructed as an actual robot and appointed a position in Obama’s cabinet. Jake Shimabukuro should be awarded a Grammy, as well as an apology for having not been given one before.



4) Greatest Hits albums should be treated less like retrospectives and more like mixtapes.







Read: Shakespeare Wrote for Money by Nick Hornby

Listen: Orphans by Tom Waits