Blog Eight.

i went to a show at the albion hotel, just over the hill and down the steps of the ominous catholic church presiding over downtown like maybe god himself would if he cared enough to. the day before i saw an excavator sitting below the cathedral in the torn up street, now dirt like a western movie, on a heap of earth pulling debris towards itself with mechanical insect arm like a fat baby sitting on it/s jiggling haunches in the sand at the beach. the albion hotel, dark wood and big stones made into walls and al capone partied here when making liquor runs, no half sober drives across town but international smuggling affairs. i at one point during the opening band, the two headliners being buzzing indie hipster darlings current, managed to divorce myself from the context of bar, music, scenester, drunkeness and just stare at these people, all presuamable subject consciousnesses unto themselves and could not then, stripped of context, derive why all these people, so oddly attired were all crowded into a dark room with old wooden floors soaking up spilt beer and stare in a singular direction and standing so close to, yet so completely unaware of, each other, and several men stood above the rest making jerking motions with the bodies and repetitive irrhythmic noise, and i reckon they must wonder what so fascinating was occuring behind them that so many might stare at it. and people i pass at night as i leave the library sad (because lonely music reminds me i/m sleeping alone tonight and elegaic suburban novels about eastern mystics and the abscence of answers), and suburban kids in collared shirts on brickwork sidewalks making text message drug arrangements wax quiet as impotent campus police slide obliquely by in silent cruisers in no nighttime of impotent streetlights, and as the cruiser slips around the corner and out of existence become bold and mutter under their breaths (still fucking afraid, you fucking pieces of shit) "fuck the po.. anyway" "yeah... fu- fuck them", as though buying drugs where still somehow rebellion, or better yet, and get this, get this get this, this is fresh: as if by buying drugs and listening to PE, certainly not understanding the lyrics, but for NOVELTY/s sake, were a revolution. lets get high and smash the fucking state with our suburban disobedience listening to misunderstood hiphop on iphones as did our parents before us listening to misunderstood jazz on fivegrand stereos, then get fat and old and bald and impotent in fat old bald impotent suburbs as did our parents before us and leave such petty rebellion to our children, but then again: i don/t care. i don/t. i don/t. and i don/t know why it bothers me so much, /s/not like i do anything more than them. or even care to. i don/t. juss their hypocrisy /s/all i guess. and all i want is to go home and sleep with my girl and be able to cease caring again. at least until i wake up.