only happy when it rains.


on cloudy days in october, i only have one memory, and i'm not even sure why it's there. my dad picks me up in his tan and brown volkswagon bus, and there's garbage on the radio. yeah, shirley manson. i don't know what caused my obsession with her. maybe it was the low self-esteem she projected, or maybe it was the overly-dyed red hair. anyway, my dad picks me up and drives to the pink flamingo, a chinese restaurant a few blocks from our house. he'd always order beef and broccoli with a side order of white rice, and maybe something else. i remember eating at the table, staring through our glass sliding door at the windy and cloudy, dismal day.

i saw garbage once at uc davis freeborn hall. i was a freshman in high school, and rich came along. it was a good show, and i wrote a review about it, which was published on some guy's "unofficial garbage" site. i was surprised he put it up. his site came down, though, so my last trace of anything i've written on the internet is this here. i don't remember much about the show, except that this one guy starting doing a really creepy dance when they played "#1 crush." i bought a large blue t-shirt that had the version 2.0 logo embroidered on the front. i wore it to school the next day, then felt like a huge nerd in my latin class. i regretted putting it on. i don't think i ever wore it after that.

yesterday, i told my mom about a potential tutoring job in portland, or. she asked if i had friends up there, i said i did. laura and kate. she told my dad about this, to which his only response was, "too far." i was angry with him all day for it. he's told my mom (i only know this because she told me) that it's nice having me around the house again, but it will be hard when i have to go. i don't really get why he said this, since we never talk, other than when he asks what i'd like to have for lunch, and i always tell him i don't know. here he comes now. "did mom go to work?" i ask. "mmhmm," he grumbles, pours himself some water.

i had a garbage poster up in my room for a while. it was the one where shirley's down on her knees and she's reaching out for their red sidewalk star in hollywood. what's that called again? a hollywood square? i thought that was just a name for the game show. whatever. i had it up for so long and in so many different places that the corners were getting ripped apart from where the thumbtacks once were. eventually, it came down completely, along with all the other posters i had, when i went through my "get rid of all things because mogwai's come on die young cd is the only thing i'll ever need."

yeah. freshman year of college i downloaded a couple of mogwai songs. the first song i ever heard was "helps both ways" from the aforementioned album. i was intrigued. i downloaded more. by the time i had "christmas steps," "ex-cowboy," and the opener, "punk rock," i knew i was on to something. every other album i owned paled in comparison. at the time, i had a lot of pop punk in my collection, which, i am embarrassed to list here, but i will name a few to help paint an accurate picture: blink-182, mxpx, screeching weasel, all. i can't go any further. needless to say, i picked up come on die young, as well as every other mogwai album to date, and dimple, amoeba, and rasputin's took all the useless, juvenile pop punk bullshit. posters had to come down. useless junk donated. i wanted nothing other than dark, ambient music that would serve as the soundtrack to my life. "music you can be married and buried to," is what the rich bitch calls it.

i have a hard time of letting go. i wanted, and still want, to be a minimalist, but how do you get rid of the things (adbusters, mogwai records) that helped you develop that philosophy in the first place? it's ironic, hypocritical. maybe that's what "oh! how the dogs stack up" is all about.

he's eating bread now, smacking his lips a lot.

yes! i am a long way from home.

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