Blerg
- Thread starter perfictspeller
- Start date
Skull - Sebadoh
We can never ever go too far
The pain we can't escape at least will wait
So let's go quickly
No, we go slow
Let's go chasing dragons through the snow
Kindly take my all
And give me all you have
Gently take my skull for a ride
When I first started listening to this song, way back in nineteen mumbly-mumble, the involuntarily straight(ish)edge me was pleased with himself for knowing what “chasing the dragon” meant. (Likely because of the L.A. Guns song with that name, which maybe I’m not so proud of, looking back, but…) I had always assumed that this was a song about two lovers, stumbling along on the path to destruction, hand in hand, through the winter of their despair (umm, derrr, perhaps it wasn’t literally “snow”, dumb me). I always hear “come and take my arm” instead of “kindly take my all”.
Only today did I learn that Lou Barlow purportedly wrote this about doing heroin for the first time with Evan Dando. Which makes this song… even more sweet, and more tender.
Ignore the music video, this is the first time I’ve seen it and it has absolutely nothing to do with the visuals in my head. I’m assuming the record label would not have approved of footage of Lou and Evan slumped together in a backstage dressing room, dreaming their separate dreams together. Instead we get a low-budget, irony-fortified (and black and white!) romp that was the style at the time when emotions were verboten.
Hey also: kids, don’t do drugs. Just sentimentalize the doing of them.
We can never ever go too far
The pain we can't escape at least will wait
So let's go quickly
No, we go slow
Let's go chasing dragons through the snow
Kindly take my all
And give me all you have
Gently take my skull for a ride
When I first started listening to this song, way back in nineteen mumbly-mumble, the involuntarily straight(ish)edge me was pleased with himself for knowing what “chasing the dragon” meant. (Likely because of the L.A. Guns song with that name, which maybe I’m not so proud of, looking back, but…) I had always assumed that this was a song about two lovers, stumbling along on the path to destruction, hand in hand, through the winter of their despair (umm, derrr, perhaps it wasn’t literally “snow”, dumb me). I always hear “come and take my arm” instead of “kindly take my all”.
Only today did I learn that Lou Barlow purportedly wrote this about doing heroin for the first time with Evan Dando. Which makes this song… even more sweet, and more tender.
Ignore the music video, this is the first time I’ve seen it and it has absolutely nothing to do with the visuals in my head. I’m assuming the record label would not have approved of footage of Lou and Evan slumped together in a backstage dressing room, dreaming their separate dreams together. Instead we get a low-budget, irony-fortified (and black and white!) romp that was the style at the time when emotions were verboten.
Hey also: kids, don’t do drugs. Just sentimentalize the doing of them.
Never heard before, is good. Didn’t know where they were from til’ just looked, they have a bit of a 90s British sound but can’t place who am thinking of.
Neat story also Mr P
Neat story also Mr P
If You Love It, Let It Kill You - Hannah Pittard
This is the book where I discovered a readerly itch that is deeply scratched by "autofiction", specifically those works that are written by an immensely creative, consistently offbeat, of-the-moment writer (and yes, also a woman; I've read enough men writing about themselves for a lifetime). Another example that comes to mind is Miranda July's All Fours, which I will die for, and swear by. I will surely be seeking out more.
To the future me: remember the part about buying the celery in the grocery store, and the talking cat, and the Dead Body game, and the real-life who's who you pinned these characters to.
This is the book where I discovered a readerly itch that is deeply scratched by "autofiction", specifically those works that are written by an immensely creative, consistently offbeat, of-the-moment writer (and yes, also a woman; I've read enough men writing about themselves for a lifetime). Another example that comes to mind is Miranda July's All Fours, which I will die for, and swear by. I will surely be seeking out more.
To the future me: remember the part about buying the celery in the grocery store, and the talking cat, and the Dead Body game, and the real-life who's who you pinned these characters to.
Listen, The Snow Is Falling - Galaxie 500 (covering Yoko Ono)
I’m not on speaking terms with snow anymore. Not since it’s become a nuisance to be cleared from sidewalk and driveway, an impediment to getting my car from point A to B and then parking it there. But there was a time when I enjoyed and welcomed our conversations. When it let me speed down, and topple kings from, hills. When it built forts and cancelled school.
One particular conversation from those days stands out to me. A private talk that happened one late December night my last year of college. I was spending winter break in the tiny college town, working at the library during the day and spending my nights in the coffeeshop that was my second home. I was still young enough that my immune system could withstand my sartorial idiocy. Wearing two jackets instead of a single coat. A pair of plastic knock-off Doc Martens instead of sensible, non-porous boots. Walking back to my sublet from the coffeeshop, surrounded by one of that winter’s seemingly endless series of snowfalls, I stopped to listen to the snow. I stood there on the sidewalk, socks soaked, and stared up. Watched the fluffy flakes somersault down through the fuzzy orange sodium halo of the streetlamp next to me. Felt them fur my eyelashes, eyes unblinking. Heard the accumulation of their countless landings become a comforting chorus, a gently laid blanket. And that was the first, or at the very least the last, time that I heard, as in actually heard, the snow falling.
I don’t know that it will ever snow again quite like it did that night. If the climate or the quiet of the world, or my diminished hearing, would allow it. How could it possibly.
I’m not on speaking terms with snow anymore. Not since it’s become a nuisance to be cleared from sidewalk and driveway, an impediment to getting my car from point A to B and then parking it there. But there was a time when I enjoyed and welcomed our conversations. When it let me speed down, and topple kings from, hills. When it built forts and cancelled school.
One particular conversation from those days stands out to me. A private talk that happened one late December night my last year of college. I was spending winter break in the tiny college town, working at the library during the day and spending my nights in the coffeeshop that was my second home. I was still young enough that my immune system could withstand my sartorial idiocy. Wearing two jackets instead of a single coat. A pair of plastic knock-off Doc Martens instead of sensible, non-porous boots. Walking back to my sublet from the coffeeshop, surrounded by one of that winter’s seemingly endless series of snowfalls, I stopped to listen to the snow. I stood there on the sidewalk, socks soaked, and stared up. Watched the fluffy flakes somersault down through the fuzzy orange sodium halo of the streetlamp next to me. Felt them fur my eyelashes, eyes unblinking. Heard the accumulation of their countless landings become a comforting chorus, a gently laid blanket. And that was the first, or at the very least the last, time that I heard, as in actually heard, the snow falling.
I don’t know that it will ever snow again quite like it did that night. If the climate or the quiet of the world, or my diminished hearing, would allow it. How could it possibly.
What Is Wrong with Men: Patriarchy, the Crisis of Masculinity, and How (Of Course) Michael Douglas Films Explain Everything - Jessa Crispin
What might appear to be a gimmicky conceit (using Michael Douglas movies from the 80s as a starting point to examine the changing role of masculinity in American culture as patriarchy transitioned into... post-patriarchy) is executed exceedingly well here. Crispin is a brilliantly engaging writer who blends accessible cultural analysis with wit and a refreshingly equanimous perspective. Highly recommended.
It probably helps to have seen, or at least be familiar with, the movies that Crispin references, since she (thankfully) does not spend much time rehashing/summarizing their plots.
And also, wow, Michael Douglas was in a lot of 80s movies.
What might appear to be a gimmicky conceit (using Michael Douglas movies from the 80s as a starting point to examine the changing role of masculinity in American culture as patriarchy transitioned into... post-patriarchy) is executed exceedingly well here. Crispin is a brilliantly engaging writer who blends accessible cultural analysis with wit and a refreshingly equanimous perspective. Highly recommended.
It probably helps to have seen, or at least be familiar with, the movies that Crispin references, since she (thankfully) does not spend much time rehashing/summarizing their plots.
And also, wow, Michael Douglas was in a lot of 80s movies.
As 2025 trickles away I'll add another entry to the heap of year-end recaps with the top ten books I've read this year. Less a recommendation list than an opportunity for me to remember them and order them semi-arbitrarily.
10.
Elena Knows (Claudia Piñiero) - A mother in deteriorating health travels across the city to ask a woman she thought she knew for help investigating the death of her daughter. Very tense (especially the conversation at the end) despite the lack of any actual action.
9.
Vera, or Faith (Gary Shteyngart) - I've had my fill of narrated-by-a-child and dystopian and robot-servant stories, but this one combines both and does it with poignancy and an actual story underneath. Not as "funny" as his other books, which is a positive.
8.
Our Share of Night (Marian Enriquez) - Sprawling generational epic about an occult secret society, reminded me of Stephen King and Tim Powers. Excellent world-building, an entertaining page-turner.
7.
Sky Daddy (Kate Folk) - Oh how I can't resist what is apparently (based on a google just now) disparagingly called "sad-girl lit". This is a stellar example and adds a wonderful element: The main character is sexually obsessed with airplanes.
6.
If You Love It, Let It Kill You (Hannah Pittard) - Wrote about this one previously. Activated the Miranda July receptors.
5.
Dear Dickhead (Virginie Despentes) - An epistolary exploration of online interactions and the consequences of them.
4.
Stag Dance (Torrey Peters) - A collection of short stories and a novella, and it's on here because of the novella, an engaging story about lumberjacks with a main character not soon forgotten. This is not just "trans writing", it's just excellent writing, period.
3.
Lapvona (Ottessa Moshfegh) - My favorite of Moshfegh's, which is crazy to me because it takes place in medieval times, which I normally hate. For the first time, for me at least, she nails the ending.
2.
The First Bad Man (Miranda July) - I want to live in every one of Miranda July's stories, her characters are so appealing and weird and real.
1.
El buen mal (Samanta Schweblin) - Every time I think of a Samanta Schweblin story I get goosebumps. I haven't read the English translation yet, and almost don't want to, because this was so good. Particularly "El ojo en la garganta" (The Eye in the Throat).
10.
9.
8.
7.
6.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1.
Lost Lambs - Madeline Cash
The first best book of 2026. Like if Kevin Wilson (Nothing to See Here) wrote another warm-hearted, character-stuffed family story, but with an adrenochrome cult plot, and called in Mitchell Hurwitz (Arrested Development) to punch up the humor.
The first best book of 2026. Like if Kevin Wilson (Nothing to See Here) wrote another warm-hearted, character-stuffed family story, but with an adrenochrome cult plot, and called in Mitchell Hurwitz (Arrested Development) to punch up the humor.
Take Ecstasy With Me - The Magnetic Fields
A stunningly sad and beautiful closer to another brilliant college-era album. The electronically woodsy opening (those crickety chirps and ratchety clicks!) ... the just-right details evoking an innocent love (you stuttered like a kaleidoscope / cuz you knew too many words) ... the repeated plaintive entreaties to, well, take ecstasy to escape ... the heartbreaking lines where I first realized that the narrator (and ultimately Stephin Merritt himself) was gay (a vodka bottle gave you those raccoon eyes / we got beat up just for holding hands), at which point my commiseration turns to anger ... this one never stops being the best.
Happy Pride, everyone. Leave your vodka bottles at home, and leave the lovers alone.
A stunningly sad and beautiful closer to another brilliant college-era album. The electronically woodsy opening (those crickety chirps and ratchety clicks!) ... the just-right details evoking an innocent love (you stuttered like a kaleidoscope / cuz you knew too many words) ... the repeated plaintive entreaties to, well, take ecstasy to escape ... the heartbreaking lines where I first realized that the narrator (and ultimately Stephin Merritt himself) was gay (a vodka bottle gave you those raccoon eyes / we got beat up just for holding hands), at which point my commiseration turns to anger ... this one never stops being the best.
Happy Pride, everyone. Leave your vodka bottles at home, and leave the lovers alone.
