IT’S A TRICK – THIS ISN’T REALLY ABOUT PUNK ROCK

Admittedly, there is little that is punk rock in Workoff, A. In my Venn Diagram of musical taste, the two big circles are labeled thus: a) denim and sunglasses b) earnest wuss rock. It is so-so fair to add cultural implications to these differences of personal expression in music (smoky rooms and crying in your bedroom respectively), and cast the denim sunglasses bands in ye olde EN-GER-LAND, and the collection of wusses in the States. Your given e.g.’s lie in Franz Ferdinand, Manchester in the 90’s, and the Cribs from the UK and on the other end, Ben Gibbard, Elliot Smith, and say any of the pop punk penchant bands, like the Weakerthans. There are line straddlers of course, with B.R.M.C and the Dandies hanging onto the sunglasses end of the American side, and Belle and Sebastian covering the trans-Atlantic wuss-rock connection. HOWEVER, that is my personal range of expressed emotion – from confidence in clever asides, again, sunglasses, optimism in spite of detachment, to overt sensitivity, in general earnest-ness, and goddamnit, optimism in spite of being burned. Ah ha – I believe this is the range that cynicism encompasses, but that’s a bigger conversation.

What this doesn’t cover however, is punk rock, which I seem to have been talking about a lot of the past few months. I don’t think it’s fair to include punk rock as a part of my musical range, because I’m not gung-ho enough to commit completely. It’s a big fucking commitment, to one ideal or another, and you’ve got to apply a pretty hard line to take that shit seriously. Right, so you start out as a reaction to a culture that isn’t about anything you want to be a part of, exactly what a counter culture is supposed to do, and then you start taking yourselves too seriously, and before you know it you used to be a sort of androgynous dude or chick who used to play really fast, or was a 50’s kitsch revival, and you used to say and sing funny things. BUT THEN you fucking wake up and you’ve got no neck and you’re punching kids in the pit, or you wake up and you think that anarchy is a legitimate possibility, or you wake up and worst of all you lost your sense of humor years ago and self-seriousness overwhelms everything you do (and you’re married to Thurston Moore, what?). When did punk stop being funny?

Then you realize the punk rock that my generation is trying to do is working really hard on missing the point. Worse yet, we need punk rock right now, because most of music is working really hard on being obvious and boring. Right now, music is worse than pulling retro threads from music we’ve heard before and sounding like other things (the Beatles) – it is working full-on to imitate it, for nostalgia’s sake. This is why we have bands like Beirut and the Fleet Foxes, both of whom I like, but find to be incredibly hollow in a lot of ways. I get the impression that they’re saying what’s been said in either bohemian France or early 20th century, respectively. It ain’t gonna be enough to be music historians, and obviously a chunk of written criticism on my end ain’t going to help either, unless it makes musicians mad enough to starting writing music again, not classing myself as completely a critic yet, because I think I’ve got something creative and constructive to send out at some point (aside from run-on sentences) BUT FOR NOW, EGGING ON, because as much as musicians hate critics, and shouldn’t listen to them, hating critics is going to make you better at writing music, because that’s what you do.

I’ve got some things about bands I like that are working on pop culture deconstruction, but I think going in that direction takes away from making musicians mad. Work harder, maybe I’ll help out at some point. In general, I think everyone should be working harder (me too!) or else we’ll continue to think it’s really important when Led Zepplin reunites again. Or we’ll continue to be people who think it’s really important to remember the day that the guy who shilled Oxi-clean died. And no one wants that.

And oh yeah, the Pixies never stopped being funny, David Johansen never stopped wearing lady clothing, and if Joe Strummer were still around, I imagine he would still maintain a fine sense of humor, decency, and integrity, and would definitely wear a fucking righteous pair of sunglasses.

THE BEATLES AND WE'RE WORKING ON IT

Therein: Life begins and ends with the Beatles.

And is carried throughout as well.

I believe I've written briefly about the first band you fall in love with. This is the band that you are always in love with, and I am unfortunately unable to come up with a decent analogy for these guys at all, whether it be according to people you love like the first band first crush thing, or anything at all you love because The Beatles to me will always be too big to wrap my head around. Loving them is like loving big things in big letters like MUSIC, ART, LIFE, and LOVE ITSELF. And you do too. Tautological truth is if you like pop music, then you like Beatles.***** This however, must all be said with due caveats. This will be a long and meandering un. Due warning.

Due caveats. A good deal of me hated the Beatles' legacy for a few years somewhere in between some other things. Music started for me at 5 years old with the Beatles on records, vinyl records, from my Grandmother's country house in Goldensbridge, NY. At one point in time, my family had a house in the country to go to, before my brother Chris was born. So during those rare couple o years, it was just my brother Luke and I in one of those four-person families, and for what it's worth I think everyone kinda got along (which is what you do in those families. There's something about the equality in the four person structure that I've anecdotally observed to work as a happy family. BUT that being said I wouldn't have it any other way with my two brothers). That or Luke and I hadn't crossed over into ye olde age of heavy competition, which has pretty much characterized the rest o' our lives. But in this fucking rare time in life, four- person family, had a country house, had two living grandmothers, had actually one grandfather, and my brother Luke and I got along and spun around to Beatles records. That was it. That was pastime. Have Mom and Dad put on a Beatles record and we spun around and fell down, skipping the records which probably made my Dad flip out for a split second, and then everything righted itself as the music went on, and we kept spinning. I of course don't want to ax my bruv Chris out of this memory, because he would have loved doing this maybe more than Luke or I did if he were around at the time, as he's grown to be the real talented musician in our fam, but it is what it is and it's nice on its own.


Alright, so yar the beginning. The middle is quicker. The middle is fucking middle school and listening to whatever the shit was top 40 and Smashmouth (secret), seeing Seal in concert (bigger secret), and I picked up Oasis when I was 12 (first CD), and THEN I finally took it upon myself to buy all the Beatles albums on CD, as my family hadn't upgraded the catalog from vinyl since we were kiddies. I listened to those albums just over and over, and my life from 12-16ish was the Beatles and Oasis over and over again. And then came the Smiths, and the Stone Roses, and all thems Britishes. Through this time, and after the world of indie rock came knocking I listened to them at least less religiously save for those spots in college in the secret room or attic on Avon Road when Laura, Jake, Mark, and I would get stoned and listen to alllll the records. But I mean, of course, ne'er inhaled, right? College kids don't do drugs. Right. Right.

Ah ha and then there's the important period of damnation, which leads us to today. I'm not sure when this started, and I don't believe this is ovah, but I developed a vehement hatred for the baby boomer generation at some point during my senior year. The self-righteous, pat ourselves on the back for culturally revolting, the grammy- monopolizing, $80 Rolling Stones charging, my soapbox forever, music industry fuck- uppery of the huge generation that is working on ways to spend social security till it's gone, GONE, just lit a spark in my almost BA- earned head and I went on a raging. It is quite possible that I never properly got my reee-belll on during the formative teenage years (c'mon, we know I listened to the Smiths and by proxy wrote saddo poetry in my 16 year old room when I should have been making my folks mad), but there is a second half to this. I am mad at my parents' generation, as any young un is, for thrusting their own culture onto my generation, but I am pretty pissed at myself and my own generation for coming up with fuck all that is culturally important or meaningful. Hipsters, apparently of some kind of avant-garde, have done a good job of imitating the (shitty) fashionable parts of past generations, but have added little in the way of style at least, and not running up much else when it comes to all the other important stuff. And you know what else happened? John died before I was born, and George died when I was in high school, and Paul is a dancing fuckwit who wants to run his dyed hair and legacy into the ground and lift his face out yonder while Ringo minds his business but not before becoming Mr. Conductor on Shining Time Station, acting opposite Thomas the fucking Tank Engine. Way to age gracefully guys.

But back to the idears of relevance. They came up with 12 (12!!) albums in less than ten years, give or take the songs on the early ones that they didn't write, and the fact that the White album is a double album. Now a lot of people have come up with a lot more albums, but most likely in a longer period of time. And hate me for the next example but Sonic Youth's 16 albums, or whatever the fuck Bob Dylan is churning out these days, just sounds the same in different ways. There will be no other band able to write concise, beautiful pop songs in the way John Lennon and Paul McCartney did (I'd throw George in here, but I think he had a few great ones, more good ones, but overall wrote a bunch of skips on some albums. Easy to dispute though, depending upon my mood).

As artists, they got to exactly what life should be - life is love. When I was 6 I actually asked my parents if all songs were about love because I only knew the Beatles and all of their songs that I understood, were about love. I thought, before I listened to the serious shit, the Smiths, Radiohead, all of punk rock, all saddo English bands for that matter, Elliot Smith, and all my other bands that only exist to exude cool (admitted self-aggrandizer you in the black denim), I only knew that music was supposed to be about love. Life, is meant to be about love. For some reason I studied medieval theology in college, be-writing about the changes in the Franciscan Order in the early thirteenth century under St. Bonaventure but why? Because for some brief period in Christianity, someone actually reiterated the importance of God being love. One day I'll try and catalog it - dare and figure out how many times the Beatles sang the word "love" in their songs. Think of all them songs, and how one song always fits for a moment in time. One album fits for a moment in time. I'm stuck on "With the Beatles" and "All My Loving" right now, but am kind of leaning on "Revolver" too. This is going to be there for my kids, and I hope it sticks. Hope it sticks for my grandkids too. So in a roundabout way, my Mom and Dad didn't raise me with any religion, but in this second of thought (which seconds later might be, will be, complete bullshit) I got some sort of secular musical gospel with some kind of good message (already regretting spelling out that analogy).

Thus this, is what I am working on getting back to. Thus this, I believe is what specifically missing from my life. I think in some way that lack of love is what is missing from my generation's contributions to overall art and society. Donc - nous travaillons. Therefore we are working on it, mes amis. Nous essayons pour l'amour et les autres grands trucs de la vie.


**** Exempt from liking the Beatles are those kiddums who daren't touch the top 40 rock and roll ever - the punk rockers, the hip hop kids, and the metalheads.

THE CRIBS MARR NEW YORK YANKEES

I got two things on my mind. Two things. Two things.

These boys:





And this:





Motherlovin edifices of- one Johnny Marr (edifice of incredible guitar, putting up with Morrissey for ten years, and managing to stay cooler than the cool boys in the room almost 30 years later) inserted into my fave NOW brit pseudo punk funboy band AND THE OTHER an edifice of New York, history, certain decades of absolute dominance, hating the Red Sox and in general majesty. MAJESTY.

We will do the first, first.

Johnny Marr joined the Cribs. It's a time for "for those who don't live inside me head" mo, in that: The Cribs are Ryan, Gary, and Ross Jarman, all brothers, from Wakefield, England who play what I could only describe as enthusiastic punk rock with incredily catchy tunes and a valuable adherence to the integrity of the three minute pop song, haircuts, and screaming at jeeyust the right spots. AND NOW if only for a brief period of time, Johnny Marr managed to insert himself into one of the tightest functioning bands playing today - three brothers and two of them twins who I'm sure have a Jarman language invented already but then a JARMANTWIN language on top of it? C'mon Johnny we know you're from the North too but it's a bit presumptuous of you to throw your hat in that ring. Oh but wait. Then again of course, you're Johnny Marr.

And why this important? Oh this important. It begins with one of those overall feelings that it is so important, that I cannot explain how incredible and important Johnny Marr is. Sean asked me why Johnny Marr? about twenty minutes ago, so let's try to figure this out. To begin with, I loved Johnny Marr because of Noel Gallagher and the fact that he said when he was seventeen and saw the Smiths on TV, he just wanted to be as cool as Johnny Marr was. Because Johnny Marr is the same as Noel, skinny small guys from Manchester who are yes humble, but in their moments of arrogance are at least taking the piss just at least a little bit. On the musical end, it is because even if you don't like how Morrissey sounds, listen to The Smiths' guitar parts and try to figure out where the hell he came from. Then figure how many bands you listen to are trying to do what he did. Put on Meat is Murder, which isn't the best Smiths album, but arguably has some of the best guitar parts. Then put on the Queen is Dead, just the one song, and that's it. I'm not one to go on about guitars, because guitar wankery has ruined a good part of rock and roll and it's those cockthrusting, long hair having guitar wankers that have made it even worse. You take yourselves so seriously boys. Johnny Marr is not a guitar wanker. He was next to Morrissey and there he was, just the guitarist on stage. With The The, or Modest Mouse, or Electronic, and now the Cribs, he plays the guitar. Come to think of it, and now to sum up, I love Johnny Marr because fuck you Jimmy Page.

And the absolute audacity of this mid-forties, unassuming musician to take part in and become a member of some of the only good bands we have today. Marrinserted. Johnny Marr is a Crib.



To the other edifice and high on the list of things I love.

The New York Yankees have a new stadium. I will be the first to tell you that I was pissed at first and of course sad to see the old one go. It did not make sense to get rid of home for my home team. That ballpark felt like home like coming over the Brooklyn Bridge, or on the Belt from JFK feels like coming home. Throughout the winter it just seemed like a mess of luxury as they went through the build out, just stacking one suite/bar/corporate box on top of another and oh yeah, good luck trying to afford the regular seats anyway. Mohegan Sun Bar? Hard Rock Cafe? Are you fucking kidding me?

I've always had this strong image of what baseball was from my Dad, from East Tremont Ave in the Bronx and as a result born a Yankee fan... sort of. My grandfather, his father, was born in Brooklyn and a civil rights advocate and by way of his lefty commy Brooklyn Jewishness he rooted for Jackie Robinson and the Dodgers. My Dad grew up during the Yankees 50s barnstorming while his father, his mother, and his sister rooted for dem bums, and of course got to see them win one World Series in '55. New York Baseball in the 1950s is one of the reasons why I am proud to be a New Yorker and proud to be a Yankee fan. The Yankees outlasted both of those other teams. And that's why we aren't Mets fans. Because the Mets couldn't even hold onto "Shea." No history.

So I went to the stadium for an exhibition game against the Cubs with a mix of reservation and excitement. Excitement because I spent the last month reading about all the changes they made, the things they tried to keep the same, and godhelpus the sponsorships. So hop out of the train and see one stadium on the left and one stadium on the right. The new one is a whole lot more open, and one of the coolest parts is that you can walk all the way around the stadium, where you couldn't in the old one with the bleachers and monument park being cut off from everything else. The corridors are all wide and the ramps up to the grandstands have plenty of space. The upper decks are also on a graduated incline and you don't get that old stadium vertigo that the cheap seats had. The field and field dimensions are the same, and the bleachers/scoreboard/adspace looks completely different than the old one.

It's weird, this new one is a lot more convenient for the fan experience or whatever the fuck that means, but it's just not where things were and where things have always been. It's new. And I think any fan of an old shitty ballpark (in fairness Yankee stadium wasn't as bad as others with an f to an e to an n to a w etc) would argue that the inconvenience was part of the experience. Home was just where things were supposed to be. Plus it feels strange because the Yankees just aren't as strong as the team I mostly grew up with. And it's incredibly skewed in some ways that my deal as a Yankee fan is being sad during the years when my team doesn't make it to October when some schmo from Kansas City will never see the Royals do anything, all the same it's my deal as a Yankee fan. Being kinda sad that I won't get to see an October like I did age 11-16 and Derek Jeter as a puppy, my fave Scottie Brosius, MARIANO, and with playoff red white and blue bunting curving around the stadium, night navy blue and another one won.

Proper edifices.

Good night.

SIIIIIIICK

Dude.

I hate being sick.

I know that no one likes being sick, but being an inside my brain head kid, I have a real hard time not dwelling when laid out on the couch, or stuck in bed, or in those hours where you realize you can't do anything but stare at the wall at the same few pictures, paintings, dresser and on and on. Good lord, the mountain of tissues, the things you think will make you better and then you have ice cream and mess up that whole no dairy thing, sleeping with three pillows propped up and not on the side, trying to do work but the nose making you sound like an asshole, yes. This is Angela Sbeaking.

And then again I dwell, plus I hate being sick, and I think that's dwelling again.

But. It isn't bad for perspective.

A cold, hopefully something that is only a cold gets better in a few days. There's a world out there beyond the couch, and a world that will be there when you get better. It's usually a movie that does it for me - something that shows something way beyond where I'm sitting right now and somewhere I can go. When I'm not sick.

I'm taking a step back to say that I am also pretty superstitious and know them things about hubris when characters in the storybooks make declarative statements like "I will be well again," and then they wind up with cancer of the braincells and it was just a cold turns to ye olde watch what you say tales. But that's because I read too many books and saw too many movies with too many twists. Apologies, as it is digressions like these that take away from good ideas or at least structure in writing.

So the perspective. Couch, blankets, there's an underneath to my face that is pressing up against my face, and should I take Sudafed or just fight through because what's better for. You know.

And I know it was spring today, and it will be spring when I get better. I know there is a lot of out there, out there. If you have the opportunity to have out there available, then you're doing all right. I think.

CAN'T SHAKE THIS and MACGOWAN ADDENDUM

Oh we'se are headlong.

It's that first time you fell in love. Buh. No.

It's that first band you fell in love with. GRANTED, different people work in different ways but I think a lot of our high school selves were so dopey and ready to claim thing things that we all had that one band, ONE BAND that was ours, like that first person you fell in love with, boyfriend, girlfriend, from afar infatuation. LIKE that person, but the firstbandlove is something unique to itself that won't be repeated later in life. It is earnest, faithful, and throw yourself in front of a bus.

It needs not be repeated that mine was Oasis, and har har for some of you, but I will still stand by this. Imports, b-sides, books, taping everything on video from the TV, and not for one-upsmanship (LIKE YOU, INDIE ROCK KIDS) but just out of love. Eventually I grew up and out of them in some ways when I realized that Noel didn't listen to much that didn't feature guitars or white people trying (or trying to look like they weren't trying) cool. Summer of Radiohead was also the beginning of the end with Oasis, god love em, the antithesis of changing their tune and doin' diffurnt things (NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH BEING PROGRESSIVE, WHICH HAS TOO MANY DRUMS, HIGH CANADIAN VOICES AND PEOPLE NAMED GEDDY, AND IS GENERALLY EMBARRASSING. YOU SHOULD BE EMBARRASSED).

And then you fall down an indie rock rabbit hole of phases, and things that are great, but I don't think you're ever in love in the same way. Once in a while for me, I get really excited when I get obsessed about bands and personalities again and it seems like Shane MacGowan keeps knocking on my door.

Only because I had to add this as a part of the last entry: he is a quiet genius. I've since pawed through a few articles and have found that his wheels are still turning in spite of appearances. He is very articulate in print, and I also remembered that he tested at genius levels (whatever that means) in school. What also should be said, is he is very unassuming in person which does a lovely job of painting this fantastic quiet and apparently very polite genius offstage and a boor on stage, and a drunk off and on stage, and has aged into looking a mess off and onstage. Dear gentle portrait, you're too fucking perfect.

And for further, furtherness the second Pogues show was a lot of fun. Shane was drunker than the night before and let this great yeeeeowl for "If I Should Fall From Grace," coming down to his knees and pulling his body into himself. It's a fine combination of being ugly and beautiful, lyrical, physical and the rest.


But like all other things, the obsession won't last in the same way it started. Give me a couple months and it'll be onto the next thing. Maybe sooner. This one feels pretty good to be invested in right now though.

HEROES: Shane MacGowan

Here is what Shane MacGowan used to look like:



Here is what he looks like now:



I'm not sure if the illustration from point A to B is made clear from these two images, but the general consensus about Shane MacGowan's aging is a few things a) Jesus b) Well at least he's alive c) No teeth at 50 better than the set he had before?

That's not the point though.

The first time I ever really cared about the Pogues was last year when I saw them on St. Patrick's day. This is some of the most fun I have ever had at a show, and one of the best crowds I've ever been with (this was after I was really disappointed by the Cribs, who I still love, but inherited some really shitty 18 yr old fans the last time I saw them). And while this was a great tra la dancing time, it is amazing that the same voice, almost completely unchanged from how he sounded on the records, is this fuckin' guy who looks like Darth Vader with his helmet off (Shaun Ryder from the Mondays has got the same deal going on). I saw him totter onto the stage completely glazed over with a very ill advised mad hatter top hat like a wreck of a human being. Shane's done a few recent tours with the Pogues and the Popes from a wheelchair, not cos he hurt his legs, but because he is generally too drunk to stand. They'd wheel him out, plop him in front of a mic, and then he'd go.

So I saw him shuffle forward and was amazed that he was walking, and then he grabs the mic and you can close your eyes and just hear the Pogues from way back when. Same quick delivery, same yeeeeowwwl screams, and then you open your eyes and there's a wreck of a man there, either geriatric or a used to be there mental patient. He's fifty and totally gone as a person, and I couldn't help but wonder last year and last night when I saw them play again, about what kind of conversations this guy has now. How he gets through his days. Is he happy that he's standing on a stage again. How is he pushing through life?

And then we go here - why are the Pogues important? Before last year I never really gave them much of a listen. They fall into a weird category alongside of a lot of punk rock acts of the early 80s but you wouldn't ever call them contemporaries of any punk rock acts in 80s (this is a please correct me situation, obviously I wasn't alive then). Elvis Costello produced Rum, Sodomy and If I Should Fall From Grace, Shane has sung with Nick Cave, throw in Billy Bragg, obviously influenced by the Clash and fuckin' hell Joe Strummer was a post- Shane Pogue? but they don't fall into any "movement" categories, like NY punk, LA punk, DC hardcore, or anything like that BUT I would still call them punk rock - so how this? Take away the commitment to aesthetic (which gets really old) and give me the commitment to chaos. It doesn't have to be getting fucked up, or fucking other people up, or fucking the system, but an in general "things fucked up" idea. This all being said, I think I've hit my fuck quota for this one, so we'll work on some other words.***

And why this, why this punk rock? Shane MacGowan. I know the rest of the Pogues are great musicians, and I'm sure could fit in well in any other trad Irish session. The Pogues are punk rock because of Shane. After seeing so many people die in rock and roll over the past fifty years, after seeing so many people die from drugs and booze throughout the course of history, it is amazing to see modern desperate alcoholics and the tragic genius cases in general (Doherty, eyes on you). But it ain't the booze - it's the poetry. Shane MacGowan has written lyrics that do that gutter/stars straddle that Irish poets and writers have always been so incredible at. We live in absolute shit, but we are still alive. This is romanticizing vomit and digging ditches, but not glorifying it as what you should strive for. This is what IS, and this is what we do.

From the time he wrote these lyrics until now, Shane just fell down over and over again and I can't figure out what is left. So like a fucking jackass, in the middle of a near depression, having just come back from vacation, I just bought an eighty dollar ticket to see the Pogues again tonight. We'll find a way to cut back on something else. This is rock and roll. And if you have a chance, please go see the Pogues before Shane falls off the cliff for good. You will have a good time, guaranteed.




****FOOTNOTE - The Pogues fall into a weird category in general, because it's rock and roll and traditional Irish music but not in the stupid fucking way the Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly are. Stupid fucking way in that there's something that has annoyed me always about the mentality of the American Irish compared to you know, the actual Irish from Ireland. Us and our identity crises and all. The bigger reason is that I assume that most Flogging/Dropkick fans are also Red Sox fans, so, so fucking there.

THE QUARTER LIFE INDIANA JONES CRISIS

I've got time and a half to kill because of a layover/standby that keeps getting longer and longer. So while I'm here, I figured I might as well post the one "getting effed up in Thailand" entry. I should have more really, but this was something I wrote out with the intention to post.

It begins because I saw the new Indiana Jones playing in my hotel in Chiang Mai, Thailand. The guesthouse reception man (because if I said receptionist you would've assumed lady or LADYBOY, right? right) was watching it with a small kid next to him. It was dubbed in Thai and right at the part where Indy is getting interrogated by two FBI agents about how he survived a nuclear explosion by hiding in a lead-lined fridge. GOOD QUESTION FEDS. On the one hand, jesus George Lucas, you ruined one of my childhood heroes who is a holdover hero to NOW. You let an olded up Harrison Ford run shitty lines about KGB alien quests while taking away all of the awesomeness of Marion Ravenwood as a badass movie chick character. And oh yeah, motherfucking Shia Laboeuf? Get off my lawn. I never got what the Star Wars kids freaked out about when those three new ones came out (because a) I hate space and b) consequently I hate space movies. No one can hear you scream in space, and no one can tell you that you look like an asshole in that jumpsuit. Yar.) BUT NOW I can sympathize with that gut wrenching pull the rug out from you feeling when something you love is cheapened by a plot and set of characters with looser definition than that whole situation in between Lucas' head and shoulders these days (neckchinhwhereyogo?)

I'm running off course. I had a point.

The point is that I saw Indy speaking Thai in that fuggin' movie and I was pulled again. Home and a pretty important thing from home. And although I didn't ask him to, the hotellier swtiched the language to English with Thai subtitles when he saw I was watching.

And why pulled? Because I want to be Indiana Jones.

Here is why:

I want to start travelling and stop being a tourist. I've worked on hammering this out a few times, but I can't explain it right now. I can't explain the H. Jones Jr. theory either, but I will work this out too. I had even written out a whole pseudo feminist look at WTF guys there are no cool female heros aside from Liz Lemon and Katherine Hepburn (maybe Audrey Hepburn too) but I might plug that in another time. I will let you know when I come back. I might have to leave again before I can really figure out.

Here's the thing though.

I think you want to be Indiana Jones too. Let me know.