March 3rd, 2006
I just spent the last two hours rubbing my fingers raw on the steel strings of my acoustic guitar, playing Rumbleseat's "Restless," "Trestles," and Don Gibson's (via Rumbleseat and Johnny Cash) "Sea of Heartbreak" over and over and over again. Why? Pastacore
Everything must end. Meanwhile, we must amuse ourselves.
Pastacore. "Pasta" and "hardcore." That was our rallying cry.
Pastacore is eating a pound of cheap, generic-brand linguine slathered in a homemade, garlic-heavy marinara sauce, falling asleep from the pasta buzz brought on by the sudden flood of serotonin in your brain soon after, then letting the pots soak in the sink for the next week until they can be handled only with a protective biohazard suit.
It's opening a newly arrived shipment of your band's first 7-inch record.
It's accidentally pounding your fist into the jaw of a person whom you secretly have a crush on while flailing in the pit of a Wordsworth show.
It's lying on your driveway as the thermometer steadies at 90 degrees at midnight, listening to Hank Williams Sr. on a Walkman and watching the stars, wondering what music the aliens are listening to as they watch Earth.
It's treating yourself to an afternoon movie after failing a final exam.
It's staring a fake riot with your friends on a crowded street for public arousal.
It's new-wave dancing on Tuesday nights.
Pastacore is canoeing at Lake Wauburgh on weekday mornings before going to your shitty minimum-wage job, watching alligators watch you paddle away.
It's dogpiling the microphone at Radon shows, screaming the chorus of "Facial Disobedience" while pinned to the floor with five layers of bodies on top of you, then recovering from a sore ankle and laryngitis the next day.
It's skateboarding the foot-high concrete slab behind the University of Florida's department of architecture building after midnight, ollie-to-grinding its well-ground edge, then getting bitched at by the frustrated architecture students pulling all-nighters inside.
It's free pizzas, burritos and sandwiches from friends employed at fast-food joints around town.
It's reading history books you found in the garbage.
It's scrubbing the mucilage of dried beer off your friend's kitchen floor from the party she had the night before without her having to ask.
It's spending your entire allotment of food money for the semester on a great amplifier, then having to eat the Hare Krishna's free lunch at the Plaza of the Americas every day for the next three months.
It's pickup soccer games on Saturday mornings.
Pastacore is throwing bottles against the wall of your back porch by yourself, with the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony blaring at full volume on your stereo until the cops arrive.
It's picking flowers for a girl you're smitten with because you're too broke to take her on a real date, then giving them to her with a compilation tape, one you recorded over Black Flag's My War and stayed up all night making, hoping she'll love you for it,
It's making up crazy new dances at Pat Hughes' Funkadelic Dance Parties (all old-school funk and soul, no disco) at his house with roommates Wade and Kalpesh.
It's observing the very serious girls and boys at campus protest marches fight patriarchal oppression while discreetly flirting with each other.
It's staying home and playing with your cat instead of seeing your neighbor's new band.
Pastacore is scoring a near-mint condition LP by Devo, the Germs, Chrome or Token Entry for three dollars in the Hyde and Zeke's "new used" vinyl bin.
It's watching Cool Hand Luke or Meet John Doe on Channel 51's "Starlight Theater" at 2 a.m.,
It's nursing the burn on the underside of your forearm from launching so many bottle rockets by hand.
It's talking politics with your hippie neighbors and having to quietly endure their unbearable patchouli stink.
It's helping a friend get through a bad acid trip, spending hours relaxing his speeding heart by playing a soothing, continuous guitar line while he occasionally pukes in the nude.
It's reclining on your living-room couch on a rainy Sunday reading Reid Fleming: World's Toughest Milkman or Eightball comics while listening to your first Snuff album.
It's giving food to the homeless, addicted, afflicted and insane who are amble through your open front door.
It's cutting, pasting, and Xeroxing at Target Copy Center in the dark hours before dawn--then paying for 20 copies when you're walking out with 175.
It's cutting your 9 a.m. class to have sex.
Simply, pastacore is life lived maximally, every moment savored.
--From Amped: Notes from a Go-Nowhere Punk Band by Jon Resh.
To Walter, Brian, Stanley, Bill, Travis, Scott, and Chuck, the members of Sacrificial Poultry, Bizarro, and Lonely Christians on Easter Sunday: you guys rock.
that was fabulous to read
| -anon-::2006.03.04.06:05 am|
hwy this is thenighttrain from xanga... who is this?? ahh whatever- thanks for facial disobedience! niiiiice
is on my to-read list! Did you like it? This list is great. And no, I've never gone to the movies after flunking an exam or cut my early class to have sex. Nope. *is a bad student*
is one of my favorite books of all time. And having lived through some of what Jon talks about should not be considered in any way bias on my part. The writing is just that good.
Excellent. I'm a huge dork for music/band/pop-culture books. I'll definitely have to pick it up then. :)