"We're Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner"

We were the magnificent dreamers.
In secret lamplight hideouts.
We swore the world couldn't break us,
Even when the world took us down.

So here I am struggling out in the mighty jungle,
Moving eighteen miles a minute, not slowing down for nothing.
I look to my left and I look to my right,
And I'm callin' out for my brothers
But it's so dark in this night, am I alone?

Did they fall down by the wayside?
Was I moving too blind to see them?
Were they calling out to me?
Or did Despair set in?

Were the things that we wanted when we were still sixteen,
Only passing and fleeting, or just too far out of reach?
Were you hard up or broken man, I woulda helped you out...
Were you numb and distracted when I was calling out?
I was calling out...

On a Sunday morning the whole crowd assembled,
I've done some things that I'm not too proud of...
I've never left you, a deaf ear for longing.
Some hearts are gallows, I'm not here for hangin' around.

It's all right, man.
I'm only bleeding, man.
Stay hungry, stay free,
And do the best you can.

I LOVE THIS SONG! Sang along to this last night. Great jam!

Gaslight Anthem at the Stone Pony

Lame title for this post but it's not about the title. It's about what's in the body. So let's do this.

So last night I saw The Gaslight Anthem play at the Stone Pony on the summer stage. The weather felt like remnants of the bullshit heat from the Faith No More show at the Williamsburg Waterfront in Brooklyn. Despite the bullshit heat and the stench of sweat and beer intermingling and the fact that we (my girlfriend who I affectionately and lovingly call mi Chula and I) got lost and missed the openers this was a damn good show. It's top 3 with no doubt whatsover.

Gaslight took the stage at 9 and opened with "American Slang" and played a nice mix of jams with slight focus on songs from The '59 Sound and American Slang records. Here's a link for their setlist: link, oh snap!

What else can I say? I love this band like I love The Clash except that The Clash are not my band. By the time I got onto The Clash they were disbanded and a memory for those that saw them rock in their day. They are band of an older generation and I feel that The Gaslight Anthem are my band because I've seen them rise to this level. Yes, I know I wasn't around when they played basements in New Jersey but I feel that their music, their lyrics are for my generation. I'm constantly thinking of the past and yearning for days of yesterday and a chance to relive my teenage years with the intent to try and fix a few things or to just relive them. Gaslight gives me that opportunity now that I reflect on it with an older gaze of maturity or I think it's maturity.

I love this band. Whenever I get married, I'll probably beg this band to play my wedding reception just because. Not to mention, this is a band that mi Chula and I both enjoy.

My only complaint is that they didn't play "I'da Called You Woody, Joe." Mi Chula was looking forward to it and was a bit bummed out.

Oh yeah, this was also my first time back to Asbury Park since the infamous New Jersey Metal and Hardcore Fest from 2003.

Ruminations of dread

Took the midterm for the class I'm enrolled in. C+. Not what I expected but I know of at least one person who failed it with a damn F. It's a grad class during the summer; an entire semester condensed into ten sessions (2.5 hours each) over five weeks. Goddamn. This professor is tough and vague at times. Not exactly the best combination. I have the final paper to write this weekend. I'm nervous about it. I just want to squeeze out with a B as a final grade and I'll be fine. That's all I want.

It's going to be a long weekend that will produce a 5-6 page paper on Ilan Stavans' On Borrowed Words memoir. I'm dreading it but it must be completed.

Onward even though parts of my body are begging to retreat, to change our direction and fight another day. There is no other day to fight. This is it. "Damn," they say with no attempt to hide their reluctance. Damn.

Return of the Brolic/Brawlic

So I finally made the trip to Frenchie's Gym off the Marcy Ave. train station in Williamsburg. I signed up for six months and got right to work. I'm approaching working out with the goal to lift and push less weight but by also increasing the number of reps. My triceps and pectoral muscles are feeling it right now.

About the gym now. The place is a living, breathing, sweating museum. Seriously. The equipment, most of it, is from another time but still gets the job done so one can't complain, unless, they are a prissy foreigner to New York City's blue collar neighborhoods. The walls are decorated with mirrors and above the mirrors an array of photos dating back to the 1970s when Williamsburg was a whole 'nother animal. What stood out to me were the Goldberg and Ultimate Warrior posters. There's no air conditionig system unless the wide open windows count. Regardless, there was a decent breeze coming through to prevent any kind air stagnation. The link at the beginning of this paragraph provides a much better breakdown of this relic. There's also clips on youtube that provide more insight into this, pardon the cliche, blast from the past, that has managed to survive the hipster invasion.

It's a gym that Rocky would work out in. It's also inexpensive. It's a place to work. Get brolic/brawlic!!!