June 16, 2003

It's the weather, probably. It brings out the worst in me. I can't think straight; I'm very irritable; I'm chugging down my expensive Bavarian hefeweissbier rather than taking nice classy sips. The Fall was fine for before; now I'm kneedeep in the sludge of an old Flipside hardcore comp I've been into lately (Naked Raygun, Germs, Vagina Dentata, White Flag). Punk was made for days like this -- all that "anger is an energy" bullshit Lydon tried to pawn off on us long after the fact actually did have half a grain of sense somewhere within, that there's a realistic midpoint between maximum smashism and the absolute suppression of one's feelings and ideals, and it's called "rock music," basically, taking your grievance, wadding it up with the bacterial filth of your saliva, and spitballing it at your enemy's window like so many molotov cocktails (in your dreams).