88 Lines Part 1: iPoet

While cruising my iTunes making a CD for work tomorrow, I came up with either the greatest or the lamest idea of all time. Point being, I took a bunch of my favorite lines from my favorite songs, tried to put them in some sort of readable order, and subsequently made a CD following the order of each line/song.

I am procrastinating on some stuff. Clearly.

The CD? Oh. Well, it goes:

88 Lines About 44 Women--The Nails
Reinventing Axle Rose--Against Me!
White Lexus--Mike Doughty
That's What I Like About You--Kinks
Tangerine--Led Zeppelin
Tainted Love--Soft Cell
Close To Me--The Cure
When I'm 64--The Beatles
Need It Just a Little--Fruit Bats
Nobody But You--Kinks
I Am Trying To Break Your Heart--Wilco
Jennifer--Stephen Malkmus
Satellite--Aimee Mann
Regulators--Warren G

The iPoem? Oh, yeah. It goes:

Seattle is another girl who left her mark upon the map
and doesn't care how many people are counted at the door;
please show me how to live,
tell me all the things that I want to hear
in a reflection of a dream when
I toss and turn, I can't sleep at night;
I wish I stayed asleep today.
Losing my head, many years from now,
when I need it just a little when the needle's in the red,
imagine me and you and you and me,
assassin down the avenue
joining our forces and singing along
so we can call it a day.
Nate Dog and Warren G gotta regulate.

[Okay, for real though. This is a fucking fantastic procrastination device. On what? Well, if I do shit like this, then I will never have to come to grips with the fact that I might just truly be the worst person ever. I mean--just fucking look at me--my shit, my time--my fucking best friend is dancing at Hustler today. Oh, you don't like strip clubs? Yeah, I don't care. Why don't you just fucking do what I say and sit there prettily while I pay the new girlfriend of some guy I was screwing all winter to grind on your crotch because I'm feeling a bit vindictive. Hope that's cool. Wait a minute--no I don't. Know why? Because I make the worst girlfriend ever, and that sucks because I was going to try and do better this time, and what do I really get by having her draped all over some boy I'm fucking? Not a whole lot. So then I make it worse--still feeling a bit vindictive, I sleep with a friend of his; my ex, that is, not the new one who I now hate and have no idea how to break it off with. Oops.
Yeah, I don't really know, but it seemed so fitting. Seemed like a story I wasn't willing to sacrifice for any kind of common sense or morals or whatever. Now it just seems like contrary to the stories Nathalia has told me about how my ex treats his hot and sweet new stripper girlfriend, despite even me running into her propped up on the counter of the bathroom of the Hustler biting her nails and talking on her cellphone, even then when I wonder why her face is red and flushed and I try to smile and Nathalia's begging me to just fucking say something to her--maybe it is me that is the cruel one in the whole situation. I'm pretty sure of it, in fact. If I said something? Well, then I would have to admit, out loud, that he's mean, and I don't like him, and then? THEN MY TITLE ESSAY IS RUINED. The story doesn't work with him as an asshole--and so in my head until this is all finished, HE CAN'T BE AN ASSHOLE. No, he can't be an asshole. That is supposed to be me.
And that was called a rant. --M]

1 comment:

charles.bukowski.costanza said...

dude this idea is so money. i like when you have good ideas. you realize how easy this could be morphed into a collaborative writing and drinking game. seriously, it's so perfect. if i wearing pants i'd have just come in them. m.