Sometimes I feel like a giant living in a playpen, which not only fulfills some sort of weird childhood Tommy Pickles fantasy but also serves as a wonderful contrast to the sobering “bills/responsibilities/loneliness” aspects of living by oneself.
When I walk down to the ugly grey beach of my hometown, I smell a mingling of the rotting of hamburgers with the cloying aroma of a hundred different brands of incense intermingling. I come back and try to go to sleep, but can’t as yet another drunkard stumbles down the alleyway, howling “to hell with it all!”
Few bands playing this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival seem to inspire the same level of personal prose as The Dismemberment Plan. Saturday marks what appears to be the final show by the D.C. post-punk band, which recently reunited and played a handful of shows behind the reissue of their classic 1999 album, Emergency & I.
Sure there were embarrassing moments, like getting caught having cybersex in the chartroom (I never did live that one down, and don’t you judge me, I was like 16 and a 16 year-old erection isn’t too picky), or explaining to my parents IRL that this site and these people were perfectly safe and would not attempt to abduct me and sell me into the international sex trade while they watched over my shoulder as I surfed the message board.
You might not know how to let go of things of yet. You avoid certain streets, restaurants and bars because they remind you of something good that you lost. You wonder how anyone could ever forget and move on from something so wonderful. How do people let things die?