Here I Go Again

A mid-morning good word for Marshall Crenshaw, whose first two albums, Marshall Crenshaw (1982) and Field Day (1983), I feel comfortable saying every pop fan should own. (For the record, pun totally intended, those are the only two of his albums I've been able to track down, although the two-disc best-of available on CD, which I'm still tracking down the budget for, looks fantastic.) I'm putting aside my educational impulses here and recommending them merely at my heart's behest, that is to say, because I believe they will bring you joy. Cards on the table: Marshall and I share an unalterable fixation on 50's rock and roll. Doesn't everyone? (No.) (Sad face.) Cards up his sleeve: The man is shrewder and more self-aware than you would believe, at least about his choice topics, which are 50's topics--girls and rockin', and what else is there really? I advise you to listen for the dismissive left hook he throws in the bridge of Marshall Crenshaw's downhearted opener "There She Goes Again" (purposely inflammatory statement: Marshall's "There She Goes Again" is superior to The Velvet Underground song of the same name) and how it's cleverly reinforced by the restorative closer "Brand New Lover." Other notable songs include "Cynical Girl," an effervescent gem I could deconstruct for lifetimes without ever figuring out the extent to which it's a joke, and "Try" (off of Field Day), so weary and determined, so terribly poignant you hope it's a joke. (It isn't.) Marshall makes, in other words, ideal music to start off a day soon to be devoted to Marilynne Robinson, Hannah Arendt, and The Sopranos.

Consequentially yours,

JCrew

The Big 1.0

Hey, y'all:

Woke up this morning, too early, like 8 A.M., says to myself: "Well, g'day, time to get down on yourself for not writing enough of your own accord. Did you even go to NELP, Jared? Had you learned nothing else, which you learned a great deal else but anyway, you should've learned the value of writing all the time. Journal, journal, journal, you lazy motherfucker." Then I realized I'd woken up at 8 A.M. for a much better reason than to give my ego its daily lashing: I had a dog to take out, and, as I sat here contemplating my lethargy, said dog might very well be letting his 12-year-old bowels loose all over my employer's house. Then I flagellated my ego further for being (1) an absentminded motherfucker and (2) a masochist, took out the dog, and came home to start this blog, which has existed as a (ridiculous) URL for some time but will now feature sporadically regular (or regularly sporadic) posts (!) (?) from yours truly, who has decided to start posting on here for a variety of reasons, such as the following: 

(1) He needs to write more.

(2) He cannot tear himself away from the computer entirely, in fact hardly at all, and therefore he might as well do something creative with the time he spends on it.

(3) His friends all have blogs, and he is a sheep.

That's pretty much the scoop behind this thing, friends and strangers. I have little to add about what to expect from this thing other than to paraphrase Oscar Wilde's assertion that the only civilized form of autobiography is a record of one's thoughts rather than of one's actions. Granted, Oscar and I diverge on many many (many) other points, but I think all who've known us would have to agree we are both civilized men before we are anything else (such as alive or dead), and therefore I shall take that maxim to heart and strive to reference the events of my life only insomuch as they serve to inform my (often willfully invalid) opinions on topics like the ethics and poetics of addiction, the appeal of old age and my simultaneous adulation of the song "My Generation," and The Boss, whose identity those of you who think all us collegians come from the same cultural vantage point should probably learn if you expect to be on my wavelength. (Another option would be for my 20-year-old readers to age between 15 and 30 years.)

Before I go, I really must credit Emma Claire Foley, whose increasingly surreal masterwork of personal online journalism was the primary inspiration behind this slightly different venture, as well as the fine, faintly civilized minds who record the events of my daily life here. Finally, let it be known for your edification that the heading at the top of this site does indeed come from The Big Lebowski; I am not The Walrus; the dog in the picture is plastic, has a flashlight in its mouth, and is named Piledriver; and, yes, this will likely be the longest post I write for at least two years.

Temporarily,

Jman