For as long as I've known Paul I've consistently offered up (usually misguided) musical advice to him. He is almost always kind enough to give a listen to, and weigh in on, whatever I'm recommending. In return, Paul generally points out books that I should be reading and video games that I probably should be playing. The whole system seems to work pretty well. Keeps us cultured, up to date, whatever.

In one rare instance of Paul laying some tunes on me, he offered up The Paper Chase around the release of their phenomenal sophomore album, Hide The Kitchen Knives. Whereas most music I stumble upon these days finds me dis-interested after a few weeks, The Paper Chase has again and again found itself on my playlists. My respect for this band has multiplied tenfold since I first found myself enamored with that shakey but disturbingly determined voice scream "YOU BETTER HIDE THOSE KITCHEN KNIVES!" out of my speakers two years ago.

I don't know why it took me so long to get myself a copy of their latest, God Bless Your Black Heart, but upon spinning it from front to back for the first time it's completely monopolized all of my listening time and playlist space. 90% an expanded Hide The Kitchen Knives concept, 5% Modest Mouse and 5% Connor Oberst, God Bless Your Black Heart is for anyone who likes their dementia sincere and honest or their heartbreak sickening and scary.

I listen to it more than the new Faint. More than the new Ted Leo. More than the new Interpol. Cure. Hives. Blah-blah. Blah-blah. Bands with visions and talent like The Paper Chase are an all-too-rare example of why music plays such a big part in my life.

So thanks, Paul. --

It's with caution that I admit to have been bitten by the Dan Brown bug. It started obviously enough, with The Da Vinci Code, and has moved forth to Angels* & Demons and then to Deception Point. I can only guess that the madness will end with Digital Fortress. Being the type of kid in high school that spent hours on the internet before it was cool for you to check out espn.com while at work, I'd previously stumbled upon countless websites about the Illuminati, Free Mason imagery on US Dollar Bills, etc. If you're a bit geeky, don't mind being caught on the subway with a paperback best seller, and have a few hours to kill (literally, you can plow through these puppies in hours) I highly recomment seeking out this shit. Your Dad's probably already bought it, so just borrow it from him or whatever.

Read it before Ron Howard casts Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon and ruins the whole damn thing. *

They sell shirts that have "I'm Rick James, Bitch" silkscreened along side an image of Mr. James on the Seaside Heights boardwalk. Last weekend, two days after the death of Signore James I saw a person walking along the beach that crossed out the "I'm" and replaced it with "I was" "I was Rick James, Bitch". Charming.

I might just be the only person in the United States that has not yet seen the David Chappelle skit that spawned that initial phrase. *

I'm employable, it turns out. Not only employable, but employable by multiple companies. When it rains it pours... and now I've been offered two wonderful positions with wonderful companies doing things that I know that I will enjoy. It's a wonderful problem to have... and once I make the final decision (it's 99.9% made), I'll let you hear about it... then the unemployed whining will end. Yay. --

* I'll have you know that the exact second that I began typing the word Angels, Ted Leo yelled the word "Angel" in song #2 off of his new album Shake The Sheets which I have not listened to enough yet to comment on.

Touche!

I wish I could play off my last post as a successful test of faith, but I cannot honestly do so. The truth is that I wanted my first blog back to be inspiring enough for me to stick to my word, but I just kinda froze up. Straight up writers block. For a few days I took a mental vacation, keeping me from blogging. Then after that I took a physical vacation to Seaside Heights, New Jersey. I'm happy to say that I have returned with 1/2 lb. of peanut butter fudge, a red fighting fish won from a boardwalk game that strangely resembles beer-poing that Marissa and I have named "rar", a wicked sunburn, and a newfound desire to write. I suppose that you can get any of those aformentioned items just about anywhere in the U.S., but I think those who are in the know understand that there is no better place to do so.

Fudge, fish, and sunburn aside, I state that Seaside Heights, NJ is the perfect catalyst to my rekindled interest in blogging becase the duration of the time I spent there had me asking the very same questions that I've found myself asking a lot since leaving Boston and moving back home. #1 - Who are these people? and #2 - What the fuck am I doing here? While I am still not far removed from the inherent craziness that comes with being a senior in college living in Boston I am sure as hell not ready to take up any kind of suburban residence and begin living the way that so many middle-aged white people do. The desire to hit the town, to get out and see people in different situations has been such a huge part of my life the past five years, and it's tough to be faced with the truth that it's not really possible in my current location. Yes, technically on paper I live in a rather large town that offers a fairly diverse set of people(s). I have great friends whom I enjoy spending time with more than they probably know. But the scale to which I have become accustomed to enjoying my time on this planet has been greatly scaled down.

So there's the backdrop for going forward with in.circles. Knowing what's behind me - knowing what I want in front of me - and this bizarre little time in between called 'right now' in which living as an NYC commuter in North Jersey has me asking myself questions #1 and #2 a lot. *

Due up, more on the Jersey Shore, the statistical chance of getting on a subway train with a raving lunatic, and how much more ass my fighting fish can kick than yours. Stay tuned. --

Chris