Icebox Records » Rant

No Bored Drums

Eric Olsen — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 00:51:18 +0000

I’m having my first real pang of becoming a responsible adult. I feel boring and old and limited and utterly tethered.

I was offered the opportunity to be a part of yesterday’s BOADRUM 9 in Troy NY, and turned it down…to remain on daddy duty.

Boredoms. 9 drummers. Me backstage with EYE.

Instead, it was blanched broccoli, Elmo diapers, repeated readings of The Little Island, and gauging how many inches I can actually pinch these days.

Cooley dispatched intermittent and rabid media files my way last night. Here are some of them:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Cooley (and his companions Herb and Tanner) are planning to write all about it, so I’ll leave it to them to tell you how awesome and life-changing it was. I’ll just go pre-rinse some cloth diapers instead.

Blessed be the late at night

Eric Olsen — Sun, 27 Apr 2003 17:30:58 +0000

It always starts small, I think. Life, war, a good story. Not sure what I’m thinking exactly, but its there, like someone in your bed or a wart on your finger or the smell of Spring.

We’ve got all the time we need, and we’re running out of time. That’s what I’m trying to say, maybe. The infinite has been duly noted and is presently secure in a warehouse outside Pittsburgh. We start off small, a welcome mistake maybe, or the result of hard hard work. We find out what our neighbors smell like, what blood tastes like, what anger feels like when its snapped and slapped against our skin. We learn the craft of deceit. We grow accustomed to the thin dry air of dejection. Someone else has pointed out the idea of a horizon, and ever since then we’ve followed it like a gilded carrot.

Working hard. I’d prefer not to. Pointing out the obvious.

Shoutout from the Far East

Eric Olsen — Thu, 17 Apr 2003 17:02:12 +0000

Our former Icebox roomie, Ashley, writes from the Bigger Country:

there are all these men outside my building doing construction– they bring all the construction workers in from other towns because the labor is so much cheaper… so most have them have never seen many westerners… so whenever i walk by all work stops and they give me the ”chinese stare” that i have become very familiar with at this point. they build these little temporary shelters for them to live in but they seem to be working 24 hours a day– probably are. so i use the few things i know how to say in mandarin and try and be polite.. next week i start my mandarin classes so when i hear them saying stuff maybe now i will know what the hell it is..

so i was thinking about that night in burlington that we shut down three needs, broke glasses on the floor, had silly dances, and then a rendition of man bites dog … that was a good night!

She forgot to mention the final glass she tried to throw from the passenger seat of my car … she failed to notice that the window was closed, and threw a half-full Cape Cod at the pane of tempered glass separating her from the quiet 4am street.

Twas awesome. I miss that girl.

La Vida Loca

Eric Olsen — Wed, 02 Apr 2003 01:53:39 +0000

Yeah, whatta vacation. Fucking hell. Migracion took forever in San Jose airport, they fully dissected my backpack, going so far as to unstitch some of the stitching, think they may’ve had a laugh at my vat of pomade, and then I finally meet up with my pals Drew and his wife Jesse, we get into a cab which drives like a methed up bat out of hell, blowing redlights, flicking ashes back at us in the backseat, mumbling something about cozy feet or something that sounded like cozy feet, and then he drops us off at 35 Calle and 10 Avenida, which is still a few block from their apartment, whatever … but then HE SPEEDS OFF WITH MY BACKPACK!!! All I got is this god awful tourista fannyback which can barely hold my passport and money, which luckily it had. But my camera, and clothes, and great gifts for my friends, FUCKING GONE, picked apart by a bunch of scruffy cabbies somewhere in a underground garage in San Jose.

Anyway, that’s something, sure, but it gets worse.

We get back to the apartment after talking with la policia, which is obviously going to be of no help, and we eat, then Drew and I decide to be pigs and go out for some beers and guaro (sugarcane firewater) … and after a few hours of sipping and gawking, we get into a small discussion with a few ticos, Andres and Pablo, regarding the current situation in Iraq. I knew it was getting off to a bad start when Drew slurringly says, “Well why the hell shouldn’t we police the rest of the world?!? They Obviously can’t do it themselves…” Suffice to say, they invited us outside … we remained within the safe warm bosom of El Celio (the bar we were at) and eventually, after much machismo and bravado, they left. After a few more rounds, we head out, and we’re stumbling down these little windy streets and the rain’s really coming down and he’s got a raincoat and I don’t because some cabbie’s wearing mine at the present moment, and all of a sudden, BAM! Glass shatters and Drew screams, I spin around and its fucking Andres and Pablo, and Andres has just smashed a bottle of Imperial over the back of mi companero’s cabeza (so much for policing the world), and he’s holding the back of his head and cursing a storm, then, flash, he jets, he runs like a fucking ghost in a hurricane, he’s fucking Swayze, and I’m there, a little confused, looking pleadingly with the two attackers. They advance at me, I flinch (I’m sure), then laugh menacingly and walk off, patting each other on the back and disappearing into a streetlightless night. Huh. So there I am, shaken and tipsy, alone after 3 and a half hours in Central America, with no idea of where the fuck I am … no phone numbers, no idea of anything. I start heading in the general direction my yellow gazelle of a friend ran in, looking for possible blood trails that may lead me home to my lack of bag .…

… anyway, luckily enough his wife is the better half and came out looking for me and found me sitting on footbridge smoking the last of my american cigarettes and humming the melody of that mogwai tune called “Yes! I am a long way from home!” … I won’t admit it tomorrow, but I think I might’ve been tearing up a little …

Fucking A. I think I’m going to go and buy a raincoat now. Enjoy America while it lasts, folks.

Costa Ricky

Eric Olsen — Mon, 31 Mar 2003 01:46:13 +0000

Well, this has started to really suck. It’s snowing here, somewhat with fervor, and I’m stressing the fuck out. I realize my raincoat is missing, something I’ll probably need seeing as I’ll be in some rainforest bullshit, duh, so I figure, hey, it’s probably in my old car which is parked around the block. No worries, I go to a small dinner party with some close chums, that comes to a close, I stop at Kinko’s to make copies of my passport for security’s sake, then maybe stop by the car to see if my raincoat’s in there…and besides, I’ve got a toolbox in the trunk there … well, it’s gone!!! Holy fucking shit!!! No way to deal with it now, at 10:19pm … and I leave in the morning. Oh, the fees that some bullshit towing will accrue by the time I get back. What the fuck?!@?!@?

UGH! A loss, do I call it?

Packing, surely missing things left and right, such as raincoats and things of the ilk. What the fuck?!? And Nana’s had a stroke in Brooklyn this week. Partial paralysis. And I’m on a plane to volcanoes and tropical beaches and waterfront palapas … guilty and wet, dripping, tired, bullshit sandals and a faceful of lotion …

I’m fucking pissed. Fuck this. See you whenever.

Altruistic

Eric Olsen — Sun, 30 Mar 2003 00:39:10 +0000

A small note, the resounding punchline intact .… the way Cooley sings a Bon Scott tune … the sincerity of a rock notion … the slur of a drunk.

Shot

Jason Cooley — Tue, 25 Mar 2003 01:19:30 +0000

I’m here in my hospital bed with my laptop, typing with one hand because Eric shot me. Great, Eric. What the fuck?

Okay, here’s what happened: we’re playing poker, it’s like 3 in the morning and I’m winning big. We’re all getting pretty drunk but I’m still playing like a champ, laying down flushes, shit like that. In this one particular hand I’ve got four sixes and I’m getting this guy Dan to keep raising the pot, knowing I’m gonna take this shit easy. The last card dealt is supposed to be dealt down and dirty. Eric’s the dealer and suddenly whipping these cards around like he’s playing air hockey or something. He fucks up and deals my card faceup. So everybody can see. It was an ace. Technically this fucks up the game, the dealer is supposed to match the pot and we start over. I can’t fucking believe it. We’re talking like nine or ten bucks here. A HUGE pot. Fuck! So Eric gets a little defensive and starts with the “no way, man…I ain’t matching no fucking pot, man! Fuck that.” Then Dan starts talking about splitting the pot and I’m like, “What the fuck?! What did you have?” Turns out he had like, two queens or something. SHIT! So now, I’m like “Of ALL the fucking times to misdeal, you do it NOW? Match the pot, man!” Eric’s like “No! Fuck that, man! It was just a mistake! I’d rather do this!” He pulls out a twenty and rips it in half and throws it into the pot. And then while we’re all trying to figure out the meaning of this gesture, he pulls out ANOTHER twenty and rips it in half and throws it into the pot, too. Bizarre. Dan starts splitting the pot and now I really can’t believe this is happening. Eric fucked my shit up and now I’m losing four or five fucking dollars not to mention the awesome feeling of winning a fucking good hand in poker with all the guy testosterone pumping and shit, and now Eric’s gonna get defensive and standoffish and indignant about it? Fuck that shit! So I stand up and I’m like “Yo, Ricky, man. Shut the fuck up and match the fucking pot already! Take your fucking twenties and shut the fuck up, bitch!” And he goes “No way, bitch! You the bitch, bitch! I ain’t matching shit! And while you’re at it, why don’t you tape up the twenties I just ripped up because you riled me?!” I’m like, “What? Fuck you, man. Tape ‘em up your own goddamn self!” And he goes “Fuck that shit! You fucking do it! You made me rip that shit up and if you don’t do it you’re gonna owe me forty bucks, man. Because that’s what two twenties equals!” (Eric thinks he’s so smart.) I’m in awe of this most ludicrous of ludicrous statements. “Fuck you, man! Why don’t you get your fucking mother to tape that shit up, bitch-ass!” Okay, well maybe I fucked up here, the ‘mother’ thing is never a good line to cross in these kinds of situations. And I forgot that Eric was standing in front of the refrigerator, which is where we keep the gun his brother left here last Christmas. So he goes “WHATDIDYOUFUCKINGSAYYOUMOTHERFUCKERILLFUCKINGKILLYOUMOTHERFUCKER” and while he’s saying this the other guys are running out of the room and I’m trying to get up and Eric’s already got the door to the fridge open and my shirt gets caught on the flimsy fucking kitchen table we have and BLAM! he fucking shoots me, in the fucking arm. Then he freaks out and runs upstairs to hide the gun or something. Austin and Dan come over to check me out, go “OH SHIT!!” and hightail it out of there. I get up and since my arm is all numb and shit I find the strength to call a cab and then I get outside and wait for it, bleeding in the street and looking at Eric’s window yelling “You fucking dickhead! What the fuck, man?!” And I can see him hiding and shaking and shit behind the window, probably thinking I’m gonna press charges and shit. Only pussies press charges. So now he’s all sorry and comes to visit me and shit. Whatta dink. We told the doctors and the cops that I shot myself accidentally. I don’t know if they believe us.

So that’s what happened this weekend. Because I can only use one hand this took me nearly three hours to write. I hope you all appreciate the shit I go through to bring you this shit.

Cooley Doppelganger

Eric Olsen — Wed, 19 Mar 2003 00:23:08 +0000

So I pour a nice Belgian style, clean up a little detritus about the box, and decide to write a small spiel here … talk about how the weather’s making everything better than bearable (which is what it kind of plateaus at halfway through the winter here … survival, existence, not necessarily life), how people seem friendlier, or at least I do … and how I’m sitting here listening to the new Malkmus / Jicks CD … so I go to write and notice Cooley has written pretty much the same thing for the day.

So fuck it. Instead, I’m going to talk about how this weather’s a fucking tease … it’s going to get worse before it gets any better, I’ll tell you that much. Look at Colorado today … getting fucking 3 feet of snow … and if it doesn’t get worse here, it’ll just turn into a detestable mudpit, thus giving us yet another thing to complain about, more kindling for the Ubiquitous Conflagration of Complaining About Where You Live (UCOCAWYL).

It’s always fucking something.

Perfect days

Eric Olsen — Fri, 07 Mar 2003 14:31:32 +0000

Ah, yes. We have so much to look foward to, don’t we? Bombing ultimatums, colored advisory tides, softening up, the oncoming Peterbilt of cancer and other lurking ailments … music just seems to suck it up, and film– well, what can one say of modern cinema? But my SUV runs like a charm, I tell you what. And my Viennese dark roast really hits the spot on cold mornings like today. I just hold my shiny (elevated) yellow mug with both hands, covering the cartoon Chicago with my right palm, and hum. Debilitate/liberate, my dad would always say … that, and “accelerate through the turns, son.” Yes, I know: good advice, especially during these cakewalk times of pen-cameras and duct-taped VW doors.

Relief awaits the patient … this has been made evident by the announcement yesterday of a new airline: HOOTERS AIR. Yes, chickenwings and orange satin shortyshorts have now taken to the air. Limited runs between Atlanta and Myrtle Beach, with connections to Newark on the way. Brings me back to the good old days when me and my frat brothers would hop a slow moving freight train behind McCormick Plaza and ride the 35 minutes down to Gary, Indiana, walk down 7th Avenue to the best fucking Hooters in the country, catty-corner from Demont’s Drive-Up Liquor & Gun Shop.

Shit. Worst thing is, you can never go back, man, you know? I couldn’t tell you where half of those guys are at now.

This is how I like it now, though. Drinking the coffee at the precipice of a despot-less world, sitting in front of a 21″ flat-screen in my underwear, scratching my soft gorilla chest until the phone rings. I take pictures of cornerstones and collect them in my filing cabinet under a folder entitled PROOF. And people never let me down because I don’t expect different from them … this makes it all the easier, I say.

What a day

Jason Cooley — Fri, 07 Mar 2003 14:28:37 +0000

Eric wants me to say something. Okay…

All you fuckers that don’t use your turn signals when you’re driving…FUCK YOU! Lazy pricks! All you gotta do is move your fucking hand a couple of inches and the world is a much safer place. But, no! Any slight exertion on your part is too much to fuckin’ ask! Maybe you just dig on being mysterious or something, you’re special because nobody knows where the fuck you’re going! Eat shit and die, shitloafs!

All you dicks who like to get your cream and sugar at the coffee shop and then proceed to block the condiment area so you can flirt with the cute girl behind the counter, you should all be killed. Slowly. With tiny little burning forks.

Anybody who litters, you should be in prison. And raped in prison by your own garbage.

Welcome to Jason’s fascist little world. There’ll be more to come…