Film Noir - The Gaslight Anthem

See for 10 long years I've been hustling around.
Tryin' to wash the sins and sweat from my brow.
Just trying to find a better life for me and my own.
Just some rest for these tired working fingers.

But nobody's ever going to tear you away.
You gotta figure it out boys.
It's all for the rain, and the fools in the night, and the heat in the day.
When all you ever really wanted was someone to understand.

I can't say that I know why I am writing here. It's not like anyone is likely to read it anyway, least I once again play the advertise-and-resurrect-your-blog-via-your-MSN-display-name card. Not that I can, as I don't have MSN installed here anyway.

So, for an update on kronos and topos, where the fuck am I. I am in the middle of the dark, desolate forests of North-Eastern Scania where I once grew up to be me, (who knows, maybe I was even made here...) or at least a beta-version of me. That also means that I don't have a landline for neither phone nor internet -- I am instead banished to the inhospitable land of wireless dial-up and mobile phones.

I remember the time when holidays meant fun and games and aimless fooling around. This time I am busy thinking of all the things I should have studied rather than pondering the meaning of their existence, when I am not having bile spewn on me by a vehement book of driving theory.

I don't even know what vehement means, but it sounds evil. Last night I dreamt that I failed the driving theory -- TWICE durigng the same bloody night. No wonder I am giddily wielding an itchy trigger finger and with a shaking hand sipping on things as healthy as Jägermeister and Grant's Family Reserve. I better pass that test -- Wednesday, humans, Wednesday -- or I'll be awfully miserable. I can't remember anything that's made me feel like such a failure so often as this bloody driving. It's right up there on the top of the list, together with my love life in Junior High. I'm destructively close to speaking my mind and saying exactly what I feel about the whole shebang, but if I do I would likely scare away the few readers I might be able to attract in the first place. I'll settle with calling it vehement again. Vehement bloody driving and the theory that comes with it! Curse, curse on you, and your Elvis hair!

All doesn't suck these days. Some mornings I get the feeling it does and that all there is to it is the monotonous, ear-shredding sound of tedious work and boredom, and those mornings life in Ystad, the town I once, proudly, boastingly, called the Pearl of the Swedish Riviera, feels as appealing as having rusty rail spikes driven into your ears and nostrils by a sadistic railway company-version of Jigsaw. Now I once again sound like it all sucks, but it really doesn't. In many ways it is better than before, whatever before was and how you actually define better. But to take a small thing, The Gaslight Anthem. The fucking Gaslight Anthem. The Gaslight fucking Anthem. The Gas-fucking Light Anthem. The Ant-fucking Gaslighthem.

The Gaslight Anthem.

It is not often that I get that hooked to something musical in that short a span of time, often it is a love that burns out fast or one that grows over time: an example of the former would be Skid Row (American hair metal rockers that only ever released one good record; then their drama queen singer left, and they turned shit) and Gary Moore (that is very inspirational until you realise that he is only singing the same bloody thing all the time); an example of the latter Bruce Springsteen, my presently resident house-god, or The Pogues. But Gaslight got me hooked. They're Bruce, but rawer. They're The Ramones, but they can sing. They're Dylan, but they're better and play better music, becuse frankly most artists are better than Dylan.

In short, I need that LP.

What else is good --
Well. There is a reason my bar tab has increased exponentially, and in difference to Billy Joel's tragic heroes I am not drinking alone. Turns out a good way of being dragged out was to start dragging others out. I've never been this happy to be broke as it is hard to miss the money very much when considering the context, the goods and the company.

Dammit, driving theory. Shitshitshit.

I still haven't got a clue why I'm writing, but I like doing it. Now I feel the ever familiar panic over driving theory and a host of unheeded tasks taking over, so I'd better leave. If I don't, my shaky connection will probably crash anyway, rendering all this typing pointless.

This laptop might be a sob in some senses, but I really love the sound you get when typing on it.

Yes, I'll leave now.

But listen to Gaslight, seriously.


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