Portrait of the Blogger As a Dorkus Malorkus

For about three years of my adolescence--ages 17 to 19--I decided to develop my writing chops by writing reviews of magazines I'd purchased. This was not exactly a futile exercise; on average, I bought eight magazines a month. My constants were Spin, Entertainment Weekly, Guitar World and Rolling Stone. Issues of Request, B-Side, Time, Newsweek, Musician and Sports Illustrated would sneak in there every once in a while.

Scurrying through some old papers, I found not only the magazine "essays", but some snippets of unfinished fiction. Today I'll be sharing but a smidgen of what I uncovered. I hope that if nothing else, it shows how far I've come as a writer. Man, back when I was 18 I thought I was the shit with the pen.

GUITAR WORLD FEBRUARY 1996

Keith Richards on the cover, but the sell is "The Top 50 Albums of All Time". Surely "Daydream Nation" is on there. SURELY that brilliantly defiant piece of reconstructive art, that utter apotheosis of smirking grubby "pop", SURELY it is on this here list. I'm choking on the hairy fairly obvious here.

The editorial takes time out to list an additional 10 records that, in the editor's humble opinion, should have made the ultimate cut.. 3 stand out: a Link Wray comp, SRV's "Texas Flood" and...ah..."Daydream Nation." Yet Gomez made the list. Thank you, Michael Azerrad. Pwilder! Helmet do kick ass though--Gina Arnold, swim laps 'round that.

Kagle would dig this Dino Jr. shirt with the cow (like Atom Heart Mother, but then again, no). Of Metallica's 987 shirts, 67% involve metal up yer ass.

You heard the new Foo Fighters song? "Obstacle Gel"? Or "Popsicle Realm"? Hey, your guess is as good as Grohl's and he's singin' the goddamn thing.

This piece on hardcore confirms that, wow, people still read "Maximum Thought Control." Rarrwrr, smash the fags!

DETAILS APRIL 1996

A smirking Mark Wahlberg is the first layer you must peel to get to stories on Calvin "My Wife Left Me Because I Like Young Boys" Klein and Michael "My Wife Also Left Me Because I Like Young Boys" Jackson. The editorial lets off some steam about alleged misconceptions about this generation of youths as depressed and isolated and addicted to the catchy angst of Billy "My Wife Should Leave Me Because I'm Me" Corgan.

And there I was tonight, desultory and desperate, listening to the first tape of "Mellon Collie", sad machines perpetuating eternal entrapment. The place was Kagle's car. Mere feet away, the front door of the little house where Dwayne lives. I was just out there waiting while they fucked. Sure Jenn, just hang out in the cold-ass car while I get dick. I'd say that's what skinny girls do to their fat girl friends, but she's fucking fat too. I sulked then; I sulk now.

In Spain, Billy Corgan would be "Orez Corrigane".

Anka R. used to have Ihair, but now she's back in jet black. Still an expert in the sack. Knowing you get only a limited view from your back. This bitch knows dudes who hit the H-spot. Did you know "ESO" stands for EXTENDED SEXUAL ORGASM? I thought it was Jeff Lynne's new band! Here's Tim Leary claiming LSD can help us gals attain "several hundred" shake-sessions. Attainment is one thing, maintenance quite another. Ideally, orgasms and exorcisms should be damn near indistinguishable from each other.

2pac quoting Frost? Damn. Hope springs eternal. Wait, that was Thayer.

Ending this with a review praising a band for sounding "like Sonic Youth when they were still young." So now they are older and still ass is kicked.

SPIN AUGUST 1994

Perry Farrell? Ugh. Another "ugh" to this woman writing a srettel in defense and praise of Courtney EVOL: "Love shows women how to be sexy and feminine, yet still independent, intelligent and unique." Real women don't need shown jackshit by a self-aggrandizing junkie, but thanks anyway.

Hate hate HATE these fucking zits.

It may be comforting to think Cobain left the gymnasium to give someone else a fair shot at jumping rope, but more likely he just fucking hated square dancing. And he was just tired to the point of no point at all at his fuckface peers calling him "stupid" and "ugly" when he knew better than that. And the fantasies of ripping off their heads, spitting juicily in the fresh bloody stump and lighting the torso on fire to make S'mores just got TOO healthy. Delusions can be fun.

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY 10/20/95

You know what snatches up any and all available cake? Thurston Moore writing this mag.

"Thanks for the A review of our new record (Washing Machine), but what's with referring to Kim Gordon's vocals as having a 'Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?' quality? Do...Aerosmith suffer this criticism as they sing their teen-angst anthems? To attribute to a woman in rock the identity of being desirous of lost youth while commending elder-statesmen to status to men is an all-too-common occurrence in rock journalism."

DETAILS JULY 1996

Bush story. Groupie offers Gavin Rossdale a BJ that would make him "see God". Kagle's ex went out with this one girl who told him, after a particularly lengthy afternoon of sexanigans, "I saw God". It was uttered in such a solemn tone that he damn near laughed in her face. Six hours they went at it! I'd be seein' shit too. John the Baptist at least.

SPIN DECEMBER 1995

Courtney Love is like the picture you took at the family reunion. You get it back and noticed this weird shiny ball-thing above everybodys head. Excited with UFO dreams, you have the photo blown up. Turns out the otherworldly craft was a ball of aluminum foil that your little compulsive bed-wetter brother was hurling around the yard. All that augmentation just to be disappointed.

I bring her up because her Lolla diaries are printed this issue. I haven't been this disgusted by the written word since that Robert Herrick collection I thumbed through in the school library last year. "They had a limo, and it was white...." It was a white limo, bitch, they had a white limo. That is how you construct that sentence. She rags on Thurston because he told her, "We're a very conservative band, Courtney". OH THE HORROR! I just want a Tootsie Roooolll.

She goes off on Thurston's child, as well.

"I've never seen his daughter smile once...Frances can kick Coco's butt any day of the week in terms of being a happy child....I wonder what it's going to be like for Coco growing up in New York with people who are just too damned cool and have too much estrogen in their home."

I admire the Spin proofreaders for the obvious effort they had to put into this article.

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At one end of the block there stood a store: SALVATORES SWEETS--CANDIES, ALL KINDS, read the red and white sign. The owner, manager, and sole employee was Salvatore Murillo, who was not otherwise known as Sal. He considered himself another in the eternal line of great Italian artists.

This was the intended opening paragraph for a short story, but the actual story itself never developed. I'm not the kind of writer who can make an enrapturing tale around a candy shop owner. In fact, I'm not the kind of writer who can make an enrapturing short story, period. I had to find that out the hard way. I've got tons of those paragraphs, textual detritus, trial and error. You never know what you're incapable of till you try and fail.