Everything there is to know!

1. Misguided Angel – Cowboy Junkies

You’re waiting for a phone call and it comes too late — little did you realize you could have been the one to call in the first place.

 

2. Bad Kids – Black Lips

Bruce Springsteen on this much [   ] drugs.

 

3. Turtles All The Way Down – Sturgill Simpson

Psychedelic space cowboy, fly me to the moon on your guitar of chanting winged snakes.

 

4. Marie Marie – The Blasters

Phil Alvin’s sing-grimace must be seen to be believed.

 

5. Veronica Lake – New Bomb Turks

Youth rendered as invulnerability.

 

6. Seventeen – Sex Pistols

Youth rendered as a 30-foot-tall f-word that is neon and on fire.

 

7. Space Captain – Joe Cocker

Joe Cocker flails because he leaves his body when he sings — listen to this song enough and you can leave yours.

 

8. Red Eyes – The War On Drugs

Not quite common time, not quite polyrhythm, but just right nonetheless.

 

9. Lazy Flies – Beck

You’re drowning just to learning you can breathe underwater.

 

10. Simple As This – Jake Bugg

Sucrose is the sugar that’s bad for you. Glucose is the better kind.

This was fun.

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Formicarium explainer. I needed one at one point, too.

Two ANTS are murdering a CRICKET with their mouths together.

ANT: I don’t like this. He’s still up there. With a magnifying glass.

ANT: Sure, but he’s holding it a safe distance away. I don’t think he means any harm, but he’s probably the oldest young person to use a magnifying glass to actually observe ants.

The CRICKET falls to its side, oozing juices. It gasps but does not breathe.

ANT: You know how sometimes when you’re underground in the nest and then suddenly it’s all bright like you’re outside?

ANT: Yeah! I hate that!

ANT: That’s him too! He’s got a removable cover that keeps the nest dark when he’s not watching us underground.

ANT: That means he can watch us all the time. Do you think he knows us? You know, individually?

ANT: I don’t know, but there he is, watching anyway.

The ANTS chant their RITUAL KILLING POEM. The CRICKET doesn’t like it one bit.

ANT: Do you think he knows about the secret language we speak with the chemicals in our butts?

ANT: No, that’s special. Obviously far beyond him.

ANT is sucking fluids out of one of many abrasions on the CRICKET’S MOTIONLESS BODY. She is joined at the gushing well of nutrients by ANT.

ANT: Where did this cricket even come from? We’ve only ever found the same thing every time we search this place: Two mealworms every 48 to 72 hours. And now a cricket!

ANT: It must have come from here. Nature.

ANT: Please, Cheryl, I thought better of you than that. Don’t you realize we live quite outside Nature?

ANT: [pensive, confused]

ANT: Let me tell you a story. One day he was watching us with his damned magnifying glass again, and I, deciding I had had quite enough of this, chased him full well with the intention to recite that ritual killing poem, if you know what I mean.

ANT: You didn’t!

ANT: I did! And you know what? I couldn’t even touch him. Though that was a long time ago. Since then, I’ve read every single one of the messages others have written down in the secret language we speak with the chemicals in our butts, and I think I’ve finally distilled it. It all goes around in circles. We are contained but we can’t comprehend the edge.

ANT enters the CRICKET’S NOW-HOLLOW ABDOMEN and fills her social stomach with CRICKET JUICE.

I swear to God I’m going to fold the laundry and put it away as soon as I get back to the apartment.

The most appropriate time to do something is the moment it needs to be done. Right now this rolling bag of laundry needs folding, and then putting away, so I’ll do it right now. That’s a pro cyclist attitude. I’m totally going to fold this laundry right now, go to bed early, then crunch out 40 miles in the park on the bike before work tomorrow. As soon as I shut the door behind me and safely deposit myself in that comfortable womb called Apartment, I will begin the admittedly bothersome tasks of unraveling all these microwave-warm t-shirts I got for free 6-10 years ago, delicately folding them all into neat little shapes, and then putting them away in an ever decreasingly defined system of Ikea drawers stuck in bookshelves.

Yeah. Right away. That’s when I’ll do it.

I can watch TV and fold laundry at the same time. It might take a little longer than usual, as one would have to account for the obvious lulls in folding that take place as a result of my laughing or thoughtfully pausing at something the narrator just said, but I can entertain myself with distraction for a little bit and the laundry will still get done.

I’ll just turn the volume up slightly.

Okay, so it’s getting late and the laundry’s obviously not getting done tonight, but man, what a good documentary series on the Dust Bowl. Today was admittedly a complete failure to accomplish a single thing of impact, but the healthy thought here is that tomorrow’s another day. That’s the healthy thought here, so that’s what I’ll think. I’ll even get up early and crunch out those 40 miles in the park on the bike before work tomorrow.

Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. I can have it all.