We're back I guess
The frauline with the fur-lined everything slices priceless cucumbers with rotten watermelon hands. It’s a bloody Mary Monday and even the garbage disposal is in love, albeit with its own cumbersome digestion. Somewhere, surely, someone is happy slapping a strangled stranger in a moldy motel for money. The newspaper was late today but the sweet and sour swastika was right on time with its festive...
So I’ve been kind of absent from this blog recently, not for lack of interest, but more lack of time. I am studying abroad right now in Dublin and am a little too busy (before I left for Dublin, I wasn’t posting because I’m lazy, let’s just admit it) to keep up with this blog, my own personal blog, e-mails and the schoolwork that is soon to come. I do have a file on my...
Jukebox the Ghost!
So the evening went sort of like this. First we put a bottle of Southern Comfort in a couple of Rock Stars. Second, we drank that Southern Comfort on the bus to Providence Rhode Island. Third we ended up at the wrong venue disastrously intoxicated and quite confused. Fourth,we took a cab to the right venue. Fifth, we drank some more. Sixth we managed not to throw up. Seventh, I gave up on this...
Less than five hours untill Jukebox the Ghost with Jim! I might pee my pants… I probably will pee my pants… we’ll be drinking a lot.
Like unidentified vapors dating an ignition source, you might make me burst into flames, I think I love you, which is to say, I’ve said it before and it goes both ways.
Like a spider she waits in the shower for a days length of hours hoping she doesn’t inexplicably drown, and like an owl she can swivel her head all the way around, well more like Linda Blair than an owl, but as I hand her a towel to take away her tremors, she reminds me, no girl wants to be remembered like that.
A shaved orangutan and I hope I didn’t spoil the ending, gold diggers with shovels bigger than their smarmy charmlessness and I’m looking forward, fucking determined to undo the Dewey Decimal System one shoplifted literary whore story at a time.
Playing hide and seek in a mute speakeasy withy my favorite demented damsel in distress, appolying drastic procrastination to the tips of our fingers like blackmail nail polish, it’s right across the street fromthe library and the sexy nativity scene that the Mayor vehemently denies is in any way a reflection of his personal life, but we wouldn’t have elected him if he wasn’t a...
I want her to beg for my attention, I demand that she climb down off of her high horse and contribute something meaningful and stop complaining about barren uterus cramps and Iwanttobesomethingunrealisticanddifferenteveryweekbadly, if she plays the prodigal whore again she won’t even get the satisfation of a scream out of me.
The humble administrator of this James Finch appreciation blog will be going to see Jukebox the Ghost live in under ninety hours, I am as excited as a penguin with a new pair of pants (I expect that penguins don’t get new pants very often, and that they must get quite excited when they do).
Occupied sidewalk, I can’t talk myself out of the long walk back from Boston and the local obituaries is like a list history of farms I could have bought. There are no victims in small towns and the painkillers never get caught. It’s going to be a white Russian black out and believe me the bar stool’s a rocking chair- except when I lean back and fall into thin air- and I’m...
Why don’t all women have hooves (repeat until all the pages in all the books in all the world are full)?!?! You may sweep me off my feet but I am not your domesticated dustbin. I’m a prise and you can pin me but tantric dillitaunt (tease), youdo not get to wear my dead distress on your lapel like a taxidermied trophy, stuffed and stiff and harmless, smut by any other name will get you...
With just enough time to floss the terror from my teeth and miss you by a millisecond because some pill suspicious millicent who didn’t like my liberal cigarette had to frisk me impartial yet unprovoked, groping with meaty totalitiarian mittens, right on Main Street. All jokes until he found the junk and now you’re mad at me and I’m illicit and late and lonely and determined to...
The sound a shrug makes and I’m regressing, I’d rather not take the test today, so teach me something with your tongue, taste buds band together to tell me timid that money is not food, I swallow before I chew ruthlessly, this is the sharpest blunt I’ve ever smoked so fiercely, girl when did you get here and why is your labia showing rude and unfettered, a flag I do not want to fuck, someone call...
I placed a slapstick apple on her head, paced backwards laughing, aimed my crossbow lovingly and said: “I guess it keeps the doctors away darling and if you know a better way to make fuit salad, we’ll try it next, I promise.” Hundred percent officer that’s what happened, yes I was on weed… and speed and the sun was in my eyes and I was angry at her but the insurance...
Why do you taste like cement? Why are you so hell bent on letting this never ending bender break you? Seriously, today I’m not taking my pills or should I say, today I’m not taking my pills seriously, but it’s still never an excuse for your tattle tale behavior.
James C. Finch is the band’s primary lyricist, sometimes drummer/moog player, madman misanthropic cartoon villain with a heart of gold. He’s personable with long limbs and strong angles. A wash of androgyny dressed lazily like a Mad Hatter shoe gazing to The Mountain Goats. It’s been said by some that he has I-Promise-I-Might-Not-Kill-You-Eyes. He laments mostly two bewitching women and the...
The Lead Singer
Matthew Wolfgang Ricci is the most straight forward, slightly asthmatic non-narcissistic front man I’ve ever had the pleasure of standing behind. When he can get those big doe eyes bursting out of an equally bashful mouth spotlighted just right, no love struck ladies heart is unbendable, believe me. He can play guitar and sing at the same time. Enough said. He writes the music, melodies mostly...
Matt Ricci And The Sometimes Y is a pre post pop punk band…or some shit similar, clawing their way through the Lovecraftian side streets Rhode Island’s modern music mess. A trio of ne’er-do-wells, dwelling deeply in their collective instabilities and the futility of escaping the effect that the 1990’s had on ruining them too young. Sad music for smart people or smart music for sad people: Sylvia...
Walking a smutty shortcut through a city I saw, an experienced cat trapped in the snare of a discarded six pack, all fur and four paws, it’s tarnished tag read Virtue, I thought he’d be perfect for you, so I brought him home, neutered and clawless, but all the bushels of Benadryl available failed, to keep our noses from exploding so we introduced Virtue the cat to Curiosity and hoped like dope...
Greetings dear potential followers. You are currently looking at a blog created for the magnificent writer James Finch, my name is Sara Dager and I am Jim’s (James Finch to you) good friend and secretary for all intents and purposes. What you will get from following this gorgeous blog, besides seeing that lovely avatar on your dashboard every day will be lyrics, poems, prose, jokes or random...