I had a dream last night
that we made love in the back of an Uber on the way to Coachella
It cost six hundred dollars
And when we got there
we discovered that our tickers were for the following weekend
So we walked back to Los Angeles in the pouring rain
You said this is the worst
And far off in the distance Ryan Adams was singing something about Kentucky grass
and blue jeans and a pretty girl too
like Ryan Adams is wont to do
And when our feet were tired and all wet with rain
we stopped at an old diner on fire
a sign out front said this diner has been on fire for fifty years
you could pay three dollars and get a Polaroid taken in front of the flames
but they didn’t accept cards
And in the field behind the restaurant
in the shadow of the smoke’s perpetual plume
The ghost of Hank Williams played us swamp songs
just you and me
It was part of an official Sun-Maid Raisin Bread satellite event
but no one came
FKA Twigs was stiff competition that hour
you said things were different now
you couldn’t explain
I woke up screaming
Hank Williams was 29 when he died
in the back of a limousine
with B12 and morphine and whiskey in his veins
and a cold cold heart
somewhere between Bristol and Oak Hill, Virginia
At the rate things are going, I’ll be 29 tomorrow
I often think of that Joni Mitchell song
I’m already dragging my feet to slow the circles down.
Around the time of his eighteenth birthday, he gave up on trying to figure out the universe. Space was too big for him to wrap his head around. He didn’t understand the science behind black holes, the mathematics behind relativity, or the physics of multi-verses. What he did understand was how much money he had in his bank account, and how many hours he’d have to work at Franklin’s Paint Shop before he could afford a down payment on that Honda CB750 parked on the front lawn of the Lipka’s place. He understood that God would forgive his sins, and how many unchecked boxes were left on the refrigerator calendar before he shipped off to basic training.
While his friends took long trips to distant mountains and gathered around bonfires to recite the latest cosmic musings from last week’s scientific journal, he thought about kissing pretty girls and running his fingers through Montana wheatgrass.
He liked the way that bourbon burned his throat, and how Chrissy McClyde looked in her smock when they were in art class. He liked the way that his grandma’s house smelled on Sunday afternoons, and the way that “Kind Woman” by Buffalo Springfield sounded after he’d smoked a joint. He could feel these moments. They occurred and expired right before him. These moments were tangible and earthly and corporeal and they were his to ponder and decipher.
Sometimes his friends would rag on him, and they’d say, “Who cares about Chrissy McClyde or the smell of your grandmas house? What about your place in the universe, man?” And he didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know his place in the universe.
He knew that he didn’t want to be sad, and that he didn’t want to die alone. He knew that everyone who was older than him told him to enjoy it while it lasts, but never told him what “it” was. He often felt guilty that he didn’t understand space the way that his friends did. Maybe they had it all figured out. They knew that it took a photon 170,000 years to travel from the core of the sun to the surface, and that the furthest galaxies are spreading away from us at more than 90% of the speed of light.
Around the time of his fortieth birthday, he gave up on trying to figure out why his wife left him. He didn’t understand why his daughter wore such heavy eye shadow, or how his credit had gotten so bad. And on some ancient desert nights he’d stand eclipsed in the fluorescent light of his trailer, looking up at all the stars that had burnt out thousands of years ago. He remembered his friends from back home telling him that every atom in his body was a billion years old. And while he understood this, he also understood that atoms are mostly made up of empty space.
Below is a list of all the shit I consumed in March, 2015. Though Hot Tub Time Machine 2 was very, very chill, the highlight of the month was seeing my baby girl play three shows in the Pacific Northwest. EO
Election – Alexander Payne (1999)
Faults – Riley Stearns (2015)
Hot Tub Time Machine 2 – Steve Pink (2015)
It Follows – David Robert Mitchell (2015)
Saturday Night Fever – John Badham (1977)
Kumiko, The Treasure Hunter – David Zellner (2015)
Brother’s Keeper – Joe Berlinger & Bruce Sinofsky (1992)
Citizenfour – Laura Poitras (2014)
Going Clear: Scientology And The Prison Of Belief – Alex Gibney (2015)
The Jinx – Andrew Jarecki (Miniseries, 2015)
Levitated Mass – Doug Pray (2013)
The Staircase – Jean-Xavier de Lestrade (Miniseries, 2004; 2013)
Broad City, Season 2 – Ilana Glazer & Abbi Jacobson (2015)
The Discomfort Zone – Jonathan Franzen (Essay Collection, 2006)
Eats, Shoots & Leaves – Lynne Truss (Reference Book, 2003)
The Elements of Eloquence – Mark Forsyth (Reference Book, 2013)
How To Be Alone – Jonathan Franzen (Essay Collection, 2003)
Bootleg Recording – Bob Dylan & George Harrison (1970)
Champagne Holocaust – Fat White Family (2014)
Delta Mama Blues – Townes Van Zandt (1971)
Goon – Tobias Jesso Jr. (2015)
Motorsports Unlimited – Motorcycle Crash (2015)
Sheer Mag 7″ – Sheer Mag (2014)
Sometimes I Sit And Think, And Sometimes I Just Sit – Courtney Barnett (2015)
To Pimp A Butterfly – Kendrick Lamar (2015)
Springtime Carnivore @ Fortune Sound Club, Vancouver, BC, Canada
Springtime Carnivore @ Doug Fir Lounge, Portland, OR
Springtime Carnivore @ Neurolux, Boise, ID
Three years ago, I uploaded a playlist of songs which, to me, evoked spring and youth and aimless car driving; the idle Saturday afternoons of my teendom. People dug it I suppose, because it’s been downloaded over 5000 times and I’m often asked about a potential sequel. So — after a very long hiatus, here is the hotly anticipated five hour follow-up.
DOWNLOAD, hit shuffle and let the springtime vibes wash over you like a hot Volvo in a cool carwash. EO
I’m really hungover.
Did I just write that?
I saw “It Follows” last night. What a horrible fucking movie that was. Half way through the film I got up and walked over to the liquor store next to the theater and bought a bottle of Early Times. Poured it in my Coca-Cola and got wasted as I wasted my time watching the rest of that fucking film.
Am I dying? I’m thinking about becoming Hindu. Red dot and all. Vendetta. Moksha.
I can’t believe this world makes me wake up in the morning. And take showers (I love showers). I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M TYPING ALL THIS DOWN IN A COMPUTER. And I think I’m going to believe a religion that worships elephants and cows. What should I believe in? Fuck Believe. I believe in fucking (sex), I’ve seen that. I have seen huge grass hills and beautiful oceans. That’s something. Something beyond what you can see. Green grass flickering in the sun. The purple and blue colors under street lamps far away from your pathetic fucking job that shoves money down your throat every time your boss cums on your face. That’s something. Dogs. Dogs are the only species that have no hell. This is a fact that has been proven by scientists and bums. Light. Light is good. I like black. You know what I don’t give a shit about? Taking pictures. But I do it all the time and spend a ton of cash every week doing it. Making movies, I care about that. Writing, I care about that. Pictures, I don’t give a shit. Well, I don’t care about the pictures. I like taking them. That explains why I spend so much money on film and getting shit developed. I like other peoples pictures. Maybe I like mine too. Maybe I don’t think about it. Maybe that’s why I do it
Film-TMAX400 TMAX100 Illford400
Website still under construction but I don’t mind if you take a look around: www.nickmatsas.com
Sheer Mag – Point Breeze
Fat White Family – Is It Raining In Your Mouth?
Motorcycle Crash – Wishbone
Dwight Twilley Band – Looking For The Magic
The Nerves – Many Roads To Follow (Demo)
Courtney Barnett – Depreston
Townes Van Zandt – (Quicksilver Daydreams Of) Maria
Bob Dylan & George Harrison – Yesterday (1970)
Acker Bilk – Stranger On The Shore
Oh sweet nineties
How you’ve aged so well
Who’d have thought
You’re quaint now
You dignified decade
Decade of Papa n Kurt Cobain
Decade of Pulp Fiction n iMacs n Natalie Novelli
You belong with the seventies now