Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

There are days when I feel like I have told the same story to numerous people multiple times because I cannot stop dwelling on it. I have always struggled with letting things go. People tell me that I am too sensitive and that I just need to let things go. I battle with trying to forget the small injustices from twenty years ago, blaming others for being mean to me when they barely remember doing it. I think I tell stories to try to reorder my life and take control of situations that I cannot control. Of course, my inability to stop dwelling does not account for how I start forgetting minor details and adding others after years of telling stories. We all do this because memory is fallible and people like to entertain. The process of understanding what has happened to us throughout the years is hard to comprehend and understand, especially for those of us who have difficulty not dwelling on every detail. We blame others for the minor bumps in the road and we blame ourselves for im...

I write about Jason Isbell a lot. And for good reason as he's one of my favorite guitarists and he's a great songwriter and singer, telling hard-edge slice of life stories that anyone can relate to. He made my top ten list for two subsequent records, placing in the number 2 spot for 2011 and 2013. Strangely, and unintentionally, he was beaten out by Ha Ha Tonka both times. This will be my last Isbell post for some time. Probably until his next record comes out, or I go see him live -- I haven't made it to a show since he was touring behind Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit . Lately, I've been hearing that many people don't like the first two albums. While I think Here We Rest is the best, the first two have a number of great tracks. Sure, there is some dross, but no record is perfect. While he has definitely grown as a songwriter deserving the acclaim he has been receiving, some of his earliest tracks still rank among his best. Drive by Truckers tracks, like "O...

“ Seventh Son” A hazy mist covered the ground in the cemetery. Green saplings bent to the ground. I walked solemnly, looking behind me every couple of minutes. My chest beat and my legs felt tense. I had been meeting my brother in Shadows Grove Cemetery for several years. Well, I guess I couldn’t really call it meeting him. He’s dead. I just walked to the cemetery to talk to him. He was the only person whom I could really trust when he was alive. You see, my dad died before I was born and my mom -- well, she’s crazy. She tells me that I’m crazy for talking to Randall. She says, “He’s dead. When are you gonna realize that? I raised a dip shit kid who talks to fucking angels.” She isn’t all that bad, though. At least, she doesn’t hit me anymore. As I approached his plot, I saw a big and nasty crow. It cawed at me and flew into the grey sky, then alighted near Randall’s gravestone and dashed back into the sky. The sun was beginning to make me tired. I felt it on my skin and s...

Right after school Cecil grabbed his shotgun from his father's rifle cabinet and headed out the door. He took his old BMX out of the garage and slung the gun over his back. He pedaled the bike as fast as he could. Small for his class, he was still waiting for a growth spurt. His grandmother had told him that sometimes it happens later in life. But he wasn't waiting until eighteen or twenty-one. He had outgrown his shit hole town already. He spent most of his time out on state land shooting squirrels or just walking. There was nothing at home that equaled the thrill of just being out in the woods, nothing that equaled the thrill of being among the pines and oaks. He was master of all he surveyed out here. No one came to bother him.             He pedaled his bike down Wilson Road past house after house all of them empty because no one was home from work or school yet. Out here the paint was chipped and the yards were filled wi...

I'm throwing a fiction snippet up just for fun. I probably won't do many more, but if anyone likes this, I might post again. I enjoy being thrown into the middle of the action, and I want to see what others think. We often live vicariously through the work of others -- nightly television programs, crime novels, postmodern literature, neighborhood gossip, whatever our vice of the moment is. How often though do we really imagine what it would be like to truly participate in these other stories? Instead of relying on the distance that the fictional barrier creates, can we truly confront these other worlds? Or must we be content to live vicariously through stories told by others? Creating or narrating our own stories or adding to the overall discussion is always a possibility. I would like to continue that discussion, whether it be blurring the lines in writing, by putting ourselves in the place of others. Or, perhaps, just keeping an open mind to the other lives and possibilities...