The Postmarks: Goodbye

Destiny is something we invented because we can't stand the fact that everything that happens is accidental. That's what Annie Reed (aka Meg Ryan) said in Sleepless In Seattle. But, then again, what the hell does Meg Ryan know?

I used to ponder the concept of "destiny," wondering if there is such a thing. Sometimes I believe there is such as thing, as there have been countless times in my life where, left up to chance, I think I would have come out much worse. I won't go into the details here because they're tepid and I currently lack the stamina to entertain. I'm sure some will turn up in a future story/post.

I'm back at Cafe Verite and I think I just saw J. Tillman. How Bizarre, in the words of OMC and Raleigh St. Claire. Then again, I've been drinking tonight so things are a bit blurry as is.

Today was relaxing for the most part. I'm sad I'm missing out on Justin's party, which started, by my clock, precisely 24 minutes ago (the laptop clock just hit 8:24PM). I took a long, long bike ride this morning and early afternoon. Starting at my condo near the 15th and Market St. intersection in Ballard, I headed west and made my way past the Ballard Locks to the marina area before turning around and heading toward Fremont, which I passed and continued through the UW campus (Go Cougs!) on the Burke-Gillman trail. By the time I returned to Ballard, I was exhausted. Rather than walk my bike the last 10 blocks, I put it on the lowest gears so it wouldn't be such a chore to ride.

I lack the correct bike-riding attire, meaning I wear my old-man jeans and whatever top will hide my boxers in back when I lean forward. Today it was my Bears shirt and a black jacket, which didn't work too well. From the front I looked good, but from the back I have no clue what was showing.

I'm also not the skinniest of guys, meaning I tend to sweat a lot when I work out (which is a rarity). I'm also not the heaviest of guys, meaning I feel fairly confident about my looks when I ride my bike. Still, when I arrived back at the Ballard Place Condominiums, I had two nice patches of sweat--one staining my shirt underneath my jacket-concealed breasts and one on each buttock of my jeans. Thank you Jesus for making me one of the awkward types!

After I rested and digested three-fourths of a homemade pizza, I still felt sick. (I wonder why?) So I headed to the trendy part of Ballard known as Ballard Street. The street itself is made of brick and appears well maintained though I'm sure nothing has changed since the brick was laid. The sidewalk, on the other hand, is broken by tree roots and lumps where they shouldn't be. I tripped three times on my way to wherever I was heading.

I passed The People's Pub, my intended destination, without even realizing it. Rather than feeling the fool by turning around mid-stride, I kept on Ballard Street to Bop Street Records, a store that contains more than 600,000 LPs. Talk about a dream store! I could spend a full weekend in there and still have three rooms out of four to peruse!

Per my usual, I looked around for a good hour before asking the owner if they had any recent submissions of used Zombies and Smiths albums. They didn't. I asked if he had Take A Picture by Margo Guryan. He had no clue what I was talking about. I was surprised, as this guy knows his shit when it comes to music.

At 4:30PM, I returned to the People's Pub where I proceeded to down four decent German lagers, a free Jack 'n Coke, and a Bratwurst with fries, all over a three and one-half hour period.

Social skills have never been my thing. I initially sat at a table where I could relax, but almost immediately switched to the bar, which was nearly vacant due to the early hour. I sat there, reading "Me Talk Pretty Some Day" by David Sedaris, hoping an attractive woman would sit next to me and allow me an opportunity to use my near non-existent flirting skills. None did, so I read my book until I was too tipsy to comprehend, then I ate my bratwurst in silence and watched some show on extreme sports on the television to my left.

David Sedaris, if you have yet to experience, is quite the literary genius. One particular story nearly caused me to fall from my chair in fits of laughter. This would have been most unfortunate due to my small stature and lengthening age. I would have broken my hip.

I'm currently listening to the debut self-titled album by The Postmarks. To my knowledge, it has yet to be released. I obtained it through questionable means, but I feel justified doing so as I am a staunch promoter of independent music (thanks to FensePost) and the possibility of me buying it upon its release is a guaranteed 100 percent.

Understand, FCC, that I am not your typical downloader. In recent days I have only done this to two albums, this soon-to-be purchase being one. The other is the upcoming Sub Pop album by Loney, Dear, which Sub Pop was supposed to have sent me a few weeks ago to review for FensePost.

It is obvious that The Postmarks make more recent pop music. The style of orchestration, the guitar effects and the mixing in the vocals make that apparent. Yet the album has a timeless effect to it. It's strange to think that I knew of this band before I knew about Margo Guryan, a true pop artist from the 1960s. Yet since my introduction to Guryan, I see her influence arise in the least likely of places. Guryan's influence is inundated in today's pop, just like that of The Beatles and The Zombies.

I should really cease writing soon. This has become quite long and, I'm sure, makes little sense and is boring as hell. Here's the first single from The Postmarks to thank you for your time and make up for my waste of it:

The Postmarks: Goodbye (mp3)