Prompt: "A song about endings"
Selected by Pat
"Beautiful Ride"
Dewey Cox
Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story – Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, 2007
I spend most of my time with a baby. Luckily, he's a cool kid. He's about to start walking and will eat anything I put in front of him. But he's not a great conversationalist. He babbles, but I get the feeling he's not really listening to me, you know? Thank God I had SSC.
I left my job in May to stay home with my son. I don't regret this decision, but there's not much opportunity for expression at my new job beyond peekaboo, lullabies, and teaching him new words. Writing for SSC made me realize I was starved for a creative outlet. And not just now, but for years. The jobs I used to have were Serious Adult Jobs with lots of paperwork, and not conducive to writing for pleasure. So I didn't. Not really. I barely wrote anything for my own enjoyment from 2013 to 2023.
As it turned out, I had a lot to say. At last count, all my SSC and Record Club entries for the summer come in just shy of 30,000 words. I wrote an Animal Farm's worth of bullshit and all on my phone while watching a baby. Suck it, Orwell. But was my writing as good as Animal Farm? I think we all know the answer to that.
I wrote about music in a way I never had before. I had to look up different genres, instruments, and band histories just to be able to express myself coherently. I had to leave my comfort zone. I'm glad I did, because that first step allowed me to really put myself out there. I delved into my own journey into sobriety, my anxieties about climate change, my experience with the supernatural, and my deep-seated fear of the ocean and the Manson girls.
I wrote about other stuff, too! I talked about movies, TV shows, books, and history. I spoke at length about memes. I explained why avocados are time capsules from the Ice Age. I told stories about working in a prison, going to a club in Baltimore, and growing up in my spooky hometown. I spun theories about Positive K, The Sopranos, and Khia's response to 9/11.
My writing was sexy, too. I wrote about getting laid (nice). I wrote about my parents getting laid (also nice). I wrote about Jeanne de Valois-Saint-Rémy getting laid (bonne). I wrote about Taylor Swift slyly bragging about getting laid (secret nice). I wrote about a woman doing a Prairie Oyster off Eric Burdon's cock (ew).
Let's not forget the sketches! I created an entire Puke on Your Birthday Cinematic Universe, inhabited by underrated grandmothers, drugged-up music producers, and closeted astronauts played by Jon Hamm. I frequently inserted myself into these sketches, often to my detriment. Over the course of the summer I was beaten up by Bushwick Bill, discovered Major Tom was alive, got murdered by Gene Simmons, sang on stage at a bar in Delco (that story actually happened), put a she-wolf up for adoption, and disappointed our alien ambassadors.
And I complained! Holy shit, did I complain. I complained about everything: the government, the shallowness of the Irish-American identity in popular culture, Ocean City, NJ, Philly sports fandom, subscription services, Elon Musk, the Airborne Toxic Event, grocery stores, prog rock, my high school geometry teacher, drug use as it relates to a capitalist economic system, and Mark Wahlberg. I am 32 and totally ready to become a coot.
So here we are at Day 99 and the end of SSC. The next question is, where do I go from here? I had too much fun doing this to stop now. Obviously, I can contribute to Record Club. I think that the SSC-to-Record Club pipeline was always Joe's ultimate goal. I should've seen this coming back in May, when I signed his big black book and he disappeared into flames while cackling. Well played, K***.
But I'm also going to do more projects for myself. I'm my chief audience and I demand more content. My sister and I have already agreed that we're going to try to write a full-length script by Halloween. If we actually pull it off, maybe I'll post it here someday.
So, in closing, thank you. It's been a phenomenal time reading all of you and writing for you in return. Stay in touch! Always remember the good times. It's been a beautiful ride.
I left my job in May to stay home with my son. I don't regret this decision, but there's not much opportunity for expression at my new job beyond peekaboo, lullabies, and teaching him new words. Writing for SSC made me realize I was starved for a creative outlet. And not just now, but for years. The jobs I used to have were Serious Adult Jobs with lots of paperwork, and not conducive to writing for pleasure. So I didn't. Not really. I barely wrote anything for my own enjoyment from 2013 to 2023.
As it turned out, I had a lot to say. At last count, all my SSC and Record Club entries for the summer come in just shy of 30,000 words. I wrote an Animal Farm's worth of bullshit and all on my phone while watching a baby. Suck it, Orwell. But was my writing as good as Animal Farm? I think we all know the answer to that.
I wrote about music in a way I never had before. I had to look up different genres, instruments, and band histories just to be able to express myself coherently. I had to leave my comfort zone. I'm glad I did, because that first step allowed me to really put myself out there. I delved into my own journey into sobriety, my anxieties about climate change, my experience with the supernatural, and my deep-seated fear of the ocean and the Manson girls.
I wrote about other stuff, too! I talked about movies, TV shows, books, and history. I spoke at length about memes. I explained why avocados are time capsules from the Ice Age. I told stories about working in a prison, going to a club in Baltimore, and growing up in my spooky hometown. I spun theories about Positive K, The Sopranos, and Khia's response to 9/11.
My writing was sexy, too. I wrote about getting laid (nice). I wrote about my parents getting laid (also nice). I wrote about Jeanne de Valois-Saint-Rémy getting laid (bonne). I wrote about Taylor Swift slyly bragging about getting laid (secret nice). I wrote about a woman doing a Prairie Oyster off Eric Burdon's cock (ew).
Let's not forget the sketches! I created an entire Puke on Your Birthday Cinematic Universe, inhabited by underrated grandmothers, drugged-up music producers, and closeted astronauts played by Jon Hamm. I frequently inserted myself into these sketches, often to my detriment. Over the course of the summer I was beaten up by Bushwick Bill, discovered Major Tom was alive, got murdered by Gene Simmons, sang on stage at a bar in Delco (that story actually happened), put a she-wolf up for adoption, and disappointed our alien ambassadors.
And I complained! Holy shit, did I complain. I complained about everything: the government, the shallowness of the Irish-American identity in popular culture, Ocean City, NJ, Philly sports fandom, subscription services, Elon Musk, the Airborne Toxic Event, grocery stores, prog rock, my high school geometry teacher, drug use as it relates to a capitalist economic system, and Mark Wahlberg. I am 32 and totally ready to become a coot.
So here we are at Day 99 and the end of SSC. The next question is, where do I go from here? I had too much fun doing this to stop now. Obviously, I can contribute to Record Club. I think that the SSC-to-Record Club pipeline was always Joe's ultimate goal. I should've seen this coming back in May, when I signed his big black book and he disappeared into flames while cackling. Well played, K***.
But I'm also going to do more projects for myself. I'm my chief audience and I demand more content. My sister and I have already agreed that we're going to try to write a full-length script by Halloween. If we actually pull it off, maybe I'll post it here someday.
So, in closing, thank you. It's been a phenomenal time reading all of you and writing for you in return. Stay in touch! Always remember the good times. It's been a beautiful ride.
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