Lose-ing my shit for just a second (how do I delete this terrible pun headline just kidding)

I went to my friendly neighborhood comic book store today (I don’t throw the term “literal mecca” around lightly, but Quimby’s is the literal mecca of cool pictures and words in Chicagoland) to pick up some supplementary reading for a post about a certain Disney-themed zine, when I got derailed by Michael DeForge’s Lose #6 staring me right in the face. You can bet that I’ll be digging into that bad boy later this month, but first I’ve got to wring the fanboy juices out of this rag first.

 

Yes, I am very excited. Yes. I knew it was in the works, but I didn’t know it was out yet. I am excited. I like Lose. I like Michael DeForge. Oh boy, oh boy. Yes.

 

Okay. That should be good enough for now. Check the space above for more reckless appreciation of comics/zines/ephemera.

HE GOT HISSELF A HOMEMADE SPAJULA

So, blasting Rain Dogs is one way to drown out the Riot Fest 2014 that is happening right outside my house, but doing it on my iPod Classic-upon-iHome Classic is certainly among the most cathartic methods in my observable universe, since earlier this week Apple had sworded the ipod through the clickwheel in a permanent corporate assassination. And of course Rain Dogs fits perfectly, with its cackling eulogies and oom-pah apocrypha that I yearn one day to memorize in full. In a way, it matches how I feel as a steadfast iPod classic user. Just the right combination of joy and madness, even though I am clutching a ghost and sprinting towards death.

Maybe that’s overstepping the metaphor. But, again, overstepping seems like the right thing to do around these parts. I was going to put in a completely different, much more on-topic (about as on-topic as a mishmash biauthored comic/arts blog can get) introductory post in this post’s stead, but Apple’s discontinuation of the ipod classic (or, as I call it, the ipod) has got my socks soaked. For those of you who knew me in high school, I was that schmuck who spent 4 hours a day arranging his music library into categories instead of going to parties, or outside the house in general. In freshman year of college, I used the line “guess how many songs I have” in my introductory spiel to potential new friends at least twice before I realized YEESH I am “the guy” when people say “YEESH, THAT GUY, RIGHT?”

As someone who has enthusiastically let his ipod take over so much of his life in the past, I find it necessary to eulogize my tiny 160 gigabyte machine that plays “9th and Hennepin” beside me. Once it breaks, it will go the way of its forebears (the Nano that my parents got me back when I “didn’t like music,” my sister’s old one that I got when she upgraded and I needed more space, the one that broke, the one I lost, the lost one that I found – that’s a long and probably illegal story) and I will, likely, be unable to replace it. But it still lives. So consider this a bit of a living eulogy.

Now, some other people on the internet will make the death of the ipod into a talking point about the future of technology and all that jazz, but I’ve got no stake in those dull arguments. One of those articles said something along the lines of “no one is defined by music anymore,” which, like, is a pretty fucking stupid sentence. Music has always been an intensely personal sport for me, as it has been for millions of other people for hundreds of years, and even though our ways of collecting it change, the stamp it leaves cannot be denied, and no amount of socialmediahound circlejerks can deny that (I can also go on about how MORE people will be defined by music in the coming years since streaming services straightup CRUSH many economic barriers to access but that ain’t this type of blog). I defined myself, in large part, by my music, and my ipod was my greatest tool for years in the shaping of that identity. So, it’s time to bid it adieu:

Sup ipod, and welcome to your funeral.

These have been lots of good years you shared with me. Back when I was running through mp3 players quicker than a Crisco-laced roadrunner, I wouldn’t have bet that you would be my final device—even though I engraved my (horribly outdated) address on the back of you, I still had the feeling you would need to be replaced. And now you cannot be. Hell, you won’t even be updated anymore, since my library is too big to function and way way way less convenient than streaming. Please enjoy this functional retirement, spending days nestling in my pocket, and nights sleeping upright in a dock that has never quite fit you correctly. I hope that we can both grow old together, and I will share with you the stories of my love, loss, mistakes, and triumphs as you continue to play, on repeat, the same On-The-Go playlists I accidentally made permanent eons prior. Cue Gil Scott-Heron. Peace go with you, brother.

Love,

Paul.

 

Well, now that that’s out of the way, my name is Paul and this is a blog about COMICS and POP CULTURE and LET’S GO BABYBOY LET’S GO!!!!!!