Are you there LiveJournal? It’s me, SubVersions.

When people stop me on the street (a phenomena that happens at least three times every decade), the first thing they ask is: “Jim, if you had to choose your favorite Monkee, who would it be?” The second thing they ask is: “Didn’t you write for the VITAL Source? Whatever happened to that? Are they still in business? What was the deal with Des Moines?” This is typically followed by a long, awkward silence, some polite coughing, and me scurrying off into the night, only to end up drunk and bleeding in a stranger’s bedroom, clutching myself in the fetal position while weeping softly. Or whatever it is you people think I do with my time.

OK, an actual story: While sitting in the ski lodge-like confines of the Y-Not III a few weekends ago, readying myself for a set from Milwaukee’s best band, The Trusty Knife, I was approached by Justin Kern, the singer of Milwaukee’s second best band, Crappy Dracula. (Got all that?)

“So, with the print version of VITAL dead, are you still writing for them?” he asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “After three years of dedicated service and strict adherence to deadlines, I’m now being published on the prestigious ‘internet.’”

This sorry news was greeted by a big “thumbs down,” a loud “raspberry,” and a bellowing “Fuck that!” from Mr. Kern. He then took three shots of Old Crow, started a barstool on fire, and ridiculed some hipster girl’s haircut until she cried, all within ten seconds. He’s really quite a character.

Which brings us to the brand new site: GoldCoast Subs. I mean, WestCoast Offense. No, wait…THIRD COAST DIGEST. Get it? There’s the East Coast and the West Coast (that makes two coasts thus far, Shooter…), and because of our proximity to the Great Lakes (I guess), we’re the Third Coast! Isn’t that exciting? Thrilling? Dripping with self-loathing? Just a fancy name for “Inferiority Complex The Size Of A Buick?” You bet!

So yeah, I’m not a big fan of the new name. No big deal; after all, this is coming from a guy who writes a column called “SubVersions.” What do you think? About the whole “ThirdCoast” name change, that is, not my column. On second thought, if you have any comments about my column – its name and/or its contents – feel free to share. I’ll make sure to give each and every suggestion/spam plenty of thought and consideration. Thanks, Mom.

But I kid. Really, I do. It’s a great thrill to continue my relationship with the VITAL crew, and an even bigger kick to be “published” on the internet. I was so eager to pitch in that it only took a dozen veiled death-threats to get me writing again. And while it did get ugly in the end – EastCoast Rap publisher Jon Anne Willow eventually threatened to kill my first-born son if I didn’t blog immediately – time wounds all heels, as they say, and here I am. Besides, her threat seemed more than a little bit over the top, as well as more than a little bit Jewish, causing me to doubt her sincerity. We remain good friends, and yes, I stole that last joke from Blazing Saddles.

But that’s not why you called. No, you’re here because you’re dying to read some of my ancient LiveJournal entries. All this talk of internet “publishing” has suddenly sparked best-forgotten memories of some emo-as-fuck horseshit I wrote 200 years ago. Ah, LiveJournal. Precursor to Facebook, MySpace, and Friendster. Where would my 22-year-old self be without you? Incidentally, my user name is an actual word – “motor” (which should give you an idea of how long ago I started my account) – in case you want to peruse the whole, awful thing.

Here’s an entry dated August 13, 2001. It’s entitled “Floating Through Walls” (ugh):

Staring at you from 1,000 miles away, I’m only reminded of the passing of time. The way your eyes opened up and swallowed the constellations formed by the moles on your face.

I want to live in a place where no one goes to sleep, and no one knows the names of the seasons.

Jesus Christ. The sound you just heard was me, dying of shame. And/or a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

It gets worse. Take this entry, from September 28 of the same year:

We’re often alone in the dark. We talk quietly, our eyes unfocused and searching. When your voice drops down below a whisper, I tilt my head to one side, bring my face closer to yours. You talk for hours, your breath forming clouds above our heads. I close my eyes, and your voice seems like syrup. I imagine it pouring from your open mouth, covering my eyes, my ears, my entire body, pulling me down into a thick sleep. When the night finally ends and I wake up the next morning, I’m swimming in an ocean of it.

I feel good, but quiet. I feel like I need to hold on to something before I blow away.

Yikes. Awful, awful, emo bullshit. Though it should be noted that this entry garnered one comment, from someone named “morningglow”:

… i am sorry, but i do like the beauty of your regret. you make anything seem all right with the choice of words.

Thanks, morningglow! Your one (1) comment from nearly eight (8) years ago has set a bold precedent in my online “publishing” career that perhaps will soon be broken right here on ThirdCoast Digest. Two comments? Jesus, maybe three? Mom, you listening?

Anyway, besides satisfying some sort of masochistic desire to humiliate myself in public (as well as testing my publisher’s patience/sense of humor), this blog is just my way of saying “Hello” again. Or “‘Sup, bitch?” if that’s your bag. It also represents my solemn promise to blog on this site every day of the week. Yes, you read it right, reader. Every day of the week. Monday through Friday, hell or high water. How many of those posts will be nothing more than dumb YouTube videos? That’s for a jury to decide.

So, welcome to SubVersions 2.0. Kind of like that Garbage album, Version 2.0, except with more Saved By the Bell trivia and less songs called “Medication.” Oh, and the whole thing isn’t orange. Remember that album cover? Jesus, what were they thinking? Am I right, ladies?

My favorite Monkee is Peter Tork.

Matt Wild
Capricorn