Ben Bonkoske

I remember as a little boy singing Aretha Franklin after I watched the Blues Brothers. I also remember needing a spelling lesson before I belted out her most iconic song. She has a lot of songs you lose yourself in. I’m filling my membrane up with Panic! At the Disco’s Discography just so I can check one more basic band off a recent journal’s (A little blue book started nearly two years ago) checklist of music to be familiar with before I die. My latest journal, a little black book, is overflowing at the seams and it has barely been four months since I started it. July, August, September, October. There have been roughly five nights I haven’t written in it. There is a lot of music I listen to that I’m not necessarily a fan of. I just think I owe it to myself, or the artist to give them a listen so I will know for sure how much I will hate someone’s vulnerability. I don’t see anybody be vulnerable these days. It is a bad game of hide and seek. I don’t even share my failures because that is what I have a journal for. Everything is failing. My nose wart is irritating me because I tried to pluck it off and instead it just bled. Now it is scabbing over and is more noticeable than it was yesterday. I don’t know, maybe I look at the wrong things in myself and other people. Growing up in Bucktown we used to visit Freakville (Wicker Park) and go to a place called Earwax Cafe. That was probably 15 years ago. Roughly the same time I bought my first vinyl. A Blues Brother’s record from Reckless Records. Now everything interesting, or alternative is overpopulated with people who think they know how to be punk. Even if on paper they have aspirations that outway my capacity, everybody is boring. I’ve grown used to expecting less of me. And it really doesn’t help anything. I don’t know why I should expect anything different from everybody different than me.