self-titled - no. 2 - (Page 44) everybody wants a piece of the action—whatever the action might be. Type Reatard’s name into a YouTube search, and the first clip that comes up is the scene described in this story’s first paragraph, otherwise known as “Jay Reatard punching kid at the Silver Dollar.” The second clip that comes up is entitled “Jay Reatard—Kicks a dude in the face in Vegas!” Head over to the blogosphere and a torrential shit-storm of misspelled words and grammatically challenged accusations rolls down the screen like virtual punk-rock vomit: tales of hissy fits, walkouts, freakouts, punch-outs, pissing matches, lysergic hysteria, underage MySpace skanks, confrontation, obliteration, elimination. A foul-smelling, never-ending Niagara of he said/she said/Jay said/the promoter said back-and-forth and on and on—allegations, exaggerations and misrepresentations smeared across the digital walls of the punk-rock-blog basement like one gigantic Dirty Sanchez. “I feel like sometimes I can’t do anything anymore without somebody knowing something or going on Brooklyn Vegan and posting some shit,” Reatard says. “[That site] is like the TMZ of the blogosphere. If that’s a world, they’re probably the lamest planet in that universe. They’ll run any piece of garbage they can in order to get people to come to their Web site to see adverts for American Apparel.” Not that Reatard claims to be an angel, either: “I take full responsibility for everything I’ve ever done,” he says. “I’m not sorry for any of it. There are exaggerated versions of stories on the Internet, but a wise man once said, ‘Don’t apologize for anything.’ It’s just what happens. I don’t control the Internet. I’ve seen days when I wanted to kill it, but I can’t control it.” People are amazed that I wrote all this music when i was so young, but i didn’t have anything else to do other than eat fast food and think about killing myself. Without venturing down the steep, slippery slope of separating fact from fiction in online forums, it’s safe to say that Reatard’s biggest problem is that he pays attention to any of this shit to begin with. “I get pissed at myself for feeling like I have to defend myself on any level,” he admits. “I’ve purposely set up a lifestyle where I don’t have to answer to anyone for what I do, and the fact that I feel like I waste even one second thinking, ‘Wow, man, this dude leaving YouTube comments doesn’t like me ’ It’s like, ‘Get a fucking life. I have one. You should try it.’ ” On the other hand, Reatard seems to thrive upon negativity. Talk shit, heap scorn, call names—he’ll just write another song. At age 28, he has 16 full-length albums under his belt and more 7-inches and compilation tracks than a pirated iTunes playlist. “It’s fuel for me, man, fuel for the 44 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRjoEtF--JU
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