Well, this morning I piloted a matte black el camino out to an abandoned suburb and stood in a freezing rivulet of water next to a drainage culvert for an hour while it rained on me. The temperature was just above freezing. I wore gym shorts and a tshirt. By nine thirty, my kid had already bitten enough other children that he had violated the terms of his probation and needed to be picked up. By eleven, it was raining so badly that all the audio equipment was threatening to break and so, a drenched pair of black socks and red converse later, here I am. Back home with my kid. The el camino is back with its family and my wife is back at work. My child is sleeping off his crime spree and I just ate some salmon out of a can. My houseguest of the last three months left this morning and I find myself, for the first time in a quarter of a year, alone at home. Pretty wild.
I’m tired. I practiced all night last night for our show at the metro. Shit’s exhausting. Compiling this setlist isn’t easy. You wouldn’t believe the crap you people want to hear. Honestly, it’s shameful. There. I said it.
Then, there’s the matter of the guest list. It never fails. No one we know buys tickets. Even when the tickets go on sale six fucking months in advance and I warn them “you know, the show is going to sell out.” They say, “oh, I know. It’s cool. I’m gonna get tickets soon.” But, what happens then? Nothing. Now it’s too late. There are no more tickets to be sold and everyone’s suddenly concerned. “Oh, are there still tickets? No? Oh…bummer. Man! I really wanted to go. Fuuuuuck….Could you, uh…maybe uh…?” Same fucking grift every time, man. Unreal.
As a rule, I keep my guestlist very small. Just the tightest friends and family. So does Chris. So does everyone we’ve ever had as crew. Neil, however is a monster. I’ve seen him literally go through his phone and call people he hasn’t talked to in ages and mention to their answering machines that if they happen to show up, he’ll have em on the list. At the end of all this, we’re overstuffed with guests, and hard choices need to be made. Who can’t come? Neil’s dentist’s daughter or Chris’s mom? It’s like the rising of the sun. It’s inevitable. It’ll happen this time too.
I finished up the t shirt designs yesterday. My good buddy (and frequent collaborator in living through crazy events) Sean Nader provided a key design and I think they’re awesome. I also think I’m gonna get this dude I know to hand screen a very limited number of posters featuring Sean’s design and sell those bastards too. Shit’s gonna be tight, yall.
Jesus. The problem with having a job, a baby who is trying desperately to get expelled from his daycare, a big show to prepare for, a movie to shoot, a Norwegian houseguest for three months, a wife and a dumb blog and three roving gangs of parents just stopping by willy nilly is that there’s no time to read anything. My brain has become dough. I’m retarded. I read the headlines on yahoo and an email here and there and then I look at whatever’s in the bathroom when I’m taking a dump. That’s the cerebral equivalent of consuming nothing but a few bites of candy bars and potato chip dust here and there for three months. You can’t produce anything worthwhile with that kind of fuel. I’m rereading Fear and Loathing right now, and it’s taken me two months or something. I read that for the first time in one sitting. Now THAT’S a little microcosm of my life for you. Everything that used to be easy and leisurely is now difficult, time consuming and only highlights how far I’ve fallen. But hey, that’s life, right? When you’re born, they hand you a bag to shit in. For a while, it’s great. Sure, you’ve got this bag of shit, but it’s cool. Everyone’s got it and it’s small and you can forget about it most of the time. Then one day you wake up and that bag of shit is enormous. It’s heavy. It’s exhausting you and the idea of carrying it around is so stinky and depressing that you think maybe you’d just rather stay in bed, but you can’t because if you do, that bag of shit is going to start leaking. And THEN my friend, you’re fucked. So what’s the option? I dunno. The bag of shit is ubiquitous. Everyone’s got it. Everyone’s got a bad back and stink arms from hauling their bag of shit around. Some people perfume it. Some people pretend it’s not there. Some people hide it, but man, make no mistake, if they’re breathing, that bag of shit is not far away. Now, I’m not saying that life is nothing more than being crushed under a mountain of shit. There’s more to it than that. But don’t kid yourself. That part’s in there too.
I want some goldfish.