Dogs of war! In my times of need, I’ve asked of you and you’ve provided for me and I’ve always been very thankful for your responses, whether it’s been a high ranking official at BOA getting me my bank records or a lowly street urchin bringing or mailing me a hat while I’m on the east coast or all of you that have sent me clam shots over the past two years. You guys have always been good to me and in honor of thanksgiving, I’d like to take this time to posit that I’m more thankful for you, my faithful pack, than almost anything else in my life. True. Group hug.
Well, I’m desperately in need of your help once again. As some of you know, I’ve been in the process of making a movie for the past year and a half. It’s almost done but one thing that’s really missing is a shot that I need to get that features a woman’s naked cans. It’s really crucial and I don’t know what to do. My wife won’t do it, and her friends all feel like their tits are too old for the job (and apparently, no amount of convincing from me will sway them) so I’m turning to you. Are you a woman with tits? Are you in Chicago? Would you be willing to show said tits in a movie that I wrote and directed? Your face will not be in the film, just your cans…and you can be credited however you like. It’ll take about an hour of your time tops and I promise no one will try to fuck you or be creepy at all…It’s just imperative that we get some canisters in for this last shot and as of now, I don’t have anyone who’s into it.
SO if you’re someone who fits the bill (female, with tits, down to show em and in the Chicago area) please, PLEASE hit me up at the email addy that’s linked form this page and we’ll be in business. Thank you so much.
I’m thankful for all of you, but especially those of you with viewable jugs.
Oh, and uh, of course you've got to be at least 18. No creepy stuff, folks. Like I said.
xoxooo
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I'm a ninja!
Okay, what’s the deal? Is Yolandi even naked on the internet? Because I can’t find any pics anywhere. What’s up with those pictures of Ninja when he’s got no teeth on their website? Are those tattoos even real? I heard that they used to be sophisticated! How dare they uh…what exactly are they doing again? Um, oh, right. You guys may not all be familiar with Die Antwoord. I’m gonna give you the real quick version.
This is absolutely the last week that you will be able to live on earth and not hear about Die Antwoord. For the next couple of months, they’re gonna be a gigantic sensation from the clubs where the Situation hangs out all the way to clubs where Vincent Gallo hangs out and everywhere in between. They’re a South African rap group composed of a dude who calls himself Ninja, a hot (but totally fucked up looking) chick named Yolandi and a big fat guy DJ named Hi-Tek. Their music is bizarre and their appearance is even weirder. Ninja is, no two ways about it, a very charismatic and highly talented MC. That’s not really up for debate. Almost everything else surrounding this group, however, is.
Firstly, these guys are, in appearance and dress and attitude and everything are espousing a lifestyle and general image that they call “Zef” which according to my research is a combination of new and outmoded styles that combines to reflect the current street style/sensibility of the poor South African white youth. In that way, it’s not very different than being a hipster. It’s a little bit of Pink Floyd, some Biz Markie, cutting edge, purposefully ugly haircuts mixed with ironic yin-yang shirts, some winkingly bad tattoos, the worship of really cheap ways of getting fucked up (bad weed, malt liquor, etc) and a hardcore insistence that it’s all really legit. Oh, and it’s also notable that about a zillion other people who are doing the exact same thing all point at each other and decry each other for being posers. That’s a huge part of it, as far as I can tell. The difference is that with hipsters, American Hipsters (capital H) there’s been almost nothing interesting being produced by them (vice do’s and don’ts [in the Mcinnes days] being a notable exception), and with Zef, the only people I know of who identify with Zef are in this highly entertaining and polarizing rap group, so well…Zef is cooler. For now.
The BIG thing about Die Antwoord that’s interesting to talk about is that they weren’t always these sort of ghettoized quasi-juggalos with prison tattoos that they are today. In fact, in the last band that Ninja was in, he wore expensive suits and was (in stark contrast to how he looks now) extremely handsome and well put together. He’s clearly into high concept shit, and Die Antwoord is no exception, but there’s this backlash that’s occurring (simultaneously with their meteoric rise, which is exactly the kind of cultural synergy you need to truly get huge) where people are accusing them of being fake, of co-opting a culture that they weren’t born into and so on. “Die Antwoord is just pretending to be gross street rat scrubs that think Yin Yang tattoos are cool. Really, they’re sophisticated marketers and this is just the latest ploy to peddle their music” is something along the lines of how the criticism goes.
But I think that’s not only entirely retarded, it’s also missing the point so completely that it’s not just missing the point about Ninja, Yolandi and Hi-Tek, not just about Die Antwoord, or rap, or music, but art in its entirety.
Okay, so art has been completely commodified to the point where it’s essentially like dogfood or pizza these days, right? As soon as something is interesting, the next point is giving it a name and making money off of it, whether it’s painting, poems, books, videos, music, whatever. This strikes people as gauche, especially young people, which is highly unusual, because despite what they’ll have you believe, they’ve (we’ve) never lived in a world where art wasn’t a commodity. Now, of course there’s the internet which is a great Robin Hood that steals from whoever and provides free art to whomever else, be it books or music or movies or video games (which are DEFINITELY art, by the way), but that’s still not addressing the issue (or fallacy) of art as a commodity, that’s merely a way to get around it. If you’ve got a tunnel that goes from your prison cel underground and comes out in the woods half a mile away it doesn’t mean that the building your cel is in is no longer a prison. It just means you’ve found a sneaky way to get what you want in the face of competing interests. Get it? No? Whatever. Trust me. Art is commerce and anyone who tells you otherwise is A) a self righteous and highly delusional dipshit B) a smug asshole that thinks they’re better than you or C) an idealistic teen that’s probably no small parts A) and B). Oh, and there’s hippies too, but fuck them entirely.
Now, if we can accept that all of us have grown up in a world where art is a commodity and always has been, isn’t it just naïve to pretend it isn’t? That doesn’t mean it can no longer inspire, that doesn’t mean it can’t be heartfelt and come from a pure place that’s not influenced by a dollar sign, but to pretend that art is some kind of magical thing that doesn’t rightly exist in the commercial sphere is sort of akin to pretending that horses and steam engines are still the best way to travel or that leeches are the number one remedy for headaches. It’s just no longer true, no matter what you pretend, and more to the point, it’s NEVER BEEN TRUE AS LONG AS YOU’VE BEEN ALIVE, SO WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN GETTING THIS FROM? (rock and roll, it bears mentioning, has ALWAYS been a commodity, same with rap. There literally wasn’t a time when these art forms existed that they weren’t being actively peddled. NEVER. Just sayin.)
And so there’s a marketability factor that CAN play into something, especially something as transparently commercial as rap music: the most popular music with young people worldwide. Now, I’m not suggesting that you must mold and shape your marketability and persona (I mean, lord knows I never have…I’m really me, y’all) but lots of artists like to control every aspect of how a project comes together, from inception to construction to follow through, and there’s nothing wrong with molding and shaping an aspect of your art that’s gonna be there whether you like it or not. It’s like not wiping your ass because you’d rather pretend you don’t shit. You can do that, and maybe things will go just how you want them to, but you can also take control of that situation and make sure that you do your best to get things to go your way.
Which brings me back to Die Antwoord and the notion that maybe they’re pretenders. Who cares? Did Melville have to live on a whaler to write Moby Dick? Did Freddy Mercury REALLY have to love fat bottom girls (because, uh…), did Dostoyevsky have to kill someone and live with the guilt? Fuck no. It’s art. These people are artists and can create whatever they want to. “Legitimate art” is a completely subjective and stupid notion. No, actually. It’s not subjective. It’s just stupid.
If you think something sucks, that’s fine. But to deny the merits of something based on your own armchair quarterback notions of if the person who created it has a right to have created it….uh, fuck you. THEY created it. That makes it totally theirs. Sorry, critic. Sorry, bitter shithead who didn’t think of doing it first. No one gets pissed because Tom Cruise isn’t really a secret agent or that Eminem isn’t really raping his mother or that ICP isn’t really white and black, but god forbid you pretend to be poor or marginalized, or weird. Then you’re “Co-opting a unique culture” or “exploiting those who don’t have a voice” or some such other white guilt bullshit. It’s ridiculous.
If Zef style is what Ninja likes, then he’s allowed to be Zef. Period. Oh, he’s not allowed? Why? Because he has too much money? He brags about having too much money, so what’s your point? He can afford nicer clothes/tattoos/haircuts? Well, I’m wearing jeans that cost me 2 bucks because I like them. I can afford nicer jeans. I cut my hair myself, but I could potentially go to a barber. I’ve got tattoos that my friends have given me for free that look totally crappy. Does any of that make me phony? Of course not. Living within your means and enjoying things that you can afford or that are a bargain don’t make you an asshole. Sorry.
Hey, how about this! I listen to and make punk rock music even though I didn’t grow up in the suburbs and was never really disenfranchised and bored by design. I was no more disenfranchised and bored than any of my friends who wound up being lawyers (actually, I talk to my brother and he’s vastly more disenfranchised and bored than I’ve ever been, and he’s a lawyer AND his favorite artist is Mystikal or some such nonsense. Is that disingenuous? Should he be a punk just because he grew up in a suburbian dystopia and is smart enough to be frustrated with the way the world works even if he doesn’t like punk music? Does Ninja need to always wear a suit because he wore one once? Is an artist allowed to change and reinvent themselves? Can a person play a character that’s got less advantages than the person they were born as? Is Sasha Baron Cohen an asshole or a genius? OR both? Is he even allowed to do Ali G? Is there a difference between Rush singing about space and Ninja rapping about being a psycho? No. It’s all creative process/output and to put anymore importance on it than that is just to be a total asshole.)
It’s not your place, or my place to decide if someone is allowed to do their art. It’s our place to decide if it sucks or not. Period. And I like Die Antwoord. So there.
This is absolutely the last week that you will be able to live on earth and not hear about Die Antwoord. For the next couple of months, they’re gonna be a gigantic sensation from the clubs where the Situation hangs out all the way to clubs where Vincent Gallo hangs out and everywhere in between. They’re a South African rap group composed of a dude who calls himself Ninja, a hot (but totally fucked up looking) chick named Yolandi and a big fat guy DJ named Hi-Tek. Their music is bizarre and their appearance is even weirder. Ninja is, no two ways about it, a very charismatic and highly talented MC. That’s not really up for debate. Almost everything else surrounding this group, however, is.
Firstly, these guys are, in appearance and dress and attitude and everything are espousing a lifestyle and general image that they call “Zef” which according to my research is a combination of new and outmoded styles that combines to reflect the current street style/sensibility of the poor South African white youth. In that way, it’s not very different than being a hipster. It’s a little bit of Pink Floyd, some Biz Markie, cutting edge, purposefully ugly haircuts mixed with ironic yin-yang shirts, some winkingly bad tattoos, the worship of really cheap ways of getting fucked up (bad weed, malt liquor, etc) and a hardcore insistence that it’s all really legit. Oh, and it’s also notable that about a zillion other people who are doing the exact same thing all point at each other and decry each other for being posers. That’s a huge part of it, as far as I can tell. The difference is that with hipsters, American Hipsters (capital H) there’s been almost nothing interesting being produced by them (vice do’s and don’ts [in the Mcinnes days] being a notable exception), and with Zef, the only people I know of who identify with Zef are in this highly entertaining and polarizing rap group, so well…Zef is cooler. For now.
The BIG thing about Die Antwoord that’s interesting to talk about is that they weren’t always these sort of ghettoized quasi-juggalos with prison tattoos that they are today. In fact, in the last band that Ninja was in, he wore expensive suits and was (in stark contrast to how he looks now) extremely handsome and well put together. He’s clearly into high concept shit, and Die Antwoord is no exception, but there’s this backlash that’s occurring (simultaneously with their meteoric rise, which is exactly the kind of cultural synergy you need to truly get huge) where people are accusing them of being fake, of co-opting a culture that they weren’t born into and so on. “Die Antwoord is just pretending to be gross street rat scrubs that think Yin Yang tattoos are cool. Really, they’re sophisticated marketers and this is just the latest ploy to peddle their music” is something along the lines of how the criticism goes.
But I think that’s not only entirely retarded, it’s also missing the point so completely that it’s not just missing the point about Ninja, Yolandi and Hi-Tek, not just about Die Antwoord, or rap, or music, but art in its entirety.
Okay, so art has been completely commodified to the point where it’s essentially like dogfood or pizza these days, right? As soon as something is interesting, the next point is giving it a name and making money off of it, whether it’s painting, poems, books, videos, music, whatever. This strikes people as gauche, especially young people, which is highly unusual, because despite what they’ll have you believe, they’ve (we’ve) never lived in a world where art wasn’t a commodity. Now, of course there’s the internet which is a great Robin Hood that steals from whoever and provides free art to whomever else, be it books or music or movies or video games (which are DEFINITELY art, by the way), but that’s still not addressing the issue (or fallacy) of art as a commodity, that’s merely a way to get around it. If you’ve got a tunnel that goes from your prison cel underground and comes out in the woods half a mile away it doesn’t mean that the building your cel is in is no longer a prison. It just means you’ve found a sneaky way to get what you want in the face of competing interests. Get it? No? Whatever. Trust me. Art is commerce and anyone who tells you otherwise is A) a self righteous and highly delusional dipshit B) a smug asshole that thinks they’re better than you or C) an idealistic teen that’s probably no small parts A) and B). Oh, and there’s hippies too, but fuck them entirely.
Now, if we can accept that all of us have grown up in a world where art is a commodity and always has been, isn’t it just naïve to pretend it isn’t? That doesn’t mean it can no longer inspire, that doesn’t mean it can’t be heartfelt and come from a pure place that’s not influenced by a dollar sign, but to pretend that art is some kind of magical thing that doesn’t rightly exist in the commercial sphere is sort of akin to pretending that horses and steam engines are still the best way to travel or that leeches are the number one remedy for headaches. It’s just no longer true, no matter what you pretend, and more to the point, it’s NEVER BEEN TRUE AS LONG AS YOU’VE BEEN ALIVE, SO WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN GETTING THIS FROM? (rock and roll, it bears mentioning, has ALWAYS been a commodity, same with rap. There literally wasn’t a time when these art forms existed that they weren’t being actively peddled. NEVER. Just sayin.)
And so there’s a marketability factor that CAN play into something, especially something as transparently commercial as rap music: the most popular music with young people worldwide. Now, I’m not suggesting that you must mold and shape your marketability and persona (I mean, lord knows I never have…I’m really me, y’all) but lots of artists like to control every aspect of how a project comes together, from inception to construction to follow through, and there’s nothing wrong with molding and shaping an aspect of your art that’s gonna be there whether you like it or not. It’s like not wiping your ass because you’d rather pretend you don’t shit. You can do that, and maybe things will go just how you want them to, but you can also take control of that situation and make sure that you do your best to get things to go your way.
Which brings me back to Die Antwoord and the notion that maybe they’re pretenders. Who cares? Did Melville have to live on a whaler to write Moby Dick? Did Freddy Mercury REALLY have to love fat bottom girls (because, uh…), did Dostoyevsky have to kill someone and live with the guilt? Fuck no. It’s art. These people are artists and can create whatever they want to. “Legitimate art” is a completely subjective and stupid notion. No, actually. It’s not subjective. It’s just stupid.
If you think something sucks, that’s fine. But to deny the merits of something based on your own armchair quarterback notions of if the person who created it has a right to have created it….uh, fuck you. THEY created it. That makes it totally theirs. Sorry, critic. Sorry, bitter shithead who didn’t think of doing it first. No one gets pissed because Tom Cruise isn’t really a secret agent or that Eminem isn’t really raping his mother or that ICP isn’t really white and black, but god forbid you pretend to be poor or marginalized, or weird. Then you’re “Co-opting a unique culture” or “exploiting those who don’t have a voice” or some such other white guilt bullshit. It’s ridiculous.
If Zef style is what Ninja likes, then he’s allowed to be Zef. Period. Oh, he’s not allowed? Why? Because he has too much money? He brags about having too much money, so what’s your point? He can afford nicer clothes/tattoos/haircuts? Well, I’m wearing jeans that cost me 2 bucks because I like them. I can afford nicer jeans. I cut my hair myself, but I could potentially go to a barber. I’ve got tattoos that my friends have given me for free that look totally crappy. Does any of that make me phony? Of course not. Living within your means and enjoying things that you can afford or that are a bargain don’t make you an asshole. Sorry.
Hey, how about this! I listen to and make punk rock music even though I didn’t grow up in the suburbs and was never really disenfranchised and bored by design. I was no more disenfranchised and bored than any of my friends who wound up being lawyers (actually, I talk to my brother and he’s vastly more disenfranchised and bored than I’ve ever been, and he’s a lawyer AND his favorite artist is Mystikal or some such nonsense. Is that disingenuous? Should he be a punk just because he grew up in a suburbian dystopia and is smart enough to be frustrated with the way the world works even if he doesn’t like punk music? Does Ninja need to always wear a suit because he wore one once? Is an artist allowed to change and reinvent themselves? Can a person play a character that’s got less advantages than the person they were born as? Is Sasha Baron Cohen an asshole or a genius? OR both? Is he even allowed to do Ali G? Is there a difference between Rush singing about space and Ninja rapping about being a psycho? No. It’s all creative process/output and to put anymore importance on it than that is just to be a total asshole.)
It’s not your place, or my place to decide if someone is allowed to do their art. It’s our place to decide if it sucks or not. Period. And I like Die Antwoord. So there.
Friday, November 19, 2010
I hate starting things passively, but I’m going to in this case. There’s this guy that I’ve known since I was pretty young, about ten. We haven’t been friends that whole time. In fact, I haven’t seen or spoken to him in fifteen years, and that’s not because we had a big falling out or anything, it’s mostly because we weren’t really that close and it would have been awkward at best and most likely just painful if we had actually happened to run into each other.
You know the drill: lots of shared experiences in the past but no REAL connection creates a deep seated compulsion to carry on a conversation and an equally deep seated compulsion to end said conversation as quickly, yet politely as possible. In short, there’s nothing worse than running into someone from highschool that you weren’t really friends with, because you’re gonna sit there and exchange dumb pleasantries that take up about ten minutes but reveal exactly nothing and it’s all for the benefit of both of you not feeling like total shitheads, even though neither of you want to be stuck in said conversation. You’re all, undoubtedly familiar with this phenomenon.
Sure you are. Anyway…
This guy and I, however were, at one time long ago, in the same boat. Both nerds, we were the two guys in gradeschool who read other books on top of our schoolwork, and big, thick books, at that. Piers Anthony books, and Stephen King books and shit like that. We’d read them during recess and on the bus and walking down the halls and we’d trade books and every once in a while we’d have sleep overs and shit and dork out about nerdy stuff, but we were never tight. We were more just kind of drawn to each other because we were the only two people in the fourth and fifth grade that were into the dorky shit we were into.
This foundation led to us always being friendly even as we grew older, which was helpful since, as nerdy bookworm types, we were invariably around each other a lot. With the exception of my freshman and sophomore year, when I was living in the suburbs, this guy and I had almost every class together in grade school, middle school and high school. We were in all the advanced maths and Latin 5, and the fast track courses and special groups and all that type of shit. By junior year, we’d all taken standardized tests and when the results came back, he and I were (I believe) the only two National Merit Scholars in our class.
Now, by this time, we’d developed into very different people. He was active in student government and I took great pains to ditch school and leave the campus to go smoke cigarettes and drink coffee during student government. He was holding meetings with teachers and mentoring young students and I was dying my hair blue and blowing off my homework until the very last minute and playing in a rock band (he was in a band too, but it was a completely different kind of thing). In short, we’d become opposites, still friendly, but opposites. His dedication to scholarship was in stark contrast to my notion that school was kind of a waste of time and a prison for idiots, and a “slave farm” or some other such sloganeering idiot notion (a sentiment that I no longer truly believe, by the way…but I was a punk rock teenager and as such I had everything completely figured out).
Okay, so here’s the other thing about this guy. His drive was augmented with a highly competitive streak. This was something I was always kind of aware of, but after the whole merit scholar thing, it became kind of a thing between us. Every test, every essay, every report card that was handed out would be followed immediately by this guy asking me my grade and then showing me his (in retrospect I wouldn’t be surprised if he did this with everybody). Now, this was not something I wanted to take part in. I didn’t give a shit about grades, I didn’t feel like I was competing with him and since I felt like I was being forced into some head-to-head that I wanted no part of, the whole thing kind of bugged me, honestly.
There was, in my mind at the time a real conscious message in this constant comparison, that was, “Hey, BK, I’m gonna leave you in the dust” and I started to resent it, and by extension, him.
We applied to colleges. He of course asked me where I was applying. I had no interest in going to college and my only criteria for a school was that it be in Chicago so I could keep touring with my band. He had applied to all the ivy leagues, with Northwestern, the only school I’d applied to at all, as his safety. Whatever, right? I couldn’t have given two fucks about college and when he got into Harvard, I thought, “hey, good for him. That seems like a perfect fit: Two things that put unnecessary emphasis on grades and pedigree going hand in hand. Wonderful.”
Senior year, he became the student body president and after an incident where a young teacher showed up to a party and smoked weed with the ‘bad kids’ (me and my friends [and yeah, what the fuck was he thinking, eh?]) someone told the faculty and that teacher was fired. Rumors swirled that it was our beloved student body president, my competitor, who had narced, and though he took me aside and assured me that it wasn’t him, I had my lingering doubts and if I’m being honest, that was kind of the end of our friendship.
I started to see him as someone who was living for the exact opposite kind of world that I was into- a goody-two shoes-yes-man-square, as opposed to my…uh, I dunno…reckless awesomeness or something? This was, of course an extremely narrow view based in no small part on just the way we’d grown up and apart, and my desire to be selfish and lazy, but it persisted.
After college, I toured and toured. You guys know that story. This guy became a heart surgeon. Now, it’s hard to find something bad to say about a heart surgeon, especially one who dedicates himself to working in third world countries and with the destitute and with children, but the competition he’d started was, at this point alive in me, even though I hadn’t seen him in years (and for him had likely ended on graduation day). “Oh, good for him” I’d say, kind of shittily, when I heard about his great accomplishments (things that all parents from our highschool class were rightly very impressed with). I had my own gig, man, and I too was doing bold and exciting things.
But of course, that was just the surface. The truth is, I’d started playing in bands with all my friends and their bands, the Rise Againsts and Alkaline Trios and so on were blowing up, becoming careers and of course, my band was on a different track. I couldn’t help but feel that if I ever saw this guy again, that the scene in highschool with the report cards would repeat. “Hey brendan, what are your grades this semester” would be replaced with “so how’s your life path treating you?” and faced with a surgeon who’s wealthy, successful and travelled to more interesting places than I have, well, I’ve got nothing. In my deepest heart I feared seeing him because he’d won and I’d lost. He’d been right all along and I’d been wrong and I KNEW it now. And he’d know I knew, because he’s a smart guy, too smart to fall for any sort of “well, you know, livin’ the dream” kind of bullshit.
Well, that’s where it kind of was. I can honestly say that not going to any reunions at my highschool were fueled directly by this fear of seeing this guy and handing him the victory that (honestly) he’d earned. Until this week.
Apparently, this guy suddenly died early on Monday. Now, like I said, I don’t know him anymore, so I don’t have any details, but the rumors I’ve heard indicate that it was self inflicted. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that he was my age and there’s no cause of death in his obituary.
(I also realize that it’s kind of bad form to publicize a death, especially one so tragic, when you don’t really know the person or family, and that’s hardly my intent, so in the unlikely event anyone close to this individual reads this and finds it gauche, I’m so terribly sorry.)
All this time I was so afraid of this guy, and he was (if the rumors are to be believed) hurting so badly inside. I refused to let him ‘win’ a stupid intellectual competition that I’m sure he didn’t even remember existed when he was obviously grappling with darkness. I avoided this guy when I should and could have been encouraging and supportive, but I was selfish and I didn’t know and we weren’t really friends anyway and it wasn’t my place or anything but right now I would walk to the ends of the earth to show him this note and show him that he’d handily won if I thought that would make even a tiny bit of difference (which it wouldn’t. Again, he was a surgeon. I’m sure the trajectory of a third tier punk rocker from his highschool wasn’t exactly on his mind.)
But, I’d say “man, we’ve all got demons. We’ve all got darkness and shortcomings and we all feel inferior and small at times. Hell, you made me feel that way without even being anything but a stand up and decent guy. That's what life is. It's confusing and hard but it's also beautiful and surprising and confounding and spectacular” But man, ugh. It’s a punch in the gut. I’ll never see him now. I’ll never get over myself and be able to congratulate him for having a great career and talk about the fantasy novels we used to read as kids. Huh. Talk about a hollow and shallow ‘victory’. God.
Rest In Peace, dude. Sorry I couldn’t have seen you once more before you rambled on.
If any of you are hurting out there check out 1800SUICIDE or youspoke.org. Please, please please.
Thanks.
You know the drill: lots of shared experiences in the past but no REAL connection creates a deep seated compulsion to carry on a conversation and an equally deep seated compulsion to end said conversation as quickly, yet politely as possible. In short, there’s nothing worse than running into someone from highschool that you weren’t really friends with, because you’re gonna sit there and exchange dumb pleasantries that take up about ten minutes but reveal exactly nothing and it’s all for the benefit of both of you not feeling like total shitheads, even though neither of you want to be stuck in said conversation. You’re all, undoubtedly familiar with this phenomenon.
Sure you are. Anyway…
This guy and I, however were, at one time long ago, in the same boat. Both nerds, we were the two guys in gradeschool who read other books on top of our schoolwork, and big, thick books, at that. Piers Anthony books, and Stephen King books and shit like that. We’d read them during recess and on the bus and walking down the halls and we’d trade books and every once in a while we’d have sleep overs and shit and dork out about nerdy stuff, but we were never tight. We were more just kind of drawn to each other because we were the only two people in the fourth and fifth grade that were into the dorky shit we were into.
This foundation led to us always being friendly even as we grew older, which was helpful since, as nerdy bookworm types, we were invariably around each other a lot. With the exception of my freshman and sophomore year, when I was living in the suburbs, this guy and I had almost every class together in grade school, middle school and high school. We were in all the advanced maths and Latin 5, and the fast track courses and special groups and all that type of shit. By junior year, we’d all taken standardized tests and when the results came back, he and I were (I believe) the only two National Merit Scholars in our class.
Now, by this time, we’d developed into very different people. He was active in student government and I took great pains to ditch school and leave the campus to go smoke cigarettes and drink coffee during student government. He was holding meetings with teachers and mentoring young students and I was dying my hair blue and blowing off my homework until the very last minute and playing in a rock band (he was in a band too, but it was a completely different kind of thing). In short, we’d become opposites, still friendly, but opposites. His dedication to scholarship was in stark contrast to my notion that school was kind of a waste of time and a prison for idiots, and a “slave farm” or some other such sloganeering idiot notion (a sentiment that I no longer truly believe, by the way…but I was a punk rock teenager and as such I had everything completely figured out).
Okay, so here’s the other thing about this guy. His drive was augmented with a highly competitive streak. This was something I was always kind of aware of, but after the whole merit scholar thing, it became kind of a thing between us. Every test, every essay, every report card that was handed out would be followed immediately by this guy asking me my grade and then showing me his (in retrospect I wouldn’t be surprised if he did this with everybody). Now, this was not something I wanted to take part in. I didn’t give a shit about grades, I didn’t feel like I was competing with him and since I felt like I was being forced into some head-to-head that I wanted no part of, the whole thing kind of bugged me, honestly.
There was, in my mind at the time a real conscious message in this constant comparison, that was, “Hey, BK, I’m gonna leave you in the dust” and I started to resent it, and by extension, him.
We applied to colleges. He of course asked me where I was applying. I had no interest in going to college and my only criteria for a school was that it be in Chicago so I could keep touring with my band. He had applied to all the ivy leagues, with Northwestern, the only school I’d applied to at all, as his safety. Whatever, right? I couldn’t have given two fucks about college and when he got into Harvard, I thought, “hey, good for him. That seems like a perfect fit: Two things that put unnecessary emphasis on grades and pedigree going hand in hand. Wonderful.”
Senior year, he became the student body president and after an incident where a young teacher showed up to a party and smoked weed with the ‘bad kids’ (me and my friends [and yeah, what the fuck was he thinking, eh?]) someone told the faculty and that teacher was fired. Rumors swirled that it was our beloved student body president, my competitor, who had narced, and though he took me aside and assured me that it wasn’t him, I had my lingering doubts and if I’m being honest, that was kind of the end of our friendship.
I started to see him as someone who was living for the exact opposite kind of world that I was into- a goody-two shoes-yes-man-square, as opposed to my…uh, I dunno…reckless awesomeness or something? This was, of course an extremely narrow view based in no small part on just the way we’d grown up and apart, and my desire to be selfish and lazy, but it persisted.
After college, I toured and toured. You guys know that story. This guy became a heart surgeon. Now, it’s hard to find something bad to say about a heart surgeon, especially one who dedicates himself to working in third world countries and with the destitute and with children, but the competition he’d started was, at this point alive in me, even though I hadn’t seen him in years (and for him had likely ended on graduation day). “Oh, good for him” I’d say, kind of shittily, when I heard about his great accomplishments (things that all parents from our highschool class were rightly very impressed with). I had my own gig, man, and I too was doing bold and exciting things.
But of course, that was just the surface. The truth is, I’d started playing in bands with all my friends and their bands, the Rise Againsts and Alkaline Trios and so on were blowing up, becoming careers and of course, my band was on a different track. I couldn’t help but feel that if I ever saw this guy again, that the scene in highschool with the report cards would repeat. “Hey brendan, what are your grades this semester” would be replaced with “so how’s your life path treating you?” and faced with a surgeon who’s wealthy, successful and travelled to more interesting places than I have, well, I’ve got nothing. In my deepest heart I feared seeing him because he’d won and I’d lost. He’d been right all along and I’d been wrong and I KNEW it now. And he’d know I knew, because he’s a smart guy, too smart to fall for any sort of “well, you know, livin’ the dream” kind of bullshit.
Well, that’s where it kind of was. I can honestly say that not going to any reunions at my highschool were fueled directly by this fear of seeing this guy and handing him the victory that (honestly) he’d earned. Until this week.
Apparently, this guy suddenly died early on Monday. Now, like I said, I don’t know him anymore, so I don’t have any details, but the rumors I’ve heard indicate that it was self inflicted. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that he was my age and there’s no cause of death in his obituary.
(I also realize that it’s kind of bad form to publicize a death, especially one so tragic, when you don’t really know the person or family, and that’s hardly my intent, so in the unlikely event anyone close to this individual reads this and finds it gauche, I’m so terribly sorry.)
All this time I was so afraid of this guy, and he was (if the rumors are to be believed) hurting so badly inside. I refused to let him ‘win’ a stupid intellectual competition that I’m sure he didn’t even remember existed when he was obviously grappling with darkness. I avoided this guy when I should and could have been encouraging and supportive, but I was selfish and I didn’t know and we weren’t really friends anyway and it wasn’t my place or anything but right now I would walk to the ends of the earth to show him this note and show him that he’d handily won if I thought that would make even a tiny bit of difference (which it wouldn’t. Again, he was a surgeon. I’m sure the trajectory of a third tier punk rocker from his highschool wasn’t exactly on his mind.)
But, I’d say “man, we’ve all got demons. We’ve all got darkness and shortcomings and we all feel inferior and small at times. Hell, you made me feel that way without even being anything but a stand up and decent guy. That's what life is. It's confusing and hard but it's also beautiful and surprising and confounding and spectacular” But man, ugh. It’s a punch in the gut. I’ll never see him now. I’ll never get over myself and be able to congratulate him for having a great career and talk about the fantasy novels we used to read as kids. Huh. Talk about a hollow and shallow ‘victory’. God.
Rest In Peace, dude. Sorry I couldn’t have seen you once more before you rambled on.
If any of you are hurting out there check out 1800SUICIDE or youspoke.org. Please, please please.
Thanks.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
man! Man for sale!
Dudes, I gotta head to the free clinic to get my baby her latest round of vaccines. It’s gonna be something else, I tell you what. My wife’s out of town (in Mexico for fucks sake…probably not banging sexy, swarthy latin dudes with great mustaches and abs, but you never know) and I’m here taking babies to the free clinic like the madam in a child prostitution ring. It’s cool, but it’s leading me to the inevitable conclusion that I need to kind of sack up and get a job of some kind. This Mr. Mom shit isn’t all grocery store coupon poker and horny housewives. In fact, there’s been exactly zero of either of those things in the last two years. It’s a lot of Dora the Explorer, a lot of little tiny chunks of free time that are too short to do anything worthwhile in (so I just mindlessly surf the internet) and a lot of poo under the fingernails. Also, there’s some lunch dates with my more “jobless” friends, and the occasional beer, but for the most part it’s pretty standard issue “boring/rewarding” depending on who I’m talking to.
So, that presents the question, what could I do for a living? Hmmmm…..I’ve asked this before, to you, my dogs of war, and to myself. It’s not an easy one. I’ve got a degree, but it’s in filmmaking and due to my extended period of being on the road with my band, it’s no longer technologically up to date (and it’s in filmmaking, so uh…that’s like having a degree in “Burger King”). I can write some, and I’ve got writing samples right here on this very blog, but I think, if I’m not mistaken, that there are a few too many mentions of felching and dongs to really show my professional potential. I’ve also got a great looking dick, but I’m married, so porn’s pretty much out too. If I’m not missing anything, and I don’t think I am, that’s all of my positive attributes. All that remains is the same dull, unacceptable bullshit personality that every human being on earth possesses beneath their ‘winning smile’ ‘desire to succeed’ and ‘huge tits’.
What’s left? Service industry? That sucks. I’m tired of that. Retail? Don’t make me barf. I’m 34. Am I gonna be one of those old ass pizza men someday? That’s such a fucking bummer. Nah. I gotta get it together. Maybe I could be a heart surgeon or an English barrister or the queen or something? Well, no. Not the queen. I guess I could be king, but I guess there’s already someone getting that job. Sigh.
I could be in a rock band. That’s possible, right? Well, kind of, I guess. I mean, technically I could be, but it’s hard, and the music industry is kind of out of business and the amount of time it takes to get well known enough to potentially make a living being in a band is staggering and I’m a little too old for that now. I know that I’m already in a band, and that’s cool, but that band ain’t payin the bills. We ran that up the flagpole and aside from a few of you people with impeccable taste, the results were a little flaccid. I mean, after ten years of making records, you’re pretty much as big as you’re gonna get. That’s just the way it is, folks. So that’s not really an option either.
What’s left? I could do stand up comedy. That seems like a good idea. I’ll just get a wacky new persona and smash melons with a mallet and tell jokes about how my wife won’t fuck me and the black guy down the street gets his mail with so much more swagger than I do. How bout that? No? fuck. Okay, next on the list…um, um…how about food critic? Music critic? Literary critic? Oh, those things are no longer viable jobs because people get all their criticism from the internet now? Fuck. Hmmmm….How about famous Hollywood actor? Those people seem to have no discernable talent and make a lot of money. Yeah. Actually, yeah. I could do that. Watch this:
“I never loved you, angela!”
Did you believe that? I sold it, right? Totally. Also, I’ve got a great looking dick. Did I mention that? That should get me some roles, right? Yeah. Fer sure.
Okay, look. I’ve gotta go get dressed and head to the clinic. Hollywood, here’s your big chance. I’m available! I’m 34 but I could play a Mexican or a white guy or even a middle eastern guy in a pinch. Um, what else? My teeth are good and my diction is sometimes okay. Also, I’ve got a dead eyed stare that seems to be exactly what you’re looking for. Oh, and I’m at least as funny as that fat guy with the beard who seems to be everyone’s boyfriend right now.
Okay, that’s all. I’m out of here. Keep me in mind. I do nudity! Bye.
Send tit/beaver shots please! It’s all I have left keeping me strong, people!
So, that presents the question, what could I do for a living? Hmmmm…..I’ve asked this before, to you, my dogs of war, and to myself. It’s not an easy one. I’ve got a degree, but it’s in filmmaking and due to my extended period of being on the road with my band, it’s no longer technologically up to date (and it’s in filmmaking, so uh…that’s like having a degree in “Burger King”). I can write some, and I’ve got writing samples right here on this very blog, but I think, if I’m not mistaken, that there are a few too many mentions of felching and dongs to really show my professional potential. I’ve also got a great looking dick, but I’m married, so porn’s pretty much out too. If I’m not missing anything, and I don’t think I am, that’s all of my positive attributes. All that remains is the same dull, unacceptable bullshit personality that every human being on earth possesses beneath their ‘winning smile’ ‘desire to succeed’ and ‘huge tits’.
What’s left? Service industry? That sucks. I’m tired of that. Retail? Don’t make me barf. I’m 34. Am I gonna be one of those old ass pizza men someday? That’s such a fucking bummer. Nah. I gotta get it together. Maybe I could be a heart surgeon or an English barrister or the queen or something? Well, no. Not the queen. I guess I could be king, but I guess there’s already someone getting that job. Sigh.
I could be in a rock band. That’s possible, right? Well, kind of, I guess. I mean, technically I could be, but it’s hard, and the music industry is kind of out of business and the amount of time it takes to get well known enough to potentially make a living being in a band is staggering and I’m a little too old for that now. I know that I’m already in a band, and that’s cool, but that band ain’t payin the bills. We ran that up the flagpole and aside from a few of you people with impeccable taste, the results were a little flaccid. I mean, after ten years of making records, you’re pretty much as big as you’re gonna get. That’s just the way it is, folks. So that’s not really an option either.
What’s left? I could do stand up comedy. That seems like a good idea. I’ll just get a wacky new persona and smash melons with a mallet and tell jokes about how my wife won’t fuck me and the black guy down the street gets his mail with so much more swagger than I do. How bout that? No? fuck. Okay, next on the list…um, um…how about food critic? Music critic? Literary critic? Oh, those things are no longer viable jobs because people get all their criticism from the internet now? Fuck. Hmmmm….How about famous Hollywood actor? Those people seem to have no discernable talent and make a lot of money. Yeah. Actually, yeah. I could do that. Watch this:
“I never loved you, angela!”
Did you believe that? I sold it, right? Totally. Also, I’ve got a great looking dick. Did I mention that? That should get me some roles, right? Yeah. Fer sure.
Okay, look. I’ve gotta go get dressed and head to the clinic. Hollywood, here’s your big chance. I’m available! I’m 34 but I could play a Mexican or a white guy or even a middle eastern guy in a pinch. Um, what else? My teeth are good and my diction is sometimes okay. Also, I’ve got a dead eyed stare that seems to be exactly what you’re looking for. Oh, and I’m at least as funny as that fat guy with the beard who seems to be everyone’s boyfriend right now.
Okay, that’s all. I’m out of here. Keep me in mind. I do nudity! Bye.
Send tit/beaver shots please! It’s all I have left keeping me strong, people!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
in light of recent events
Okay, here’s the question for the day: What is uh…’winning’ when it comes to life? I mean, if you have this life fraught with turmoil and strife; maybe you get touched by the guy at the comic book store as a kid and you grow up totally fucked up and you even end up sucking dicks for nickels or crack or bags of gold huffin’ paint; you do some time, you get out and you’re old and spent up and used and you’re bitter but maybe you get a job at the grocery store and you’ve got some kids and your kids don’t hate you and you’re a good parent and you eventually end up the manager at the grocery store, and you live to be 80 and you don’t die of some horrible disease…do you win? Is that enough of a consistently upward trajectory that you’ve had a ‘good’ life, or is the pain that came before the ‘redemption’ (which frankly, is kind of a half assed redemption, innit?) so crushing and total that it’s the bad bits that ultimately define your life?
Conversely, what if you grow up with a great childhood? Hell, maybe you’re the kids of the grocery store manager from the previous paragraph. Your parents kind and sweet and instill the value of hard work and you’ve got a good outlook on everything and people like you and you work hard and it pays off, but then BOOM! Lymphoma hits you in your 30’s and you crinkle and die and everyone around you is devastated (financially and emotionally) and though nobody would ever say anything bad about you, you kind of left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth on the way out. Where does that end you up?
How bout Joe Francis? That guy has made a lot of girls make pretty bad decisions, he’s also made a lot of teenaged boys really happy. He’s also made millions and owns an island and bangs beautiful girls on bags of money and he’s spent a pretty decent amount of time in jail. He’s a scumbag, but he’s also doing the lords work (I know, come on…relax) and he’s honest about his intentions. He’s probably unable to have a meaningful relationship with someone who can trust him who he can trust, but he probably doesn’t care. Does he win even though people with wildly differing opinions of the place of sex in popular culture all think he’s a total shitstain? Does that matter at all? Is there anything that makes your life a win?
I guess that’s why we have jesus and stuff, eh? Because it’s hard to understand the true perspective that life is kind of more Tralfamadorian than we can comprehend. Events in time very rarely effect other time, soul wise. The moment you’re dying of cancer, that night spent banging the seven Hawaiian tropic models is a distant and unimportant memory that may have just as well been a movie you saw somewhere and the moment you’re up there watching your son getting sworn in as the president, that night a few years back where you sat there and contemplated chugging the bottle of drano because you were so broken up about your job seems likewise a dream.
The only things that really tie it all together are unproductive and shitty emotions like regret and anger. Happiness is like being hot. If you’re hot as balls and you’re sweating and about to just pass out and you can’t even see straight, you can jump into a pool or walk into an air conditioned room and BOOM! You’re no longer hot. You’re readjusted. Happiness is that fleeting.
Sadness, anger, regret, despair, and depression (which of course is a chronic and highly resistant cousin of these other negative emotions) are like being cold. You can get indoors, crawl under the blankets, or scoot into the hot bath, but you’re still cold. The residual shivers still get you. Your fingertips burn and you’re left with the unshakable physical reminder that you were very, very cold recently. Happiness rarely can trump something shitty happening right on its heels. SO, you get a promotion but your brother gets thrown in jail on the same day, you’re gonna be sad. If you find an out of print record you love in the bargain bin but some douchebag spits on you from the moving bus window, day’s ruined. That’s why sorrow is so enduring in this world. People remember it, and they want to because for whatever reason, the bad stuff seems like the stuff that defines us, not the good stuff.
But that’s fucked. The good stuff is usually what defines us to others, at least as much as the bad stuff. You first and foremost remember that Mozart was a reckless genius, not that he was a scumbag who died of syphilis and was buried in a paupers mass grave. You remember that Freddie Mercury was AMAZING, not that he was sick.
I mean (and this is an extreme example, folks) , look at Roman Polanski. He suffered an incredibly devastating loss (the senseless murder of his unborn child and wife) and then he drugged and raped a thirteen year old girl. Those are hugely negative things, one that he’s a victim of and one where he’s the monster. He’s also a highly accomplished filmmaker, and that’s a huge part of who he is too. Now, I’m not suggesting that people should look past a rapist’s uh…alleyway pastimes and focus on the fact that they’re great cooks, but what I AM suggesting is that life is rarely THAT dire. We all get caught up in the tiniest things that no one gives a fuck about and we blow it up to be something that at times seems so insurmountable that the notion of going to live alone in Alaska or even harming yourself seems like the only option, but that’s fucking crazy.
It’s not a big deal to get fired, or be gay or have been a hooker for a couple of years or to have been a gangbanger or to be actively opposed to war when you grow up in a military family or whatever. It seems big because it’s you and you are personally invested in you more than you could even comprehend. You are a myopic dumbass that doesn’t realize that the world is so big and so vast and so full of beautiful things and people that understand and places that accept you and want to help you and generally don’t give two fucks about your dumb regrets or fears (not because they don’t care about you, but because in the big picture they’re not worth caring about) and so you tag yourself as a loser, a failure, a freak, doomed, damaged, fucked up, beyond help, too old, too stupid, too riddled with STDs, whatever. We all do this. It’s not fun, but here’s the thing:
No one wins life. Everyone dies and everyone has a great and fascinating list of successes and failures, joys and pains and unbearable ways that they’ve been fucked over or fucked someone else over and it’s all really nothing but the rich pageant of what being alive is (to paraphrase M. Stipe). There’s no reason to think that you’re fucked or there’s no way out because of some pressing immediate issue that you have. There’s one way out of this life, and you can’t get back in afterwards. And everyone goes there and everyone leaves dissatisfied if they don’t work actively on focusing as much on the good as they’re naturally inclined to do with the bad.
And there’s SO much good stuff here- You wouldn’t even have the ability to think about how bad you think you have it if it weren’t for all the wonderful things you love that seem to be endangered by whatever your issues are (and we all have these issues)- that the notion that you need to sequester yourself from joy to deal with the fact that you need to sit there and focus on your sadness is inhumane. It’s monk style shit. And here’s the part that everyone forgets, or chooses for some crazy reason to ignore: it’s COMPLETELY SELF IMPOSED! No thanks.
People think that the secret to winning in life is skating through without anything bad happening to them, but that’s bullshit. That’s impossible. Life shits on everyone. It’s not how little happens to you. It’s how you deal with what happens to you. That’s the measure of a person. That’s winning. Just saying. No one is alone. Kay? Good.
Conversely, what if you grow up with a great childhood? Hell, maybe you’re the kids of the grocery store manager from the previous paragraph. Your parents kind and sweet and instill the value of hard work and you’ve got a good outlook on everything and people like you and you work hard and it pays off, but then BOOM! Lymphoma hits you in your 30’s and you crinkle and die and everyone around you is devastated (financially and emotionally) and though nobody would ever say anything bad about you, you kind of left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth on the way out. Where does that end you up?
How bout Joe Francis? That guy has made a lot of girls make pretty bad decisions, he’s also made a lot of teenaged boys really happy. He’s also made millions and owns an island and bangs beautiful girls on bags of money and he’s spent a pretty decent amount of time in jail. He’s a scumbag, but he’s also doing the lords work (I know, come on…relax) and he’s honest about his intentions. He’s probably unable to have a meaningful relationship with someone who can trust him who he can trust, but he probably doesn’t care. Does he win even though people with wildly differing opinions of the place of sex in popular culture all think he’s a total shitstain? Does that matter at all? Is there anything that makes your life a win?
I guess that’s why we have jesus and stuff, eh? Because it’s hard to understand the true perspective that life is kind of more Tralfamadorian than we can comprehend. Events in time very rarely effect other time, soul wise. The moment you’re dying of cancer, that night spent banging the seven Hawaiian tropic models is a distant and unimportant memory that may have just as well been a movie you saw somewhere and the moment you’re up there watching your son getting sworn in as the president, that night a few years back where you sat there and contemplated chugging the bottle of drano because you were so broken up about your job seems likewise a dream.
The only things that really tie it all together are unproductive and shitty emotions like regret and anger. Happiness is like being hot. If you’re hot as balls and you’re sweating and about to just pass out and you can’t even see straight, you can jump into a pool or walk into an air conditioned room and BOOM! You’re no longer hot. You’re readjusted. Happiness is that fleeting.
Sadness, anger, regret, despair, and depression (which of course is a chronic and highly resistant cousin of these other negative emotions) are like being cold. You can get indoors, crawl under the blankets, or scoot into the hot bath, but you’re still cold. The residual shivers still get you. Your fingertips burn and you’re left with the unshakable physical reminder that you were very, very cold recently. Happiness rarely can trump something shitty happening right on its heels. SO, you get a promotion but your brother gets thrown in jail on the same day, you’re gonna be sad. If you find an out of print record you love in the bargain bin but some douchebag spits on you from the moving bus window, day’s ruined. That’s why sorrow is so enduring in this world. People remember it, and they want to because for whatever reason, the bad stuff seems like the stuff that defines us, not the good stuff.
But that’s fucked. The good stuff is usually what defines us to others, at least as much as the bad stuff. You first and foremost remember that Mozart was a reckless genius, not that he was a scumbag who died of syphilis and was buried in a paupers mass grave. You remember that Freddie Mercury was AMAZING, not that he was sick.
I mean (and this is an extreme example, folks) , look at Roman Polanski. He suffered an incredibly devastating loss (the senseless murder of his unborn child and wife) and then he drugged and raped a thirteen year old girl. Those are hugely negative things, one that he’s a victim of and one where he’s the monster. He’s also a highly accomplished filmmaker, and that’s a huge part of who he is too. Now, I’m not suggesting that people should look past a rapist’s uh…alleyway pastimes and focus on the fact that they’re great cooks, but what I AM suggesting is that life is rarely THAT dire. We all get caught up in the tiniest things that no one gives a fuck about and we blow it up to be something that at times seems so insurmountable that the notion of going to live alone in Alaska or even harming yourself seems like the only option, but that’s fucking crazy.
It’s not a big deal to get fired, or be gay or have been a hooker for a couple of years or to have been a gangbanger or to be actively opposed to war when you grow up in a military family or whatever. It seems big because it’s you and you are personally invested in you more than you could even comprehend. You are a myopic dumbass that doesn’t realize that the world is so big and so vast and so full of beautiful things and people that understand and places that accept you and want to help you and generally don’t give two fucks about your dumb regrets or fears (not because they don’t care about you, but because in the big picture they’re not worth caring about) and so you tag yourself as a loser, a failure, a freak, doomed, damaged, fucked up, beyond help, too old, too stupid, too riddled with STDs, whatever. We all do this. It’s not fun, but here’s the thing:
No one wins life. Everyone dies and everyone has a great and fascinating list of successes and failures, joys and pains and unbearable ways that they’ve been fucked over or fucked someone else over and it’s all really nothing but the rich pageant of what being alive is (to paraphrase M. Stipe). There’s no reason to think that you’re fucked or there’s no way out because of some pressing immediate issue that you have. There’s one way out of this life, and you can’t get back in afterwards. And everyone goes there and everyone leaves dissatisfied if they don’t work actively on focusing as much on the good as they’re naturally inclined to do with the bad.
And there’s SO much good stuff here- You wouldn’t even have the ability to think about how bad you think you have it if it weren’t for all the wonderful things you love that seem to be endangered by whatever your issues are (and we all have these issues)- that the notion that you need to sequester yourself from joy to deal with the fact that you need to sit there and focus on your sadness is inhumane. It’s monk style shit. And here’s the part that everyone forgets, or chooses for some crazy reason to ignore: it’s COMPLETELY SELF IMPOSED! No thanks.
People think that the secret to winning in life is skating through without anything bad happening to them, but that’s bullshit. That’s impossible. Life shits on everyone. It’s not how little happens to you. It’s how you deal with what happens to you. That’s the measure of a person. That’s winning. Just saying. No one is alone. Kay? Good.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
home!
Maaaaan, it’s good to be home. That was a kind of a whirlwind tour, to put it mildly, but it was super fun. Thanks to everyone who came out and sung along. It was literally probably my favorite time I’ve ever had on the east coast. Boston in particular was amazing and it was amazing both nights. Who knew that you beantowners were really as wikkid pissah awesome as you always say you are? Pretty great.
I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention that I got a lot of great hats, some books and some Natty Boh while I was out there. To those of you who went above and beyond and brought us gifts or bought us drinks a special thanks is in order, so uh…special thanks. Yup. It was a good time.
Man, as one gets a little older some of the more exciting things about touring change pretty significantly, and more to the point, some of the pretty standard, day to day things, things that used to be kind of just part of the general program that you didn’t even hardly pay attention to, become things that either A) suck or B) just brutally ravage your spirit/body. What do I mean? How about this:
When I’m home I eat pretty specific foods and avoid things that are bad for me or generally gross (or delicious) except for in rare instances. I don’t usually eat red meat, cheese, fried shit, white flour, candy, or anything that’s just generally too questionable, and I don’t really drink a ton of beer or sugary cocktails. I also go to the gym every day. This is partly done so I don’t turn into a lard ass, but the big part is the way it all comes together to make me feel.
I’m generally exhausted all the time anyway, but a fairly healthy lifestyle tends to lessen the blow of just getting old quite a bit and it also helps you feel at least kind of good about yourself and like you’re not just shoveling cheetos into your disgusting, deteriorating body and pushing towards an early grave (which is a nice feeling to avoid, especially as a man in your thirties who’s suddenly faced with the fact that he’s no longer young, spry, hip, dynamic, free, or on any sort of fast track [or track of any kind] to success).
Well, on the road that all goes out the window quicker than you can say “I’ll take a beer and a philly cheese steak please!” The first four days of this tour (8 meals!) I ate nothing but cheeseburgers, with the only exception being the aforementioned philly cheese steak, which is beef, cheese and bread, so it’s really pretty much the same thing. I drank a bunch of beer, some soda, I ate ice cream (made out of whiskey! So incredibly excellent) and most devastatingly, I stayed up past midnight every night.
At the hotel in Boston, I got bedbugs from my bed. Toby, who passed out in all his clothes, still doesn’t know if he got them too, but since he and I shared a room, it’s a safe bet that he’s gonna have to burn his couch and shave his dogs now. I woke up e every day sore and discombobulated. I felt tired. I couldn’t sleep in because my kids have trained my body to get up with the sun. My stomach was constantly bitching at me and I smelled like total shit even if I showered (which I didn’t, so whatever).
I can understand being old and touring on a big bus like NOFX or touring in limos, planes and W hotels like Bon Jovi, and I can understand why young bands tour in vans for months at a time, crash on floors and drink beer for breakfast and love every second of it, but man, there’s a weird place in between, a place where you’re not quite making enough to go out to nice restaurants or get nice hotels that don’t have bedbugs (rodeway in by logan airport, by the way has them, just a word to the wise), where you’re too old to feel good after staying up really late and getting shitty sleep and eating shitty food, and where you’re no longer motivated by trying to convert a room full of people into fans, where you’re out there to play for the people who already dig the songs and fuck the rest of em, where it’s really, truly about just playing some notes and singing with your friends, and man…shit hurts. Ugh. I need a colonic or something.
That said, I wouldn’t change a second of the last week. Love you guys! Thanks for coming out and we’ll see you soon.
xoxoxox
I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention that I got a lot of great hats, some books and some Natty Boh while I was out there. To those of you who went above and beyond and brought us gifts or bought us drinks a special thanks is in order, so uh…special thanks. Yup. It was a good time.
Man, as one gets a little older some of the more exciting things about touring change pretty significantly, and more to the point, some of the pretty standard, day to day things, things that used to be kind of just part of the general program that you didn’t even hardly pay attention to, become things that either A) suck or B) just brutally ravage your spirit/body. What do I mean? How about this:
When I’m home I eat pretty specific foods and avoid things that are bad for me or generally gross (or delicious) except for in rare instances. I don’t usually eat red meat, cheese, fried shit, white flour, candy, or anything that’s just generally too questionable, and I don’t really drink a ton of beer or sugary cocktails. I also go to the gym every day. This is partly done so I don’t turn into a lard ass, but the big part is the way it all comes together to make me feel.
I’m generally exhausted all the time anyway, but a fairly healthy lifestyle tends to lessen the blow of just getting old quite a bit and it also helps you feel at least kind of good about yourself and like you’re not just shoveling cheetos into your disgusting, deteriorating body and pushing towards an early grave (which is a nice feeling to avoid, especially as a man in your thirties who’s suddenly faced with the fact that he’s no longer young, spry, hip, dynamic, free, or on any sort of fast track [or track of any kind] to success).
Well, on the road that all goes out the window quicker than you can say “I’ll take a beer and a philly cheese steak please!” The first four days of this tour (8 meals!) I ate nothing but cheeseburgers, with the only exception being the aforementioned philly cheese steak, which is beef, cheese and bread, so it’s really pretty much the same thing. I drank a bunch of beer, some soda, I ate ice cream (made out of whiskey! So incredibly excellent) and most devastatingly, I stayed up past midnight every night.
At the hotel in Boston, I got bedbugs from my bed. Toby, who passed out in all his clothes, still doesn’t know if he got them too, but since he and I shared a room, it’s a safe bet that he’s gonna have to burn his couch and shave his dogs now. I woke up e every day sore and discombobulated. I felt tired. I couldn’t sleep in because my kids have trained my body to get up with the sun. My stomach was constantly bitching at me and I smelled like total shit even if I showered (which I didn’t, so whatever).
I can understand being old and touring on a big bus like NOFX or touring in limos, planes and W hotels like Bon Jovi, and I can understand why young bands tour in vans for months at a time, crash on floors and drink beer for breakfast and love every second of it, but man, there’s a weird place in between, a place where you’re not quite making enough to go out to nice restaurants or get nice hotels that don’t have bedbugs (rodeway in by logan airport, by the way has them, just a word to the wise), where you’re too old to feel good after staying up really late and getting shitty sleep and eating shitty food, and where you’re no longer motivated by trying to convert a room full of people into fans, where you’re out there to play for the people who already dig the songs and fuck the rest of em, where it’s really, truly about just playing some notes and singing with your friends, and man…shit hurts. Ugh. I need a colonic or something.
That said, I wouldn’t change a second of the last week. Love you guys! Thanks for coming out and we’ll see you soon.
xoxoxox
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
And the Rocket's Red Glaaaaaaare!
I’m headed out in about thirty minutes. Tonight we play in Philly and it’s gonna be off the proverbial Heezy. Are you bringing me a cheesesteak? With Cheez Whiz? Thanks so much. Last time we were in philly, we forced our bus driver to drive down to Gino’s and Pats (the two famous places to get cheese steaks in Philly. Perhaps you’ve seen them on Food Wars or Pig Out Paradise or something [and yes, yes, these are touristy spots. I’m sure that they don’t have the finest cheese steaks in all of Philadelphia, but we’re tourists, and we don’t know where to go, nor do we REALLY care about that, so yeah. Just telling you what happened. No need to get all defensive]) for a late night snack.
Now, our driver was a big old hillbilly boy who truly didn’t know how to back up a bus and believed with all his heart that shopping at wal mart was good for America (just ask Rubber Maid). He was also highly passive aggressive and stupid in a way that can’t be overstated. He was stupid in an almost mythical way. He didn’t know how to do laundry. He didn’t know how to heat up canned soup. He was as equipped to exist as an adult human being as a hamster dressed in a brooks brothers suit is to diversify your stock portfolio.
I could write about this guy all day, actually. We fired him in San Diego for massive incompetence and constant insubordination (which sounds like we were being dicks, but when the standard, agreed upon program is that we wake up on the bus in front of the next club every day, but instead we’re waking up in truck stop parking lots with him asleep in the front lounge (leaving us with nowhere to go, because the front lounge is where the bathroom, tv, coffee, and couches are), still 4 hours from our destination and we’re consistently late for load in, well, you get the idea of how completely terrible this dude was at being a bus driver.
He also couldn’t drive. He also was a cocksucker. He was also dumber than a box of rubber gloves. And he wouldn’t back up the bus. He didn’t know how. This was at various times amusing and enraging, depending on the severity of the situation.
ANYWAY, someday I can probably fill up a whole weeks worth of this dumb blog talking about this driver and his various dumbassisms, but for now I’m getting back to Philly. We make him take us to get cheese steaks. This is highly unusual, as bus drivers understandably don’t tend to like to make little food runs in giant busses, (it’s not a taxi, after all) and this dude was no exception, but the show had been amazing and we were all loaded and we decided to berate the driver and force him to take us there, despite his hemmin’ and a’hawin.
So we get about half a block away, and the bus gets stuck. Philly has narrow streets and we can’t get any closer. We’re blocking traffic, it’s Friday night down town and our driver starts throwing up his hands and losing his mind. The cars behind him are honking and going nuts.
So we all kind of laughed, and got out of the bus right there and left him to suffer while we went and got cheese steaks. The whole time we waited in line we could hear the honking and see the growing line of dead stopped traffic. We took our time. Some of us even sat and ate there, in the restaurant’s outside patio.
Eventually, after twenty five grueling minutes of dealing with the ire of uppity northern city folk, our driver was finally able to close the door and let a bunch of drunk, cheesy turds back on his bus and head off to another truck stop parking lot.
That night, I woke up in my bunk completely dehydrated from eating such a salty, greasy treat so late at night. At first I thought there were fireworks going off, but then I realized, no. It was the tiny explosions and gas rockets of nocturnal farts that only a rolling sarcophagus full of drunk men stuffed with cheesesteaks can produce. It was like a tiny little fourth of july, but instead of red white and blue, it was just a few different shades of brown.
I’ll see you east coast kids soon. I gotta go pack.
Toodles!
Now, our driver was a big old hillbilly boy who truly didn’t know how to back up a bus and believed with all his heart that shopping at wal mart was good for America (just ask Rubber Maid). He was also highly passive aggressive and stupid in a way that can’t be overstated. He was stupid in an almost mythical way. He didn’t know how to do laundry. He didn’t know how to heat up canned soup. He was as equipped to exist as an adult human being as a hamster dressed in a brooks brothers suit is to diversify your stock portfolio.
I could write about this guy all day, actually. We fired him in San Diego for massive incompetence and constant insubordination (which sounds like we were being dicks, but when the standard, agreed upon program is that we wake up on the bus in front of the next club every day, but instead we’re waking up in truck stop parking lots with him asleep in the front lounge (leaving us with nowhere to go, because the front lounge is where the bathroom, tv, coffee, and couches are), still 4 hours from our destination and we’re consistently late for load in, well, you get the idea of how completely terrible this dude was at being a bus driver.
He also couldn’t drive. He also was a cocksucker. He was also dumber than a box of rubber gloves. And he wouldn’t back up the bus. He didn’t know how. This was at various times amusing and enraging, depending on the severity of the situation.
ANYWAY, someday I can probably fill up a whole weeks worth of this dumb blog talking about this driver and his various dumbassisms, but for now I’m getting back to Philly. We make him take us to get cheese steaks. This is highly unusual, as bus drivers understandably don’t tend to like to make little food runs in giant busses, (it’s not a taxi, after all) and this dude was no exception, but the show had been amazing and we were all loaded and we decided to berate the driver and force him to take us there, despite his hemmin’ and a’hawin.
So we get about half a block away, and the bus gets stuck. Philly has narrow streets and we can’t get any closer. We’re blocking traffic, it’s Friday night down town and our driver starts throwing up his hands and losing his mind. The cars behind him are honking and going nuts.
So we all kind of laughed, and got out of the bus right there and left him to suffer while we went and got cheese steaks. The whole time we waited in line we could hear the honking and see the growing line of dead stopped traffic. We took our time. Some of us even sat and ate there, in the restaurant’s outside patio.
Eventually, after twenty five grueling minutes of dealing with the ire of uppity northern city folk, our driver was finally able to close the door and let a bunch of drunk, cheesy turds back on his bus and head off to another truck stop parking lot.
That night, I woke up in my bunk completely dehydrated from eating such a salty, greasy treat so late at night. At first I thought there were fireworks going off, but then I realized, no. It was the tiny explosions and gas rockets of nocturnal farts that only a rolling sarcophagus full of drunk men stuffed with cheesesteaks can produce. It was like a tiny little fourth of july, but instead of red white and blue, it was just a few different shades of brown.
I’ll see you east coast kids soon. I gotta go pack.
Toodles!
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