Do you have the time
To listen to me whine
About nothing and everything
All at once?
I am one of those
Melodramatic fools
Neurotic to the bone
No doubt about it
--Green Day, “Basket Case”
It’s a story that begins, I suppose, in 1994. Specifically, it begins on a Tuesday night in the Fireside Room of my old church. I know this because it happened at junior high youth group. My youth leader had decided to do one of those messages on the evils of rock music. The songs he chose to deconstruct in order to inoculate us from worldly evils were Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy,” Green Day’s “Longview,” and Offspring’s…um, whatever the big song was off of Smash.
We were all given lyric sheets with the swear words edited out. The youth leader sat up front with a boombox, hitting the fast forward button on the CD player every time one of those words came up in the song. We learned about the messages from those songs: sex is okay, violence and suicide is okay[1], and masturbation is a-ok.[2]
The whole thing made me vaguely uncomfortable. I liked all of those songs. That particular night came just a couple months after my first introduction to the world of alternative rock[3] and I already possessed a copy of Dookie and Ten.[4] I went home and stuck my copy of Dookie in to a little slot at the back of my RCA boombox. I didn’t want to be influenced by the evil rock, but I also didn’t want to just throw the CD out. It languished there for a while.
That night was the beginning of a ten-year war in my mind that had everything to do with music.
Do you the enemy?
Do you know your enemy?
Well gotta know the enemy
--Green Day, “Know Your Enemy”
Superpages.com Center is probably not the sort of place I’d spend a lot of time visiting. I’m more of a small club, 21 and older show sort of guy. Still, last Thursday I put on my RCPM Che shirt for indie cred and headed down to Fair Park. Green Day was in time and I’d grabbed a seat in the pavilion. I’ve never actually seen Green Day live and this seemed like as good an opportunity as any.
Apparently my indie snobbishness has insulated me from a lot in the world of concerts. And I’m not just talking about venues that charge $9.50 for a Miller Lite in a plastic cup. I don’t even go to the House of Blues much because they have too many all-ages shows. So I was shocked to find myself surrounded by tweens in skinny jeans and leggings and, um, the various other accoutrements that are popular with the high school and junior high set these days.
Overall it was a weird effect. There was a better than even chance that if I saw a member of the female gender I was then expecting the dude from To Catch a Predator to jump out of the bushes in a very special edition of the show or I quickly realized that she was there escorting her high school-aged offspring. It’s an odd thing, being 29 and single at an all-ages show.
I apparently totally missed the switchover that Green Day managed to make from the music that I grew up with to the music that thirteen year-olds listen to. I quickly dropped in to Grampa Geds mode and started putting up Facebook statuses about the damn kids with their skinny jeans and wondering if they even knew about Green Day’s history of writing songs about jerking off. It was certainly better than going to my seat and listening to AFI.
The rage and love
The story of my lfie
The Jesus of Suburbia is a lie
And screaming
Are we, we are the waiting?
--Green Day, “Are We the Waiting?”
I eventually removed Dookie from its randomly imposed purgatory. I added Nimrod, Insomniac, and International Superhits! to my Green Day collection. But then I, like most people, totally forgot that Green Day had ever existed. Then news came that they were releasing a new album and they’d be trying something different: a Tommy-esque rock opera. I was intrigued.
When American Idiot came out I loved it from the start. I named it my 2004 album of the year.[5] Mostly, though, I connected with the story of growing up and growing disaffected. 2004 wasn’t quite the beginning of the end, but the markers of discontent were there. 2005 would see one last, half-assed attempt to seriously follow-through on ditching all of my worldly music and listen only to proper Christian entertainment.
But, see, we’d been promised a revolution. Jesus was gonna show up and make everything happen. There was going to be revival.
But there was never a revival. Jesus kept obstinately insisting on not coming back. The Jesus of Suburbia was a lie.[6]
Here they come marching down the street
Like a desperation murmer of a heartbeat
Comin’ back from the edge of town
Underneath their feet
Their time has come and it’s goin’ nowhere
Nobody ever said that life was fair now
--Green Day, “Homecoming”
Billie Joe Armstrong has re-invented himself, just as Green Day re-invented itself with American Idiot. I’d seen the whole pseudo-Emo, heavy eyeliner and frosted hair shit, which I find rather annoying. But what I hadn’t seen was what he does on stage. Billie Joe has morphed in to a manic televangelist for disaffected youth.
But there’s a message in the whole thing that I’ve never really noticed before. The question is asked every once in a while, “Where has all the protest music gone?” We wonder why there is no Bob Dylan, no “Universal Soldier,” no “Eve of Destruction” for the endless War on Terror generation. It’s there. Green Day seems to have figured out how to do it. But no one takes them seriously because they were originally a three-chord pop punk band playing silly songs about masturbation and entertaining junior highers.
One of those thirteen year-olds is now twenty-nine. At first I was disoriented to find myself at a show surrounded by teenagers. But as the night went on I began to realize something. It was a good thing. Sixteen years ago my youth leader tried to warn me about the dangers of the evil rock music. I strongly suspect that a lot of the kids in that audience have heard that exact same message.
For three hours on a Thursday night Green Day made me extremely happy that I eventually ended up deciding to keep Dookie around. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that American Idiot wasn’t really a re-invention of the band, it was a re-invention of the idea of how the band presented itself.
I wanna be the minority
I don’t need your authority
Down with the Moral Majority
‘Cuz I wanna be the minority
--Green Day, “Minority”
When all of your songs are two and a half minutes long it’s pretty easy to squeeze a big chunk of the library in to a three-hour set. Even at that, I was impressed. They managed to work in most of American Idiot and Dookie, as well as several other old songs I like, not the least of which was “Minority.”
But there was also plenty of tagging. The band riffed in “Iron Man” and “Highway to Hell” and “Hey Jude” among many, many others. Everyone sang along and cheered.
It reminded me that rock music is a part of our culture, woven in so tightly that I can even sing along with and enjoy songs that I would never choose to listen to on my own and enjoy the hell out of myself. It also reminded me that we’ve seen this culture war of the Christian establishment against rock music ever since, well, rock music started. Elvis was too dangerous with his swiveling hips. The Beatles made young girls scream just a little too loud. Black Sabbath worshiped the devil.
Green Day sang songs about jerking off. It doesn’t seem like much of a statement to rally behind, but that’s not really the point. They had something to say beyond that. For the first time I really listened to “Minority” and realized what they were saying when they referred to the Moral Majority. I think I’ve always known they were referring to it, but I didn’t realize that they were firing an intentional salvo in the culture wars.
Last Thursday I realized something: the culture wars are over.
It might not seem like it, because we’re seeing a furious rear-guard action. But I can tell you a story about a thirteen year-old kid who put away his copy of Dookie because he’d been told it was of the Devil.
I can also tell you the story of a twenty-nine year-old who went to see Green Day sixteen years later.
--------------------------------
[1]Or something. I’m still a bit lost on how “Jeremy” really fit in to the whole motif. How the fuck you get any particular “rock is evil” message out of “Jeremy” is completely and totally beyond me. I mean, the song is a story about an abused kid who lashes out and eventually ends up committing suicide.
I suppose this is one of those INOUIITB (It’s Not Okay Unless it’s In the Bible) moments. If “Jeremy” had been a story about Demon possession or some other such BS from an appropriately Christian source it probably would have been a morality play set to the music of Carman. The fact that it involved a grunge rock band singing the evil Devil’s music meant it didn’t work that way because it would have blown the doors wide open on any number of assumptions.
[2]Thank Jeebus that “Brain Stew” wasn’t out yet…
[3]In an incident that involved Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” and a maroon minivan on the way back from the youth group’s Spring Break Work Trip. Yeah, I sold my soul to rock and roll that day. I think I got a pretty good price, too…
[4]This was in that weird sweet spot where I liked Pearl Jam because “Spin the Black Circle” had not been played every twenty minutes on Q101. Seriously, I hated Pearl Jam for about eight or ten years after that. Still can’t stand “Spin the Black Circle.” Also, I’ve never owned Smash and never will.
[5]Okay, there’s a non-zero chance that I gave that to Velvet Revolver’s Contraband, mostly because I was a fucking moron in 2004.
Okay, no. I just looked. I gave the number 1 to American Idiot, the number two to Contraband, and the number 4 to Local H’s Whatever Happened to P.J. Soles? In at number 3? Collective Soul’s Youth. What the hell was wrong with me in 2004? American Idiot and PJ Soles were obviously the best two albums on that list, not for the least reason that they’re the only ones I still listen to. This, of course, totally ignores the fact that RCPM’s Americano! came out in 2004 and isn’t even on the list. But the simple reason for that is that I wouldn’t become aware of RCPM until early in 2005. I also totally feel like I’ve sidetracked in to berating past me about the year 2004 in music at several points in the past on this blog. But that 2-4 is completely unforgivable, as is the rest of the list. Honestly, I’m embarrassed to mention any of the other albums I liked in 2004 save U2’s Vertigo. It wasn’t a very good album, but it had a couple of good songs and “Love and Peace or Else” is genuinely amazing.
[6]This isn’t exactly what the “Jesus of Suburbia” in American Idiot refers to. But it’s how I’m using it.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Is Just Sayin', is All...
So the A.H.A.S.D.A.C. was woefully under-represented at my Six Months in Hell Party. However, there is an opportunity for, um, redemption? Yeah. I'ma call it redemption.
Next Saturday. Lost Immigrants are doing a show in Plano. I'm thinking of having a meeting...
Next Saturday. Lost Immigrants are doing a show in Plano. I'm thinking of having a meeting...
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
So, In Case Anyone's Wondering...
The universe loves me.
Seriously. I'm heading back to Chicago some time in the neighborhood of October 8th and will be there for the next week.
Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers just announced they're doing a show at Joe's on Weed Street on October 9th.
Kismet. Karma. Whatever you want to call it, I have it.
Seriously. I'm heading back to Chicago some time in the neighborhood of October 8th and will be there for the next week.
Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers just announced they're doing a show at Joe's on Weed Street on October 9th.
Kismet. Karma. Whatever you want to call it, I have it.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Something Better
The harder I fight the stronger it’s a comin’
I wipe the tears from my eyes
and keep on strummin’
Baby, I ain’t runnin’ away
I’m tryin’ to find you something better inside me
--RCPM, “Your Name on a Grain of Rice”
It’s something that puzzles me greatly, the sort of conundrum that I feel would unlock any number of other realizations if I could only puzzle through the ramifications, if I could only make sense of the differences in light of the similarities.
Two girls, separated by seven years. They never met each other, probably never will. The only thing they have in common is me. Well, there’s other stuff, too. Daddy issues, judgmentalism, incessant moralizing about crap that doesn’t really matter, lack of compunction in the realm of being willing to use a certain moronic member of the male gender as long as it suited their purposes (y’know, this guy).
I came to despise one. She spent nine years trying to get me to be her friend again.
I guess the other came to despise me. I spent a year and a half trying to win her back. And somewhere in the back of my mind I still think it would be fantastic to run in to her the next time I’m in Chicago. Oddly enough, I think it would mostly be to have the chance to rub her face in everything she’s missed out on. But what’s the point of that?
There are really only two options. The first is to hear, “I totally want you back in my life,” and to graciously accept that. The second is to hear, “I totally want you back in my life,” and to say, “Ha, you should have thought of that way back when.”
So I’ve wandered out in to the world. I’ve made, for a time, my second home in Brookfield, Madison, Milwaukee, and Texas cantinas. I like to think I’ve come back wiser and found that something better inside me.
And yet I’ve discovered that deep down inside I’m still perfectly capable of petty cruelty. I’m still perfectly capable of irrational desires for things I don’t want, don’t need, and know better than to chase after. So have I really found anything better inside me? Or have I just discovered that the search is futile?
And I said, “Mama, mama, mama, why am I so alone?”
I can’t go outside I’m scared I might not make it home
Well I’m alive, I’m alive, and I’m sinking in
If there’s anyone at home at your place, darlin’
Why don’t you invite me in?
--Counting Crows, “Rain King”*
There was a time in my life when I counted the passage of time by who and what had left me behind. I don’t know why. Somehow I had this idea early on that if I left a place and came back everything would be exactly as it had been. It turned out that was wrong, and that realization shocked me.
I tried to hang on to people and moments in an attempt to savor every moment. I tried to hang on to people and moments in an attempt to make sure nothing ever changed.
It turns out that you can’t do that. Not every moment can be the greatest moment of your life. Not every person can be the most important person in your life. But as long as I was staying in place and the world was revolving around me I didn’t notice it.
See, I very rarely left a place behind. Everyone and everything left me. Such is the danger of spending the first twenty-three years of your life in the same town, going to the same places, seeing many of the same people. Everything becomes irretrievably filled with memories, impressions, and emotions. The ghosts of everyone you’ve ever known take up permanent residence in every building, every restaurant, every store. They walk the sidewalks, sit on park benches, and stare at you as you drive past.
Or maybe that’s just me.
I think that’s why I ended up coming to love live music so much and came to like meeting musicians. I’d expect that transient connection, that fleeting moment of meeting. Jessi Lynn, the guys from Seneca, the Peacemakers, they’d pass through my life for a couple hours, then be gone. But that was okay, because I expected them to leave. Besides, they’d leave that most meaningful connection behind in the music I could carry with me in a shiny little box. It’s the most meaningful possible connection with the most meaningless possible commitment.
My life in Chicago gradually emptied. Old friends left and I never found new ones to replace them. I had professional relationships with work acquaintances. I had my connections with storytellers, but I was gradually losing those people you could call and say, “Hey, wanna go grab a beer?” I was losing those people I could have those meaningful conversations with deep in to the night.
I was going in to hiding. I didn’t want to give anything new a try. I didn’t want to risk my heart or myself.
But you
You never realized
What I could do
Stars in your eyes
You made it true
While looking at the sky
You were searching for something better
While the better was right in front of you
--Lost Immigrants, “Something Better”
The equation, I think, is far more simple than I want to admit it actually is. I think that as long as it seems like a big, complicated equation I can puzzle it out until the end of the universe and beyond. But here’s what it comes down to:
That one girl I despised wasn’t good enough for me.
The one that despises me was too good for me.
At least, that’s my perception. Reality may well be completely and totally different, but reality doesn’t matter in this situation. Perception’s all I’ve got to go on. I can be stupid and petty and cruel because I limit the entire universe to three points on a continuum.
And, in a weird way, it allows me to hold something over the head of the one. “See,” I can say, “You didn’t think I was good enough. Well look at me now.”
Look at me, indeed.
Look at the fool who sat on his couch in Brookfield for more than a year, afraid to try anything new. Look at the fool who moved to Dallas and still thought, “Man, if she could only see me now with my new car and my job that pays the bills and then some and shit.”
I spent two fruitless years trying to prove to her that I was good enough. Why did I then spend another two years after I left trying to prove to her that I was better? That’s a fool’s errand.
She wasn’t worth the dedication I gave to her the first two years and sure as shit isn’t worth whatever I gave for the next two.
It really is that easy.
I realized at some point that if you’re sitting there saying, “Why don’t you see me as good enough?” you’ll never be good enough for that person. Ultimately the problem is that you’re not trying to convince them. You’re trying to convince yourself.
And as long as you’re having phantom conversations with the ghost of a person long-gone you’ll never be able to do that.
So I can’t find her something better inside me.
All I can do is find me something better inside me.
------------------------------
*Funny story. I was listening to Pandora whilst thinking through the various thoughts that lead to this post. I knew exactly what I was doing with the start and end, but needed a connecting thought. And Pandora played "Rain King." I suddenly had my connecting thought.
I wipe the tears from my eyes
and keep on strummin’
Baby, I ain’t runnin’ away
I’m tryin’ to find you something better inside me
--RCPM, “Your Name on a Grain of Rice”
It’s something that puzzles me greatly, the sort of conundrum that I feel would unlock any number of other realizations if I could only puzzle through the ramifications, if I could only make sense of the differences in light of the similarities.
Two girls, separated by seven years. They never met each other, probably never will. The only thing they have in common is me. Well, there’s other stuff, too. Daddy issues, judgmentalism, incessant moralizing about crap that doesn’t really matter, lack of compunction in the realm of being willing to use a certain moronic member of the male gender as long as it suited their purposes (y’know, this guy).
I came to despise one. She spent nine years trying to get me to be her friend again.
I guess the other came to despise me. I spent a year and a half trying to win her back. And somewhere in the back of my mind I still think it would be fantastic to run in to her the next time I’m in Chicago. Oddly enough, I think it would mostly be to have the chance to rub her face in everything she’s missed out on. But what’s the point of that?
There are really only two options. The first is to hear, “I totally want you back in my life,” and to graciously accept that. The second is to hear, “I totally want you back in my life,” and to say, “Ha, you should have thought of that way back when.”
So I’ve wandered out in to the world. I’ve made, for a time, my second home in Brookfield, Madison, Milwaukee, and Texas cantinas. I like to think I’ve come back wiser and found that something better inside me.
And yet I’ve discovered that deep down inside I’m still perfectly capable of petty cruelty. I’m still perfectly capable of irrational desires for things I don’t want, don’t need, and know better than to chase after. So have I really found anything better inside me? Or have I just discovered that the search is futile?
And I said, “Mama, mama, mama, why am I so alone?”
I can’t go outside I’m scared I might not make it home
Well I’m alive, I’m alive, and I’m sinking in
If there’s anyone at home at your place, darlin’
Why don’t you invite me in?
--Counting Crows, “Rain King”*
There was a time in my life when I counted the passage of time by who and what had left me behind. I don’t know why. Somehow I had this idea early on that if I left a place and came back everything would be exactly as it had been. It turned out that was wrong, and that realization shocked me.
I tried to hang on to people and moments in an attempt to savor every moment. I tried to hang on to people and moments in an attempt to make sure nothing ever changed.
It turns out that you can’t do that. Not every moment can be the greatest moment of your life. Not every person can be the most important person in your life. But as long as I was staying in place and the world was revolving around me I didn’t notice it.
See, I very rarely left a place behind. Everyone and everything left me. Such is the danger of spending the first twenty-three years of your life in the same town, going to the same places, seeing many of the same people. Everything becomes irretrievably filled with memories, impressions, and emotions. The ghosts of everyone you’ve ever known take up permanent residence in every building, every restaurant, every store. They walk the sidewalks, sit on park benches, and stare at you as you drive past.
Or maybe that’s just me.
I think that’s why I ended up coming to love live music so much and came to like meeting musicians. I’d expect that transient connection, that fleeting moment of meeting. Jessi Lynn, the guys from Seneca, the Peacemakers, they’d pass through my life for a couple hours, then be gone. But that was okay, because I expected them to leave. Besides, they’d leave that most meaningful connection behind in the music I could carry with me in a shiny little box. It’s the most meaningful possible connection with the most meaningless possible commitment.
My life in Chicago gradually emptied. Old friends left and I never found new ones to replace them. I had professional relationships with work acquaintances. I had my connections with storytellers, but I was gradually losing those people you could call and say, “Hey, wanna go grab a beer?” I was losing those people I could have those meaningful conversations with deep in to the night.
I was going in to hiding. I didn’t want to give anything new a try. I didn’t want to risk my heart or myself.
But you
You never realized
What I could do
Stars in your eyes
You made it true
While looking at the sky
You were searching for something better
While the better was right in front of you
--Lost Immigrants, “Something Better”
The equation, I think, is far more simple than I want to admit it actually is. I think that as long as it seems like a big, complicated equation I can puzzle it out until the end of the universe and beyond. But here’s what it comes down to:
That one girl I despised wasn’t good enough for me.
The one that despises me was too good for me.
At least, that’s my perception. Reality may well be completely and totally different, but reality doesn’t matter in this situation. Perception’s all I’ve got to go on. I can be stupid and petty and cruel because I limit the entire universe to three points on a continuum.
And, in a weird way, it allows me to hold something over the head of the one. “See,” I can say, “You didn’t think I was good enough. Well look at me now.”
Look at me, indeed.
Look at the fool who sat on his couch in Brookfield for more than a year, afraid to try anything new. Look at the fool who moved to Dallas and still thought, “Man, if she could only see me now with my new car and my job that pays the bills and then some and shit.”
I spent two fruitless years trying to prove to her that I was good enough. Why did I then spend another two years after I left trying to prove to her that I was better? That’s a fool’s errand.
She wasn’t worth the dedication I gave to her the first two years and sure as shit isn’t worth whatever I gave for the next two.
It really is that easy.
I realized at some point that if you’re sitting there saying, “Why don’t you see me as good enough?” you’ll never be good enough for that person. Ultimately the problem is that you’re not trying to convince them. You’re trying to convince yourself.
And as long as you’re having phantom conversations with the ghost of a person long-gone you’ll never be able to do that.
So I can’t find her something better inside me.
All I can do is find me something better inside me.
------------------------------
*Funny story. I was listening to Pandora whilst thinking through the various thoughts that lead to this post. I knew exactly what I was doing with the start and end, but needed a connecting thought. And Pandora played "Rain King." I suddenly had my connecting thought.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Tuesday Fluffiness
And I wonder where I’ll be in a year
Probably be sitting right here
And if you know the answer don’t tell me anyone
‘Cuz I don’t wanna know
--The Refreshments, “Don’t Wanna Know”
I’m not quite ready to start my gazillion-part series on religion in the Byzantine Empire. In truth, I have it whittled down to what seems to be an extremely manageable series of posts, but I haven’t entirely figured out how to pull it together yet. Besides, I feel like getting some thoughts out of the way, so I’ve decided to write one of those disjointed, fluffy posts in the hopes that everything in it will tie together by the end.
I think the best place to start is on my couch. And not just because that’s where I’m sitting right now.
Last week I was sitting on my couch talking to one of my best friends about life, women, and, well, women (seriously, what else is there to talk about?). All of the sudden the image of a dorm room in Lincoln Hall at Western Illinois University flashed through my mind and I started laughing. He seemed confused.
“Five years ago when we were sitting at Western talking about girls would you have believed we’d be sitting here doing this now?” I asked (or something similar).
He didn’t find it quite as funny as I did. Of course he hadn’t had quite the week I’d had…
---------------------------
What if we offered
All these broken hearted pieces to the sky
Would it be enough
To keep on living ‘til tomorrow comes
What if everything
Disappeared to gone and all that’s left
Is a circle in my hand
All that’s left is a circle in my hand
--Lost Immigrants, “Circle in My Hand”
I came to Dallas with a broken heart.
I came to Dallas convinced that I’d be leaving again as quickly as possible.
I came to Dallas convinced that no good could come out of the transition.
I was just here to do my job, make a few bucks, and get back to Chicago. Move along, nothing to see here. Of course I came down here with a single, pretty well set attitude about life: life is what happens while you’re waiting for life to happen.
Once I got done being pissed about everything I started to realize that, hey, I had a point. Funny how that works…
I was talking about weight loss today. Specifically I was talking about how no matter what you do to your body, it eventually adjusts. You can go on a crash diet and lose a bunch of weight, but eventually the body will realize what’s happened and the diet will stop being effective. You can start working out, but eventually the same old routine will stop being particularly effective.
The only way to keep moving forward is to keep changing things around.
I think that’s pretty much the way everything works in life. I had to change my life when I moved. And having to change has made all the difference.
Oddly enough, I think that it helps that I moved to a place I didn’t particularly want to live. If something bad happens in Dallas or something ends up sucking, well, that’s what I expected, anyway. But if something good happens it’s a surprise, it’s a delight. That’s expectation management at its finest.
----------------------------
I want you to be my love
I want you to be my love
'Neath the moon and the stars above
I want you to be my love
'Cause I want you
I know all you--
All you've been through
--Over the Rhine, “I Want You to Be My Love”
It’s impossible to make it to thirty without a certain amount of baggage. We live in a world of pain, of longing, of missed opportunity, of broken hearts and love gone bad. We’re all capable of immense cruelty and extreme thoughtlessness.
The question, then, isn’t where we’ve been, but what we’ve survived. The question isn’t about whether we can find someone who is perfect, but whether we can find someone who has figured out how to live with their imperfections, learn from their mistakes, and make it through life with an unbroken spirit. It’s about finding out whether you can make my life brighter, better, happier and can I do the same for you?
I used to think it was possible to find perfection. I used to think, as so many others I knew believed, that god had somehow preserved a single, perfect someone just for me. It’s an odd thought, that, when you consider that I knew that I was nothing if not imperfect.
I find that the farther my life trajectory takes me from Christianity the more I love Slacktivist and Over the Rhine. The words that I find in those places speak to a longing I don’t think I heard anywhere in the churches I attended. It’s a longing for a better world, but one where we make it better by putting in the work, not just by praying and expecting god to fix it all.
You can’t try to find perfection. You can’t expect to love in spite of imperfection.
The only real option is to love because of imperfection. A wise man once said, “Beauty is beauty in spite of perfection,” after all. Also, something about, “Better beautiful than perfect, anyway.”
I’ve also come to the conclusion that this wisdom needs to be applied to places as well as people.
Probably be sitting right here
And if you know the answer don’t tell me anyone
‘Cuz I don’t wanna know
--The Refreshments, “Don’t Wanna Know”
I’m not quite ready to start my gazillion-part series on religion in the Byzantine Empire. In truth, I have it whittled down to what seems to be an extremely manageable series of posts, but I haven’t entirely figured out how to pull it together yet. Besides, I feel like getting some thoughts out of the way, so I’ve decided to write one of those disjointed, fluffy posts in the hopes that everything in it will tie together by the end.
I think the best place to start is on my couch. And not just because that’s where I’m sitting right now.
Last week I was sitting on my couch talking to one of my best friends about life, women, and, well, women (seriously, what else is there to talk about?). All of the sudden the image of a dorm room in Lincoln Hall at Western Illinois University flashed through my mind and I started laughing. He seemed confused.
“Five years ago when we were sitting at Western talking about girls would you have believed we’d be sitting here doing this now?” I asked (or something similar).
He didn’t find it quite as funny as I did. Of course he hadn’t had quite the week I’d had…
---------------------------
What if we offered
All these broken hearted pieces to the sky
Would it be enough
To keep on living ‘til tomorrow comes
What if everything
Disappeared to gone and all that’s left
Is a circle in my hand
All that’s left is a circle in my hand
--Lost Immigrants, “Circle in My Hand”
I came to Dallas with a broken heart.
I came to Dallas convinced that I’d be leaving again as quickly as possible.
I came to Dallas convinced that no good could come out of the transition.
I was just here to do my job, make a few bucks, and get back to Chicago. Move along, nothing to see here. Of course I came down here with a single, pretty well set attitude about life: life is what happens while you’re waiting for life to happen.
Once I got done being pissed about everything I started to realize that, hey, I had a point. Funny how that works…
I was talking about weight loss today. Specifically I was talking about how no matter what you do to your body, it eventually adjusts. You can go on a crash diet and lose a bunch of weight, but eventually the body will realize what’s happened and the diet will stop being effective. You can start working out, but eventually the same old routine will stop being particularly effective.
The only way to keep moving forward is to keep changing things around.
I think that’s pretty much the way everything works in life. I had to change my life when I moved. And having to change has made all the difference.
Oddly enough, I think that it helps that I moved to a place I didn’t particularly want to live. If something bad happens in Dallas or something ends up sucking, well, that’s what I expected, anyway. But if something good happens it’s a surprise, it’s a delight. That’s expectation management at its finest.
----------------------------
I want you to be my love
I want you to be my love
'Neath the moon and the stars above
I want you to be my love
'Cause I want you
I know all you--
All you've been through
--Over the Rhine, “I Want You to Be My Love”
It’s impossible to make it to thirty without a certain amount of baggage. We live in a world of pain, of longing, of missed opportunity, of broken hearts and love gone bad. We’re all capable of immense cruelty and extreme thoughtlessness.
The question, then, isn’t where we’ve been, but what we’ve survived. The question isn’t about whether we can find someone who is perfect, but whether we can find someone who has figured out how to live with their imperfections, learn from their mistakes, and make it through life with an unbroken spirit. It’s about finding out whether you can make my life brighter, better, happier and can I do the same for you?
I used to think it was possible to find perfection. I used to think, as so many others I knew believed, that god had somehow preserved a single, perfect someone just for me. It’s an odd thought, that, when you consider that I knew that I was nothing if not imperfect.
I find that the farther my life trajectory takes me from Christianity the more I love Slacktivist and Over the Rhine. The words that I find in those places speak to a longing I don’t think I heard anywhere in the churches I attended. It’s a longing for a better world, but one where we make it better by putting in the work, not just by praying and expecting god to fix it all.
You can’t try to find perfection. You can’t expect to love in spite of imperfection.
The only real option is to love because of imperfection. A wise man once said, “Beauty is beauty in spite of perfection,” after all. Also, something about, “Better beautiful than perfect, anyway.”
I’ve also come to the conclusion that this wisdom needs to be applied to places as well as people.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Open it Up and Let My Yearning Shine
And the true dope on salvation is
Two weeks in a clinic
And a public testimonial
You tell them kids
Tell them not to hurt themselves
Speeding fast from who you were
--Mike Doughty, “No Peace, Los Angeles”
Four trains of thought came crashing together in my mind.
It’s strange how that happens to me. All the trains start from the same station running on parallel tracks. I can usually tell that they are related. Sometimes I can even tell how. But it’s not until that moment of clarity that I realize why they were all running.
I’ve often tried to figure out how to communicate that moment of convergence but I’ve concluded that it’s impossible. So, in the spirit of my new dabblings in written minimalism, I’m going to try something different.
------------------------
When will I hear the click?
When will I know that it is time to split?
What is the use of it?
What is my life without the heart at risk?
--Mike Doughty, “40 Grand in the Hole”
I wrote a paraphrase of that last line on my own blog comments while sitting in the Chupacabra Cantina in Austin, TX. It was some 14 hours after something happened that I had begun to think would never, ever happen again. Some 72 hours after that I sat and looked at the lyrics and realized something:
It’s a song about addiction.
More than that, it’s a song about wanting out.
I don’t understand the specific situation that lead to the song and hope I never, ever will. But I’m pretty sure I understand the concept all too well.
-----------------------------
I realized at some point over the course of my oft inane and pathetic ramblings about Her that I wasn’t actually talking about Her. Not really. She’d always represented something bigger, something more fundamental about my universe and my place in it than she or I understood.
She was supposed to save me.
In time I realized that she couldn’t.
It wasn’t a clean path from Point A to Point B. And I’m reasonably certain that much psychological violence was done during and after. In fact, I know it was.
-----------------------------
Now the harder I fight the stronger it’s coming
I wipe the tears from my eye and keep on strumming
I ain’t running away
Just trying to find you something better inside me
--RCPM, “Your Name on a Grain of Rice”
Worship concerts used to open up something inside of me that rarely ever peeked out. When I started to lose the ability to connect with god I started to lose the ability to connect to that part of myself. For a while I desperately clung to her, hoping that she would allow me to find that part of me.
But she didn’t want to. I think she was tired of the game, tired of my neediness. She had her own shit to deal with, too.
She had been supposed to lead me back to god, but it didn’t work. Then she had been supposed to lead me back to that part of myself I was losing, but it didn’t work. Finally she was just supposed to give me some reason to believe there was a purpose in continuing on. That didn’t work, either.
----------------------
It screams at me from the pages of my mis-remembered college paper drafts. It unlocks so many things that I never quite connected, never quite understood. Even though I know I’ve mentioned it, I know I’ve said the words, even though I’ve acknowledged it as a factor, I’ve never realized that it was the driving, central factor.
Salvation.
I wanted it. I needed it. I genuinely believed she could provide it.
It’s why I left the church behind, but I tried to stay with her. It’s why I recognized that nothing would ever happen but still tried. It’s why I finally realized that there would have to be a final split but still kept myself tethered to the idea of her. I couldn’t figure out anything else to do.
-----------------------
It’s been more than two years. I’ve been on quite a few first dates, approximately zero second dates. I began to wonder a while ago if that was it, if I would never again be able to make a connection to anyone, never again meet someone and actually want her in my life again. I began to wonder if I was emotionally crippled, doomed to relive a shitty, stillborn relationship endlessly because it was the best I’d be able to do ever again.
In one night that question was answered. I may never see that girl in red again (and, I must begrudgingly admit, the prospects don’t look too good at the moment, which makes me a sad panda), but no matter what happens I now know one thing: I’m still capable of having all those feelings. I want to have all those feelings.
I repeated a line I’d recently come up with to a friend of mine recently. “I’m as warm and fluffy as a Brillo pad.” She told me that she doesn’t buy it, that she thinks I protest too much, that I’m just trying to cover.
I argued the point, but I’m pretty sure she’s right.
--------------------
Never thought I’d need someone to save me
Now I’ll be free as soon as you enslave me
--RCPM, “I Don’t Need Another Thrill”
It seems strange to disagree with a Peacemakers song. But at some point over the last week I heard that line and realized that no, no it doesn’t work that way.
I heard a lot about it in church, you see. We were supposed to hand over our sovereignty to Jesus, let him take control. Only then could we be freed from the world. Slavery described as freedom.
Of course one doesn’t just hand over their freedom to another without repercussion. There’s rebellion. Within the Christian context it’s the flesh striking back in its sinful, horrible way. At least, that’s the general story.
It’s impossible to live that perfect, godly life. Because those who try have to stop being themselves to a certain extent. There is a part of the enslaved soul that longs to be free.
There is a part of the newly freed soul that seeks re-enslavement.
It’s a vicious cycle.
That story of Jesus as perfect sovereign is a myth we keep telling ourselves. Jesus doesn’t save.
Jesus can’t save.
Any more than she could. Any more than anyone can.
-------------------------
I hate the way the story writes itself.
Boy does a bunch of stupid, idiotic, self-defeating things. Fate sends boy to a place he doesn’t want to live. Boy finally starts to accept that this is his life. Boy finally starts to have fun.
Girl walks in to boy’s life at that exact moment. Girl has had her own pain, her own heartache, her own happiness.
Girl tells boy she’ll break his heart in six months. Boy takes girl up on the offer because he’s finally learned that tomorrow can take care of itself, it’s only today that matters.
And, of course, they live happily ever after.
But it’s too neat, too tidy.
That story doesn’t exist.
----------------------------
It’s not what is that’s the killer. It’s what could have been.
But at least I now know the thing I’ve most needed to learn. There’s something in between a life unfettered and a life enslaved. Neither extreme leads to true healthiness or happiness.
It’s that in between spot I need to find.
And that story is still writing itself.
Two weeks in a clinic
And a public testimonial
You tell them kids
Tell them not to hurt themselves
Speeding fast from who you were
--Mike Doughty, “No Peace, Los Angeles”
Four trains of thought came crashing together in my mind.
It’s strange how that happens to me. All the trains start from the same station running on parallel tracks. I can usually tell that they are related. Sometimes I can even tell how. But it’s not until that moment of clarity that I realize why they were all running.
I’ve often tried to figure out how to communicate that moment of convergence but I’ve concluded that it’s impossible. So, in the spirit of my new dabblings in written minimalism, I’m going to try something different.
------------------------
When will I hear the click?
When will I know that it is time to split?
What is the use of it?
What is my life without the heart at risk?
--Mike Doughty, “40 Grand in the Hole”
I wrote a paraphrase of that last line on my own blog comments while sitting in the Chupacabra Cantina in Austin, TX. It was some 14 hours after something happened that I had begun to think would never, ever happen again. Some 72 hours after that I sat and looked at the lyrics and realized something:
It’s a song about addiction.
More than that, it’s a song about wanting out.
I don’t understand the specific situation that lead to the song and hope I never, ever will. But I’m pretty sure I understand the concept all too well.
-----------------------------
I realized at some point over the course of my oft inane and pathetic ramblings about Her that I wasn’t actually talking about Her. Not really. She’d always represented something bigger, something more fundamental about my universe and my place in it than she or I understood.
She was supposed to save me.
In time I realized that she couldn’t.
It wasn’t a clean path from Point A to Point B. And I’m reasonably certain that much psychological violence was done during and after. In fact, I know it was.
-----------------------------
Now the harder I fight the stronger it’s coming
I wipe the tears from my eye and keep on strumming
I ain’t running away
Just trying to find you something better inside me
--RCPM, “Your Name on a Grain of Rice”
Worship concerts used to open up something inside of me that rarely ever peeked out. When I started to lose the ability to connect with god I started to lose the ability to connect to that part of myself. For a while I desperately clung to her, hoping that she would allow me to find that part of me.
But she didn’t want to. I think she was tired of the game, tired of my neediness. She had her own shit to deal with, too.
She had been supposed to lead me back to god, but it didn’t work. Then she had been supposed to lead me back to that part of myself I was losing, but it didn’t work. Finally she was just supposed to give me some reason to believe there was a purpose in continuing on. That didn’t work, either.
----------------------
It screams at me from the pages of my mis-remembered college paper drafts. It unlocks so many things that I never quite connected, never quite understood. Even though I know I’ve mentioned it, I know I’ve said the words, even though I’ve acknowledged it as a factor, I’ve never realized that it was the driving, central factor.
Salvation.
I wanted it. I needed it. I genuinely believed she could provide it.
It’s why I left the church behind, but I tried to stay with her. It’s why I recognized that nothing would ever happen but still tried. It’s why I finally realized that there would have to be a final split but still kept myself tethered to the idea of her. I couldn’t figure out anything else to do.
-----------------------
It’s been more than two years. I’ve been on quite a few first dates, approximately zero second dates. I began to wonder a while ago if that was it, if I would never again be able to make a connection to anyone, never again meet someone and actually want her in my life again. I began to wonder if I was emotionally crippled, doomed to relive a shitty, stillborn relationship endlessly because it was the best I’d be able to do ever again.
In one night that question was answered. I may never see that girl in red again (and, I must begrudgingly admit, the prospects don’t look too good at the moment, which makes me a sad panda), but no matter what happens I now know one thing: I’m still capable of having all those feelings. I want to have all those feelings.
I repeated a line I’d recently come up with to a friend of mine recently. “I’m as warm and fluffy as a Brillo pad.” She told me that she doesn’t buy it, that she thinks I protest too much, that I’m just trying to cover.
I argued the point, but I’m pretty sure she’s right.
--------------------
Never thought I’d need someone to save me
Now I’ll be free as soon as you enslave me
--RCPM, “I Don’t Need Another Thrill”
It seems strange to disagree with a Peacemakers song. But at some point over the last week I heard that line and realized that no, no it doesn’t work that way.
I heard a lot about it in church, you see. We were supposed to hand over our sovereignty to Jesus, let him take control. Only then could we be freed from the world. Slavery described as freedom.
Of course one doesn’t just hand over their freedom to another without repercussion. There’s rebellion. Within the Christian context it’s the flesh striking back in its sinful, horrible way. At least, that’s the general story.
It’s impossible to live that perfect, godly life. Because those who try have to stop being themselves to a certain extent. There is a part of the enslaved soul that longs to be free.
There is a part of the newly freed soul that seeks re-enslavement.
It’s a vicious cycle.
That story of Jesus as perfect sovereign is a myth we keep telling ourselves. Jesus doesn’t save.
Jesus can’t save.
Any more than she could. Any more than anyone can.
-------------------------
I hate the way the story writes itself.
Boy does a bunch of stupid, idiotic, self-defeating things. Fate sends boy to a place he doesn’t want to live. Boy finally starts to accept that this is his life. Boy finally starts to have fun.
Girl walks in to boy’s life at that exact moment. Girl has had her own pain, her own heartache, her own happiness.
Girl tells boy she’ll break his heart in six months. Boy takes girl up on the offer because he’s finally learned that tomorrow can take care of itself, it’s only today that matters.
And, of course, they live happily ever after.
But it’s too neat, too tidy.
That story doesn’t exist.
----------------------------
It’s not what is that’s the killer. It’s what could have been.
But at least I now know the thing I’ve most needed to learn. There’s something in between a life unfettered and a life enslaved. Neither extreme leads to true healthiness or happiness.
It’s that in between spot I need to find.
And that story is still writing itself.
This Might be the Best Idea I've Ever Had...Or the Worst...
On January 9th, 2010 I rolled across the border from Oklahoma in to Texas.
That means that we’re just over a week from my six month anniversary in the state of Texas. My first thought was to spend July 9th, 2010 quietly drinking myself in to oblivion. Then I realized it would be a hell of a lot more fun to noisily drink myself in to oblivion.
After that I decided it would be even better to skip the “drink myself in to oblivion” part. So I’ve decided I’m going to have a party.
I’m affectionately referring to the plan as the “Six Months in Hell” party.
This plan is still in its infancy, but the basic outline is this: I want to get everyone I know in the general Dallas area together (well, y’know, everyone I know that I like. And that can make it). I’m also a lazy, lazy bum, so I have a strong desire to do as little actual work as possible.
Fortunately, it appears as though the Lost Immigrants may have helped me solve that problem.
The Lost Immigrants, as you may or may not know, are not only my favorite Dallas-based band, they’re also the only Dallas-based band that I know of. And they’re doing a show on the 23rd at the White Elephant Saloon in Fort Worth and another on the 30th at the Tap-In Grill in Grapevine.
I’m thinking this: July 30th, Geds’s “Six Months in Hell” party at the Tap-In Grill in Grapevine. With far more interesting entertainment provided by the Lost Immigrants, because I’m not actually all that cool.
Also, it will be 103% vuvuzela-free.
And just for y'all:
That means that we’re just over a week from my six month anniversary in the state of Texas. My first thought was to spend July 9th, 2010 quietly drinking myself in to oblivion. Then I realized it would be a hell of a lot more fun to noisily drink myself in to oblivion.
After that I decided it would be even better to skip the “drink myself in to oblivion” part. So I’ve decided I’m going to have a party.
I’m affectionately referring to the plan as the “Six Months in Hell” party.
This plan is still in its infancy, but the basic outline is this: I want to get everyone I know in the general Dallas area together (well, y’know, everyone I know that I like. And that can make it). I’m also a lazy, lazy bum, so I have a strong desire to do as little actual work as possible.
Fortunately, it appears as though the Lost Immigrants may have helped me solve that problem.
The Lost Immigrants, as you may or may not know, are not only my favorite Dallas-based band, they’re also the only Dallas-based band that I know of. And they’re doing a show on the 23rd at the White Elephant Saloon in Fort Worth and another on the 30th at the Tap-In Grill in Grapevine.
I’m thinking this: July 30th, Geds’s “Six Months in Hell” party at the Tap-In Grill in Grapevine. With far more interesting entertainment provided by the Lost Immigrants, because I’m not actually all that cool.
Also, it will be 103% vuvuzela-free.
And just for y'all:
Monday, June 28, 2010
Because I KNOW Y'All Want to Go to this...
Saturday, July 3rd (as in, "this coming Saturday...") is the Randy Rogers Band Stockyard Stampede at the world famous Billy Bob's Texas. Kinda. I don't really know how it actually works, since the thing is outside.
Either way, when are you ever going to see the Randy Rogers Band headline a show that includes Everclear and...wait for it...MC Hammer. That's right. MC fucking Hammer.
Also, Sons of Bill will be there. They did yeoman's work opening for the Peacemakers at the Wormy Dog. I'm a fan. Literally. I'm a fan on Facebook.
Either way, when are you ever going to see the Randy Rogers Band headline a show that includes Everclear and...wait for it...MC Hammer. That's right. MC fucking Hammer.
Also, Sons of Bill will be there. They did yeoman's work opening for the Peacemakers at the Wormy Dog. I'm a fan. Literally. I'm a fan on Facebook.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Well Who Said Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder?
I rolled out of Austin just after nine o’clock on Saturday morning, bound for the Hill Country.
One of the footnotes to my random concertgoing is that I use it as an excuse to travel. I’m not one for tourism for its own sake, nor do I like the idea of going somewhere and sitting on a beach. But I do like seeing my world.
Now, I’m not going to lie. I didn’t go to the Peacemakers show in Appleton, Wisconsin last year because I’ve always wanted to see…um, whatever it is that Appleton is famous for (nothing? I’ma guess nothing). But I saw Local H in April as an excuse to go to Houston and Galveston (I saw the Johnson Space Center and, just in case anyone missed it, a battleship…). This trip is as much about seeing Austin as seeing the Peacemakers in Austin.
But there’s something else I want to see. Fredericksburg, Texas is the birthplace of Admiral Chester Nimitz and the home of the National Museum of the Pacific War. It’s also deep in the heart of Hill Country, which is very high on the list of parts of Texas I want to see (seeing as how being deep in the heart of North Texas Flood Plain Country just doesn’t have that same cachet).
The Hill Country, for the record, is beautiful. I headed in to them with Reckless Kelly and the Randy Rogers Band blasting out of my speakers. It was pretty much the perfect combination of moment, music, and machine.
I contemplated, as is my wont, the trips I took for Rogtober last year and the Local H in Houston expedition and how they compared to Rogapalooza. The thing I found most surprising was this: unlike my two previous forays in to the world of following bands around for fun and profit, yesterday I wished I wasn’t alone.
When I went to Houston I considered being alone an advantage. After all, I figured, who would be willing to let me cut across three lanes of traffic to look at a battleship?
-------------------------------
My final semester at Western Illinois University I wrote the same paper thee different times. It was the final project for Religious Studies 455: Personal Transformation. The class was about how people find and respond to the presence of the numinous. It was a fantastic class, but one I don’t think I managed to truly appreciate, since I was still trying to repair my recently sundered faith and make it appropriately Evangelical-y again.
That final paper was supposed to be about my own journey. This, I think, is a dangerous thing to ask me to write about. Especially the me of 2006, who still had an awful lot to learn.
Here’s how I remember the story: I decided I was going to build a narrative around a three-pronged approach. The A part (for lack of a better term) would be a narrative of me explaining what I had most recently learned, the B part would be a biography of the important things that led to me needing to learn those lessons, and the C part would be meaningful song lyrics chosen as visual and conceptual dividers between the two. I wrote it, proudly shot off a copy of it to Her, and she told me that it wasn’t very good. So I wrote a second one that ended up being a colossal, bloated boondoggle. I finally wrote a third that didn’t, y’know, suck.
When I wrote my post entitled “The New Normal”[1] last week it was, in a way, the culmination of that project. In fact, I’ve recently written no fewer than three posts that basically owe their very existence to that paper, including “The New Normal.” I felt compelled to go back and see how far I’d progressed since writing that boondoggle of a paper.
The evidence indicates that my memory was faulty. Surprisingly faulty, in fact.
The first version of the paper is actually good, if still a bit unnecessarily verbose and ending with a line that appears to be tacked on for no damn good reason. Still, it was a draft, so those things are to be expected.
Thing is, that first version is a lot sweeter and more honest than I think I realized I was capable of being at the time. Quite frankly, if the me of today were the one making the decision about that paper I think I would have realized exactly why She told me it was bad and turned it in anyway. Y’know, with some editing.
The second version…yeah. That one does suck. It has its moments and a couple of touching interludes, but I was trying to make my original idea work in some way that would make Her happy. She, not surprisingly, didn’t like it. I don’t like it.
But the one that I really don’t like is the third version. It is completely bereft of the creativity that drove the idea the first time and reads as an apologia for wanting to be creative. There’s also a massive subtext of me apologizing to Her for, I guess, the first two versions of the paper. I capitulated as completely as possible.
This was before I knew nothing would ever come of the relationship. But it’s pretty obvious that I was still trying to hold on to my initial idea of Her and She was trying to figure out how to end things at that early stage.
I’ve now figured out what I’ve been running from for these past two years. The evidence stares at me from the screen of my old Toshiba laptop. On some level it’s a little frightening how blatantly obvious everything is.
I’ve got this conception of the start of a relationship ending my ability to live my life. Maybe the problem isn’t relationships. Maybe it’s that I’m bad at picking the right person. This isn’t a new observation, but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen the concept illustrated so starkly.
-----------------------------
So Gruene Hall in New Braunfels, TX is awesome. It’s this 130 or so year-old building that lacks air conditioning. But it’s got beat up, squishy wood floors that feel a lot like the Double Door in Chicago and pretty much one of the best vibes I’ve ever gotten out of a concert venue.
The sound check is also completely open to the public. I wandered in a bit before 6 PM while RCPM was setting up.
They ran through one of their new songs, too.
Now, I started doing my usual thing wherein I took down the setlist. When the list partially disappeared at the Antone’s show on Friday I decided to be extra careful. Every line I hit [return], [done], and exited out of Notes to auto save. Midway through the main set I turned Notes on and – I shit you not – watched about a dozen lines disappear. Where I had had half a set list all of the sudden I just had “Mexico.”[2]
Either way, it was an awesome set. Highlights included, in no particular order, “Buffalo,” “Suckerpunch,” “Fonder and Blonder,” “Broken Record,” and the new songs “Empty Highway” and “Heaven on a Paper Plate.”
I’ma slap up my vids of “Fonder and Blonder”
And “Broken Record”[3]
And I’ll borrow Raquel’s vid of “Empty Highway,” since she was standing directly in front of me and has the same camera I do, except in silver.
Either way, it’s been an awesome week. And it ended with a great show in an awesome venue.
----------------------------
I left my heart in Chicago, my anger in Oklahoma City, my fear in Fort Worth, and my liver in Austin.[4]
I wasn’t really expecting this to happen, since it didn’t really happen during Rogtober, but Rogapalooza became something like a retreat. Except the worship sections had better music, there was beer, tequila, and whiskey to be had, and Austin, TX is way better than some random youth camp in bufu, Wisconsin.
One of my friends tells me that he thinks this has replaced church for me. In a real, meaningful way it has.
For some reason there’s a level of catharsis I can only get at concerts, almost specifically Peacemakers concerts. I used to get it on retreats. I can’t explain what, specifically it is.
But in doing this, in basically withdrawing from my normal world for a couple of days (and, I think, it helps that I kept seeing the same people, who were there for the same reason…) I hit the reset button. And, unlike a retreat, where the basic takeaway is, “Be more Jesus-y and evangelize, dammit!” my basic takeaway from Peacemakers shows is this:
So as cliché as it might sound
I’d like to raise another round
And if your bottle’s empty
Help yourself to mine
Thank you for your time
And here’s to life
Or, to put it another way: life’s too short to sit around bitching and being afraid. It’s best to live life surrounded by good friends, good vibes, good music, and good beer.
I’ve heard that love is a nice addition, too.
--------------------------
[1]The Refreshments “Nada” figures prominently in the second version of that paper, for the record. I love that song. I could write quite a bit on the idea of waiting for my cold black, sun cracked, numb inside soul to come alive…
[2]This, then, lead to a profanity-laced tirade on Facebook of epic proportions. Seriously. I do not know what the fuck they’re thinking over there in Cupertino, but I would like to have my Notes pages actually preserve my, y’know, notes. When I’m sitting there thinking of future alternatives to using my iPhone for such things that include bringing back the Tilt and hoping it has enough battery power if it’s not actually on a network or carrying a pen and paper around, the iPhone has officially failed at an extremely basic function. It’s inexcusable.
However, I did get a response to my tirade from one of my old high school youth leaders. It started with “Nice swears.” This would be your basic passive-aggressive reminder from the morality police that I’m living a lifestyle that is not properly approved of. To which I say, “So fucking what?”
[3]I was walking down 10th Street in Austin on Friday and actually saw an extremely dead bird wedged in to the grill of a big, white van. I had to think about you…
[4]Seriously. I gave it to this guy. He said he’d clean it out, give it a nice bubble bath and massage, and give it back to me in the morning. He never showed. So right now I’m using this liver I made myself out of some PVC tubing and old shop rags.
One of the footnotes to my random concertgoing is that I use it as an excuse to travel. I’m not one for tourism for its own sake, nor do I like the idea of going somewhere and sitting on a beach. But I do like seeing my world.
Now, I’m not going to lie. I didn’t go to the Peacemakers show in Appleton, Wisconsin last year because I’ve always wanted to see…um, whatever it is that Appleton is famous for (nothing? I’ma guess nothing). But I saw Local H in April as an excuse to go to Houston and Galveston (I saw the Johnson Space Center and, just in case anyone missed it, a battleship…). This trip is as much about seeing Austin as seeing the Peacemakers in Austin.
But there’s something else I want to see. Fredericksburg, Texas is the birthplace of Admiral Chester Nimitz and the home of the National Museum of the Pacific War. It’s also deep in the heart of Hill Country, which is very high on the list of parts of Texas I want to see (seeing as how being deep in the heart of North Texas Flood Plain Country just doesn’t have that same cachet).
The Hill Country, for the record, is beautiful. I headed in to them with Reckless Kelly and the Randy Rogers Band blasting out of my speakers. It was pretty much the perfect combination of moment, music, and machine.
I contemplated, as is my wont, the trips I took for Rogtober last year and the Local H in Houston expedition and how they compared to Rogapalooza. The thing I found most surprising was this: unlike my two previous forays in to the world of following bands around for fun and profit, yesterday I wished I wasn’t alone.
When I went to Houston I considered being alone an advantage. After all, I figured, who would be willing to let me cut across three lanes of traffic to look at a battleship?
-------------------------------
My final semester at Western Illinois University I wrote the same paper thee different times. It was the final project for Religious Studies 455: Personal Transformation. The class was about how people find and respond to the presence of the numinous. It was a fantastic class, but one I don’t think I managed to truly appreciate, since I was still trying to repair my recently sundered faith and make it appropriately Evangelical-y again.
That final paper was supposed to be about my own journey. This, I think, is a dangerous thing to ask me to write about. Especially the me of 2006, who still had an awful lot to learn.
Here’s how I remember the story: I decided I was going to build a narrative around a three-pronged approach. The A part (for lack of a better term) would be a narrative of me explaining what I had most recently learned, the B part would be a biography of the important things that led to me needing to learn those lessons, and the C part would be meaningful song lyrics chosen as visual and conceptual dividers between the two. I wrote it, proudly shot off a copy of it to Her, and she told me that it wasn’t very good. So I wrote a second one that ended up being a colossal, bloated boondoggle. I finally wrote a third that didn’t, y’know, suck.
When I wrote my post entitled “The New Normal”[1] last week it was, in a way, the culmination of that project. In fact, I’ve recently written no fewer than three posts that basically owe their very existence to that paper, including “The New Normal.” I felt compelled to go back and see how far I’d progressed since writing that boondoggle of a paper.
The evidence indicates that my memory was faulty. Surprisingly faulty, in fact.
The first version of the paper is actually good, if still a bit unnecessarily verbose and ending with a line that appears to be tacked on for no damn good reason. Still, it was a draft, so those things are to be expected.
Thing is, that first version is a lot sweeter and more honest than I think I realized I was capable of being at the time. Quite frankly, if the me of today were the one making the decision about that paper I think I would have realized exactly why She told me it was bad and turned it in anyway. Y’know, with some editing.
The second version…yeah. That one does suck. It has its moments and a couple of touching interludes, but I was trying to make my original idea work in some way that would make Her happy. She, not surprisingly, didn’t like it. I don’t like it.
But the one that I really don’t like is the third version. It is completely bereft of the creativity that drove the idea the first time and reads as an apologia for wanting to be creative. There’s also a massive subtext of me apologizing to Her for, I guess, the first two versions of the paper. I capitulated as completely as possible.
This was before I knew nothing would ever come of the relationship. But it’s pretty obvious that I was still trying to hold on to my initial idea of Her and She was trying to figure out how to end things at that early stage.
I’ve now figured out what I’ve been running from for these past two years. The evidence stares at me from the screen of my old Toshiba laptop. On some level it’s a little frightening how blatantly obvious everything is.
I’ve got this conception of the start of a relationship ending my ability to live my life. Maybe the problem isn’t relationships. Maybe it’s that I’m bad at picking the right person. This isn’t a new observation, but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen the concept illustrated so starkly.
-----------------------------
So Gruene Hall in New Braunfels, TX is awesome. It’s this 130 or so year-old building that lacks air conditioning. But it’s got beat up, squishy wood floors that feel a lot like the Double Door in Chicago and pretty much one of the best vibes I’ve ever gotten out of a concert venue.
The sound check is also completely open to the public. I wandered in a bit before 6 PM while RCPM was setting up.
They ran through one of their new songs, too.
Now, I started doing my usual thing wherein I took down the setlist. When the list partially disappeared at the Antone’s show on Friday I decided to be extra careful. Every line I hit [return], [done], and exited out of Notes to auto save. Midway through the main set I turned Notes on and – I shit you not – watched about a dozen lines disappear. Where I had had half a set list all of the sudden I just had “Mexico.”[2]
Either way, it was an awesome set. Highlights included, in no particular order, “Buffalo,” “Suckerpunch,” “Fonder and Blonder,” “Broken Record,” and the new songs “Empty Highway” and “Heaven on a Paper Plate.”
I’ma slap up my vids of “Fonder and Blonder”
And “Broken Record”[3]
And I’ll borrow Raquel’s vid of “Empty Highway,” since she was standing directly in front of me and has the same camera I do, except in silver.
Either way, it’s been an awesome week. And it ended with a great show in an awesome venue.
----------------------------
I left my heart in Chicago, my anger in Oklahoma City, my fear in Fort Worth, and my liver in Austin.[4]
I wasn’t really expecting this to happen, since it didn’t really happen during Rogtober, but Rogapalooza became something like a retreat. Except the worship sections had better music, there was beer, tequila, and whiskey to be had, and Austin, TX is way better than some random youth camp in bufu, Wisconsin.
One of my friends tells me that he thinks this has replaced church for me. In a real, meaningful way it has.
For some reason there’s a level of catharsis I can only get at concerts, almost specifically Peacemakers concerts. I used to get it on retreats. I can’t explain what, specifically it is.
But in doing this, in basically withdrawing from my normal world for a couple of days (and, I think, it helps that I kept seeing the same people, who were there for the same reason…) I hit the reset button. And, unlike a retreat, where the basic takeaway is, “Be more Jesus-y and evangelize, dammit!” my basic takeaway from Peacemakers shows is this:
So as cliché as it might sound
I’d like to raise another round
And if your bottle’s empty
Help yourself to mine
Thank you for your time
And here’s to life
Or, to put it another way: life’s too short to sit around bitching and being afraid. It’s best to live life surrounded by good friends, good vibes, good music, and good beer.
I’ve heard that love is a nice addition, too.
--------------------------
[1]The Refreshments “Nada” figures prominently in the second version of that paper, for the record. I love that song. I could write quite a bit on the idea of waiting for my cold black, sun cracked, numb inside soul to come alive…
[2]This, then, lead to a profanity-laced tirade on Facebook of epic proportions. Seriously. I do not know what the fuck they’re thinking over there in Cupertino, but I would like to have my Notes pages actually preserve my, y’know, notes. When I’m sitting there thinking of future alternatives to using my iPhone for such things that include bringing back the Tilt and hoping it has enough battery power if it’s not actually on a network or carrying a pen and paper around, the iPhone has officially failed at an extremely basic function. It’s inexcusable.
However, I did get a response to my tirade from one of my old high school youth leaders. It started with “Nice swears.” This would be your basic passive-aggressive reminder from the morality police that I’m living a lifestyle that is not properly approved of. To which I say, “So fucking what?”
[3]I was walking down 10th Street in Austin on Friday and actually saw an extremely dead bird wedged in to the grill of a big, white van. I had to think about you…
[4]Seriously. I gave it to this guy. He said he’d clean it out, give it a nice bubble bath and massage, and give it back to me in the morning. He never showed. So right now I’m using this liver I made myself out of some PVC tubing and old shop rags.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Verse and the Chorus
So I’ve got good news, better news, bad news, worse news, and…um…news…news.
The good news is that I am in Austin, Texas right now. I was, admittedly, worried that I was too prepped about the idea of coming down here, since I figured that there was no good reason to overhype a city that is, after all, in Texas.
But here’s the better news: Austin fucking rocks. Seriously, if you’ve never been here before get in your car, get on a plane, hop in to a boxcar and come down to Austin. It’s the greatest American city not named Chicago that I’ve been to. And I’ve been to Indianapolis, so I know of what I speak.
Also, and here’s a minor plug: stop in for some fish tacos at the Chupacabra Cantina on 6th Street. They’re delicious.
The bad news is that in the middle of the RCPM show tonight I was forced to retreat to the VIP lounge because there were some annoying fucking people in the crowd. I do not know how the finest rock n roll audience in the world combined with the live music capitol of America to produce such annoying people, but it happened.
The worse news is that I don’t have a setlist. I’ve got this: I Do, Americano, Down, Counterclockwise, Feeling, Mexico, Leaky, Switchblade, Lighten. After that I know I put in at least three more songs. But they’re not there. And upon learning that had happened I did what I do best: I gave up.
So, basically, imagine that you’re at a Peacemakers show and you’ve just seen a bunch of songs that you’d expect to see at a Peacemakers show. There weren’t any surprises. I mean, “Banditos” happened, “Nada” happened, and “Green & Dumb” happened…
As for the news news, I found something interesting out tonight. Apparently at the show in Fort Worth last night a couple girls hopped up on the stage and started grinding away at each other before being escorted out by security. Another girl (or, possibly, one of the originals) also hopped up on stage and gave Mr. Nick Scropos some affection before security did its thing.
I did not know that happened. I literally had to have several people who were at the Aardvark confirm the story for me.
Yeah…I was apparently really distracted at the Thursday night show…
So that happened.
And I’ve got one last night at the Peacemakers. Gruene Hall in New Braunfels. I’m told there’s no A/C.
Giddyup!
The good news is that I am in Austin, Texas right now. I was, admittedly, worried that I was too prepped about the idea of coming down here, since I figured that there was no good reason to overhype a city that is, after all, in Texas.
But here’s the better news: Austin fucking rocks. Seriously, if you’ve never been here before get in your car, get on a plane, hop in to a boxcar and come down to Austin. It’s the greatest American city not named Chicago that I’ve been to. And I’ve been to Indianapolis, so I know of what I speak.
Also, and here’s a minor plug: stop in for some fish tacos at the Chupacabra Cantina on 6th Street. They’re delicious.
The bad news is that in the middle of the RCPM show tonight I was forced to retreat to the VIP lounge because there were some annoying fucking people in the crowd. I do not know how the finest rock n roll audience in the world combined with the live music capitol of America to produce such annoying people, but it happened.
The worse news is that I don’t have a setlist. I’ve got this: I Do, Americano, Down, Counterclockwise, Feeling, Mexico, Leaky, Switchblade, Lighten. After that I know I put in at least three more songs. But they’re not there. And upon learning that had happened I did what I do best: I gave up.
So, basically, imagine that you’re at a Peacemakers show and you’ve just seen a bunch of songs that you’d expect to see at a Peacemakers show. There weren’t any surprises. I mean, “Banditos” happened, “Nada” happened, and “Green & Dumb” happened…
As for the news news, I found something interesting out tonight. Apparently at the show in Fort Worth last night a couple girls hopped up on the stage and started grinding away at each other before being escorted out by security. Another girl (or, possibly, one of the originals) also hopped up on stage and gave Mr. Nick Scropos some affection before security did its thing.
I did not know that happened. I literally had to have several people who were at the Aardvark confirm the story for me.
Yeah…I was apparently really distracted at the Thursday night show…
So that happened.
And I’ve got one last night at the Peacemakers. Gruene Hall in New Braunfels. I’m told there’s no A/C.
Giddyup!
Friday, June 25, 2010
And Beauty is Everywhere
She tells me that six months from now she’ll break my heart.
I don’t know if it’s the $2.50 PBRs, the week worth of the Peacemakers, or the fact that it’s been over two years since I last let someone do that, but I want to give her that chance.
Life, my friends, is grand. Love just might be real.
And, as always, beauty is everywhere.
Also, I don’t know if it’s possible to have a bad time in Fort Worth, Texas. Although, to be fair, Local H was involved once, Roger Clyne another, and next time it will be Everclear, Randy Rogers, MC Hammer, and Sons of Bill. So that’s kind of an unfair advantage given to Fort Worth…
Either way, here’s the setlist:
Preacher’s Daughter
I Know You Know
I Don’t Need Another Thrill
Down Together
Hello New Day
Mexico
Your Name on a Grain of Rice
Mercy
Banditos
Better Beautiful than Perfect
Um…I put “Thrill” here, too…that can’t be right…
Beautiful Disaster
Maybe We Should Fall In Love*
Green & Dumb
Easy
Wanted
Americano
Switchblade
Suckerpunch
Mekong
Encore Break
I Do
Nada
Either way, good things happen in Fort Worth, Texas. And it is my genuine hope that good things will continue to happen in Fort Worth, Texas.
And if my heart gets broken because of an RCPM show in Fort Worth…well…it’s long overdue…
---------------------------
*After “Maybe We Should Fall In Love” Roger called a guy name Robert on stage. I met Robert at the show in Denton last Friday. Robert is in a thing with a woman named Lauren, who I also met in Denton. Robert proposed to Lauren in the middle of an RCPM show.
They are good people. They are happy together. And they deserve the absolute best.
So as cliché as it might sound I’d like to raise another round. And if your bottle’s empty help yourself to mine. Thank you for your time. And here’s to life.
I don’t know if it’s the $2.50 PBRs, the week worth of the Peacemakers, or the fact that it’s been over two years since I last let someone do that, but I want to give her that chance.
Life, my friends, is grand. Love just might be real.
And, as always, beauty is everywhere.
Also, I don’t know if it’s possible to have a bad time in Fort Worth, Texas. Although, to be fair, Local H was involved once, Roger Clyne another, and next time it will be Everclear, Randy Rogers, MC Hammer, and Sons of Bill. So that’s kind of an unfair advantage given to Fort Worth…
Either way, here’s the setlist:
Preacher’s Daughter
I Know You Know
I Don’t Need Another Thrill
Down Together
Hello New Day
Mexico
Your Name on a Grain of Rice
Mercy
Banditos
Better Beautiful than Perfect
Um…I put “Thrill” here, too…that can’t be right…
Beautiful Disaster
Maybe We Should Fall In Love*
Green & Dumb
Easy
Wanted
Americano
Switchblade
Suckerpunch
Mekong
Encore Break
I Do
Nada
Either way, good things happen in Fort Worth, Texas. And it is my genuine hope that good things will continue to happen in Fort Worth, Texas.
And if my heart gets broken because of an RCPM show in Fort Worth…well…it’s long overdue…
---------------------------
*After “Maybe We Should Fall In Love” Roger called a guy name Robert on stage. I met Robert at the show in Denton last Friday. Robert is in a thing with a woman named Lauren, who I also met in Denton. Robert proposed to Lauren in the middle of an RCPM show.
They are good people. They are happy together. And they deserve the absolute best.
So as cliché as it might sound I’d like to raise another round. And if your bottle’s empty help yourself to mine. Thank you for your time. And here’s to life.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Monday Evening Ramblings
Right now is a dangerous time. I’ve had a lot of thoughts flying about my head lately that haven’t exactly come to roost. I feel like writing. But I have no particular thing I feel like writing about.
This means it’s time for an odd, disjointed post. Hooray!
----------------------------------------
I wandered across a post this morning over at Atheist Revolution entitled “Understanding Apathetic Atheists.” The, uh, the title is pretty damn self-explanatory of the purpose of the post. But, in general, the point was to basically berate those of us non-theists who aren’t active. Y’know, for atheism.
Now, the overall argument that we shouldn’t let moronic fundamentalists walk all over us is good. But, then, I would have been against the Texas School Board of Education’s travesty of a history and science curriculum before I left the church. I was pro-choice before I left the church, too. I also had absolutely nothing against gays and would have been fine allowing them to marry each other to their hearts’ content.
Oh, I was also strongly in favor of separation of church and state long before I was pro-choice or fine with the idea of gay marriage. In fact, the latter two ideas grew out of the former.
Let’s consider my motivation. I see the science and history stuff as a matter of accuracy. Science says A. Ergo, we should teach A in school. Same thing with history. To do otherwise is utter foolishness and a dangerous road to travel. You don’t see anyone seriously suggesting we teach that the world is flat or that pi is exactly 3 just because you can find that in the Bible.
Similarly, I don’t see where the government should limit abortion or the ability of two consenting adults to get married. I especially don’t see it when the bald-faced justifications of the people in favor of making those things illegal is religious. Making something illegal just because it’s against someone’s religion is a violation of the First Amendment. Period. Full stop.
I realized at some point in my life that Christians can’t unilaterally declare something illegal just because they don’t like it. I didn’t need to leave the church to see that. I’m pro-choice. I’m pro-gay marriage. I’m anti-TxSBoE. But I don’t hold any of these positions because I don’t believe in god.
Moreover, I would never argue that someone should agree with me just because they’re an atheist. That’s stupid. Being an atheist doesn’t make anybody an authority on anything. If Richard Dawkins walked up to me tomorrow and said that the moon is made of green cheese I’d respond with, “Yeah, prove it.” If PZ Myers walked in to my living room right now and told me my couch was on fire and I should believe him without looking down because he’s an atheist and that means he’s right I’d take a look before standing up.
Either way, they put up this handy-dandy list:
To that I’d like to add a sixth:
Fuck you and stop telling me what to do. I’m going to be as disinterested as I want to be. And if you think I’ll change because you’ll shame me in to being active…well, I got that in church for 25 years…
----------------------------------------
Similarly, Ken Pulliam’s latest post elicited this comment from someone named James:
My response was a long way around saying, “Atheism can’t do that.” Atheism just says, “There is no god that I can find any evidence for.” This is not an ethical framework, this is an observation.
----------------------------------------
So I guess I’m an apathetic atheist. I’ll take it.
Honestly, to me all atheism means is that I don’t go to church on Sundays. It also means that I don’t feel guilt for it. And it means that I don’t have any particular belief that you must be religious to be good. Any other desire to be active in any endeavor comes out of a belief in a particular position. The interesting thing is that I held the vast majority of the positions I held now before I left Christianity.
So I guess that means you don’t have to be an atheist to hold any number of atheist-friendly positions.
Gee…wonder how that’s going to go over…
----------------------------------------
I have a question for people who have spent time in Dallas: What are the giant red wasp thingies?
Oh, and as a follow-up: what the fuck was a giant red wasp doing in my bedroom when I got home from work tonight?
Seriously, the thing must have had a two-inch wingspan. And I’m not the sort of guy who usually gets too worked up about killing bugs, but I hit that fucker with a broom. Like, a dozen times. I think I only managed to stun it.
Either way, seriously. GIANT. FUCKING. WASPS.
----------------------------------------
Right after I moved I spent a bunch of time bitching about personality tests administered by HR people. The worst one of those I ever took was also the first one. I was doing an internship at my church and they gave me a spiritual gifts inventory to take.
So, basically, I took this test and it told me what spiritual gifts I had and, crucially, which ones I didn’t. As I recall, the point was to figure out what Jesus had made me good at and what Jesus had been all, “Nah, dude, don’t worry about that shit, man,” about.
Of course if you know Jesus he’s all about half-assing it through life. So this is a perfectly valid use of the various Biblical lists of what we should be if we’re proper and good Christians.
Either way, as I recall, I did well on the teachin’ and the preachin’ type stuff. I did poorly on the hospitality type stuff.
One of my stated goals, now that I live on my own and all, is that there’s always room in mi casa for someone who needs a place to crash. Y’know, for a night or two. Ain’t nobody moving in all permanent-like.
Since I’ve moved to Dallas I’ve had an Irish rock band crash in my living room and a Peacemakers’ fan stay in my guest bedroom.
So I guess it’s good that my fruit of the spirit didn’t involve hospitality, then. Maybe I had to leave Christianity to get the Holy Spirit to say, “Okay, you got this now…"
----------------------------------------
I upgraded the ol' iBomination to OS 4.0 today.
Here's what I love about 4.0: you can always see the wallpaper. I've had the same phone wallpaper for four years now, ever since the first time I saw RCPM at Joe's on Weed Street and took this picture with my very first camera phone (1.3 whole megapixels!):
There was really no point in which I could see it on the Tilt, since the menu covered half the pic.
----------------------------------------
I'm apparently getting a spot at a VIP table for the Austin show at Antone's on Friday. In a word: giggity.
----------------------------------------
Seriously.
GIANT. FUCKING. WASPS.
Erm, well…GIANT. FUCKING. WASP.
This means it’s time for an odd, disjointed post. Hooray!
----------------------------------------
I wandered across a post this morning over at Atheist Revolution entitled “Understanding Apathetic Atheists.” The, uh, the title is pretty damn self-explanatory of the purpose of the post. But, in general, the point was to basically berate those of us non-theists who aren’t active. Y’know, for atheism.
Now, the overall argument that we shouldn’t let moronic fundamentalists walk all over us is good. But, then, I would have been against the Texas School Board of Education’s travesty of a history and science curriculum before I left the church. I was pro-choice before I left the church, too. I also had absolutely nothing against gays and would have been fine allowing them to marry each other to their hearts’ content.
Oh, I was also strongly in favor of separation of church and state long before I was pro-choice or fine with the idea of gay marriage. In fact, the latter two ideas grew out of the former.
Let’s consider my motivation. I see the science and history stuff as a matter of accuracy. Science says A. Ergo, we should teach A in school. Same thing with history. To do otherwise is utter foolishness and a dangerous road to travel. You don’t see anyone seriously suggesting we teach that the world is flat or that pi is exactly 3 just because you can find that in the Bible.
Similarly, I don’t see where the government should limit abortion or the ability of two consenting adults to get married. I especially don’t see it when the bald-faced justifications of the people in favor of making those things illegal is religious. Making something illegal just because it’s against someone’s religion is a violation of the First Amendment. Period. Full stop.
I realized at some point in my life that Christians can’t unilaterally declare something illegal just because they don’t like it. I didn’t need to leave the church to see that. I’m pro-choice. I’m pro-gay marriage. I’m anti-TxSBoE. But I don’t hold any of these positions because I don’t believe in god.
Moreover, I would never argue that someone should agree with me just because they’re an atheist. That’s stupid. Being an atheist doesn’t make anybody an authority on anything. If Richard Dawkins walked up to me tomorrow and said that the moon is made of green cheese I’d respond with, “Yeah, prove it.” If PZ Myers walked in to my living room right now and told me my couch was on fire and I should believe him without looking down because he’s an atheist and that means he’s right I’d take a look before standing up.
Either way, they put up this handy-dandy list:
1. Learned helplessness: I've tried, and it is futile. Nothing I do seems to make a difference.
2. Safety: Taking some sort of action would mean "coming out" as an atheist, and that isn't safe for me.
3. Insufficient information: I'd like to help, but I honestly don't know what to do.
4. Low relevance: It isn't personally relevant or I've got more important things to worry about.
5. Identity: Taking action to promote atheism sounds like something religious people would do, and I don't want to be anything like them.
To that I’d like to add a sixth:
Fuck you and stop telling me what to do. I’m going to be as disinterested as I want to be. And if you think I’ll change because you’ll shame me in to being active…well, I got that in church for 25 years…
----------------------------------------
Similarly, Ken Pulliam’s latest post elicited this comment from someone named James:
Maybe the atheist equivalent of apologetics (has it a name I don't know?) should address this I think not uncommon assumption, and (a) set out the case against theistic ethics (Euthyphro, Old Testament horrors), (b) set out the case for a creditable and respectable non-theistic ethics (e.g. Pullian's intuitionism, Luke's desirism), and (c) set out the case for a non-transcendent but more than satisfactory meaning of life not endorsed by God.
My response was a long way around saying, “Atheism can’t do that.” Atheism just says, “There is no god that I can find any evidence for.” This is not an ethical framework, this is an observation.
----------------------------------------
So I guess I’m an apathetic atheist. I’ll take it.
Honestly, to me all atheism means is that I don’t go to church on Sundays. It also means that I don’t feel guilt for it. And it means that I don’t have any particular belief that you must be religious to be good. Any other desire to be active in any endeavor comes out of a belief in a particular position. The interesting thing is that I held the vast majority of the positions I held now before I left Christianity.
So I guess that means you don’t have to be an atheist to hold any number of atheist-friendly positions.
Gee…wonder how that’s going to go over…
----------------------------------------
I have a question for people who have spent time in Dallas: What are the giant red wasp thingies?
Oh, and as a follow-up: what the fuck was a giant red wasp doing in my bedroom when I got home from work tonight?
Seriously, the thing must have had a two-inch wingspan. And I’m not the sort of guy who usually gets too worked up about killing bugs, but I hit that fucker with a broom. Like, a dozen times. I think I only managed to stun it.
Either way, seriously. GIANT. FUCKING. WASPS.
----------------------------------------
Right after I moved I spent a bunch of time bitching about personality tests administered by HR people. The worst one of those I ever took was also the first one. I was doing an internship at my church and they gave me a spiritual gifts inventory to take.
So, basically, I took this test and it told me what spiritual gifts I had and, crucially, which ones I didn’t. As I recall, the point was to figure out what Jesus had made me good at and what Jesus had been all, “Nah, dude, don’t worry about that shit, man,” about.
Of course if you know Jesus he’s all about half-assing it through life. So this is a perfectly valid use of the various Biblical lists of what we should be if we’re proper and good Christians.
Either way, as I recall, I did well on the teachin’ and the preachin’ type stuff. I did poorly on the hospitality type stuff.
One of my stated goals, now that I live on my own and all, is that there’s always room in mi casa for someone who needs a place to crash. Y’know, for a night or two. Ain’t nobody moving in all permanent-like.
Since I’ve moved to Dallas I’ve had an Irish rock band crash in my living room and a Peacemakers’ fan stay in my guest bedroom.
So I guess it’s good that my fruit of the spirit didn’t involve hospitality, then. Maybe I had to leave Christianity to get the Holy Spirit to say, “Okay, you got this now…"
----------------------------------------
I upgraded the ol' iBomination to OS 4.0 today.
Here's what I love about 4.0: you can always see the wallpaper. I've had the same phone wallpaper for four years now, ever since the first time I saw RCPM at Joe's on Weed Street and took this picture with my very first camera phone (1.3 whole megapixels!):
There was really no point in which I could see it on the Tilt, since the menu covered half the pic.
----------------------------------------
I'm apparently getting a spot at a VIP table for the Austin show at Antone's on Friday. In a word: giggity.
----------------------------------------
Seriously.
GIANT. FUCKING. WASPS.
Erm, well…GIANT. FUCKING. WASP.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Tell Yer Mama Your Daddy Ain't Quittin' Drinkin'
I headed north from Dallas with the sun over my left shoulder, the windows open, and the sun roof rolled back. The Lost Immigrants, Railbenders, and Reckless Kelly blasted from my stereo. The thermometer in my car registered 99 degrees and gradually climbed to 102.
I last traveled the stretch of road between Oklahoma City and Dallas in January. The last of the ice I’d accumulated in Chicago flew off of my car somewhere on that road. Things had changed.
Hell, when I did Rogtober last year I had absolutely no idea that Rogapalooza would have even been an option. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to hit five shows in nine days, but because I wouldn’t have had any idea why I’d be doing it in Texas and Oklahoma. But there I was, baking away on the velvet back interstate, a mere seven inches from the mid day sun.
One of the things that continually strikes me when I get out of Dallas/Fort Worth is just how mind-bogglingly huge this part of the country is. In all of my travels across Illinois and Wisconsin I never got the sense of enormous endlessness that I get when I crest a hill and look to the horizon. I try to take pictures to convey the distance but they simply can’t capture anything. I’ve never understood David Hockney’s opinion of the traditional photograph better than I do now.
OKC, at least the part I was in, gives off a bit of a Madison, WI vibe to me. This was tremendously enhanced by the fact that the Wormy Dog Saloon reminded me of nowhere in the world more than the world famous High Noon Saloon in Madison. Except the Wormy Dog is bigger. And had a stupid crowd control barrier in front of the stage. And rather than drinking New Glaurus Spotted Cow, as is my wont in Wisconsin, I consumed more Mustang Golden Ale than was probably entirely safe. Especially after my new friends convinced me to try that wonderful beverage known as the Irish Car Bomb.
Also, saddles. The bar stools were saddles.
Otherwise, it felt like home. There’s something about Peacemakers shows that just does that.
We compared notes and the opinions of people from Friday’s show in Denton confirmed my suspicions. Friday’s show was just a bit…off. It was the first show since Circus Mexicus, the Stallion had blown a head gasket, so the guys are making their way through the Texas borderland area with a borrowed van and borrowed equipment, so I don’t think they were quite comfortable yet. Also, there was some weirdness in the crowd on Friday. All in all, it was just…off.
Not so much last night. The band was comfortable. The crowd was in to it. Life was good.
And the music…that was pretty neat, too. Boots opened with an extemporaneous set list (that included a cover of “Birds Sing” of all things…). Then a band called Sons of Bill followed and pretty much kicked ass. Actually, between Sons of Bill and Friday’s opener by American Aquarium, the openers have been great.
So here’s the main event:
Counterclockwise
Down Together
Wanted
Americano
Girly
Yahoos & Triangles
Trailer Park
City Girls
Your Name on a Grain of Rice
Tell Yer Mama
Maybe We Should Fall in Love
Mexico
Jack v. Jose
Banditos
Mekong
I Know You Know
Sleep Like a Baby
Feeling
I Don’t Need Another Thrill
Blue Collar Suicide
Hello New Day
Encore Break
Green & Dumb
Switchblade
Suckerpunch*
I Do
I crossed the state line on the way back to Dallas just in time to almost fall asleep at the wheel. So my first lesson from last night is this: next week I’m going to sleep somewhere around Austin or New Braunfels, then drive back from the show.
I woke up this morning with a sunburn on my left arm, the left side of my neck, and the top of my left knee. So my second lesson is this: wear sunscreen.
------------------------
*The encore was interesting. Towards the beginning of the main set a bunch of people started shouting, “Green and dumb!” after which Roger said he’d play it later. Right after they finished “Green & Dumb” a bunch of people started yelling, “Switchblade.”
Roger said, “Really? You want to hear two melodramatic, six minute songs in a row? Okay, then. But you’re forcing us to show all of our tricks.”
After “Switchblade,” then, about half the room started shouting, “Suckerpunch!”
Democracy. It works, bitches.
I last traveled the stretch of road between Oklahoma City and Dallas in January. The last of the ice I’d accumulated in Chicago flew off of my car somewhere on that road. Things had changed.
Hell, when I did Rogtober last year I had absolutely no idea that Rogapalooza would have even been an option. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to hit five shows in nine days, but because I wouldn’t have had any idea why I’d be doing it in Texas and Oklahoma. But there I was, baking away on the velvet back interstate, a mere seven inches from the mid day sun.
One of the things that continually strikes me when I get out of Dallas/Fort Worth is just how mind-bogglingly huge this part of the country is. In all of my travels across Illinois and Wisconsin I never got the sense of enormous endlessness that I get when I crest a hill and look to the horizon. I try to take pictures to convey the distance but they simply can’t capture anything. I’ve never understood David Hockney’s opinion of the traditional photograph better than I do now.
OKC, at least the part I was in, gives off a bit of a Madison, WI vibe to me. This was tremendously enhanced by the fact that the Wormy Dog Saloon reminded me of nowhere in the world more than the world famous High Noon Saloon in Madison. Except the Wormy Dog is bigger. And had a stupid crowd control barrier in front of the stage. And rather than drinking New Glaurus Spotted Cow, as is my wont in Wisconsin, I consumed more Mustang Golden Ale than was probably entirely safe. Especially after my new friends convinced me to try that wonderful beverage known as the Irish Car Bomb.
Also, saddles. The bar stools were saddles.
Otherwise, it felt like home. There’s something about Peacemakers shows that just does that.
We compared notes and the opinions of people from Friday’s show in Denton confirmed my suspicions. Friday’s show was just a bit…off. It was the first show since Circus Mexicus, the Stallion had blown a head gasket, so the guys are making their way through the Texas borderland area with a borrowed van and borrowed equipment, so I don’t think they were quite comfortable yet. Also, there was some weirdness in the crowd on Friday. All in all, it was just…off.
Not so much last night. The band was comfortable. The crowd was in to it. Life was good.
And the music…that was pretty neat, too. Boots opened with an extemporaneous set list (that included a cover of “Birds Sing” of all things…). Then a band called Sons of Bill followed and pretty much kicked ass. Actually, between Sons of Bill and Friday’s opener by American Aquarium, the openers have been great.
So here’s the main event:
Counterclockwise
Down Together
Wanted
Americano
Girly
Yahoos & Triangles
Trailer Park
City Girls
Your Name on a Grain of Rice
Tell Yer Mama
Maybe We Should Fall in Love
Mexico
Jack v. Jose
Banditos
Mekong
I Know You Know
Sleep Like a Baby
Feeling
I Don’t Need Another Thrill
Blue Collar Suicide
Hello New Day
Encore Break
Green & Dumb
Switchblade
Suckerpunch*
I Do
I crossed the state line on the way back to Dallas just in time to almost fall asleep at the wheel. So my first lesson from last night is this: next week I’m going to sleep somewhere around Austin or New Braunfels, then drive back from the show.
I woke up this morning with a sunburn on my left arm, the left side of my neck, and the top of my left knee. So my second lesson is this: wear sunscreen.
------------------------
*The encore was interesting. Towards the beginning of the main set a bunch of people started shouting, “Green and dumb!” after which Roger said he’d play it later. Right after they finished “Green & Dumb” a bunch of people started yelling, “Switchblade.”
Roger said, “Really? You want to hear two melodramatic, six minute songs in a row? Okay, then. But you’re forcing us to show all of our tricks.”
After “Switchblade,” then, about half the room started shouting, “Suckerpunch!”
Democracy. It works, bitches.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I'd Like to Raise Another Round
I spent all my money on cheap beer and good tequila.
The website said the doors were at 7, but the show wasn’t until 10. So I wandered in to Denton at a bit before 8, only to find that there was no parking and the doors didn’t actually open until 8:30.
I could hear the sound check as I walked around the corner to a bar. “Counterclockwise” pounded through the walls as I grabbed a bar stool and asked for a Franconia Kolsch.*
The guy next to me asked if I knew the score for the soccer match. We started talking and I said I was in Denton for RCPM. He said, “You know, I just talked to a girl who said she came all the way from Albuquerque for them.”
I responded, “Did her name happen to be Tawni?”
A few minutes later I turned around and saw Roger, Nick, Boots, and PH walk in to the room. Said, “Hi,” shook hands.
And thus did the night start.
It’s strange how Mike Doughty, Scott Lucas, the guys from Seneca, and now RCPM have become my familiar faces in a foreign land. It’s funny, too, how there will be more familiar faces tonight in OKC and next weekend in Fort Worth, Austin, and New Braunfels. I already know a couple people I’ll be seeing several times.
The world of RCPM is small. These aren’t arena shows, there aren’t high production costs. There’s just music and fans. And I get the distinct impression that everyone is happy with the arrangement.
And I’d rather pass my concerts in a place with $2 PBR and $5 shots of 1800 tequila, anyway…
Anyway, here’s the set list:
European Swallow
I Don’t Need Another Thrill
Beautiful Disaster
Never Thought
Better Beautiful than Perfect
Jack v. Jose
Banditos
Yahoos & Triangles
Mexico
Lemons
Mercy
Bury My Heart at the Trailer Park
Down Together
Hello New Day
Interstate
Preacher’s Daughter
Counterclockwise
Wanted
Americano
Mekong
Sweet Caroline with Jim Dalton on the lead
I Do
(Not Actually a) Encore Break
Green & Dumb
Maybe We Should Fall in Love
Nada
In a couple hours I'll be headed for Oklahoma City. I'm just getting warmed up...
--------------------------------
*I haven’t gotten to the cheap beer part yet…
The website said the doors were at 7, but the show wasn’t until 10. So I wandered in to Denton at a bit before 8, only to find that there was no parking and the doors didn’t actually open until 8:30.
I could hear the sound check as I walked around the corner to a bar. “Counterclockwise” pounded through the walls as I grabbed a bar stool and asked for a Franconia Kolsch.*
The guy next to me asked if I knew the score for the soccer match. We started talking and I said I was in Denton for RCPM. He said, “You know, I just talked to a girl who said she came all the way from Albuquerque for them.”
I responded, “Did her name happen to be Tawni?”
A few minutes later I turned around and saw Roger, Nick, Boots, and PH walk in to the room. Said, “Hi,” shook hands.
And thus did the night start.
It’s strange how Mike Doughty, Scott Lucas, the guys from Seneca, and now RCPM have become my familiar faces in a foreign land. It’s funny, too, how there will be more familiar faces tonight in OKC and next weekend in Fort Worth, Austin, and New Braunfels. I already know a couple people I’ll be seeing several times.
The world of RCPM is small. These aren’t arena shows, there aren’t high production costs. There’s just music and fans. And I get the distinct impression that everyone is happy with the arrangement.
And I’d rather pass my concerts in a place with $2 PBR and $5 shots of 1800 tequila, anyway…
Anyway, here’s the set list:
European Swallow
I Don’t Need Another Thrill
Beautiful Disaster
Never Thought
Better Beautiful than Perfect
Jack v. Jose
Banditos
Yahoos & Triangles
Mexico
Lemons
Mercy
Bury My Heart at the Trailer Park
Down Together
Hello New Day
Interstate
Preacher’s Daughter
Counterclockwise
Wanted
Americano
Mekong
Sweet Caroline with Jim Dalton on the lead
I Do
(Not Actually a) Encore Break
Green & Dumb
Maybe We Should Fall in Love
Nada
In a couple hours I'll be headed for Oklahoma City. I'm just getting warmed up...
--------------------------------
*I haven’t gotten to the cheap beer part yet…
Friday, June 18, 2010
My Second Home is a Texas Cantina
Rogapalooza begins tonight! That's right!
I don't know why I'm ending sentences with exclamation marks!
Anyway, these are the only five things I need to know for the next week:
Boiler Room, Denton, TX, tonight.
Wormy Dog Saloon, Oklahoma City, OK, tomorrow.
The Aardvark, Fort Worth, next Thursday.
Antone's, Austin, TX, next Friday.
Gruene Hall, New Braunfels, TX, next Saturday.
And here's the craziest thing about it. I know that next weekend I'll be packin' on back to Dallas from New Braunfels and I'll be thinking of one thing: "Man, I wish I was at a Peacemakers show right now."
I don't know why I'm ending sentences with exclamation marks!
Anyway, these are the only five things I need to know for the next week:
Boiler Room, Denton, TX, tonight.
Wormy Dog Saloon, Oklahoma City, OK, tomorrow.
The Aardvark, Fort Worth, next Thursday.
Antone's, Austin, TX, next Friday.
Gruene Hall, New Braunfels, TX, next Saturday.
And here's the craziest thing about it. I know that next weekend I'll be packin' on back to Dallas from New Braunfels and I'll be thinking of one thing: "Man, I wish I was at a Peacemakers show right now."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Hello Highs, Hello Lows, Custers and Geronimos
T-Minus four days to Rogapalooza. And, boy, do I need this on this craptastic Monday morning...
----------------------
EDIT: Two things: First, DM seems to have made his way to my blog. Second, we won't be having any of that.
Also, of all the posts where I, y'know, mock religion and whatnot, why finally show up when I'm posting RCPM videos? I'm even more confused by that than anything else...
----------------------
EDIT: Two things: First, DM seems to have made his way to my blog. Second, we won't be having any of that.
Also, of all the posts where I, y'know, mock religion and whatnot, why finally show up when I'm posting RCPM videos? I'm even more confused by that than anything else...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
I Know the Season is Crawlin' Now, Pretty Soon It'll Fly
On this Sunday morning I'd like to introduce you to my personal lord and savior. His name is Roger Clyne. I'll be going to see him in just five days.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
I'll be a Monkey out of My Cage
T-minus six days to Rogapalooza.
In case you can't tell, I'm somewhat excited.
In case you can't tell, I'm somewhat excited.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Some Day I'll Learn to Dance So I Can be Free
Give me a song to sing
Harder than it is to bring
Back all the years I’ve wasted
For so long
Give me an open road
A meadow and I’m on my own
Livin’ so far from home
For so long
--Lost Immigrants, “Song to Sing”
Some things are best understood while in motion.
This, I think, is what attracted me to the Lost Immigrants in the first place. …Waiting on Judgment Day was an album in motion, an album about motion. It brought forward all of the longings I’ve had to never stay in one place. It reminded me of a me I’ve always been afraid to be.
My sister tells me that when I was younger new places scared me. Apparently my parents would have to take me to the place where an event was going to be and show it to me before I’d go. This sounds weird to me, foreign. After all, I decided to go to Western Illinois without ever visiting. I like to say that I only spent 22 hours in Texas before deciding to move, but in truth I’d already made the decision before my flight left Midway. It was the only choice I had.
Well, the only good choice.
But, by the same token, there are still plenty of examples of my fear of the unknown. I can wrap that all up in to one big category and slap a label on it: women. There’s the big one, the fact that I spent nearly two years trying to make it work with Her, even though I knew it wasn’t going to after seven months, strongly suspected it long before that. Since then, though, I’ve stayed resolutely single, always finding excuses to avoid getting out there. When I meet someone I probe for flaws, which I usually find fairly easily, since I think I seek out broken people specifically so I can say, “I can’t deal with this again.” It’s much easier to say, “I keep meeting crazy women,” than, “I don’t want to move on with my life.” It’s easier to blame someone else than work on what I need to work on.
In all honesty, though, I don’t know what it is that I need to work on. As strange as it is to me, I get no shortage of attention from women these days. As far as I can tell I have a lot to offer and other people seem to recognize that. But…but it doesn’t seem to matter that much. My main concern seems to be an attempt to figure out how I can keep someone else from coming in and making my life more complicated. It’s easier, I’ve realized, to re-live and re-imagine the past than to face the future. It’s also much easier to wander than to attempt to stay in one place.
I’m gonna drive on to that next sunrise
I ain’t worried about the weather
On the old horizon
I’m facing every storm on my own
And I close my eyes and grit my teeth
With an old guitar and a good backbeat
To find the only life I’ve ever known
I’m a rolling stone
--Lost Immigrants, “Rolling Stone”
I plug Pasaporte in to slot 6 of my Mazda’s in-dash CD changer. There’s something about buying a CD that matters more than downloading music. Sure, I will soon enough be ripping the disc, putting it on my computer and in to my mp3 player, but for the moment it’s a physical, a tactile thing.
I live in a world that’s loosely defined by four freeways and bordered by two airports. I could get on I-35E and take it north to begin a journey that would eventually take me back to Chicago. I could get on 114 and take it to Love Field or D/FW, either of which would allow me to get on a plane back to Chicago. That great city I once called home.
The last time I was in Chicago it was a frigid January night. Few people were out on the streets, so it was basically just me, my 2004 Cavalier, and the city I hated leaving. As I got back on I-55 south with Lucky Boys Confusion’s “City Lights” playing I didn’t look back, didn’t check my mirrors.
Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.
That’s a funny thought, coming from me, of all people.
I think it’s simple
You’ve got to take it slow
Grab the wheel
Hold on don’t lose control
Drivin’ all night with an AM radio
No matter where you are
You’ve got too far to go
--Lost Immigrants, “AM Radio”
Dallas is already becoming painfully hot. In my world it’s not supposed to be in the nineties before my birthday. It’s not supposed to stay in the 80s or even the 90s overnight. The idea of going outside in late May or early June is suppose to be a joy after a terribly cold and dark winter.
Still, I drive with the windows open, the sunroof rolled back. The hot air is far more bearable when moving across my face at 60 miles per hour. I barely use the air conditioner.
I don’t know what it is. I’ve never much liked the idea of using the air conditioning in a car. Part of it is a gas mileage thing, at least for low speeds and short distances. But part of it is the sense of connection with the world.
Part of it, too, is the sense of motion. It’s much easier to feel like you’re going somewhere when you feel the wind pushing against your face.
I’ll be on the freeway for a while, but I’ll never take it too far. It always leads back home. And that home is no longer Chicago.
You want to get out of such a desolate place
In a land of broken dreams and hollow eyes
You read the sign on every sunburned, worn-out face
And you’ll be miles down the road before they realize
You’re leaving Laredo you’ve got to get out of town
You’re not gonna let the bad ones drag you down
You’re leaving Laredo you’ve gotta pack your things
The time is now to get out and let the whole world sing
And you’ve got a lot of life to live so you can show
You’re leaving Laredo
--Lost Immigrants, “Leaving Laredo (Or the Night Gilberto Hit the Floor)”
I think I had to leave Chicago. There’s really no way around it. I wasn’t so much in a rut as a well. I spent most of my time in the four walls of my apartment, pretending that I wasn’t wasting my life.
But as I get older I realize that I never really had a clue about how to properly take stock of the differences in my life. I seem to think that the fact that I look different than I used to, drive a different car, live in a different place, means that I have made the important changes.
When I was in college I started screwing around with my hair. I shaved my head, then I dyed my hair a neon green. I shaved again, then died my hair a color I came to refer to as “piss yellow.”
These days I’m losing my hair. I can’t help but wonder if my college experiments contributed.
Either way, having weird hair didn’t change who I was. Moving to Dallas didn’t change who I was.
But this time around I have to actually confront it.
And every stretch of highway
Is another lonesome tune
But you lose a little faith going town to town
They tell you Jesus walked on water
And you know it to be true
But so do those demons you’re trying to drown
--Lost Immigrants, “Leaving Laredo (Or the Night Gilberto Hit the Floor)”
My last two major life transitions were accompanied by a brief uptick in the consumption of alcohol. I chased the night, as it were, going to bars. But I also just kind of kept beer around the house, probably as a reaction to living in a house where the mere thought of the consumption of alcohol would drive my mother insane…er than she already was.
When I moved to Brookfield I started to gain weight because of the alcohol. That hasn’t happened here, but mostly because I’m still focused on losing the weight I gained over the course of the last few years. I’d rather not reverse all the work I’ve done.
And I’ve learned that drinking doesn’t solve a single problem, anyway. It’s passive. It’s suicidal, really. Alcohol keeps you from facing the world you live in. Eventually you have to come out of the haze, realize that the problem you were hoping would disappear is still there, and the only options are to try to fix it or go back in to the haze.
It’s better to just fix the problems right from the start.
It’s a new day and a brand-new life
And I can’t recall a single word she said last night
My heart is bruised from all the blame
Why is it all my tries at love end up the same?
Heartache can drive you up the wall
Make you wonder why you ever loved at all
I guess I got some news for you
I’m looking for my second chance and this is what I’m gonna do
I’m gonna drive on down this highway
Until the pain in me is gone
I can’t look back
No I’ve gotta keep moving along
If you think you’re going my way
I’ll be headed out at dawn
Honey don’t be late
‘Cuz these wheels keep rolling on
--Lost Immigrants, “Rollin’ On”
The wind blows in my face. The Lost Immigrants blast through my speakers.
I point my Mazda in the direction of the lights of Dallas.
It’s not home.
But there are worse places I could be.
That’s enough for the moment. Whether it continues to be enough remains to be seen.
Harder than it is to bring
Back all the years I’ve wasted
For so long
Give me an open road
A meadow and I’m on my own
Livin’ so far from home
For so long
--Lost Immigrants, “Song to Sing”
Some things are best understood while in motion.
This, I think, is what attracted me to the Lost Immigrants in the first place. …Waiting on Judgment Day was an album in motion, an album about motion. It brought forward all of the longings I’ve had to never stay in one place. It reminded me of a me I’ve always been afraid to be.
My sister tells me that when I was younger new places scared me. Apparently my parents would have to take me to the place where an event was going to be and show it to me before I’d go. This sounds weird to me, foreign. After all, I decided to go to Western Illinois without ever visiting. I like to say that I only spent 22 hours in Texas before deciding to move, but in truth I’d already made the decision before my flight left Midway. It was the only choice I had.
Well, the only good choice.
But, by the same token, there are still plenty of examples of my fear of the unknown. I can wrap that all up in to one big category and slap a label on it: women. There’s the big one, the fact that I spent nearly two years trying to make it work with Her, even though I knew it wasn’t going to after seven months, strongly suspected it long before that. Since then, though, I’ve stayed resolutely single, always finding excuses to avoid getting out there. When I meet someone I probe for flaws, which I usually find fairly easily, since I think I seek out broken people specifically so I can say, “I can’t deal with this again.” It’s much easier to say, “I keep meeting crazy women,” than, “I don’t want to move on with my life.” It’s easier to blame someone else than work on what I need to work on.
In all honesty, though, I don’t know what it is that I need to work on. As strange as it is to me, I get no shortage of attention from women these days. As far as I can tell I have a lot to offer and other people seem to recognize that. But…but it doesn’t seem to matter that much. My main concern seems to be an attempt to figure out how I can keep someone else from coming in and making my life more complicated. It’s easier, I’ve realized, to re-live and re-imagine the past than to face the future. It’s also much easier to wander than to attempt to stay in one place.
I’m gonna drive on to that next sunrise
I ain’t worried about the weather
On the old horizon
I’m facing every storm on my own
And I close my eyes and grit my teeth
With an old guitar and a good backbeat
To find the only life I’ve ever known
I’m a rolling stone
--Lost Immigrants, “Rolling Stone”
I plug Pasaporte in to slot 6 of my Mazda’s in-dash CD changer. There’s something about buying a CD that matters more than downloading music. Sure, I will soon enough be ripping the disc, putting it on my computer and in to my mp3 player, but for the moment it’s a physical, a tactile thing.
I live in a world that’s loosely defined by four freeways and bordered by two airports. I could get on I-35E and take it north to begin a journey that would eventually take me back to Chicago. I could get on 114 and take it to Love Field or D/FW, either of which would allow me to get on a plane back to Chicago. That great city I once called home.
The last time I was in Chicago it was a frigid January night. Few people were out on the streets, so it was basically just me, my 2004 Cavalier, and the city I hated leaving. As I got back on I-55 south with Lucky Boys Confusion’s “City Lights” playing I didn’t look back, didn’t check my mirrors.
Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.
That’s a funny thought, coming from me, of all people.
I think it’s simple
You’ve got to take it slow
Grab the wheel
Hold on don’t lose control
Drivin’ all night with an AM radio
No matter where you are
You’ve got too far to go
--Lost Immigrants, “AM Radio”
Dallas is already becoming painfully hot. In my world it’s not supposed to be in the nineties before my birthday. It’s not supposed to stay in the 80s or even the 90s overnight. The idea of going outside in late May or early June is suppose to be a joy after a terribly cold and dark winter.
Still, I drive with the windows open, the sunroof rolled back. The hot air is far more bearable when moving across my face at 60 miles per hour. I barely use the air conditioner.
I don’t know what it is. I’ve never much liked the idea of using the air conditioning in a car. Part of it is a gas mileage thing, at least for low speeds and short distances. But part of it is the sense of connection with the world.
Part of it, too, is the sense of motion. It’s much easier to feel like you’re going somewhere when you feel the wind pushing against your face.
I’ll be on the freeway for a while, but I’ll never take it too far. It always leads back home. And that home is no longer Chicago.
You want to get out of such a desolate place
In a land of broken dreams and hollow eyes
You read the sign on every sunburned, worn-out face
And you’ll be miles down the road before they realize
You’re leaving Laredo you’ve got to get out of town
You’re not gonna let the bad ones drag you down
You’re leaving Laredo you’ve gotta pack your things
The time is now to get out and let the whole world sing
And you’ve got a lot of life to live so you can show
You’re leaving Laredo
--Lost Immigrants, “Leaving Laredo (Or the Night Gilberto Hit the Floor)”
I think I had to leave Chicago. There’s really no way around it. I wasn’t so much in a rut as a well. I spent most of my time in the four walls of my apartment, pretending that I wasn’t wasting my life.
But as I get older I realize that I never really had a clue about how to properly take stock of the differences in my life. I seem to think that the fact that I look different than I used to, drive a different car, live in a different place, means that I have made the important changes.
When I was in college I started screwing around with my hair. I shaved my head, then I dyed my hair a neon green. I shaved again, then died my hair a color I came to refer to as “piss yellow.”
These days I’m losing my hair. I can’t help but wonder if my college experiments contributed.
Either way, having weird hair didn’t change who I was. Moving to Dallas didn’t change who I was.
But this time around I have to actually confront it.
And every stretch of highway
Is another lonesome tune
But you lose a little faith going town to town
They tell you Jesus walked on water
And you know it to be true
But so do those demons you’re trying to drown
--Lost Immigrants, “Leaving Laredo (Or the Night Gilberto Hit the Floor)”
My last two major life transitions were accompanied by a brief uptick in the consumption of alcohol. I chased the night, as it were, going to bars. But I also just kind of kept beer around the house, probably as a reaction to living in a house where the mere thought of the consumption of alcohol would drive my mother insane…er than she already was.
When I moved to Brookfield I started to gain weight because of the alcohol. That hasn’t happened here, but mostly because I’m still focused on losing the weight I gained over the course of the last few years. I’d rather not reverse all the work I’ve done.
And I’ve learned that drinking doesn’t solve a single problem, anyway. It’s passive. It’s suicidal, really. Alcohol keeps you from facing the world you live in. Eventually you have to come out of the haze, realize that the problem you were hoping would disappear is still there, and the only options are to try to fix it or go back in to the haze.
It’s better to just fix the problems right from the start.
It’s a new day and a brand-new life
And I can’t recall a single word she said last night
My heart is bruised from all the blame
Why is it all my tries at love end up the same?
Heartache can drive you up the wall
Make you wonder why you ever loved at all
I guess I got some news for you
I’m looking for my second chance and this is what I’m gonna do
I’m gonna drive on down this highway
Until the pain in me is gone
I can’t look back
No I’ve gotta keep moving along
If you think you’re going my way
I’ll be headed out at dawn
Honey don’t be late
‘Cuz these wheels keep rolling on
--Lost Immigrants, “Rollin’ On”
The wind blows in my face. The Lost Immigrants blast through my speakers.
I point my Mazda in the direction of the lights of Dallas.
It’s not home.
But there are worse places I could be.
That’s enough for the moment. Whether it continues to be enough remains to be seen.
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