Anniversary

What a douchey word. And I'm not talking about love, exactly. Today is the _________ of other things, like the birth of my oldest brother, David. He's 39. He drives a station wagon, like me, but his is silver instead of gray/grey, and it has a roofrack for a bike he doesn't ride while mine doesn't have a roofrack for a bike I do ride (although, as dumb as this is, I ride it a lot less than I would if I didn't wear the jeans I do every day). Those of you who remember/can't forget how fucked up I am will note that my brother used to be my youth pastor. And I was home schooled. Remember? When I tell people this, they say an iteration of this: "O, now I understand...". What does that even mean? That's rhetorical. Anyway, I've spent most of my short life worshiping the ground Dave walked on, because, you know--. Now he's like a Joyce Carol Oates novel except without the single, solitary black guy that the white girl falls in love with like it's Raisin in the Sun all over again but 2008. 

One of the other things that happened on this date: My oldest dear friend JJ and I were in our first band together way back when we just learned how to jack off with the jets in the hot tub (we were homeschooled so that means age 16), and on this date, in 1998, we played our first ever proper show. I remember breaking lots of strings on my guitar and thinking it was cool. I also remember trying to dress like a straightedge greaser because that's what Overcome did. (Or something.) I also remember playing thru a JCM800 and thinking it wasn't dirty enough because I was stupid. Very stupid. I also remember my station wagon at the time cost, literally, less than my amp. Seriously--that's what I'm talking about, man: priorities. My car doesn't need to have leather (except that they do), they just need to have a storage compartment that fits perfectly a nice tubeamp. Playing a show with a band was one of those things I'd wanted to do always. I'm lucky that I've gotten to play live with most of my best friends. It's weird to think that 10 years ago today I got in front of people and played songs I helped write (bad as they were/are).

Ah, moving on down the timeline. Six years ago tonight I got drunker than you ever have and smashed to hell: 1. my head on railroad tracks in 17degree weather; 2. my friendship with my dear old friend Brad; 3. my glasses; 4. the motherfuckin' face of a firefighter who was trying to save my life. While I don't remember any of the Stand By Me bullshit on the railroad tracks, and don't remember the last two bars we went to, I do remember waking up the next morning in the hospital--still drunk--wondering who the hell got needles into my arms (I hate needles) and why I was naked in the hospital. Brad came over and said, (for those of you who know him--rubbing his moppy hair awkwardly and making that sucking tick sound with his mouth before holding his hands out in front of his breasts) "Joe, I think you're fucked, man. I think you're getting arrested. You beat the shit out of a firefighter last night." Drunk, I laughed. No. O, yes, my dear dumb bitch, O, yes. In jail that afternoon I realized that I was missing a test and paper-turn-in for my Shakespeare class that would result in my failure of the course. I stopped drinking whiskey, which brings me to my next anniversary on this date.

Last year was my 5-year anniversary of not drinking whiskey (with the exception of drinking whiskey a few times out of pure joie de vivre/wanting to get drunk with a good buddy). Why wait five years to let that sweet Knob Creek pass my lips? Well, after all the drama with biting the hand that feeds (saves) you, as it were, I kept away from the fuck-yeah juice as best as I could considering my forbearers. Plus, if I got caught doing anything crazy, there was still a statute of limitations not-yet-limited, if you know what I mean. I mean, I had to be good. Well, last year, I drove down to Tucson from Tempeasy to get back to school. I had a sledgehammer inside my heart and no place to stay and no home to come home to. So, instead, I went to the Che lounge and had'em poured stiff like my dick, neat like my knife tricks. Whew! The good times are killing me. The good times are killing me. The good times are killing me.

The Problem Perspective

The times they are a'changing, they say. I don't have a bed to lay my head (mostly), and, you know, life in the Tempeasy is overwrought with history and drama--slightly Shakespearian, one might posit. I think, partially, and partially I think the problem is that the world is (still) made out of people. They get in the way of making so often, and then, when one finds another maker to talk to, they're just as sick of people and fucked up as you are, which, obviously, is both why you want to talk to them and why you are frustrated by them. Me--I want them to understand. 

Which is to say (except for the part where it isn't to say because I'm actually now changing the subject), last weekend I went to Austin for a barista competition. I didn't win, but I slept next to a fat naked man on a sleepnumber bed (mine's 45) and walked around much, much less than I would have ever found acceptable in such a beautifully-climate-controlled city. I don't know if you've ever been there, but I've got Austin's number: If Tucson and Portland had sex, their beautiful arty baby would be Austin. It ended up being a pretty exhausting, emotional trip. A barista competition sounds like as good of an idea as it is. It's Best in Show, but with the freak-hippies who dropped out of the ceramics program at StateU their sophomore year to work full-time in the Industry competing. I made it home safe & in time to vote for our new president, which is the first time I've successfully cast my vote for the person who's won. 

This weekend I'm in LA visiting Adam. We see eachother much less than is even remotely acceptable, but, you know, when you're young & starting out and don't have trustfunds like you should, you gotta be a worker and climb up the trash heap. We're both doing that right now. Seeing a real, true friend that knows all my bad & meanness and still loves me feels very deep. It also feels light. We hit MOCA out here yesterday and had so much fun seeing the Martin Kippenberger perspective. He's what you would do if you were an MFA trustfund asshole. Or, at least, Adam and I agree it's what we'd do. Louise Bourgeois was rollin' hard there, too, and possibly took the show. It was great. Also, we ate brunch with good old Curdbird and it felt like the best days of Kilnemia practice all over again. I miss that guy, and I miss his laugh, and I wish I saw him more, too. What's that they say? It's like being in a marriage when you're in a band. I'm leaving this morning, and going back to the dramarama in the old 'hood and catching up on all the gossip at Melrose Place (where I live), which should be interesting, because I suspect it's about me this week.