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.