[1048] Vroom

Poised to be an extra-all-over-the-place one.

I’m back at my dad’s house after a weekend in Milwaukee. We saw Green Day, Foo Fighters, and most of the rest of the bands for Harley Davidson’s 120th anniversary festival. We ate great food. We drank beer. We navigated a mildly frustrating AirBnB situation, we got specialty coffee, and he picked up beer you can only get in Wisconsin. The day before, we saw David Cross and Sean Patton in Chicago during David’s latest special taping at The Metro. They were both tear-inducing and face pain funny. 

I do cool shit, but you already knew that.

I do cool shit like I’m someone who recognizes how quickly the entire world can be brought to its knees with the right bug. I do cool shit like I actually more believe than not I won’t have the opportunity to do so, at least in this country, when the fascist trends continue. I do cool shit like the artists actually mean something to me and like I think it important to generate positive feedback loops and new associations in an otherwise overwhelmingly stressful and stagnant existence. I do cool shit like it’s my job, because it is.

My dad has come with me to more music shows, comedy shows, or even movies than all of my friends combined over the last few years. My dad who iron works, takes care of graves in cemeteries hours away on the weekends, takes care of things around my aunt’s house, and keeps his own in order. My dad who’s turning 62 this year. My dad who lives 3 hours away from me. He has the time, energy, and attention to hang out and do cool shit in a way none of the other people I know, vaguely or otherwise, even flirt with having.

They don’t say, “Hey Nick, I’m not really into your genres of music, but so-and-so is playing, would you want to go to that?” They don’t say, “I’m so busy! But I’m budgeting to get a babysitter, and I’m definitely gonna hit, well, at the moment Fall Out Boy seems to be uniting people in a unique way." They don’t say, ”You sure do go to a lot, I’m legitimately too busy, but you’ve inspired me to take a little time and splurge or indulge or treat myself, because you know what? I do work a lot and I haven’t been attending to the necessary fun of a worthwhile life."

I inspire nothing! Today marks the 75th show for the year, 77th “fun thing,” with 34 left, Fall Out Boy on deck for tomorrow.

Is it debt? Yes. Is it long drives? Totally. Is it all of the risks associated with crappy vehicles, increasingly ugly and un-shared cultural landscape, and don’t my feet and back kind of ache? You might be arriving at the point and wisdom incumbent upon the whole endeavor. It’s work. It’s deliberate chosen effortful balance I’m interjecting against the void.

I’m incredibly frustrated by the lies, delays, and overall greedy empty nonsense trying to do good work and get paid for it. I don’t feel it in the same way as Hussain. It’s one, incredibly disappointing thing about how fucked we all are, let alone what I think to try to create. I have a dozen positive memories to choose from to pair that dissatisfaction with from the last few hours, let alone days. The “worst” thing about my life is “debt” which has come to symbolize considerably more about "potential" than "burdens" or "obligations." I don’t have a mortgage or car payment. I suspect you’d kill to be 3 months away, pretty much at all times, from being debt free, no?

But we’re broken. We don’t do the math budget-wise anymore than we do it with mental resources and allocated time towards worthwhile or otherwise thoughts. Concert crowds are certainly broken. All sense appears to have flown away. You’re around thousands of people, you’re going to get touched, you need to drink water, and setting down a blanket or chair anywhere near or around where a pit might open up is just a cunty dumb thing to do. When I’m walking back with two fresh beers to the spot I’ve been occupying for the last 7 hours, it’s the exact wrong time to strong arm block me and get into a debate about what, “We’re all trying to do” in getting in closer. No, bitch, you’re trying to be an incensed righteous lawyer cunt for no reason. I’m trying to politely edge past without spilling my waiting dad’s beer.

The whole concert scene has obviously been on my mind. It’s a unique expression of our selfishness and irony. I’m not there to love everyone in the crowd. The only thing we might have in common is barely knowing a few lyrics to some of your most popular songs. I suspect most people in the crowd haven’t read the latest Dave Grohl interviews or biographies of Green Day. A spattering of the crowd might be budding or capable musicians. Green Day in particular are great at appealing across generations. The old-school punk and the little girls all gather to belt out hits from 10 or 20 years ago despite 5 albums of music afterward you kind of pretend don’t exist.

I’m tired of hearing, “Welcome to the family!” from the singer of your band. I thought Pierce The Veil was incredibly awkward in their Green Day rip-off give-a-fan-a-guitar segment. Yes, Vic, sing into the weird gay kid’s eyes as he swoons on a stool before handing - an instrument he’s clearly never held in his life - a guitar he can keep and certainly cherish forever and not pawn. That’s crowd work.

Anyway, I’m gonna be 35 in 8 days. I suspect it will be uneventful. There won’t be a surprise party. No one’s taking me to dinner. I’ve already gotten the card from my parents with the $100 in it. On each day of the festival, tragedy struck someone in the circles of people I know. A friend’s mother’s best friend was murdered Friday. One of the step-kids’ husband had a stroke today. I’m just over hear chugging ice tea, listing my favorite bands, and bemoaning Sugarcult not getting as big as they should on the drive home.

I won’t be going this hard at this endeavor next year. I set the pace last year, kinda felt like I created a personal challenge to beat - beat severely - this year, and I’m chasing the feeling of a certain kind of magic going away. I used to find it incredibly hard to entertain the idea of ever leaving a show early, even a little bit, because I had to get my money’s worth. I didn’t go out that much. I’d never seen the band. What if something happens right at the end? I don’t leave early that often, but when I do, it’s because Tool is headlining, or the day before it took an hour just to walk out at an oversold My Chemical Romance Riot Fest performance, or Dave Grohl can make any one of his songs last 15 minutes, and that’s not always the best.

It’s an insane amount of privilege to perform, to attend, to afford the food, and to have the time to get there early, leave late, and be confident you’ve got the cash for the parking. It didn't use to be like that. It used to be music could bring any and all together. Now it brings those who can afford it, and those people are incredibly entitled, naive and out-of-touch cunts. It’s not all their fault, but they’re certainly not my friends, real or imagined versions of them, taking up room instead.

Finding common cause seems markedly different and opposite to finding common reaction. In a crowd, you react. That’s your job. Wave your hands. Jump. Scream. Unfortunately increasingly, hi-five, hug, introduce yourself, or dance with your neighbor. What are we all there for? To hear none of the women the day of or after The Supreme Court repeals Roe v Wade speak, sing, or scream into the mic about it? Hello, Lilith Czar, The Warning, and Halestorm, where the fuck were you?

If you’re not persuaded by the parts of the world on continuous fire, pick a metaphor you find agreeable. Minority stake holders in culture and environmental wars are plunging us into this absurd parody. How “festive” do you find festivals that have more bars than merchandise, art, or anything fun to do while you wait for your band to play? There’s music on. Some of them sound pretty angry. Anyone catch what it was? No protest song has stopped a war and no soundtrack makes the pills you swallow being born to your time and place any easier to digest.

The crowds aren’t diverse. The narratives around why are worn from being overplayed. The message isn’t clear and there’s no solidarity to be found. Rich whites like noise that helps them ignore all the screams they engender from their decision making. Let’s go, Brandon! No better time to be and loud and proud ignorant asshole than at the “Don’t wanna be an American Idiot” gig!

I want to say more or refine what’s here. I’ll try again later.

[1001] And The Band Played On

The last couple of weeks have been busy. I don’t really know that I’ve given myself the time to process. I don’t know if there’s that much to even process, but I know that I’ve taken in a lot of information I’ve yet to spit back out.

Less than 2 weeks ago I was at Cedar Point. I rode every roller coaster worth riding several times. I walked until my feet hurt immensely. I drove there the day before, and taught myself again to not rely on the kid that was there to be thankful or accommodating or helpful and I should always spend a little more for my own comfortable space. I was able to turn what felt like deliberately scammy marketing about a “season pass” into getting the day comped when I discovered at the gate I only had a “summer pass.” My fast pass felt like a worthwhile investment.

The next day I drove to Cincinnati for the Is For Lovers festival. I get acquainted with some new bands and see again a few I had earlier this year. I was in pain the entire time, but managed to walk between stages and get up close to most of my favorites. I drove through the night back home, and 4 days later would find myself in Chicago for Riot Fest.

Before getting to that festival I got to see Smash at her place for the first time in years. We got to talking about the past and how the group dynamics changed. She showed me her kick-ass art that I need to find a way to get promoted or turned into a series. It was the kind of interaction that proved to me time is an illusion and that we’re all just where we are, either making  and enjoying and investing in the moment together, or not. There is no other side of the hill. There is no place to occupy with someone else if you don’t already do with yourself.

She had another friend over who brought an expensive thermal imaging toy with him where we spotted deer, owls, and coyotes in a nearby park. When we got back to the house Smash and I kept talking as her boy and friend got dreary and went to sleep. I got some insight into my incredible insensitivity back then, and we explored just how cynically one might regard the person next to you in how you establish expectations. It’s literally gradations of that kind of interaction that had me so thoroughly invested in the friend group in college.  

The next day it’s off to Riot Fest. My AirBnB kind of sucks and I can’t get checked in until after the first day. I Uber it to the park, a mistake when I discover my phone almost dead and thousands of people trying to catch a ride away at the end of the day. After a miserable battery balancing act, I get one after walking far enough away, and with 1% manage to access the series of door codes that get me inside my AirBnB. Did I mention it kind of sucked? Not clearly marked, 1 towel, paper thin walls, and poorly air conditioned. At that point, very late, I just crash. Did I forget to say the oversold concert took 40 minutes just to walk outside from?

Days 2 and 3 were comparably better in that I learned from another friend who attended of a parking garage considerably closer than the distance I walked away to find an Uber. I better planned to leave before the final song, listening to the closing tracks on the walk along or on a bench outside the fence. I had “Deluxe VIP” tickets, which were seemingly also oversold and only worth the money because I’m a generally poor planner who didn’t bring a cane/seat, shade, or backpack that would have eased some pain points. The “VIP” viewing areas were further away than you could comfortably stand or even access in bigger crowds. Only a proper alcoholic could drink the money’s worth at the open bar. It kept me out of the “everyone needs to step back” after every song crowd for My Chemical Romance, but it was mostly a learning experience I’m happy was better than what I wasted on VIP for System of a Down. I drove back home through the night, and called in sick when I couldn’t sleep by 4 AM.

I didn’t meet anyone worth mentioning. I got some compliments on the Four Year Strong jersey and Bayside T-shirt I bought. I got complimented on a hat I found on the ground and started wearing. Most people that I caught looking at me smiled. I didn’t really think twice about the money I spent on food or other things at the concert. I only drank 1 of 3 days, and that problem of “Why drink if it’s alone?” arose pretty quick. I feel incredibly thankful for being told about the parking, being able to drive the car Hussain lent me, and being able to make the drives safely. It’s also the first day that it’s starting to feel like I’ve been doing a little “too much.”

Someone on reddit posted all of their concert tickets from 1970 to 2010. I started counting. He had between 40-50 and they included baseball games and to things like “The Wiggles.” In the comments he said it was only about half of his concert tickets. By the end of the year, I’d have 56 if I had physical tickets. I’m always counting or making comparisons like this. You could tell he took a lot of pride in his collection and got a lot of engagement and upvotes. I have this sneaking suspicion were I to upload printouts of all the shows, it would just strike people differently.

I just seem to go hard in every direction. Once it’s picked, game over. I want to watch all the TV, learn all the instruments, see all the bands I like after collecting every track well-independent of if there’s enough hours left in my life to consume it all. THEN I DO THE FUCKING MATH AND DISCOVER THERE IS! And I’m even planning to watch things when I’m too old to move around or that I think will be funnier or easier to galvanize other elderly watchers when we’re all stuck in the same boat.

One of my office managers asked how old I was recently, and when I said 34 she went “Oh, that’s so young!” Like, in a sense, yeah. I can walk my happy broken ass all over parks and drive through the night and mosh and eat kinda shitty and think about the future like it’s still open to what I might do with it in business or cultural revolution. But there’s that infinite disconnect, be it in awareness, partnerships, commitment, or just spirit of “yes” and “do.” We’re still trapped. No matter how rich I get, or if I’m seeing a different show every day of the year, my practice is unlikely to become yours. And I don’t know that there’s anything I can really do about that.

I called off work today and intended to watch TV straight through. I kept falling asleep. Then I decided to update my dating profile with so many words. Now I’m writing this and it’s going on midnight, and because I’ve had several consecutive days reminding me that I get most of my energy at and through the night, I’m trying not to persuade myself into the dread of going back to work on a “normal” schedule. I felt it for a second as I started that sentence, and then was like, nah, because I know what I’m about to say next.

It might be 3 weeks or so before the house sells. The buyer did the walkthrough and agreed to the terms. This means enough money to pay off all my debt, plus 2 more paychecks, and theoretically I’ll have started taking on clients either via Marion County DCS or places we know who have overflow clients that need to pay via insurance. In 2 to 5 months, my already “fuck you” spending could turn into a situation that transcends any monetary access and living arrangement I’ve ever had. I’m technically already not in debt barring a catastrophe where the house never sells. The gaping wound of all I didn’t know in how to get this business started has begun to sew up. I’m struggling to find the thing to worry or complain about. I feel like there’s a way out, and if I can get firmly in the flow that always finds the next opening, I might be able to focus on how to create that access for anyone else willing to dive in.

[990] Slaphappy Birthday

Even though time is an illusion, it looks like I’m 34, at least, at 10:58 PM. I’ve just woken up, made coffee, and wanted to explore how I spent the last few days. I got home this morning after driving all night, and I think I discovered the secret to falling asleep immediately. As soon as you get home from driving through the night, put on the podcast “The History of Philosophy Without any Gaps.” I ended my trip the way it began, considerably more prepared and awake on the drive home than to Cleveland. Cleveland, by the way, does rock. I see myself going back there.

I decided, because Facebook’s targeted ads are working, to see the band Anberlin play 3 nights, each night an old album. Anberlin, though celebrating their 20^th anniversary as a band, is one I came to relatively late. They have songs that are familiar-enough and an overall style and tone that, the moment I recognize it’s an Anberlin song playing, I’m almost-never skipping the track. I tried to “study” by playing their albums on repeat so I wouldn’t be a poser standing right up front against a stage only as high as my ankle. It really highlighted how hard it is to memorize songs in my genre that don’t make the vocals crystal clear. I’m not going to stay hunched over lyrics like I’m about to perform.

The venue was located in what I understood as a historical “hang-out” area with several quality places to eat and get smoothies or coffee. It had its Leftist book-store and on Saturday an artsy street fair with little booths and jazz band. Cleveland gives you a very palpable sense of its busy history as the old buildings weave throughout the new and the renovations attempt to keep basic features intact. I caught an article on the wall of the Grog Shop commemorating the first edition of Altpress which I didn’t know started there. The band was funny, engaged, and did great each night. During the last song on the first night the lead singer invited everyone who could fit on stage to dance, sing, and position themselves to catch him as he hung upside down from a beam lining the ceiling.

I had good food, a comfortable Airbnb room. I got to sleep on a big bed and really lean into a normal shower and bathroom setup. I was able to get my remote-work job done, desperately tired, but meeting my obligation. I read a book. Unable to get the nagging sense that I was incredibly close to Cedar Point out of my head, I decided to put the jewel in the crown of my time away, and got in 5 of the top roller coasters in the country before making my way home. It hit me, for as much as I loved going there, I don’t think I had been in 15 or 16 years. I listened to most of a book on the history of The Daily Show on the drive back.

While at Cedar Point, and while tucking myself into bed, and while standing in line or amongst the head-banging crowds, it may not be the first thing I notice, but it is persistently in my head that I’m alone. I want to make pains to distinguish “alone” from “lonely.” I have what I take to be an incredible capacity to enjoy myself, by myself. The roller coasters aren’t any less fun. I’m not less likely to sing along, eat to my heart’s content, or wander about a space. I can make the drives. I don’t have to concern myself with being entertaining enough during all of the down time that comes with arriving early so you can be up close.

In the crowds at the show, I listened to people. You think I’ve been to a lot of shows? A girl behind me knows the intimate lives of The Academy Is… and has seen them 120+ times in different countries. A couple shared, several times to new people, how this is the first time they’ve gotten away from the kids, and they were celebrating their anniversary in Cleveland. Cleveland has a robust rock/punk rock scene and groups shared who they saw and when, their opinions on albums, and their histories as it pertained to this world they felt they belonged. I was never moved to engage. A big part of me doesn’t feel sincere in my “scene cred.” My identity isn’t rooted in black clothing, lyrics, or being able to recognize and name each band member. That’s not a prerequisite for engaging those conversations, but you feel this pull to live up to a certain archetype. It’s akin to adopting office cliches, but for music.

At Cedar Point, you can really forget that we’re in a country bordering on full-blown fascist overthrow. Tens of thousands of people eating over-priced theme-park food, hitting the water park, or waiting in line. These are either people who live close and this is their primary occupation of time, or people who can afford the pilgrimage. It almost feels like a micro-country with every kind of American represented proportionally. I can’t say in that sea of people I saw anyone there by themselves. I saw family groups. I saw, perhaps divorced, parents with their kids. I saw packs of teens. I saw polo-shirted high-thigh khaki types. I saw couples. I didn’t see ANYONE sitting alone, walking alone, or standing alone who wasn’t wearing a park uniform or clearly waiting for their unit to return.

Did I want to be there with a family? Well, no, not really. Do I want to be a rich “business guy” with his pack of other business guys who talk more about our hobbies than how we’re integrating our wealth into a survivable future? More than I want to be carting kids through a park, but that also comes with its disappointing and unfulfilling details. When I speak to how “different” or “weird” I perpetually feel, not “bad” mind you, it’s because I’m noticing how often the space I occupy isn’t literally shared. The conversation is most often with myself, and I talk to people for a living.

I don’t know when or how it hit me, but I know it was around the time I was in college as I was attempting to set up weekend get-togethers and finding little beyond exhaustion and confusion. The impetus to be very deliberate and energetic about what might today be understood as “self-care” is not lost on me. Incidentally, the books I read and listened to on my trip are about the relatively recent past. The themes that we are suffering as budding fascism today have been drumbeats hammered-out by historians and satirists alike since I was a child. We haven’t been getting better at acknowledging and combating them deliberately.

We arrive at the different space I occupy. I allow the genuine and ongoing concern for my broader context to enter the conversation even as I’m having a good time. I’m looking for the joke. I’m curious about the practical steps it will take to alleviate the problem before it becomes life-threatening. I’m paying attention to the aching back as I’ve stood in place for hours on end, and then feeling myself wise and undeterred as I utilize my new back-roller balls to press kinks as I drive. That’s not what people do. People want to share vacation photos, collect souvenirs, and sing as though songs weren’t inspired by anything than a desire to populate tongues.

My space is different mentally, physically, and in the story it tells about what I think is important or what I believe about my options. Facebook is reminding me that 3 years ago is when I took my first “real vacation” to California with my “real job” money. That could have been yesterday. A year, with each year that passes, can be a rounding error in the proportion to the rest of your life. How many times in blogs would I repeat to myself how old I was? I was trying to hammer in how to pay attention. The time may be illusory, but the entropy feels real. Now, I’m 34. I’ve seen dozens if not a hundred bands, read hundreds of books, played as many video games, typed hundreds of thousands if not a million words. I have more stuff than I know what to do with. I have hobbies I enjoy and engage regularly. I have professional goals I’m working, maybe slightly less-diligently on than I should, but working on nonetheless. I don’t have a 30-year mortgage or car loan and my job will pay my debt in 4-5 months if I could bother to stop spending. I’m healthy. I’m full. I have people who will occasionally join me here and there. But in a significant and meaningful way that I wish wasn’t the case, I’m alone.

I don’t wish it because I’m lonely, I wish it because I feel like I have something valuable and honorable and worthy that I don’t know how to translate or share. Why can’t you pick up and come on a trip or show with me? Why can’t you feel comfortable pairing your day-to-day work or mental preoccupation to the larger narrative? Why can’t you find a sense of purpose or belonging in honestly engaging and doubling-down on the things you enjoy? Why don’t you feel obligated and responsible to talk about how your mind works or how it perceives your corner of the world? Why aren’t you practicing with the urgency that respects impending death?

I feel like I’ve earned what I have, in time, money, or right to say and share what I think. I feel like I have an appreciation for the difference between the fun of spending money and indulging oneself and the fun of helping people through utilizing real power in consequential ways. I think my life is as much a reflection of the infinite things I can’t control as it is infused with my intention collapsing the infinite sea into a conscious choice to pay attention. I’ve worked to push the direction of my life one way over still-probable others. I don’t need my will to be “free” more than acknowledged for its existence at all and recognized for what it’s manifested in service to our shared experience.

We are sharing experience, right?

[809] Man About Town

I feel sort of obligated to account for my time in California while on vacation. This is something I booked in March, extremely suspicious that I would make it at my current income, patience, or general “alive” level given my inability to trust that things will go too well or turn out as planned. I had safe flights, the second with 2 free seats next to me to stretch and layabout. The weather was the epitome of perfect. I saw amazing bands. One of those bands called me out to come up on stage, dance, and make out with a random girl who crowd surfed up to join me (all of which was on their instruction, and I suspect we both knew the kind of pawns we were in their sick entertainment game) jk luv u #lessthanjake. I had good expensive food. I just came from a less than ideal concert situation so I was better prepared with water, Tylenol, sunscreen, and decided to play modern and get touristy and take pictures and videos. I even snuck in a trip to a botanical garden because I was told I should go by a friend, and took pictures there as I hoofed around and listened to people playing the various on-site pianos.

It was another glimpse into the kind of life I feel I'm pushing towards. I get nervous and clench my jaw thinking about whether or not I'm going to take an extra 20 minutes on my lunch break to work out an existential crisis. Get called to dance with my shirt off in front of thousands of people and kiss a random girl? I want that to be my just-another-Tuesday, because in a real way, that's what it felt like. People were calling out my name, asking to take pictures, hug me, or just generally were smiling and high-fiving me for being a part of the experience and playing to the moment. I got to live in one of the loudest ways how little a shit I give what people think, and how I wish we could all have fun, and it was exactly representative of what's screaming to come out all the fucking time.

The amount of times I've envisioned myself on a stage, giving a speech, or otherwise just being unduly popular or attention-getting is innumerable. One of my first, not being a child, dream jobs was to scout and sign bands and run an all night practice venue. I'm not the person who gets a treble clef tattoo, but the raw emotion that catching the right song at the right time can bring you back to is an invigorating drug, and a powerful force for uniting what are otherwise miserable and immature people. It's a stark example of personality breaking through “it all sounds the same.”

I'm really not moved enough to say much more. I had a good time. I was alone, per usual. My AirBnb was more uncomfortable than I was anticipating, not because of anything wrong with the host, but because you're staying in someone's house. I go into random houses for a living and don't blink, but I leave shortly after. I want to be able to wander. I want to see more of my favorite bands before their planes crash or addictions catch up. I want to enjoy the weather. I want to keep catching 15 minutes of fame across different exploits of my personality and interests. I think a lot of celebrities and how many traps gets set for you after the point where “everyone” knows who you are. I liked people calling out and whispering comments. I'd like if they judged the shit out of me and tried to troll. The busy-ness of pushing against opinions and wading through the fog of thoughts into action is a kind of always-on game I could keep playing.