I had a crush on the same girl from kindergarten through 5th grade. In grade two a few of my friends and I would play this game at recess where some of the girls would snatch the hats off our heads (usually after a swift kick to the balls) and run, and we’d try to catch them. I should mention that the sole reason we wore hats outside at recess was so the girls would kick us in the balls and take them off our heads. Why were we into that? Who came up with the idea? Seriously, what the sincere, actual fuck?
Anyway, I always wanted Angie to take my hat, because I liked her, but when she did, I could never catch her, because she was easily the fastest girl in our class. She was probably the fastest person in our class, period. Fuck, could she run. I always wanted to do whatever Angie was doing, because I liked her, and that’s what I thought liking someone was all about. Doing the same things, together, all the time.
So when I found out Angie was gonna play trumpet in 5th grade band, I had no choice but to beg my parents to get me a trumpet. They finally relented, scoring me a used trumpet on payments at a local music store. This was gonna be the answer, I thought…all my Angie-related dreams were about to come true, and it would all begin with me sitting next to her in band practice.
I ended up being accidentally kinda good at the trumpet (or I was better than the other 5th graders, anyway), so I quickly earned the first chair position, which immediately made me nervous. I’ve never wanted to be in charge of anything, and I don’t much care for being looked at, but I accepted my new role with the all grace and aplomb that a 10-year-old boy can exhibit.
For our annual Christmas concert that December, the 5th and 6th grade bands were combined into a Super Band (not its real name), I assume with the purpose of shortening the overall concert time, since there were also choir performances slated for pretty much every grade, and ain’t nobody got time for that. Since the bands were combined, I was seated to the left of the 6th grade first chair trumpet, Jackie.
One of the songs we were performing that night was “Carol of the Bells”, and I was tasked with the heavy responsibility of beginning the song 100% solo. I was nervous, but at the same time, I was as confident as I’ve probably ever been in my life. The time came, the band director indicated that the floor was mine, and I began to blow a perfect rendition. She quickly waved me to a stop, did something with her hands that seemed to indicate that I should be playing louder, and started things up again. I once again played flawlessly, and as loud as I could possibly play, and she once again waved me to a stop, and did the same thing with her hands again.
I was sweating through my clothes at this point, beyond embarrassed, and wanting nothing more than to simply disappear forever. I was just about to start playing a third time, even louder this time (I don’t know if that would even have been possible), when Jackie leaned over to me and said “you’re in the wrong key”. Turns out while I was playing the notes correctly, I was indeed playing in the wrong key, and the band teacher’s hand motions didn’t mean that I should play louder, they meant that I should be playing an octave higher.
Angie quit the trumpet after 6th grade, but my parents wouldn’t let me quit, as they’d paid a small fortune, relatively speaking, to satisfy my schoolboy crush – a crush that by then didn’t even exist anymore. I played on through 7th grade, at basketball games, concerts and the occasional football game, constantly regretting my shortsighted decision to learn how to play the trumpet.
Thankfully, my parents got tired of having to drive me to concerts and games, and upon completion of my 7th grade year, I was allowed to stop playing the trumpet. The cursed instrument went into our attic, where it stayed for the next decade, until I sold it to a former co-worker, and now…
I even had to google “key vs octave”. I still feel a mild twinge of panic when I hear “Carol of the Bells”, though. I’ll never forget that.
My pal Collin mentioned yesterday that he’d been reading this esteemed blog, and really wanted to know more about the time I ate 22 pieces of pizza. That story is the first of a few different instances of me becoming what the missus semi-affectionately refers to as “The Pizza Monster”. I’ll probably share the rest of those stories eventually, because they’re pretty funny, but for now, here’s the origin story of my alter ego, The Pizza Monster.
Like all high-school-age boys, I was pretty gross. I never drank or smoked or did anything “wrong”, really, but I did have a vice: shoving foodstuffs down my big fat piehole like it was my job. I was a chonky boi, as the kids might say, and as such, I could put away some food, friends.
One night, about 30 minutes after finishing my supper (I don’t remember what we ate that night, but I can guarantee I ate seconds of everything, and probably thirds of some things), Travis called to see if I wanted to join him, his brother Tyler, and their mom on a trip to College Mall. I couldn’t turn down that offer – a chance to go to town on a school night? Fuck yeah that wide!
On the drive up, Travis told me we were also gonna go to Mr. Gatti’s after we were finished at the mall. At the time, I’d never been to a Mr. Gatti’s (or even heard of it), and said as much. Travis regaled me with tales of all-you-can-eat pizza, breadsticks, and cheesesticks, plus air hockey, Street Fighter II, skeeball, holy shit was I ever stoked! Travis mentioned that the last time he was there, he ate 20 slices of pizza. Before I even realized what was happening, I responded “I can eat more than that.”
Travis obviously accepted my challenge, and soon after – a mere 2 hours after I’d eaten essentially two full meals with my family – we began our contest. If you’ve ever been to Mr. Gatti’s, you know that not all their slices are cut evenly, so we placed no limitations on size, but we also didn’t purposely choose smaller pieces just to increase our count. We ate and ate and ate, and then we ate some more. When the final buzzer sounded, I’d eaten 22 slices, and Travis had eaten 23.
I want to take this opportunity to remind you that I’d eaten dinner not long before our journey began. We were also definitely guzzling root beers the entire time we ate. If I hadn’t begun the contest on a full stomach, who knows how much pizza I could’ve put away? I may still be there eating pizza to this day.
Travis, by the way, stands at least 6’5″, and can still destroy some pizza to this day. About five years ago, I saw him devour two New York-style slices (each bigger than my certified XL head) like they were a couple of potato chips, and as recently as three years ago, he ate a large pizza and an order of breadsticks by himself.
Those slices were very much like this.
As for me, I still wanna eat all the pizza in the world, and I still eat too much of it every single time I eat it (did I mention that I’m a Pizza Monster?), but I’ve never again come close to the glory of that day in 1993 when I consumed 2-3 days’ worth of calories in a mere 4 hours.
I just returned from the second annual Bloomington Music Expo, where I accidentally spent 3 hours looking at records and CDs, and I came away with a pretty great haul, though I did leave behind a few things that I’ll surely think about longingly (for at least) days to come. Regret will have to wait, though, because today I got some rad shit! Here are the things I picked up, mostly in the order in which I purchased them.
I’ve written about Testament extensively on my other blog, so I won’t bother here. They’re one of my favorite bands, and this album is an overlooked gem that got buried in the darkness that was 1990’s heavy metal. This particular edition is on beautiful white vinyl, features “artwork reimagined by Marcelo Vasco”, and is limited to 1,000 copies worldwide. It’s sooooooo goddamn good.
I didn’t even know this beauty existed, but holy smokes am I ever excited to own this! The B-side features a bitchin etching of the title card from the cartoon, which unfortunately does not photograph well with my phone.
Two of the greatest albums from one of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll bands to come out of the United States. I’m pumped about In Color, in particular – if it was the only album Cheap Trick had ever released, they’d still be one of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll bands to come out of the United States.
Roy Orbison and Cyndi Lauper both rule, obviously. The booth I got the Cyndi Lauper record from was like looking through my sister’s record collection from when I was kid.
If you’re unfamiliar with Roy Clark or Jerry Reed, you should change that.
And last, but certainly not least…
…I got the motherfucking 12″ UK single for “Wasted Years”, my favorite song ever from my favorite band ever. I’ve written a lot of stuff about Iron Maiden, some of it for my other blog, most of it on my personal Facebook page (which led directly to my decision to create my other blog), and I will likely write more about Iron Maiden in the future. Rest assured, I am beyond stoked to own this. The B-side consists of a phenomenal song called “Reach Out”, which features lead vocals by guitarist Adrian Smith (who also wrote “Wasted Years”) and backing vocals by Bruce Dickinson, as well as a fun tune called “Sheriff of Huddersfield”, wherein the band pokes fun at their longtime manager Rod Smallwood, who had then-recently moved to Los Angeles and constantly complained about it.
I also got a pristine copy of Steve Earle’s first album, Guitar Town, but I left it in the car. It’s a fantastic album, especially for a debut.
That’s all for today. I’m gonna blast the shit outta that Testament record. See y’all next time.
I don’t have time to write much at the moment, but I feel the need to share some songs. I’m finding myself dipping into a bit of a funk again, and it boils down to being unable to let go of little things that don’t matter. I know better, but I have to constantly remind myself that most of the day-to-day bullshit means nothing, and that what really matters is how I deal with said bullshit.
With that in mind, here are some songs I find inspiring. They are in no particular order. Maybe one or more of them can help you, too.
“One Life, One Chance” by H2O
H2O helped me get through some shit back in my early 20’s. I likely would not be here today if it weren’t for their music.
“And no one said it was gonna be easy
And I’m not afraid to try
And with the odds stacked up against me, I will have to fight
One life, one chance, gotta do it right”
“Kid” by The Bouncing Souls
The Bouncing Souls (and the album Hopeless Romantic in particular) helped me get through the same shit that H2O helped me get through. I absolutely would not be here today without The Bouncing Souls and Hopeless Romantic.
“Is it true when we get old our hearts die?
I heard it in a movie once, and I think I know why
Life can suck so bad it makes you wanna die
But you get by
Life goes by”
“First Failure” by Gorilla Biscuits
Gorilla Biscuits did not save my life, but they do kick a ton of ass.
“When my eyes see a loser in the mirror
I think ‘what did I do?’
Sure I fucked up, but I got back up
So that loser shit’s out the window
And if you been let down, it might not be the last time
Cheer up, it will hurt much less tomorrow
We’re all tired of fucking up and that’s not just being sorry
It means brush the dirt off
Get up and try again”
“Choices Made” by CIV
After Gorilla Biscuits broke up, 3/4 of the band formed CIV. The other 1/4 formed Quicksand, and they fucking rule, but they won’t be featured here today.
“I don’t need you to make my choices
I can speak, you can hear my voice
And I don’t need you to make my choices
I can speak, you can hear my voice
And everyone’s not looking for approval
Sometimes you gotta go it alone
Don’t work too hard being normal
Just work hard on what you want”
“Change the Key” by 7 Seconds
Good to Go is not regarded as the most important 7 Seconds album, but it’s the one I heard first, and is also my favorite. Right place, right time and all that. The band’s entire discography is a masterclass in positive hardcore.
“I’ve learned that patience is better
I take a breath and count real slow to ten
Why don’t we try it together?
We’ll make mistakes, get up and start again
Don’t feel a need to be violent
I’m working with this rage inside of
And I will never be silenced
I’ll try and use this rage to set me free
Change my ways and I’m still trying
It ain’t easy but I’m not crying
Change my plans and my direction
I gotta change the key that makes this person me”
“So it’s been a bad day
Everything seems grey
My upstairs is out of place
I need to be by myself
Rely on no one else
Only I can erase the slate
All of the walls I’ve built to protect me seem to fall
All around and I see things so differently
Down is the taste of the day
But things will change
I can be strong and keep my head up
All I need is some time by myself
I need to go where there is no one to come and try to find me
My feelings must open up and vent
All of the walls I’ve built to protect me seem to fall
All around and I see things so differently
Down is the taste of the day
But things will change
I can be strong
Keep my head up
And accept my feelings now
So there will be better days
Sacred getaways are the means of my escape
Then I will collect my thoughts or lose them if I choose
I control this game”
That’s all the time I have right now, friends. Thanks for reading.
This blog is the natural extension of an old school cut and paste ‘zine I started working on when I still lived in Austin. My homeboy Jimmy, from back in the day, advised that I just do it online, because it would be cheaper and easier, and in standard Jimmy vs. Joel fashion, I ignored his arguments and instead spent the better part of 5 years putting together 2 issues of Doppelgänger! (A Zine With Some Stuff in It). I’m fairly pleased with the first issue (though some of it strikes me as a little embarassing now), and I’m mostly satisfied with Issue #2, but not long after I made that one, I started to get happier, and the need to cut and paste my troubles away began to dissipate. I started the layout for issue #3 about 7 or 8 years ago, and it remains unfinished to this day, in a box labelled “Zine Stuff”, stashed in my closet next to a box full of old VHS tapes that I simply cannot bear to part with.
Long story short, Jimmy was ultimately right, as he often is, but at the time, old school was the only way. I needed the tactile element of creation at that point. Twelve years later, I still enjoy the tactile element, but I’m much more aware of the necessity of getting it out there while there’s still time. It’s later than you think, friends.
At some point in the past week or so, it occurred to me that in addition to providing you with fresh, cutting-edge content (ha!), I could also use this space to reprint stuff from my old ‘zines/notebooks. If nothing else, it’ll keep the blog active. The title of this post, by the way, is stolen from a song by the Minutemen. You should listen to them.
You might be asking, Joel, what the hell is the point of all this? That’s almost always a fair question when you’re talking to me. The point is, here’s some shit from an old notebook (and Issue #2 of Doppelgänger!), edited slightly for clarity (date unknown, but sometime pre-2008):
Here’s something to think about: how fucking funny would it be if professional wrestling, circa 1980’s, was absolutely and totally real? Like, f’rinstance, what if Dusty Rhodes really wore that wristband, vest, tights, and kneeboot ensemble, all black with yellow polka-dots, all the time? What if the Ultimate Warrior, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan, and “Macho Man” Randy Savage really talked like that, all the time? Just imagine if Koko B. Ware, George “The Animal” Steele, “Ravishing” Rick Rude, Hulk Hogan, Mr. Perfect, the Honky-Tonk Man, and the Bushwackers were all completely and utterly real…
One step further now: imagine if you regular life was like professional wrestling, circa 1980’s. Like if your actual life was in danger at all times because of a grudge between you and a guy who wears a mask and a gold sequined robe. Or if, for some reason, you and your cousin (each of you with a fondness for leather and spikes) had a feud with two pig-farming brothers who lived down the road, and your day were peppered with the risk of cheap shots from brass knuckles, handfuls of sand, and other “foreign objects”. Or if your life-long best friend suddenly took off his pink fringed vest to reveal a t-shirt emblazoned with a picture of himself with his new best friend…
And of course: everyone would have their own theme song, and some people would have managers and/or bodyguards, but other than our running fueds, we’d live the lives that we normally lead. For example, “Dangerous Dave” Jackson of St. Louis, Missouri might drive to work every day at the Anheuser-Busch brewery every day while listening to a song about being a true American patriot. Meanwhile, his arch-nemesis, a filthy-rich trust fund socialite from Massachusetts named Phineas Vanderbilt, a.k.a. “Mr. Moneybags”, would sit at mahogany desk and count his money while listening to a song about how rich and powerful he is, his bodyguard Rufus ever vigilant over his left shoulder…
So to repeat my original question: how fucking funny would it be if professional wrestling, circa 1980’s, was absolutely and totally real? Now that I have these images in my mind, I can’t imagine anything funnier.
That’s that. For the record, I can imagine funnier things now, but this scenario still cracks me up. There’ll certainly be further installments of “Shit From an Old Notebook” in the days and weeks to come. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope you’ll visit again soon. In the meantime, find me on facebook and instagram @clockwisecircle. And tell your friends, won’t you?
Regardless of whether you liked that or not (or whether you even read that or not), I’ll be back here soon. Come back and check it out. Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you.
If you enjoy the things I write, feel free to tell your friends. It’s not like I’m gonna tell them. I probably don’t even know them, but even if I do, I feel weird talking about myself, even right now.
You can also feel free to follow me on Facebook and Instagram. Fuck Twitter, though. Twitter is bullshit.
Seriously though, Twitter is bullshit. What kind of monster can say all they need to say about a thing in 280 characters or less? Not even 280 words, but 280 fucking characters?! And don’t even get me fucking started on Twitter threads. If you have that much to say, FUCKING PICK A FUCKING DIFFERENT FUCKING METHOD THAN FUCKING BULLSHIT FUCKING TWITTER!
Anyway, visit again soon, won’t you? Maybe I’ll talk about G.I. Joe until you regret calling on me. Maybe I’ll blab about some obscure punk/emo band from 1999 until you question your decision to drop in. Maybe I’ll go on about Sanford and Son, and you’ll realize how fucking hilarious that show was (and still is!). Maybe I’ll share my feelings and make us all feel awkward.
As I mentioned in my previous post, Sheila and I ventured to Austin, TX last week to visit some friends and get the fuck out of Dodge (that is to say, Bloomington) for a while. A good time was had by all, and as is the case with vacations, it wasn’t nearly long enough. Big thanks to our homeboy Sal for putting us up for the week, and for driving us all over town and entertaining my nostalgic whims. I still plan to write more about my time living in Austin at some point, hopefully sooner than later, but for now, a brief debriefing of our trip.
We landed in ATX more or less right on time, and were quickly carted away for lunch through some terrifying traffic at a really great vegetarian/vegan spot called Bouldin Creek Cafe, located on the south side of the sprawling city. After lunch, we went on a brief driving tour of some southside landmarks (I was pleased to see Peter Pan Mini-Golf appeared unchanged in my 13+ year absence) and found ourselves at the Broken Spoke for a mid-afternoon vacation libation.
I went to the Broken Spoke once during my time living in Austin, and it was like walking into a time capsule then. I recall very few buildings in the immediate vicinity of the gravel parking lot when I visited in early 2006, but the mostly paved parking lot now sits in the midst of 3-4 towering high rise buildings that I assume are condos, but what they are is irrelevant; they’re an eyesore no matter who spends time in them, and for what reason. Progress is often such a regression.
An abundance of cars in the parking lot hinted that they were open for business, and we walked in to find the bartender cutting limes at a table, with a few other people (and a couple of dogs) sitting together on the left side of the room. She asked if she could help us, Sal said we were hoping to get a beer, and she got up and walked behind the bar (where an older gentleman who we soon realized was the owner) was already standing, previously unnoticed by us. We perused the beer list for a moment before he said “if you’re drinkin in Texas, you gotta have a Shiner or a Lone Star”, and considering the other best options were Budweiser and Dos Equis, we obliged.
We wandered around and checked out the impressive collection of memorabilia placed all around the legendary honky-tonk (which is how we figured out the nice older fella was the owner), and it made me happy to see that in spite of all the “progress” surrounding it, the Broken Spoke, like Peter Pan Mini-Golf, hasn’t changed either (except for the beer prices). And by that, I mean that I don’t think they’ve even dusted since I was last in there, sometime in early 2006. It was truly a beautiful thing.
The group sitting on the left side of the main room seemed to be shooting a music video, or perhaps a promotional spot – a lady was wearing a fancy flowered dress with bow on her head, playing an upright bass, and she sang a little, and someone took pictures and video inside as well as out in front of the building. No idea what was going on, but it was an interesting thing to accidentally be a part of.
As we were finishing our beers, a guy came in and stood at the bar, where the bartender was nowhere to be found. He wandered around briefly before asking us if anyone was working. We told him someone was, but we didn’t know where she’d gone. I heard a sound from the direction of the kitchen and told him as much. He went to the kitchen and asked about getting a beer only to be told that they didn’t open until 5:00. I’m really not sure why they didn’t tell us the same (or why there were so many cars in the parking lot) but if they had, I suppose I wouldn’t have a story, however boring, to relate. At any rate, I’m pleased to announce that walking into the Broken Spoke is still like walking into a time capsule.
Next we headed up “The Drag”, which is the portion of Guadalupe Street that runs along the western edge of the University of Texas campus. The biggest change I noticed there is that the signage on the front of the Church of Scientology building is covered by black trash bags, which is where that shitty, ridiculous fraud of a “religion” belongs – in the trash. I don’t know if they’re closed forever (I’ve since read that they’re renovating), but a girl can dream, right? We stopped at the Amy’s Ice Cream on Guadalupe, which I’m pretty sure is the first Amy’s I ever ate ice cream in, and where I promply got my fix of their unbelievably good coffee ice cream. Seriously, I’ve been thinking about that coffee ice cream since I moved away from Austin, and it was every bit as good as I remembered.
Dinner that night was at a place called Licha’s Cantina (they refer to their cuisine as “Mexico City Soul Food”, whatever that means), located a bit east of I-35, on the eastern edge of downtown; that whole area is way more fancypants than it was when I lived there. The restaurant was packed to the rafters with shitty hipsters, but the service staff was top notch, and the food was good. We went for drinks after at Yellow Jacket Social Club, where a bunch of guys did a bunch of cocaine in the men’s room. It was a cool place other than those douchers – top notch country music playing, (relatively) cheap drink prices, and lots of entertaining graffiti on the picnic tables outside, as well as in the men’s room.
We moseyed back to Sal’s place to finish off the night and slept the restless sleep that is slept by people who overindulged in food and drink. We awoke the next morning to varying intensities of rain, drank some coffee, and broke our fast at Torchy’s Tacos, where I had a really fucking good fried avocado taco and a really fucking good migas taco and some really fucking good (but strong!) coffee. Sal then drove us to see my last workplace (the building is still standing, but no longer houses the same business), my last residence, and my first residence, all of which are in the north-northwest part of town. It was pretty surreal to see places I used to live, and that I thought I’d likely never see again. Both apartments looked pretty much the same, like maybe they’d been powerwashed and had a fresh coat of paint at some point, but otherwise, if I hadn’t known better, I might think I was still living and working in all three places. I do wish it hadn’t been raining so hard at this point in the day, as I would’ve liked to’ve snapped some pictures of the places, but such is life. I’m pretty sure I have pictures of both apartments somewhere in my closet. Maybe I’ll share them here some day.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon checking out some local breweries, namely Austin Beerworks, Celis Brewery, and 4th Tap Brewing Co-op. I love visiting breweries, in part because I love beer, but also because it’s really cool to see how different they all are from one another while ostensibly offering the same product. Each location clearly reflects the vision of its owners and/or brewers, and I like that very much. From my journal: “AB was my fave, flava-wise, but Celis had the best “vibe” to me.” 4th Tap seemed very cool as well, but by the time we got there, I was too full to properly appreciate their beer. They’re worker-owned, which I love, and they had video and board games, so I imagine it’s a pretty fun place to hang out.
Our friend Adam met up with us at 4th Tap, and Sal and I disembarked to Sal’s house to drop off the car and get a Lyft to meet Sheila and Adam for dinner. Sal chose a place called Vivo, and it was mind-blowingly fucking good. The tortilla chips were clearly made with sorcery, all buttery and warm and just seriously the best tortilla chips I’ve ever had the pleasure to eat. The salsa and queso were top notch as well, and my spinach & mushroom enchiladas with poblano cream sauce were some of the finest enchiladas I’ve eaten, and I have eaten a lot of enchiladas. I also got a very good “puffy taco” with tofu and a bunch of other stuff in it, and from a strictly gastrointestinal standpoint, that was a mistake. I used to be able to eat an unholy amount of food (22 slices of pizza at a Mr. Gatti’s once, when I was in high school, but that’s a story for another time), but I just can’t eat Tex-Mex no more like I used to could. All in all, I’d easily rate that meal one of the 20 Best Meals I’ve Ever Eaten, Ever.
Karaoke followed at a place called The Common Interest, and it was fun. I sang “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath, which is one of my go-to karaoke jamz, and the crowd was very laid back and supportive. I also witnessed a guy sing a Slayer song,which was definitely a karaoke first for me.
Next morning we all awoke a bit rougher for the wear, and made the wise decision to eat homemade oatmeal for breakfast. We then ventured south, to visit Waterloo Records (where I scored some pretty sweet stuff), eat more Amy’s Ice Cream (a scoop each of coffee and Irish cream for me this time), lunch at Magnolia Cafe, dig Barton Springs, and check out SoCo, not necessarily in that order. We then paid a visit my old southside apartment (the one in the bougie ghetto), which, like the northside haunts, looks no different aside from the exterior paint. We then met up with our friend Luc, who Sheila and I hadn’t seen in a whole lot of years, and had dinner at Home Slice Pizza. New York style pizza is definitely not my preferred style, but Home Slice does it well. A little tip, though: if you think yourself and your dining partner should each get a house salad along with a medium pizza (which is the smallest whole pizza they offer), fuckin think again. That house salad is monstrously large for a 7 dollar salad.
We finished that evening off with beers at the Draught House Pub & Brewery, and it was a very cool place (aside from the restroom nearest us, which was maybe the hottest place on Earth). The bartender was playing the Supersuckers, which was extra fun considering they were playing in town that night. I didn’t bother to find out if they were playing the Supersuckers because they were sad they couldn’t go, or if it was a coincidence, but either way, I always dig the Supersuckers.
Our last day in town included a very good brunch with Sal and Adam at the original Kerby Lane Cafe, followed by a brief visit to the lovely and scenic Mt. Bonnell, sans Adam, who said “I’ve seen it”. I’d seen it once before, in 2002, at which time I left some graffiti that I’m 99% certain I managed to find, although I did not take a picture of it this time for some reason. Probably because I’m a dingus.
We followed this excursion with a terrible drive to the south side of town (every drive to or from the south side of Austin to or from the north side of Austin is terrible) to visist Luc again, this time at his place of employment, which is a small local coffee roaster. He gave us a glass of nitro cold brew coffee and a tour, and that was a very cool thing to get to do, plus we got to shoot the shit with Luc a bit longer. Also, if you like coffee and you’ve never had nitro cold brew, do yourself a favor and figure out a way to change that.
We left there and high-tailed it back to North Lamar Boulevard so I could finally set foot back inside Austin Books and Comics. I was able to fill several holes in my G.I. Joe collection for a very reasonable price, and I got some good info about their back-issue program, which ships to out-of-towners. We dined at Vivo again, because I just couldn’t stop thinking about those cursed/blessed tortilla chips, and this time I got the calabicitas, and it was absolutely the right decision. We ended that day’s (mis)adventures with a punk show at the Sahara Lounge (first band who we missed, Utin Utin, Poizon, and The Ka-nives), and a good time was had by all, even if they were charging $8.25 for a pour of Bulleit.
Had one last pretty dang good breakfast taco at the airport, in a lounge area where live music apparently sometimes occurs (see above photo), then we were back in the air, eventually landing in cold, gray, shitty Indianapolis, where cold, gray, shitty real life awaited us the next day. But I kid; a vacation is never long enough, but then if it went on too long, it would no longer be a vacation.
I recently said to my buddy Marcus (as wise a man as I’ve ever known) that I wasn’t writing much lately because I had too many thoughts in my head and I couldn’t decide what to write about, to which he replied “isn’t that what writing is for?” And so here I am on a cold, rainy Saturday, remembering that I started this particular blog with no preconceived notions about what it should be, which means that the fact that I can’t decide what to write about should actually be a benefit to this blog, if not necessarily a benefit to you good people.
Mrs. Circle Pit and I are headed south next week, to visit some friends in Austin, Texas, and I’m extremely excited about that. I lived in Austin from late May 2003 until mid-August 2006, when my first marriage fell apart for a variety of reasons (namely that I married the wrong person), and I haven’t been back since I left, also for a variety of reasons. My time there is well documented in my journals, and I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about re-visiting those days in my writing, and this seems like as good a time as any.
A little background: in my early twenties, I decided I wanted/needed to move away from the area I’d lived my entire life. I’d recently watched Twin Peaks for the first time, which went a long way toward instilling a sense of both wonderlust and wanderlust, and I decided to visit my friend Kara in Seattle, in part because I missed her, but also so I could make her drive me to North Bend, where much of the fictional town of Twin Peaks is located in real life.
Everything about the trip was amazing and perfect, and I returned home determined to move there. Spoiler alert: it didn’t happen. If you know me at all, you know that I’m both indecisive and lazy, two things that are not good companions to determination. Instead I continued living in my parents’ house, delivering pizza part time, and saving approximately $0.00 toward any kind of life change.
Then one fateful day, my friend Matt got married. Well, the fateful day was actually the day before, when I arrived about 30 minutes early to the rehearsal. There I met Tara, best friend of the bride-to-be, bridesmaid, and all-around cool chick. I sweated my way through some long since forgotten conversation with her (and with the minister, whose conversational skills made mine seem good), and the next day at the reception, I slammed down two rum and cokes so I could work up the nerve to ask her to dance. She accepted my sweaty offer, and we had a nice time, and the next day I sweatily returned to delivering pizza part time while I lived in my parents’ house, where I continued to sweat.
A couple weeks later, fresh off his honeymoon, Matt called me up while I was working and dropped a knowledge bomb on me in a way that is so perfectly Matt. Our conversation – or at least my recollection of it – went something like this:
Matt: “Did you have a nice time at the reception?”
Me: “I did.”
Matt: “Tara had a nice time, too.”
Me: “Oh, cool.”
Matt: “Is that all?”
Me: “Should there be more?”
Matt: “No, I guess not. I’ll just tell Katherine to let Tara know you’re not interested.”
Matt is very good at talking in circles and speaking in riddles; it’s part of what I love about him. And while unrelated this particular conversation, he also likes to argue. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he decided to go to law school. Anyhoo…
Moving the story along: Tara and I started talking on the phone, pretty much every night, and we started making plans for me to visit her in Austin ASAP. Her involvement in grad school got me excited about college for the first time in a long time, and I decided to go back in school for something like the 300th time . I flew down to visit her shortly after the fall semester began, missing a few days of classes in the process, but I had an amazing time, and I fell in love with both the girl and the city. Suddenly, my wanderlust had a real and specific destination.
We spent time together over our Christmas break, and I flew back down to visit her over my spring break the following March. We attended the Bloodshot Records showcase at SXSW while I was there, and it was fucking awesome, and I also spent some time finding an apartment, finally settling on a one-bedroom place one block away from Tara’s apartment.
I had the most enjoyable and successful semester of my long and wasteful state university career (3 A’s and a B+), and moved to Austin less than one month after the semester ended. My dad, my brother, my cousin, and my nephew all helped with the move, which was an exhausting and miserable 18-20 experience that I wouldn’t change for the world. They left the next day, and just like that, I was 1,000 miles from home, seemingly forever.
I found a job at an H-E-B, stocking the grocery shelves overnight. It was awful, and it remains the only job I’ve ever quit via the hated “no-call/no-show”. I also decided on a whim (after seeing a commercial on TV) to visit the local culinary school and see what they had to offer, as I’d long had in interest in cooking. Approximately 90 minutes later, they had me signed up to start classes in two weeks.
I won’t go into my experiences at school all that much, except to say that it was not a very good school (they’re actually no longer in business, as they were one of those shady for-profit schools that preys on people like the person I was in 2003), and the bulk of what I learned there was only indirectly related to cooking (Chef Leichter’s stories of cooking in New York City were hilarious and fascinating). I did gain a few things of note, however.
First, I got a job through the school, working full time at a cafeteria (the Harcourt Cafe) in a corporate office building (the Harcourt Building), making coffee, then going on to cook breakfast and lunch for the employees of a company that publishes textbooks for elementary, junior-high, and high school classes. I met some cool people there – both co-workers and customers (I also met some real assholes there) – and I have enough stories from my two-ish years there for at least one more full blog post, but I also learned a lot about cooking while I was there (way more than I learned in culinary school).
Second, I made some friends at school that I’m still friends with today. I’ve lost touch with/completely forgotten about way more of my classmates, but I’m still in contact with a few of them, and they’re good people, and I’m glad that I know them.
The third thing of note that happened to me at culinary school was meeting Alison. She was in my class, and I’d noticed her early on, thinking offhandedly that she seemed funny and was cute, but that was that. We continued on with our schooling, finishing out our year by working together for six weeks in the school’s short-order style cafe. Next thing I know, I’m breaking up with Tara one week before we’re scheduled to move in together. I didn’t handle it well, but in my defense, I’d never broken up with anyone before. Tara was my first girlfriend, which I didn’t mention earlier only because it didn’t fit the flow earlier. I obviously should’ve broken up with her sooner, but I legitimately had no idea how to go about it.
I still feel kinda bad about the whole thing, and I don’t know if she ever thinks about me anymore, but if she does, I’m sure it’s directly related to what an asshole I am, and if that’s the case, she is not wrong about that.
Without a place to live, I ended up moving in with Alison right away, doing little to quell Tara’s suspicions of my infidelity (which for the record were unfounded, at least in a physical sense, though I’d certainly checked out of that relationship emotionally at least a month prior to the breakup). She drunkenly proposed to me on her birthday that August, and I stonededly accepted, and we were joined in unholy matrimony the following January.
In retrospect, I think that’s where we went wrong.
My family and my friends Kara and Katie all traveled down to attend the ceremony and reception, and a good time was had by most. I probably should’ve taken the raging migraine I endured on our short honeymoon as a sign of things to come, but I was too swept up in love and lust.
We kept on keepin on, me working full time at the Harcourt Cafe, her looking for work part of the time and doing who knows what the other part. Her employment status certainly added some strain to our marriage, but I believed in us, or I wanted to, anyway.
When our lease ended, we moved to the south side of town, into what I soon realized was a Section 8 apartment complex (when something seems too good to be true, it probably is). Many shitty adventures awaited us there, but there was a silver lining – Alison got a job! And it was close-ish to my workplace, so we could carpool!
Some of the shitty adventures involved Fred, our downstairs neighbor. Fred was unemployed and on disability, and spent most of his days and nights leaning on the stair railing drinking and smoking, making it nearly impossible for us to enjoy the out-of-doors, as he simply couldn’t not talk to us, or more accurately, at us. The memory of his drunken laugh still makes my skin crawl. His wife, Tammy, was friendly enough, but interacting with her always bummed me out; I could sense the sadness and regret in her eyes and in her voice.
Fred had a shitty mid-90’s Mercury Sable that he outfitted, bafflingly enough, with an alarm. It was a shitty car, owned by a shitty person, so naturally the alarm was shitty. Fred’s goddamn car alarm went off ALL THE DAMN TIME.
Neighborhood kid rides his skatebard down the sidewalk? There goes Fred’s car alarm.
Thundershower rolls through? There goes Fred’s goddamn car alarm.
Garbage truck collects the trash at 5 in the morning? There goes Fred’s motherfucking car alarm. And naturally, Fred was always passed the fuck out when that would happen.
There are many more stories about our year living in the ghetto, but I’ll save them for another time, because I don’t have all day. Suffice to say, the stress of living there (along with with stress of our 20 minute commute to work taking over an hour on the return trip because of the goddamn ridiculous traffic in Austin) definitely added more cracks to the foundation of our union. When that lease ended, we moved back north.
Our new place was much nicer, and it was located such that I could ride my bike to work, which was nice/essential when my car (my beloved 1994 Kia Sephia that I’d driven down there, as well as all over the midwest before I moved to Texas) wouldn’t pass the mandatory state inspection for registration. Alison got a new job somewhere around that time as well, and things were looking up. We moved in on a cold, drizzly February day, and the next morning, I walked out the front door and down the stairs to look around the parking lot, only to slip on some ice on the bottom step, bust my ass, and spill my coffee. Like that honeymoon headache, the incident should’ve set off warning alarms.
Time marched on, and Alison started talking about this new friend from work who she thought would be a good match for our friend Leah. She arranged for the two of them to come over and hang out one night, and there was no obvious chemistry between them, but looking back with that perfect 20/20 vision afforded by hindsight, I can see the faintest beginnings of what eventually culminated in Alison leaving our house to stay with him while I spent my last two weeks in town packing up my stuff and waiting for my dad and my cousin to drive back down and help me move back home, because she and I now resided in Splitsville, USA.
I wrote a poem about us:
You never changed your maiden name
I never got that matching tattoo
Neither of us ever did a goddamn thing
We said we were gonna do
I spent my last week there staying with my buddy Steve, who also let me keep all my shit in his garage while I worked out my notice at my job. In the early evening hours of August 18, 2006, my dad and cousin arrived in a rented van, we loaded up all my worldly possessions (aside from some junk I left behind on purpose, in part so she’d have to deal with throwing it away or otherwise figuring out what to do with it), and drove up to Waco, where we stopped to stay for the night. Next morning we lit out for home, taking a very long, not-even-remotely-on-the-way detour to Springfield, Missouri, so they could see the Bass Pro Shops National Headquarters. Given the situation, I was in no position to protest their decision, but to say I was unhappy about adding at least an hour of drive time to what already seemed like a 15,000 hour trip would be putting it mildly.
At any rate, we arrived at my parents’ house very late on August 19th (or possibly very early on August 20th), and Dad drove me to Bloomington the following afternoon and helped me unload the van into my new place, and a brand new chapter of my life began just as quickly as the last one had ended. That chapter may or may not be related here another time.
Long story short, I’m now happily married to the love of my life (going on 10 years!), and in just a little under 68 hours, I’ll be back in Austin for the first time in 13 1/2 years, and as I mentioned previously, I’m very excited. I’m gonna visit Austin Books and Comics and Waterloo Records and Amy’s Ice Cream and maybe Magnolia Cafe and I’M SO EXCITED! Also, I won’t be at work, and that’s definitely a bonus.
I do hope I don’t run into Tara or Alison, but it is a possibility, because as far as I know, all my ex’s do, in fact, live in Texas.
The last few years have been tough, friends. On June 29, 2016, my oldest sister was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She fought like a bastard against nearly insurmountable odds (the five-year survival rate for pancreatic cancer is a mere 9%), and managed to live about 4 months longer than her doctor estimated, but it finally overtook her one year later, on June 29, 2017.
My relationship with her, while not terrible, was not necessarily great prior to her diagnosis. She was married to a loudmouthed know-it-all jackass conman who was almost certainly cheating on her while she was dying, and when he was around, the whole family operated on a scale ranging from uncomfortable to angry. His presence made me want to be around her less, and the influence he held over her by virtue of paying attention to her (her first husband, while not a bad guy, was not so good at that) was distressing to say the least.
In addition to her lazy shitbird husband, she left behind three sons (the youngest of which – who we’ll call “F” – was born with severe developmental disabilities). The two younger boys (F and “J”) were adopted half-brothers with the same birth mother. They’re only about 2 years apart in age, so they were kind of raised together no matter what, with the result being that J was treated as if he, too, needed help constantly, and with everything he did.
I think having two people who were totally dependent on her for survival helped my sister cope with life.
At any rate, F and “Z”, the oldest son, went to live with their dad (Husband #1) after her death, while J came to live with Mrs. Circle Pit and me while he finished out his senior year of high school. The year following my sister’s death was a challenging year for my family for a lot of reasons, but personally, being a sudden surrogate parent to a teenage boy who wasn’t raised with the capacity or inclination to think or do anything for himself made my first year without her much harder than it would’ve otherwise been. Thankfully we had my parents (especially my mom), and Mrs. Circle Pit’s family to help, otherwise who knows how this story would’ve ended.
And speaking of my mom, after years of health issues brought on by a lifetime of heavy smoking (which she had given up 13 years prior, after her first heart attack), she went into a coma brought on by cardiac arrest, and after two days of watching her health continue to decline, the ragtag band that makes up the rest of my immediate family made the unimagineable and excruciating decision to take her off life support. She passed minutes after her breathing tube was removed, on June 29, 2018. I’m certain she died of a broken heart.
If you’re keeping track, that’s 3 major and majorly terrible life-altering events on the same godforsaken day three years in a row.
I opted to not be in the room when they took Mom off life support, but I did go back in the room afterward, and that memory will forever live in my brain as perhaps/hopefully the most surreal experience of my life. I had become accustomed to a wide variety of noises in her room over the prior two days – lots of beeping, humming, whirring, the steady *kkkkkhhhhh-SSSHHHHHH* of the oxygen being forced into her lungs – and the absolute, utter, void-like silence that greeted me the last time I saw my sweet mother outside a casket hit me like a freight train, and frankly, I haven’t been quite the same since. It was a difficult decision to walk into that room, but it was something I needed to do, and I don’t regret it.
What’s the point of all this? Contrary to how it may seem, I’m not trying to make you sad, dear reader. I’m just laying down a primer coat on which to paint a thing about how music has quite literally saved my life many, many times over the past few years. Music is undeniably my religion, and has always been the most important thing in my life after family and friends, so it’s always played a role in keeping me sane, but I don’t know if I would’ve survived these past two years especially without some of the songs I’m gonna share with y’all now.
I plan to write more about Sturgill Simpson another time, but what you need to know for now is that I got to see him live the night before the last time I talked to my mom in person, and his show was absolutely fucking life-affirming, so I already had him firmly on my side going into the maelstrom. I saw the face of God while Sturgill and his band played that night, and his music (in particular his third album, A Sailor’s Guide to Earth, which he wrote as a sort of letter from the road to his then-infant son) provided the soundtrack to those days in the hospital and days, weeks, and months after Mom’s passing.
“Breakers Roar” in particular reminds me of the days leading up to her death, especially in the final lines. I can clearly picture myself sitting in my car in the hospital parking garage when those lines presented themselves to me so vividly.
Bone breaks and heals Oh, but heartaches can kill From the inside, so it seems. Oh, I'm telling you it's all a dream. It's all a dream It's all a dream It's all a dream It's all a dream It's all a dream
The third-to-last song on the album, “All Around You”, has been speaking to me since the first time I really paid attention to the lyrics, which happened at some point during those 2-3 days in the hospital (the timeline in my memories is unreliable at best – grief and lack of sleep will do that to you). I’m gonna share the lyrics in their entirety after the video, which is (obviously?) not the album version, but which is my very favorite version of this song that I’ve heard yet (it’s actually one of my favorite versions of any song I’ve ever heard). The original is great too, as is the video, and I highly recommend you check both of them out.
There will be days when the sun won't shine When it seems like the whole world is against you Don't be afraid when life is unkind You can let go of the pain if you choose to 'Cause time slips away and skies fall apart Revealing to all a universal heart Glowing Flowing All around you
There will be nights that go on forever Like you're alone, lost at sea, never to be found Just know in your heart that we're always together And long after I'm gone I'll still be around 'Cause our bond is eternal and so is love God is inside you, all around you, and up above Knowing Showing You the way
Time slips away and skies fall apart Revealing to all a universal heart Glowing Flowing All around you
So Sturgill helped me truck along through a pretty dismal second half of 2018, and I entered 2019 feeling much better about things in general. The fact that I had a shitload of live music on my docket earlier this year didn’t hurt at all. Since March of 2019, I’ve seen the follwing bands/artists live (sort of in the order that I saw them):
Metallica (First time!)
Clutch (Ninth time?)(!)
Big Business (So good!)
Death Angel (Fifth and sixth times! A force to be reckoned with!)
Mothership (Major fuckin riffs from Texas!)
Overkill (First time!)
Eyehategod (Second time! Unfuckingdeniable!)
Iron Maiden (Third time! The fucking greatest!)
Crowbar (First time! So heavy!)
Corrosion of Conformity (Second time! Much better than the first!)
Sacred Reich (First time! I never thought I’d see the day!)
Savage Master (Kickass traditional metal from Louisville, KY!)
The Mountain Goats (Unbelieveably good!)
Anti-Flag (“Die for your country, that’s shit!”)
Suicidal Tendencies (Third time! Suicidal for life!)
Ice Cube (I danced so hard I fucked up my back for a week!)
Andrew W.K. (Friendliest circle pit I’ve ever seen!)
Guns ‘n’ Roses (The band sounded great, but Axl can suck it!)
plus lots of local openers
I might be forgetting one or more others.
Judging solely by that list, 2019 has been a hell of a good year, and that’s mostly true. But while a surface view of my emotional state the past year or so would indicate a relatively stable, happy individual, these past few months I’ve been stricken with a pretty heavy case of sadness and dismay (malaise, if you will), the cause of which I can’t quite nail down. I hesitate to call what I’m experiencing “depression”, because that seems heavier than what I’ve been feeling, but I can’t say for certain that it isn’t depression. Whatever it is, it’s trying its damnedest to hang on, and I wish it would fuck off already.
Seeing Suicidal Tendencies live back in September (at an outdoor festival where I legitimately thought I might die from heatstroke or dehydration or exposure or dust inhalation or some combination thereof) reminded me how fucking good and important their music and message are. That quote from up yonder at the top of this page (“Life can be hard. Be harder.”) was gifted to us from Cyco Miko that day.
I was on a major ST kick up until about 2-3 weeks ago, and as he has done many times before, Mike Muir played a major role in helping me get my shit correct. I plan to write more about Suicidal Tendencies in the future as well, but for now, a few of the songs that kept me going…
“You Can’t Bring Me Down” is likely the band’s best-known song after “Institutionalized”, and for my money, it’s one of their best. It’s the opening track on their 1990 masterpiece Lights…Camera…Revolution!, and it serves as their show opener to this day.
The album prior to Lights… was something of a breakthrough for the band, and the addtion of rythm guitarist Mike Clark brought about the completion of their evolution from hardcore punk to thrash metal. I didn’t hear most of 1988’s How Will I Laugh Tomorrow When I Can’t Even Smile Today until about 10 years ago, but I definitely remember reading about it in magazines when it came out. I can say with certainty that I’m a better person for having finally gotten into it.
Album opener “Trip At the Brain” is one of my favorites, and is a textbook Suicidal song – lyrics combining positivity with confessions of human error, all packed into a fast, explosive earworm of a motherfucker of a song. Plus the video features a cameo by John Cusack!
One more from Suicidal, this one from 1992’s The Art of Rebellion, their most commercially successful album (it peaked at #52 on the Billboard Top 200 album chart, and has been certified gold by the RIAA). You might’ve heard “Nobody Hears” on the radio back in the day; it’s one of only two ST songs to reach the Billboard Top 40 (the other is “I’ll Hate You Better”, from the same album).
"I'm screaming inside, why can't you hear? Nobody hears You're looking right through me like I'm not here Nobody hears"
My Suicidal kick morphed pretty seamlessly about 2-3 weeks ago into a Hip kick. I plan to write more about The Tragically Hip another time as well (oh, I’ve got plans, friends), but here are the basics:
They formed in Kingston, Ontario, Canada in 1984.
They had the same lineup from 1986 until 2017, when they broke up following the untimely death of their lead singer/lyricist/all-around amazing human being Gord Downie, who died from a brain tumor at the age of 53. Fuck cancer so hard.
They were massively popular in Canada, but were mostly unknown in the United States. (Their final concert in 2016 was broadcast and streamed live by the CBC and was watched/listened to live by 11.7 million people. It’s amazing and you should watch all of it.)
Though I’ve been aware of them since at least the mid-90’s, I sadly didn’t start getting into The Hip until about two months ago. A casual mention on Letterkenny (which you should be watching) finally compelled me to visit Google Play Music, where I clicked on the most popular song there, “Wheat Kings”, from their massive and massively important 1993 album Fully Completely. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but I loved it immediately. Unconventional vocals coupled with jangly chords are one of my primary musical weaknesses (the other being unconventional vocals coupled with badass riffs), and while Gord’s vocals are much more unique on other Hip songs, “Wheat Kings” stands as a master class in jangle.
Reading up on the band, and more specifically about Downie’s cancer diagnosis and their final tour, has helped my mental state as well. The way Gord Downie continued to face and fight each and every day until his passing has stood as an inspiration to me, as well as a reminder that no matter how shitty things may seem to me in the moment, they could certainly be worse. You’d think that the challenges of my previous three years would be enough of a reminder of those things, but you’d be mistaken. Being human and all, I need pretty constant reminders regarding what does and does not matter in this life, and Gord Downie’s story, like my sisters’, serves as one of those reminders.
Downie’s lyrics, too, have really had a major impact on my life over the past couple of months. Here are a few of my current favorites…
“Fiddler’s Green” was inspired by Downie’s young nephew, who died of a heart condition during the recording of the band’s second full-length album, 1991’s Road Apples. According to the great and infallible source that is Wikipedia, “Fiddler’s Green is a legendary afterlife where there is perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing, and dancers who never tire. In 19th-century maritime folklore it was a kind of afterlife for sailors who have served at least 50 years at sea.”
I’m particularly taken by the line “the same wind that moves her hair moves her boy through Fiddler’s Green”. I think of it when I sit on my porch swing and the wind moves the chimes my mom gave me.
The second album I listened to was 1996’s Trouble in the Henhouse. It’s a great album, and quite honestly sounds as much like the year 1996 as I can imagine anything sounding, in the best possible way. “Ahead By a Century” is one of the band’s best-known songs, was the last song they ever played live, and was the most-played song on radio stations across Canada on the day Gord Downie left us to walk among the stars.
"No dress rehearsal, this is our life..."
My absolute jam this past week or so has been Fully Completely. The entire album really is amazing, but if I had to narrow it down to three favorites, I suppose I’d go with the bouncing opener “Courage (for Hugh MacLennan)”, “We’ll Go Too”, and the aforementioned “Wheat Kings”.
"There's no simple Explanation For anything important Any of us do And, yeah, the human Tragedy Consists in The necessity Of living with The consequences Under pressure Under pressure
Courage My word It didn't come It doesn't matter..."
Here’s the band tearing the goddamned stage apart with “Courage” live at Woodstock ’99:
I’m not sure why “We’ll Go Too” jumped out at me one night while I was listening to the album at work, but I’m glad it did.
"Museum's locked And it's long since past closing You cannot know You cannot not know What you're knowing
What can you do? They've all gone We'll go too..."
And here’s a live version I highly recommend:
“Wheat Kings”, like much of The Hip’s work, is very much about Cananda. More specifically, it’s about the wrongful conviction and eventual release (20 years later) of a man named David Milgaard. It’s an interesting story.
"Twenty years for nothing well that's nothin new, besides No one's interested in something you didn't do Wheat kings and pretty things Let's just see what the morning brings..."
As much as it pains me that I took so long to come around to The Tragically Hip, and to think about the fact that I’ll never get to see them live, I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn’t have appreciated them back then anyway. Like many amazing and mystical things, they presented themselves to me when I needed them most.
Again I ask: what’s the point of all this? The answer, as usual: hell if I know. I just had some shit on my mind, and I wanted get it out. I suppose if I had to draw a conclusion from all this – a thesis statement, if you will – it would be that music is fucking important. It’s the true universal language, and without it, so many lives would be hollow, or worse, non-existent.
What are some songs that help you make it through the hard times and the bullshit? Share them in the comments, won’t you?
Did you know that 95% of the time, circle pits move counter-clockwise? It’s true! It’s science! And as seen in the video below, they even run counter-clockwise in the southern hemisphere! What the fuck does that have to do with anything, you ask? That’s a fair question, and I’ll answer it in time.
Until then, welcome to Clockwise Circle Pit! I’m your host, Rev. Joel. You might recognize me from my other blog, Stay Heavy (“All heavy, all the time.”), but you also might not. Either way, I was finding my self-created boundaries for that blog to be a bit stifling, re: my writing. For whatever reason, I haven’t been moved to write about heavy music lately, and since my blog is about heavy music, I just haven’t written as much. That seems silly, even to me – like, it’s my blog, why not just do whatever I want with it, right? If you don’t like it, you don’t have to read it.
But rules exist for a reason, people!
The fact is, sometimes what’s on my mind isn’t necessarily heavy, musically or emotionally, and sometimes what I’m listening to isn’t musically heavy at all. I thought about it for a while, then I didn’t think about it for a while, lather, rinse, repeat, and ultimately it seemed sensible to give myself a different outlet for those ideas and thoughts.
If you’ve read anything on Stay Heavy, it should be crystal clear that I will never not love heavy music, and I don’t plan to abandon that blog anytime soon, because it’s somehow still getting between 10 and 30 views per day, even though I haven’t updated it in over two months. I may still post there when the subject calls for it, but as of this moment, I plan to give most of my new posts a home here instead.
To answer your question from earlier, here’s what the fuck this has to do with clockwise circle pits: it’s been clear to me for the bulk of my life that I see things differently than most people. I’ve been misunderstood by “regular” people since I was a little kid, and I’ve always been drawn to outcasts, weirdos, and misfits. They often seem to be drawn to me, as well. Clockwise circle pits are uncommon in the world, and I am, too.
To all you weirdos, freaks, goobers, ding-dongs, oddballs, and awkward motherfuckers out there, I hope you’ll jump into this Clockwise Circle Pit with me. I’ll be figuring it out as I go, and it’ll be confusing at times, but we’ll make it work, and hopefully we’ll have some fun.
Now that I’m thinking about it, the rules for life are kinda like the rules for a circle pit, Clockwise or otherwise:
If someone falls, help them up.
Don’t be an asshole.
Don’t pull someone in if they don’t wanna be there.