A Mild Series of Updates in Lieu of a Focus

Maybe it’s all OK, no matter what you do. Maybe you can do debauchery lite. Maybe it’s not all so heavy and dramatic and you don’t have to write a novel about how you fell and picked yourself up and now you have to abstain from adventure because you’re old and tired and burned too many bridges. Maybe I want more experiences of living life full throttle without the drama at the end. Maybe I can live that way too. Maybe the days of Hunter S. Thompson and Bukowski and Kerouac all those male writers and their daughters (Jan Kerouac) who blew through their matter too quickly (or just in time) are the stories of yesterday and it’s time to stop repeating them.

Just because you like Radiohead doesn’t mean you need to play songs that sound like theirs. Just because you identified with the punk scene growing up doesn’t mean you need to wear studs the rest of your life.

But who the fuck am I to say anything about anything? I know nothing, and I’m merely another vessel skin package of consciousness trying to cope with the blackness of not-knowing.

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The person solely responsible for me keeping this blog going at the moment is Kirsten. She told me I used to write exactly what she needed to hear. I don’t know. I’ll try.

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I’ve started a band again, because I must be nuts. We are working on a set. It’s likely we will play a show soon.

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I’ve tired of the drug memoir generation. I’ve tired of stories about excess and debauchery. I’ve tired of war stories about urban grit. I’ve tired of local cults of celebrity, no matter how talented.

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Last night I was up partying on a work night (I know, smart person). And usually partying to me means geeking out to various music, trying to find inspiration for my own work. So Ed and I were going through The List to see what bands are playing locally and I came upon a band called The Other Band On Earth playing at the new venue The Golden Bull and they actually sound good, tight, compelling musicianship.

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So I rallied and we were set to go, I was so excited to actually be going to a local show I could potentially get lost in, that might blow me away. We hopped in the car and got to the venue, only to find the show is tomorrow, not today. We drove around, checked out the scene in a couple of bars to get the feel of what’s happening in Oakland–which is now SUCH the hub, yet I’m not sure I even belong here anymore.

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Financially I know I don’t belong here. There’s little to no space for broke artists anymore, I think I’m occupying the last available slot. Even the punks on my street have become more suburban vogue punk, fashion model-chic clean-cut punk. High end you-can’t-ever-afford-me punk.

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We couldn’t commit to anything, and we ended up going back home to listen to music.

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One thing led to another and I was playing Radiohead and realizing how much I love Tom Yorke’s melodies and then some synapses fired and I found an old song I had written called “I Could Get Lost.”

[soundcloud url=”https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/60915992″]

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None of it really means anything except you get to live in the moment again and again every night and choose what you want to be engaged in. It’s hard to stay engaged in live music lately, due to what others before me have realized about the Bay Area music scene: It’s like high school, and it’s who you know.

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This is where I can FINALLY reference Jesse Michael’s temporarily vanished thrash metal blog again. When he was my neighbor it made me laugh because: “Nobody likes going to thrash metal shows.”

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I’ve had these two realizations: I’m a loner and I have too many interests. There’s a bonus realization: It’s easier to become a cult celebrity if you’re male.

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You have Kirsten to thank for my blog being back was all I was trying to say.

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None of it really matters except who you loved, how you loved and what you contributed to those you loved and who loved you (and those you didn’t, but that’s a stretch for saints and we may be in the art of survival here, I don’t know, I’m not trying to be Jesus in this life.)

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So I don’t know what else to say but I’m trying, and maybe 33 is the year I decide that I want to try something new, again, I don’t know. Or maybe it’s the year I learned that all that matters, really, is how kind you are to other people and how you cope with the not-knowing we all experience, not what scene you were in or who you knew. And that I’m proud of my friends for finding things to focus on that make them happy. And there are so many things to write about and observe and experience but I’m not sure what’s more important than anything else and if it really matters, except moment to moment to moment.

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