Recently, I have been giving up hope on the written word. On communicating at all, really. I used to store so much on my communication abilities, of being able to explain anything, to persuade any view point, to talk to any person, that I naively thought only time would heal all wounds.

This isn’t really a blog to say that I’ve completely returned to the land of optimism. No, not when so many people pervert language and meaning. This is more of a check in blog, a blog to say that I’m still here, still having a good life, even if I don’t communicate as much.

My wife is the most important person in my life. She, more than anyone else, has taught me the importance of the quiet moment — the moments we share without talking, without interacting, sharing the same space, the same activity, the same energy.

Inside of this quietness, I’ve actually found a little bit more understand. I’ve found out that I’m an arrogant, pig-head asshole, but I’m working to change that. Maybe that’s why I haven’t written lately. The internet, more so than a regular journal, captures all of my indolence and arrogance. My post from over a year ago strike me as childish: the rants of a person I remember, but maybe not so well anymore. No so eagerly do I fight for causes. Not so blindly do I stick to viewpoints. I still have them, but I’m more likely to ridicule them than push them on others.

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Recently, the band has been doing some really incredible stuff. My impatience makes me think I’m running in place, when those around me are amazed at how fast it is going. In my own personal mythology, I was supposed to have been famous by 18, to have been dead by 26. At the age of 26 now, I am famous to my friends and family and that’s good enough. What I realized that I actually wanted, was to entertain. That’s what all the push for fame was about, to ensure a crowd every time I ascend the stage.

I claim that I want to pay rent by playing music, or writing, or whatever, but that’s because the stresses and dangers of the road, the starvation of the artist, the cravings for the spotlight, the breaking of my humility, the moment of illumination in the crowd’s collective face as we finally recognize the humanity in each other.

Walking Corpse Syndrome, the band I’m currently in, is turning a corner. We are having our CD release party this Sat. One in Deer Lodge and one in Missoula. I’ve contacted the papers and think that they might be doing a story on the band. More than anything, without even knowing what they’ll write, I feel gratitude. Metal is definitely a hard sell, and for them to return my pesterings, well, I feel very very grateful.

I’m no longer that kid that expected fame to be handed to me on a platter. I’m grateful for that, too. He was sort of a puke.

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Playing in a band and wanting to support myself through music leads me to reading a lot on the music industry. There’s no denying that the big labels are dying. The RIAA is slapping almost everyone with copyright infringement suits. The choice of music on TV (when music does play) and commercial radio is horribly bland and stagnant.

I just read an article over here. Of some things that struck me, one was that indy music accounts for 30% of sales in the US. I don’t know if I need to stress how amazing this is in an industry that is otherwise dominated by 4 major companies.

To me, 30% shows that the desire for fresh and new music is alive and greater than ever. People are jumping the ship and treading water to find the music that they like. 30% (and growing) is an indication that artist will now have more power over their business and music.

Being entry-level myself puts me in an advantageous position. Having nothing to lose, I can exploit these gains. I don’t need massive tours, buses, private jets, roadies, groupies, techies, lighting shows, etc. I can make up most of this stuff by myself. The downside is that I most likely won’t be able to afford a manager, lawyer, or accountant any time soon. One thing that sucks in being in a DIY band, is that someone has to be the manager or accountant. Rather than having equity and/or revenue from other sources, I must work a job to provide my band with the needed capitol to record and press CDs, make merch, and pay for a tour.

Another thought that struck me is the unwillingness of the major players to acclimate to the current environment. They are estimating that 10-20+ years will be needed to accommodate the new technology. I wonder the horse and carriage people demanded the same leeway?

By the time the dinosaurs acclimate to their new climate, I should wonder that they’ll be close to extinction. The one thing that they have going for them is their massive back catalog. This makes me wonder:

As the Fab Four further find their revenue shrink, will they cease to sign new acts and diverse acts? As this happens, will they further rely on their back catalog, specifically for merchandising, radio, or commercials? At what point will corporations quit licensing the back catalog due to prohibitive cost, influx of new music, and to link with the newer generations?

I predict (in my O so lofty manner), that it will spell the demise for the Big Four as we know them. They will be assimilated by upstart Indy labels. However, by that time, the damage will be done. We’ll have most of a generation that will have grown up without the pervasive exposure to Baby Boomer music. It’ll lose its value, seeming as quaint as big band, early jazz, early country, or marching band music. It’ll come to represent status quo more than any kind of youthful innovation.

At that moment, we’ll see the kind of music that will replace the rock and roll experiment.

I’ve been meaning to write about homeless people–specifically the scavengers of society. A couple weeks ago my wife and I saw a dude really sorting out the garbage, looking for stuff to recycle. Now, I know this a white person thing to think, but I couldn’t help feel proud that i was doing something. Here was this person making choices to support himself by digging through trash for recyclables. Not only was he weening trash from hitting the landfill, he was working for a living. Much better than drunkenly asking for change on the street. He was self sufficient (or at least to my deluded mind). We did, however, decide to shred every piece of paper before tossing it.

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I’ve also been meaning to write a post about the band. I feel I can write here, rather than on the website, since the website should be reserved for more official matters. We’re looking at booking for the studio for mid-March. We have the final round of the battle-of-the-bands on March 6th. Apparently, the winner gets $1000 cash, recording time, fliers, and a clothes certificate.

As all the other bands have observed either in their websites or in person: the metal/heavy bands made it to the finals more than likely on the sole strength of having the same set of metalheads voting our scene in. While this is awesome, as we will actually get paid for playing a show, our group of metalheads are not big enough to vote one band to win.

The competitive part of me really wants to win this shin-dig, just like I’ve wanted to win every game or contest I’ve entered. The other part of me realizes that if one metal band wins, the potential for scene jealously and fracture is an all-too-real possibility.

I suppose the best way to look at this would be that the metal scene is getting strong enough to vote our own into the finals of the contest. We’ll use this platform to try to expand the scene, maybe hook some people in that wouldn’t have ordinarily seen us.

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My mom’s kidney’s are failing/have failed. Basically they don’t work well enough anymore. Though I’ve known about this for a while, I have yet to write a permanent post about it. My mom, who reads this blog, wonders why. I guess I don’t know. It’s sort of a hard thing to write about. Writing is a means by which I can organize and elucidate my thoughts. My thoughts on this are relatively blank, as if the reality hasn’t sunk in or perhaps sunk in a while ago.

My mother, more than most people in my life, has always taught me to be self-sufficient. I learned how to cook and prepare food at about ages 6 or 7, to do laundry at 10, to get myself to school starting in the 1st grade. Her fear was that she wouldn’t be around forever.

I don’t believe in such a thing as an idealized childhood. To try to insulate a child from the hardships in this world delays any mechanisms to cope with hardships later on. My parents raised me how they thought best, and since I’m not a complete fuck up, I think they did a pretty good job.

They don’t know why her kidneys are failing. I’ve had lots of armchair doctors tell me to tell her what to do, whether it’s change her diet, exercise more, blah blah blah. They usually quit asking me about after I snap at them and ask how many years of med school they went through to diagnose a patient without even examining her.

I guess that I have fear too. Since they don’t know what caused it, the thing could genetic. Her siblings haven’t gotten it yet, but that doesn’t mean much since she’s the oldest. Maybe I could get it. I guess that’s what all fear comes down to, right? This could happen to me.

Me and the wife will be heading down to Denver when she gets her transplant to help take care of her and make sure she gets her medicine.

***

I guess that’s really all for now.

I ended up “yelling” at someone last night. Sure it was a speed bump. What can I do? I was raised in a family that tended to speak loud when we had problems. Hence, I tend to speak loud.

I tell you what I can do: I can remain vigilant and practice on taking a step back. Maybe people look at me and think that I’m a loose cannon and always about ready to explode. Mabye that’s true, but I know that for me what counts is that I don’t explode even 1% of the time that I feel like exploding.

I wish that I could just figure out a way to let off steam. I used to have music, but I’m not so sure about that anymore. I used to have writing, but I haven’t written in over 6 months and besides my writing is all bullshit anyone. Post-modern convoluted pseudo-horror bullshit. I have no empathy for characters or situations. Bad things happens to everyone at any time in my stories.

I’m done with that bitch.

grrr…

A little back(log) story: Last year when I got my tonsils taken out, I gained some weight. 10 pounds to be exact. No big deal, you all say. I’d love to only weigh 180 pounds you say. Except… that… now a lot of my clothes don’t fit. I guess it wasn’t such a big deal for a while, because, well, I didn’t really notice.

Then I started playing shows again. All of a sudden, my uber-cool stage clothes didn’t fit anymore. I say pictures of myself with a little spare tire under my skin tight shirts. Mmm, I’m not anorexic, per se, but I do know when I’m starting to let myself go.

! Warning!

!Impending rant!

:: In high school, I got tubby reeeaal fast. I went from 180 in Dec of my freshman year to about 220 by May. Over the next year I gained 20 pounds as well. It was an unfortunate mix of anti-depressants, lack of exercise, and continued intake of calories as if I were still a cross-country runner. Freshman year of college, I reversed the trend: kicked the anti-depressants, started running more, and eating waaay less.

Complete disclosure: It did get back for a while. I did quit eating, but I’m not sure it qualifies as anorexic. I quit eating since I was fat and was desperately trying to get back to normal again. I figure that our bodies store fat as a reserve against hard times. I merely self induced a hard time.

Within two years I was back down to 180 (the same weight I was in the 8th grade (btw, that’s when I reached my full height)), but in the next few years I crept down to 170 and once hit 165. Ouch!

Now, you might be thinking at that time that I was anorexic. Au contraire! I was eating a lot! But I was also exercising a lot. Running about three times a week, plus running to school and doing lots of jumping jacks, pushups, and crunches.

Bitching alert!!!

:: Then my back starting acting up. When I was a kid, I fell off the monkey bars, landed on my back, and knocked some vertabrae out of place. It never bothered me that much as a kid. I guess my growing body was able to compensate and/or ignore the pain for the most part. Maybe it all started when I started working physically strenuous jobs. At Cracker Barrel, I had to lift heavy trays above my head over and over again. At the grain elevator, I shoveled nearly 3 tons of wheat a day. Then came the back buster: I moved into my first apartment. I had heavy things to move. I did not have a lot of friends (read “zero”) who would help me move. Besides, I was raised to be self reliant. I moved heavy things all day until I felt the cartilage in my back crunch.

I lived in pain for the next several days until my parents convinced me to go to the chiropractor. He crunched me back into place, but the pain persisted. I since learned that I can’t lift super heavy things by myself (including my heavy amps). I also can’t run as much as I used to. The jarring motion does me in.

So I switched to swimming. It kicked my ass for awhile until I got used to it, then it worked out all right. The problem happened when I graduated college, got a real job, and then moved. No longer on campus, I had to go extra out of my way to hit the pool. (Aside: I went to the Grizzly Pool since they changed on a per time basis that came out to waaay cheaper than getting a club membership.) The pool hours conflicted with my job hours. When we moved, I no longer had the luxury of walking from my apartment to the pool.

Triple whammy.

I started running again.

My weight stayed a cool 170. My abs started disappearing. So did the potatoes in my arms.

Then came the tonsil surgery. I was supposed to have been recovered within two weeks. It took me six with problems that still linger today. In those six weeks of eating ice cream and staying out of the sun (because of the pain meds) I gained 10 pounds. I didn’t care at the time, naturally, because I was doing my best to heal.

In those six weeks, the weather went from warm, to cold. I didn’t run. I didn’t swim. I haven’t consistently exercised since the summer of 2006.

Fast forward to today with me wearing a tight black shirt and looking like a bald emo kid.

Without exercise (and caffeine for that matter), my bowel movements have backed up. So, in addition to increased exercise (including more crunches and pushups with walking to work (yes even today in the freezing wind)), I cut my intake back to a more lifestyle accommodating amount. Instead of gorging every meal as if I had the metabolism of a hyperactive squirrel, I eat enough to keep me full without going over full. I also started taking our super colon cleanse, this kick ass formula from the good food store that tastes like lawn, but clears me out faster than light!

I wish I could go on about the weird stuff released from my colon, but that would be in bad taste. Besides, you can find the testimonials out there.

This morning I weighed 179. I also pooped twice.

I decided on an all out Battle of the Bulge. I froze my warts twice a day for two days (basically until I forgot to do it) and coated them with salcylic acid constantly. At the end, I guess I just grew tired of the treatment, the hassle, the whatnots.

I started mind zapping the warts, instructing my body to know the warts and to kill them. Within three weeks the wart on my right index finger disappeared, but so did the one on my left middle finger!!

Weeks later, both warts are still gone. I have a scar on my middle finger from the abuse it went through. Well worth it, in my opinion.

I figure next week, (or later today if I’m bored enough) I’ll do some more research, find some more agents, rework my query letters and send out some more stuff. I’ve heard of authors being rejected 100+ times before finding success. I figure I’ll give it about that much time. In the mean time, I’ll keep honing my novel, plus I’ll keep working on new projects. If this novel doesn’t go anywhere, then I’ll just keep writing until I find something that does.

Wish me luck!

Maybe people say that cursing is a sign of stupidity, a lack of vocabulary. I would have to agree. I am both stupid and have a small vocabulary.

Though this last year has been marked with some trepidation, it has been on the whole a good year. My old band dissolved and got mixed into the solution of my new band. We’ve had a monster response so far. We’re saving up money and should be able to hit the studio in a few months.

I also finished my book. I had sent it off to some friends. One friend could not get past a graphic scene in the third chapter and refuses to answer any of my calls. A second friend read it once, thought it was great, wanted to read it again, but it depressed her even more the second time. The third friend I never really expected to read it, besides he’s in grad school and waaaay busy with too much stuff. Anyhoo, second friend is sending the book back. I’ll maybe tone it down a bit and send it off see anyone can stiffle their gag reflex long enough to reject it. Or not.

I started going really bald, so I preempted all and started shaving my head. I’ve been getting back into metal and industrial and away from hip hop and whatnot.

I’m not sure what else is happening, but I’ll keep me posted as I see fit.