(Thanks to Helluva for linking to this)

Ah, the Smoking Gun — while they usually just manage to dig up dirt on celebrities (because who among us doesn’t want to see the mightiest of the American Dreamers brought down to the level of the trailer park?), this time they’ve posted something really interesting: Travis Frey’s marriage contract.

Travis Frey, if the newspapers are to be believed, is a shitheel of the highest order. Iowa man, my age, two kids. But let’s not even bother with the fact that he’s been arrested on charges of kidnapping his own wife or downloading child porn; that’s all alleged anyway, and not fact. It would be wrong to convict a man in the press, before he’s had a right to fair and impartial trial.

No, in this case, let’s just go with that contract. Seriously, you need to read it. Go on; I’ll wait. Feel free to chuckle, giggle nervously, or vomit. All are valid forms of self-expression when confronted with something like this. I wonder: which was Ruth Frey’s reaction when she received this? I’m going to guess giggling and vomiting simultaneously.

How old do you imagine this contract is, though? How long has she been living with this? Okay, the news reports say she didn’t sign it, and good for her. I think if you can sign something like this with a straight face, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Seriously. No more chuckling, for the moment. Okay, we’ll toss in an exception for the rare deviant couple who embrace the whole alternative lifestyle / BDSM thing; but again, I’m going to question your stability. That’s just me, though. What do I know?

I do know that this sort of thing makes for a cute joke. And I’m not going to say that it wouldn’t be amusing — this is the sort of sick humor that is right up my alley on a bad day. And I’d like to think that my wife and I would laugh about it, maybe over a glass of wine or two. And that she wouldn’t refuse to sleep with me ever again, or Bobbittize me in the middle of the night. And most importantly, that she would throw the damned thing away when the laughter was done, maybe even shredding or burning the evidence so damning of my immature sense of humor.

What? It’s not a joke? Really? No, stop — you mean someone would actually have the nerve to present this to someone with any level of seriousness? You’ve got to be kidding me.

Seriously?

Okay, Frey — that’s pretty fucked up. Not hard to explain, by any stretch of the imagination: low self-esteem, bad communication skills, and some sort of power trip need. But damn, man, the more I hear about you, the more I think maybe you should have counted yourself lucky to have ever gotten married in the first place and left it at that.

And Ruth — woman, what are you thinking? Look, you’ve got kids with him, you’ve been married to him for some time (I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and pretending that the marriage contract is something that he handed you just recently), but still… There are women reading this ready to kick me in the head just for joking about this being a joke. Surely you can muster a little integrity and pride up for yourself, get a little angry, and tell this guy that he’s on the sofa for life, at best. Yeah?

It scares me to know that people like this — both the crazy domineering type and the kind that need love and companionship so badly that they will put up with behavior like this — are not only out there in the world, but probably in far greater numbers than I’m willing to consider. I know that there are different strokes for different peeps and all that jazz, and I’m okay with that. But damn, folks, really?

I’ve been asked if I can ever imagine myself married again. I’m not stridently opposed to the idea — if it’s important to the woman I’m with, it’s something I’d consider for her. But in general, I’m not a fan of marriage; it’s a social contract, for one thing, that is based largely in religious foundings, not really my cup of tea. But the other thing stems from my romanticism: the idea that every morning, that person lying next to me is still there because she wants to be, because she loves me, is one of my favorite ideas ever. Much better than knowing that they’re staying because someone else expects them to.

Plus, who wants to feel even remotely guilty when you file for divorce because your husband turns out to be some skeezy spineless wormboy?

I am covered in skin
No one gets to come in
Pull me out from inside
I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding
I am
colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
I am ready
I am ready
I am…fine
I am…. fine
I am fine
–Counting Crows, Colorblind

Its career-change time (part of that mystical “everything you know is worng”) (yes, that’s intentional, again).

I’m tired of working in a big office, of being less a known entity than a face and name and employee number.  Surprisingly, I’m tired of not having enough work to do, and of not being noticed if I’m in or not.  Sure those, last two are nice, some days — but damn it, if I’m forced to be here forty plus hours a week, make it for a reason.  Otherwise, instead of me pretending to work, you pretend I’m working instead of hanging out at home doing freelance.  Hey, you get paid more than me, so you do the pretending…*

I’d like to find a place that can take advantage of more than one of my skills.  I kind of have that now — I do some design, some programming, some writing — but I need all of that plus a little room to be creative.  And, as I’ve mentioned before, creativity by committee is not such a fun idea.

The days at Heckler’s could have been ideal, maybe (although I feel certain that I’m glamorizing this a lot in retrospect).  There was a fair amount of creativity, and I did a little of literally everything — writing, design, programming, multimedia.  And for christsakes, it was all video games and comic books and horror movies, so how bad could it be?  Well, of course, I’m leaving out the drama and politics and soap opera atmosphere, and the financial aspect (a classic case of the tail end of the dot-com boom, where the founders were rich and getting richer, and those of us on the bottom of the food chain were making less than busboys at chain restaurants).

And TapeSouth was a decent enough gig, too, though I don’t know that I ever felt appreciated or recognized for my abilities.  No, I’m not the engineer that Daniel is (or even then, was), nor the designer that Ginger was / is.  But I was one of the only people that could do everything from start to finish on a project,and except when I was being lazy (good lord, the idea of QC’ing another 2,500 cassette job in this lifetime is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat), I was damned good at the job.  Not good enough to help keep the business afloat, unfortunately, but so it goes…

And then, I consider going back to bartending.  Cause the money’s great, the job is easy, and the perks are often well worthwhile.  Of course, that’s probably a terrible idea in the long term, but hey — I got this far without thinking about the future?  Why start now?

I’m reasonably sure that’s mostly a joke, sort of.

* thanks to Bill Hicks, who is dead but still fucking funny

(Yeah, they’re lyrics to a song. I wrote them. Fuck off, or I’ll make you listen to the version with my vocals.)

Shadows in the sunrise
Angels in the storm
Sorrow without reason
Anger without form

Daylight burns the blind
Passion scars the mind

Driven by forgotten dreams
Blinded by the tears
Scream the silent lullaby
Drown in whispered fears

Daylight burns the blind
Passion scars the mind

Sheltered by a foundless faith
My garden’s path grows wild
Torn rose petals hide the blood
And the body of the child

(Well, bugger me — look what I found…)

A while back, on I-20 between Jackson MS and Birmingham, I saw in my rearview mirror the most amazing sunset just after a fairly brutal rainstorm. I don’t actually remember too much detail — just that I was overwhelmed in the moment of it all. This would have been sometime between 1996 and 1998 — closer to ’96, probably fall. And in the moment, the disease that I’ve dealt with all my adult life suddenly made perfect sense to me; it’s summed up in those first two lines.

—

This is one of the very last songs that I wrote. I know that there’s Beautiful Garbage from around 1998 (a total Canon in D rip, with some really great lyrics by Jonas Grey) and King of Shadows from the same time (again, lyrics by Jonas – easily my favorite thing that Jonas and I ever did). But as far as music and words, all by me, After the Flood was it. Oops — not entirely, actually; the music was written by me and Daniel as part of a soundtrack thing we were working on for some nature thing. I still have those original tracks that were eventually spliced together Frankenstein-style to make up After The Flood.

Frames per Second — there’s a memory. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having my “own” band, which is to say, like the Exhibit(s) are for Eric — mostly by me, but with input from Jonas and Daniel. And yeah, it’s some really uplifting shit — you can check out about half of the catalog at Garageband, which I had forgotten all about — but keep in mind that when I’m in a good mood, I’m not sitting around long enough to write a lyric.

FpS still exists as a moniker for my own stuff, the things I do at home with samplers and loops and the occasional experiemental or solo instrument piece. But for a short two or three year span, it was mine, and though the production is rough and rushed, I think the arrangements and lyrics and playing are all something that I can be proud of. Hell, I can still stomach hearing the songs ten years after they were finished, and while flawed, I think each of them has moments of their own where they absolutely shine.

—

This started out as a post to anyone who wonders what being me feels like. I know it’s not much of a help, but it’s there.

And if nothing else, King of Shadows has a great beat. Maybe you can dance to it.

There are times when I think that everyone who steps out of line on the Interweb should be — totally unexpectedly, caught red-handed — called on the carpet.  I mean, the full deal: whether you’re lying about who or what you are, using the 0s and 1s to create a full-body mask for yourself, or perhaps you’re just being an asshole, stirring up negativity because you can.  Maybe you’re leaving posts on someone’s blog that disagree with them, and you take it a bit too far, make it personal.

Whatever.  I think everyone should have to work fast food or retail when they’re young. I think everyone should have to wait tables or bartend at least once.  And I think everyone should have their online identity revealed at least once, if only to show that it can happen, so maybe you ought to be a little nicer. Continue reading →

Over the next weeks, I’ll be collapsing and compressing my material goods into the absolute smallest bundle that I can bear to do.  The first thing on the list is CDs, weeding out duplicates and things that I can live without — which, having just looked at the shelf, is a ridiculously large amount.  I always think that I’ve done a good job of anti-packratting my life, and then I look around…

There are a select few discs that I’ll be keeping — mostly the catalogs that I own.  Everything else will be going the way of the dodo, so any of you that are looking to pick up some music, I’ll be selling off discs at dirt cheap prices.  Price cuts for bulk, needless to say.  Let me know if you’re interested in seeing lists, or if there’s anything you know I have that you want to claim in case it’s going out the door.  There’s everything from rare metal and bootlegs to soundtracks and cheese pop in here, and it never hurt to ask…

Next week, books and trade paperbacks…

I like to think that in all of us, there is a dreamer.  Not just the kind of dreams that you have when you close your eyes and hit the cherished REM state; not even the dreams that keep you moving through your years, reaching for something a little better than what you have.  The former dissolve into mist when you wake, slipping through your fingers the harder you grasp for them.  The latter are just as wispy, eventually drifting away into adulthood as you settle for what you have, the job that’s not quite what you envisioned, the significant other that falls short of perfection but at least she’s bearable, and still has sex with you once a week or so, and hey, she puts up with your poker nights and your leaving clothes strewn everywhere, so how bad can it be?

I don’t honestly know how many people even have dreams like the ones I still hold onto.  They’re the dreams that drive the writers and filmmakers and comic book readers of the world.  Daydreams, fantasies of being something bigger than life, superhuman, or maybe just more important than you feel. I know that these dreams come from being unhappy, from being insecure or lacking acceptance.  At least, I know that’s true of me.

It’s why I read comic books for 30 plus years, why I still enjoy them when I can afford them.  I think it’s why I was a fan of wrestling (stories of grandfathers aside — why else did I continue to watch until the last year or so?).  It explains my enjoyment of summer popcorm action movies, and my reading choices.

There’s a lot of things that I really don’t like about my life.  Don’t get me wrong; I accept my part in where I’ve ended up to date, and any responsibility that belongs to me for where I end up from here on out.   This isn’t a fists-shaking at the sky and screaming for the reasons why, although I’m more than familiar with that urge.  No, I’m aware and insistent that every action has consequences, and the only way to make your life better is to recognize those reactions and adapt your behavior.

Sometimes, it’s a nice thought that things might just reboot, that you might be able to start over, taking all the lessons you’ve learned from all your mistakes and applying them in a fresh and unknowing situation.  It’s a world where all your sins are erased from memory, and you get that one last chance to be everything that you’ve realized that you wanted to be.  No one holds anything from the past against you, because for one small moment, you’re reborn as a blank slate for the world, and maybe you’ve made enough mistakes that you can live out the rest of your time without making more.

When I watch LOST, I imagine that everyone who watches can see part of themselves in one of the characters.  We want to think that maybe we’re tough and quick like Sawyer, or charismatic and a natural leader like Jack, or that we can turn our lives around for good like Sayid.  I doubt anyone sees themselves in Charlie, or Boone or Shannon (because, fuck, they’re corpses, and how much fun is it to dream you’re dead?), or one of the nameless faces in the background of every episode.

If you hit the deserted island with 40 other impossibly attractive people, what would you change about yourself?  Would you manage to finally stop being a manipulative person, no longer pulling other people’s strings to get what you want?  Could you stop hurting other people due to your own greed and self-centeredness?  Would you carefully watch the words coming out of your mouth, stopping the lies and the pettiness and all the negative traits you’ve recognized in yourself over the years, and start becoming the person that you have always dreamed of being?

Or are you one of those that believes that we are who we are, and no amount of self-awareness can ever change that, no matter what we hope or dream?

And if you find that you are able to change, are you doing it because it’s what you feel is right, or because it’s what other people want from you?  Does that even matter?

And you say, be still my love
Open up your heart, let the light shine in
Don’t you understand I already have a plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin
-Colin Hay, “Waiting For My Real Life to Begin”

I think what I hate most about living in this head from day to day is not really knowing a thing about who I am, not believing the good things about myself and not being able to embrace the rest because it’s not what people want to see or hear.

It’s a pretty horrific confusion to have inside.

I’ve heard repeatedly that one of the reasons I should quit smoking is that I will get my sense of taste back.  It’s never been a very motivating factor to me; those that know me are aware that I’m both a picky eater and a survivalist.  I’m rarely a fan of eating; food goes in when I’m hungry, and it’s really only enough to make me not hungry.  If it weren’t for the need to eat to survive, I probably wouldn’t.  I do, if rarely, really appreciate a good meal (it requires a really fine and out-of-my-budget chef or a unique experience for me to really stimulate the taste buds).  So it’s not that I don’t enjoy food — it’s that people insist on putting onions and celery into every single recipe in the world.

Last night, though, I had an experience with a simple burger and a side of steamed cabbage. Fascinating, really how much taste some things in the world have.  The burger wasn’t any real surprise,except that I was suddenly eating in 3D — the only comparison that I can offer is to wander around for 20 years with a gray filter in your glasses, and then remove the filter gradually but in stages.  It’s intense. Seriously, not unlike eating while on LSD — every taste was distinct and separate in my mouth, but together.  I could identify each and every one, even through the blend.
Oh, and I’m no longer on the fence about mayonnaise. Keep that shit off my sandwiches in the future, thanks.

Of course, taste doesn’t walk alone.   Why couldn’t my vision have cleared up, or maybe my hearing gotten even more intense?  That would have been cool.  But no, what I find is that I’m smelling things more clearly with each passing day, and I have to say: no, thanks, but the thought sure is considerate. It could be worse, of course — I could be in New York, smelling dead bodies and urine (apologies to Bill Hicks).  But discovering that your coworkers wear too much cologne (or haven’t showered since January) is not the best way to celebrate kicking the habit.

Also, as much as I love it, cabbage smells like Irish death.  If they cook this shit that often, I can understand my ancestral alcoholism.

“A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

Just something that I’ve been thinking about for a while now.

I have more to say, but not yet. First, food. It’s amazing how hungry you get when you quit smoking.

It’s also amazing how much things smell. And by smell I mean not so good.