Why I play music... aka... how a kid with Asperger's learned to connect with the world... Part 2

In PART 1, I wrote about how I’ve always felt “different,” even as a child, but didn’t know why; how I struggled with interpersonal relationships (well, I still do) and felt a general sense of isolation from the world around me; and how Brett Favre and Bruce Springsteen became my conduits to other humans. But, what I didn’t talk about a ton, despite it being in the title, was Asperger’s. Well, there’s a simple reason for that: Asperger’s wasn’t a part of my life then. Well, yes, I know technically it was, but I was completely unaware that I had it, what it actually was, and how much harm/good it was doing to/for me. Now that I know, I want to talk about how it’s affected my life and my relationships, how it’s helped me, how it’s hurt me, and, how through it all, music has been the steadying force in my life since that “Born to Run” moment. That sentiment is simultaneously not true, as music has completely fucked my life up in numerous ways. So, the two go hand in hand. Everything about my journeys with both music and Asperger’s seems to be contradictory and very polarized. They’re both the best/worst things that could ever happen to a guy, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world…

 

It’s recently become a popular sentiment, first by Kanye and then later by Greta, the climate change icon, that mental health “issues” or “diagnoses” can actually be a positive thing. I think they’ve both gone on record as calling it a “superpower,” which is awesome. But that also makes me feel like I’m in the Truman Show (I know, a common trait amongst serial killers, but I can’t even count how many things I’ve willed into existence anymore…) as it’s something I’ve been saying for years to anyone that would listen and now suddenly I’m reading about it all over the place. Hell, even Jerry Seinfeld said he probably was on the Autism/Asperger’s spectrum and said it isn’t “dysfunctional” but just “an alternate mindset.” I like that. I have an “alternate mindset.” Makes me sound more like a genius… (wait, isn’t that also a serial killer attribute? Being a self-proclaimed genius? Well, at least my love for animals is a big strike against me being a serial killer. Why am I talking about the traits of serial killers? Damn you, Netflix, for recommending so many murder documentaries!)

 

My wife was actually the first person to bring this up and tell me how lucky I am to have Asperger’s. More times than I can count, she’s mentioned how she wishes she could do and say some of the things that come so naturally for me. Over the years, I’ve also had many a musician friend comment on how they wish they could be more like me; in certain regards, that is. I’ve talked about the many positives of having Asperger’s over the years (having routines that save time/energy, decisions that should be hard aren’t for me, big life changes don’t really phase me, extreme persistence in pursuing things I need/want, unswayable morals, etc.), but I think the main thing that people wish they could do is not care so much. I keep hearing from others how they really wish they could not care as much about things like:

 

• what other people think of them
• what other people think of their music/art/writing/etc.
• what other people might say if they do x/y/z
• how other people might feel if they do x/y/z
• how many people clicked on their whatever on social media
• how many people streamed their song/music video/etc.
• how many people showed up to their show/event/etc.
• whether people will like their new music/art/writing/etc.
• whether they might look stupid by doing or saying something
   

I could go on, but you get the point. I know many a person affected by George McFly syndrome. You know, the what if I’m not good enough? What if no one likes it? I just don’t think I could take that kind of rejection thing. It can be paralyzing. I’ve known more than a few artists/musicians who’ve given up because the stress of putting their worth into others’ approval is too much. It can suck the joy out of things very quickly. One of my best friends, and the most talented musician I’ve ever known, goes years between albums and shows because of George McFly syndrome. My wife quit playing her music altogether because of it. One bad show can send them spiraling in self-doubt, draining them of their confidence and making them question their indisputable talent. I wish that I could do something about it. I wish I could give them a little Asperger’s the way Jedis in the latest Star Wars movie can now magically give others life (don’t even get me started on the latest Star Wars… Thank you for not getting me started…). But, I can’t. They can’t have what I have, unfortunately. I just wish they could not care, like me.

 

All those things on the list up there, I don’t give a damn about a single one. And I’m not just saying that to sound cool or something, I really don’t. I’m not sure I have the ability to. Sure, it still feels good when things go well, when a show is packed, when people say they love your music, etc.; everyone likes a compliment, even me. But, and this may sound mean, I don’t really care. If no one told me “good show tonight” or “I love that song” I’d still be fine. I judge my music, performances, etc. against how I think I should write, perform, etc. That’s the only criteria that matters to me. I’ve played countless shows where I’ve received the nicest compliments from people but still came away with a list of things ready for myself to work on and improve for the next show. I think it’s why I was good at sports. I always wanted to improve, never felt comfortable, and didn’t need a coach or someone else to inspire me. I’m all the inspiration I’ll ever need. Again, which is great for a musician.

 

In the music world, and, unfortunately, even more so for female musicians, there are so many things and people that will try to beat you down. The system is almost designed to do so, especially if you are tying up your worth into other peoples’ judgments of you. Since I don’t really care, I’m able to move more freely around the music world without the anxiety that plagues a lot of the musicians I know. Since you can’t actually control other people’s actions, thoughts, words, likes, dislikes, etc., it’s a huge mental burden to try and then also to worry about it. Trying to make sure a room full of people are having a good time is exhausting. I’d rather put all my energy into performing the best I can and let them all do whatever the hell they’re going to do. I can’t do a damn thing about it either way, so I want to have the most fun I can whilst performing. 

 

I think the other part of “not caring” that is very beneficial, again, especially to a musician, is that I don’t worry about results. It’s something I constantly remind my wife (and friends, colleagues, etc.) to do. She spends so much time worrying about how things might end up that she can paralyze herself fretting the possibilities. I know a lot of people who do this. When I play a show, all I can do is promote it, prepare myself and the band, and then go have fun. Everything else is out of my control. The things people worry the most about are things they can’t do anything about anyways like: how many people will show up, will they like it, will I or someone make a mistake while playing, etc. It’s wasted energy, and it’s something my Asperger’s allows me to not care about. I’ve had some of my favorite shows in front of almost nobody. And, one time, to literally nobody as the sound guy went out for a smoke and no one had stayed around for my 2am set at some random bar in NYC, not even my girlfriend. I played a three minute harmonica solo as I covered “Mr. Tambourine Man.” I played two or three Carter Family songs and a Hank Williams tune. I love that memory. It was so much fun. One of my favorite quotes is from former Green Bay Packers (and Jaguar and Steelers) writer Vic Ketchman. He often says “memories make us rich.” That memory of the empty show is worth more than many other hundreds of shows to me. But it never would have had happened if I cared about those things listed above. And there are plenty more memories I wouldn’t have if I didn’t have Asperger’s; like the “Born to Run” moment I wrote about in part 1.

 

There are many days I curse my Asperger’s (or more accurately, my wife curses it) but overall I’d say the positives outweigh the negatives. Is it hard for me to do simple things like making small talk with a barista while I’m getting coffee or chat with the bartender while he makes my drink? Sure, but are those really things that are categorically life-changing? No. Do I sometimes get overwhelmed when in public places with lots of other people? Yes, but those situations can also mostly be avoided. Do I have trouble making and keeping friends since it’s hard for me to make connections and even harder to find the time/energy to want to go hang out with people when I really just want/need to stay home and recharge? Yes. But, planning in advance and also planning downtime for myself can alleviate a lot of that. Does my Asperger’s also increase my depression? Probably, as I’ve read a lot of compelling evidence linking the two, but who knows. Is it difficult to sometimes perform simple tasks as I get overwhelmed when I overcomplicate things? Sure, but making task lists and breaking them down helps my brain focus. Is it difficult for me to understand metaphors or when people are trying to be polite by saying one thing but meaning something else? Yes, and I know I’ve alienated some people because I took them at their word or said something too bluntly or completely misread a situation and, therefore, acted inappropriately. I know, a songwriter who struggles with metaphors. Weird, right? That’s why I’m always amazed when I stumble across one when writing. Further proves my theory that music is ethereal and we are merely conduits for it, each with our own storytelling skill set which is why we receive the songs we do. But, I digress…

I’d say the toughest thing about having Asperger’s is my relationship with my wife. She’s a very emotional woman and that’s difficult for me. Seems like at least once a month I do or say something that unintentionally causes her to get angry, hurt, sad, etc. I don’t mean to and very rarely do I realize what it is that I’ve done. We’re getting better at communicating these things but I struggle badly at it. I wish I didn’t do and say stupid things and I’m trying to learn what they are so I can stop myself in the future, but even that is proving very tricky for me. It’s also difficult because we have disparate needs when we occasionally do have a fight. She needs comforting and touch, and I need to be left alone. Obviously, we both can’t have what we need at the same time. I’m also really bad at pretending to care. It’s written all over my face and body language so I can’t really hide it. It comes in handy when someone you don’t like approaches you at a party and you’d like to leave, but it’s very un-handy when your wife needs you to at least pretend to care. This is the evil side of “not caring.”

 

Anyways, I’m surely a bit off-topic here, but I’m trying to give a fuller picture as I don’t feel like I’ve adequately described things in the past. It’s always been more anecdotal. And, in the spirit of this post, I’d like to move on to how music has affected my life in eerily similar ways. Just as Asperger’s has helped me through some tough times, both personally and professionally, music has done much the same. Music has also taken a lot from me, just as my Asperger’s has.

 

I’m a big believer in karma and balance. Not necessarily in the spiritual sense, but more in a literal sense. The same way that in nature everything comes to balance. Steel will eventually rust and return to the earth as iron. Rain will eventually evaporate, reform clouds and then fall back to earth. But also, just like in science, every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Which stands to reason but is a tough pill to swallow some days. For every moment of, oh, say hearing your songs on a radio station halfway around the world, playing in front of hundreds of people, meeting my wife at a show I was playing back in Portland, OR; there has to be the opposite too. The years of depression. The hours spent fighting with the band over the dumbest things (I now realize that in all likelihood we had three people in that group who had Asperger’s, including me. That helped us forge our sound and some amazing music, but could also be the worst situation imaginable. Our drummer was kicked out of the recording sessions for both albums we did together…). The drinking and the drugs. We’d make a record (great) and immediately spend hours, days, weeks hating each other and break up (bad).

 

As I mentioned in part 1, my friends and I spend hours discussing how much we hate/love music. I think the best way to describe it to others who say “why don’t you just stop then?” is that it’s an addiction. For me, there’s a part of my brain that only gets its juice from writing and performing music. I don’t know what it is but I don’t think I’d survive if I stopped. It’s probably the same reason Springsteen is still out doing three hour shows. I used to hate that. I always thought “why don’t the old guys just hang it up?” But, the more I played music, the more I realized that I couldn’t stop either. I feel like music has physiologically altered my brain in some way and now I can’t function without it. And, normally I’m pretty good at quitting things once my mind is made up on something. That’s probably the Asperger’s, but once I quit sports, I had no desire to play ever again. Once I decided to move out of my hometown, I had no desire to go back. Once I decided to quit smoking, I stopped that day. But music is a whole different beast.

 

It’s strange, but I feel the most comfortable as a person when I’m on-stage performing. It’s hard to describe, but that’s when I feel the most “me.” Like I can take a breath and relax for once. I say weird things that are sometimes funny. I lose track of time and just have fun for those two or whatever hours. It’s definitely weird to say out loud (or, write out loud, as it were…) as that is most certainly not healthy. To feel the most me, I have to be playing music that I’ve written in front of other people. Trust me, I don’t get it either. I remember the first time I told my wife this, she said it was merely attention-seeking behavior. It’s true, I do love attention and that’s probably why I act out sometimes and/or get bored when people aren’t paying attention to me. I’m like a cat in that way. But, I think she finally believes me when I say that isn’t the whole truth. Yes, I want attention but being on stage is probably what it’s like when someone has a religious experience or prays to God. It’s personal and singular to them. They don’t have to “be” anything other than their true selves. Some people go to confession, I like to do mine in front of an audience. It’s the same thing; except I get paid to do mine.

 

The other benefit of performing is that it turns my brain off, which is awesome. I don’t think much at all when I’m on stage. I just be. It’s wonderful. I can’t tell you how much of my life is spent in my own head. I’ll often laugh or say something really fucking random because in my head it’s all connected. For example, a week ago my wife and I were going to see the latest Star Wars (again, don’t get me started…) and I casually mentioned that it can’t be as bad as some of the prequels. Then, without missing a beat, I said “just like Alanis Morissette.” Of course, my wife was like “what the hell?” I then had to explain that after I said that, I went back on that sentiment because, if I’m being honest, I actually kinda like “Phantom Menace.” Jar-Jar aside, I got to experience that movie through my brother’s eyes. It was his first Star Wars in the theatre experience (mine too) and it blew his mind. He was probably five or six at the time so he could relate to young Anakin. His excitement was contagious and I grew to love that movie. We played the pod racing video game and watched Episode 1 many a time. But the only reason I like that movie at all is because of the experience of taking it in as, and with, a child. I valued the experience more than the actual movie. In my brain, the logical step was to ask myself “what else did you have to be there for that wouldn’t make as much sense now?” I arrived on 90’s music. Much of the 90’s has come back around in culture but a lot of the music hasn’t. Wu-Tang has because of their recent documentary, Ms. Lauryn Hill has because she’s just one of the most talented people ever, Rage Against the Machine has because they are such icons and reunite to play shows only every 5-10 years, and the Foo Fighters and Sheryl Crow just never went away. But bands like the Wallflowers, Everclear, New Radicals, Semisonic, Goo Goo Dolls, Lisa Loeb, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, etc., etc., never really stayed relevant and haven’t enjoyed a comeback. The one that surprised me though, since she was the fucking queen of being awesome and weird and super talented, was Alanis Morissette. She’s back on tour but her music hasn’t really made a comeback and you really had to be there to know just how huge she was back in the day. She had hit after hit and was everywhere. But, I don’t think the kids nowadays know her as the musical mastermind she once was. It’s almost like how everyone’s forgotten that Mike Ditka was better as a player than he was as a coach. But, I digress. So, that’s how we arrived at “just like Alanis Morissette.” If you didn’t live through her reign as a pop/rock music icon, you probably see her much differently than I do. That’s how my brain works and it’s doing that all in milliseconds and doing it all day, every day. That’s why I value things that can shut off my brain.

 

But, there’s something inherently wrong with anything that makes you constantly need more of it to feel good about yourself, but that’s how music is. Everything that I’ve already written is the past and it’s on to the next song, the next hit of endorphins or whatever it is that floods my brain when I write a new song that I love. But, it’s also a helpful guide as it keeps me moving forward instead of moving in circles in my mind. Not sure if that makes sense, but it’s the way I feel many days. Like my life is a flat circle and I just keep repeating the same things over and over; which, to some extent, I do. I do wake up at almost the same time each day, eat the same thing for lunch almost every day, have my week planned out where I do mostly the same things on the same days each week, etc. But, for my creativity to spur, I need chaos (that’s healthy, right?). I need change. I need new environments and new stimuli. I have enough stories to tell (I’ve lived quite a life) but sometimes need something to jar me out of my routines so I can focus on telling them. I often only write songs when I feel the need to. When I’m prepping a new album or want something new for a string of shows or whatever. But, when I get the bug, I often write songs in clusters. I’ll write three or four at a time then move on to the next three or four. It’s why groups of songs will often share similar themes, characters, places, etc. I’ll also often pull a piece from this song to put into that song or tear down three to build one that’s the best parts of each. But, the most important piece of this is that I feel a purpose when I have to write new music. It gives me a reason to exist and a reason to keep existing despite whatever bullshit is going on in my life. I might be depressed for a time, but if I can write a song that might make someone else feel OK in their own state of depression, then it is worth it for me to experience that. It circles back to my reason for playing music, to help others like me, who need a companion in a tough time. Or just to feel the comfort of knowing that they are not the only ones going through whatever the hell they are going through. It may sound narcissistic but I truly feel like I’m in a position to help others and it’s my duty (ha! doody…) to do so. But, again, I’m not trying to be some large scale saviour but just want to help a few people who experienced the loneliness that I did. Those who felt disconnected from the world around them. Music helped me, it can help others. I write to try and tell the stories I needed to hear. That’s all I can do. I don’t know what others need. I only know what I needed and that’s all I can give. And I have. And I will continue to do so.

 

Anyways, I’ve rambled long enough. Music giveth and music taketh away. Asperger’s giveth and Asperger’s taketh away. Music gives me a reason to exist and a reason to keep fighting, and Asperger’s gives me the strength to fight and the mental fortitude to do so unrestricted. They both make me depressed and make relationships difficult but I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I don’t think I would’ve found music if not for my Asperger’s and I certainly wouldn’t keep playing music without it. And without music, I wouldn’t have a purpose to exist and probably would have ended my life long ago, so I’m grateful for both music and Asperger’s. They team up for good sometimes too.

 

Not sure if any of this means anything to anyone but I hope it does. And, if you have Asperger’s/Autism, I hope you feel like you have a brother out there who gets you and who can hopefully inspire others to pursue their passions and maybe someday they’ll return the favor to their fellow Aspies.

Why I play music... aka... how a kid with Asperger's learned to connect with the world... Part 1

I was recently asked one of my favorite questions: why do I play music?

 

I’ll answer that in a second, but it is funny that when talking about music with others, it usually falls into one of two categories:

 

1) Why I love music and why being a musician is awesome

 

OR

 

2) Why I hate music and why being a musician sucks

 

When talking about number one, I extol the virtues and many gifts music has given me. The stories, the emotions, the connections to other humans (more on this in a bit), the comfort I receive from hearing a familiar album, the way it allows me to process my own emotions, the way music connects me to my past (I have terrible recall for my past, so I use music as my historical checkpoints. For instance, if someone asked me what I was up to in 2003-2004, I could probably muster up a few things but it would hardly be a complete answer. But, if you asked me about the time when I was obsessed with Arcade Fire’s “Funeral,” Sun Kil Moon’s “Ghosts of the Great Highway” and Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism,” I could run you through a huge list of connected memories from that time in my life. I know there’s more than a few of you out there who can relate.), how music saved my life and gave me a purpose when I desperately needed a reason to stop thinking about killing myself, and on and on. Music has given me everything. It’s given me so many wonderful memories. It is the reason I met the friends I have. It is the reason I met my wife It’s literally the reason I’m writing this right now.

 

Being a musician allows me to live the lifestyle that feels most natural to me. No one criticizes me anymore for having longer, messy hair or not showering every day or waking up at 10:30am or spending too much time playing guitar/singing or RANTING ABOUT RANDOM THINGS or any of the other reasons people used to think I was weird. Now, people accept those things because I’m an “artist.” It’s great.

 

BUT, when talking about number two (ha! Insert poop joke here), which is usually with other musicians, I talk about the false promises music has made to me, how the industry has changed so drastically, and for the worse, in my lifetime, how I wish I could go back in time and tell myself everything I know now, and maybe persuade my younger self to choose something else to obsessively pursue, how I wish I could separate my self-identity from music but it’s tentacles have wrapped and swallowed up most of my insides, in both a good and bad way, how thinking about my future with music makes me so hopeful-yet-depressed, and all the other reasons my fellow musicians and I usually throw out as to why we should quit music (but, ultimately, never will).

 

As I stated before, being a musician allows me to live the lifestyle that feels most natural to me. Unfortunately, that also includes lots of bad habits and has lead to a number of terrible decisions over the years. Drinking too much, drugs, ill-advised sexual adventures, deep and cyclical depression, the disintegration of relationships, the inability to stay in one place for very long, etc., etc. Music giveth and music taketh away. Everything in life always comes to balance. The higher the highs, the lower the lows, and so it goes…

 

Usually, when talking about number two (ha! Bet you didn’t think I’d say it again but now you’re thinking about poop for a second time!), it will slowly morph back into number one. I don’t know for sure whether this is because at the root of it all we really do love music unconditionally or if it’s because we are trying to justify our commitment to music and all the years/time/energy/money we have already invested in it. I’d like to say the former but I don’t know if I can say that unequivocally…

 

Which brings us back to the original premise: why do I play music?

 

As far back as I can remember (which usually goes back to about age 5-6, when I would spend all day either trying to recreate Michael Jackson’s dance moves from “Bad” in the living room or running around the backyard all day with a plastic ninja sword pretending to be Leonardo, the leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles…), I always felt a little different from other kids. Obviously, at that time, I was unable to articulate those feelings or thoughts in any meaningful way. When I started going to school, I remember starting to become more aware of it. So did others. But, remember, this was way before anyone was really thinking about how kids acted in a clinical way. It was either they were smart, dumb, hyperactive, disruptive, lazy, etc. and the kids who did receive any special attention were the ones who were severely learning disabled. Even our tiny town had a learning disabilities class, which is incredible (and so was the woman who ran it) given that our entire K-8 school housed maybe 400-500 students. But, any other kid that displayed “not normal” behavior was usually labeled slow, was told they had ADD (attention deficit disorder, before they added that “H” to it) and moved to the redundant class. I was also lumped into this group, at least for a bit.

 

Soon, after some additional testing and the incredible support from my mom, they concluded I should actually be taking advanced classes instead of being moved to the slower class. They landed on the fact that I was disruptive because I was bored and I didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t done with their work as quickly as I was. I’m not saying this brag, but to illustrate the beginning of my disconnect from the “normal” people around me which I’ve felt for a long time.

 

In Middle School, and especially in High School, these “outsider” type feelings really started to grow. Again, I had no way to verbalize this to anyone so they could maybe offer some suggestions or help; so, instead I retreated inward. I used to study people having conversations and try and figure out the mechanism behind it. It didn’t quite make sense to me. It was like an impossible math problem. I could talk at people but not with people. For some reason, it was hard, or almost impossible, for me to care about what anyone else was saying most of the time. Despite this, it wasn’t like I was a loner. I had plenty of friends. I was invited to parties and sleepovers and whatnot. People generally liked me. But, that was always centered around one thing: sports. Sports were my conduit and connection with others. I lived and breathed sports (Packers, Brewers and Bucks fan for life! In that order.), spent hours pouring over stats, collected massive amounts of baseball and football cards, and drew up plays in all my school notebooks. My friends and I would play sports all day, every day. Baseball season turned into Football season which turned into Basketball season which turned back in Baseball season. I could talk sports with anyone and for hours. I’m sure some people were likely sick of me talking about my beloved Green Bay Packers, and how Brett Favre was the greatest football player ever and my eternal hero (which he still is to this day). I didn’t need other hobbies or interests as sports consumed every waking moment. I was convinced I would either:

 

A) Become the starting shortstop for the Brewers

 

Or, if that didn’t work out, I’d fall back on:

 

B) Become a starting wide receiver for the Packers

 

Simple, right?

 

(I know, you’re probably wondering why I’m blathering about all this when the question was about music. Well, hold on to your butts, I’m almost there.)

 

Well, not exactly. First off, it would have been highly unlikely that a 5’7”, 120lb white kid from the sticks would be able to crack either of those major sports leagues. Not impossible per se, but not entirely possible either. Second, I had an Achilles’ tear when I was a Sophmore in High School. It wasn’t a complete tear, but it wasn’t far off. Coupled with my ongoing knee issues and my flat feet, I began to realize that sports were not likely in my future. It was a devastating blow for someone who didn’t really know much else. What would I do now? I briefly dabbled in nihilism, like a lot of High School-aged kids do, I’m sure. I had nothing left to look forward to. Things weren’t going great for ‘ol Bradley (or Brad, at the time).

 

When I stopped playing sports, suddenly most of my “friends” were no longer my friends. I wasn’t part of a group or team or anything. I had lost my connection to other people. Depression set in. Suddenly, that was my identity and I was really good at it. I started working at a factory so I had something to do after school. It was mostly mindless but passed the time and paid pretty damn well, especially for an unexperienced 16 year old in a small town. My coworkers became my new friends. Maybe this is what I’d do going forward. They all seemed to be doing OK. Until I started to see through that more and more. Some were. Some were not. Some were just as depressed as I was pretending not to be. There was a lot of drinking the nights away; and sometimes, the harder stuff would come out. I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted something more. And still, through all that, I never felt like I fit in. Even with other depressed, aimless people, I was still the outsider. I told myself it was because I was destined for greater things, which turned out to be somewhat true. But, mostly, I just couldn’t feel any real connection to most of those around me. I didn’t know why and I didn’t know if anyone else felt like this. It was lonely.

 

It was around this time we had to take one of those stupid aptitude tests that supposedly tells you what you should be when you grow up. Most kids were already scouting out colleges at this time and I’m sure the school was trying to help them towards picking their major. (I had no path for my future, and thus, no desire to go to college. I viewed it as a waste of time. And, it would have been had I gone.) But, as is often the case with standardized personality/trait tests like that, my answers were so erratic and diametrically opposed that it could not reasonably spit out an answer as I was seemingly two separate people. There was the loud, boisterous Brad who thought speech class was the best because everyone had to shut up, give me all their attention, and listen to me talk. There was also the Brad who preferred to hole up and read Kurt Vonnegut Jr. books, play NFL 2K (or Madden when the NFL/EA killed 2K. Sega Dreamcast for life!) for hours, and hang out with my little brother in our bedroom and not interact at all with the outside world. There was the Brad who would cut class with a small group and go get high outside the Taco Bell and devour double-decker tacos like they were going out of style. But, there was also the Brad who spent his study halls alone, practicing pep band songs on his trombone. There was the Brad that thought Metallica and AC/DC were the greatest bands in the world. But, there was also the Brad who loved Tchaikovsky and Outkast with equal vigor. So, how was this stupid test supposed to know which to choose? Which was the real Brad?

 

There was always one teacher who I greatly respected, had become friends with and rarely argued with (which, is a miracle, as I rarely got along with my teachers). He sat me down and said this test doesn’t work for people like me. He said the Brad he knew would never let a damn piece of paper choose his direction in life. “What are you passionate about? What do you love to do?” he asked.

 

The only things that came to mind were reading and listening to music, but never at the same time. I don’t know how people do that. If music is on, I can’t concentrate on other things. “Aha!" he said. “Then music it is.”

 

“But how?” I asked. “I can’t sing to save my life and the only instrument I can kinda play is the trombone. I wish I could play guitar…”

 

“Then figure it out.”

 

He knew what motivated me and how much I loved to be challenged. Years before, my first foray into music was short-lived. I had saved up my lawn mowing and snow shoveling money and bought myself one of those $99 specials out of the JCPenney’s catalog. Kids over the age of 30 probably remember how awesome that fucking catalog was. It would come like two or three months before Christmas so you could start dreaming of all the stuff you couldn’t have. My sister and I would earmark dozens of its 1000 pages, hoping to get at least a few of the treasures inside. But, in this case, I could finally get it on my own. I ordered it through the mail and patiently waited for it to arrive. When it finally did, I was beside myself with excitement. I was on a path to a new world! Except, I didn’t know what to do with it. We couldn’t afford lessons and I didn’t even know how to get it in tune. Eventually, I figured out that I needed to spend another $15 on a tuner. I learned how to strum a few chords but it was much harder to play than I anticipated. Both literally, as my fingers ached, and sometimes bled, each day after only a short while, and generally as I struggled to remember where my fingers were supposed to go. I gave up after only a short while. He knew that. He knew I hated struggling at things but if someone challenged me, then I had to prove them wrong at all costs. I had to go home, pick up that damn guitar and get to work.

 

He also played guitar and would stay after school to show me some simple things to go practice. He showed me how to play a few very basic blues and folk songs. I spent hours practicing each night. Eventually, I graduated to strumming along to Bob Dylan songs. I learned how to play “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” by Poison and would host singalongs at the few parties I was still invited to. But, this all still felt like work. I wasn’t having much fun. I still sucked, still couldn’t play anything but a few basic chords, and had no idea how I would ever turn this into a career. Then, just like what had happened back in ‘92, when Brett Favre was introduced into my life after Majkowski went down during that Bengals game, as he seemingly always did, and he brought me sports as my connection to the world around me; I would be introduced to a hero who would show me a new path to connecting to people. Going forward, that connection would be music; and that hero’s name was Bruce Springsteen.

 

To give you the full experience, I’ll give you the full scene. When I was 16, my grandma was getting rid of a bunch of stuff, and one of those things was her old console sized record/8-track player. It was the kind that is about four feet long and three feet high, is all made of light colored wood and closes to be like a bar top. It was so heavy, I’m still surprised we were able to get it upstairs. The wooden monstrosity took up most of one whole wall when we finally finagled it into my (and my brother’s) bedroom. I was so excited to have my own record player but didn’t own any records myself. I started going through my mom’s collection and pulled a few to try out the player with. There was Neil Young’s “Decade” collection, Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors” and Bruce Sprinsteen’s “Born to Run.” I had heard hits from all three artists, but never really dove into their records on the whole. Once I got the record player set up and working, I put on “Decade.” It was better than I had hoped. I loved his seemingly reckless and wild style when he played with the band and I remember the song “Helpless” really hit me hard.

 

I got ready to fire up a second album. I chose “Born to Run.” I had heard the song “Born to Run” on the radio a few times and I liked it, but thought Springsteen was mostly for the older crowd, not 16 year olds. I was so used to CD’s where the side you play is down that I put the record on upside down (B-side up). I pushed the button to start the automatic needle drop and found a spot across the room. I sat down on the floor next to my bed, back against my dresser. I closed my eyes. The Neil Young record had felt so alive and so real, I hoped this one would feel the same way. I had heard vinyl sounded different and so far it was 1 for 1 in my real life test. The needle finally touched down and made its silent loop around the outside groove, with a few cracks and pops so you knew it had found its mark. THEN… the intro to “Born to Run” kicked in (as it’s track one on side-B) with that drum fill and then that simple yet iconic guitar riff. I got shivers. By the time the vocal kicked in, I was already in another world. I couldn’t open my eyes. My heart began to beat faster. My whole body clenched up. My brain raced. What was this I was hearing? What was this I was feeling? It felt like it was all happening in slow motion, and suddenly, I was watching myself as I sat there paralyzed by the beauty and majesty of the sound coming from those old speakers. I could feel every drum fill in my stomach. Every word was perfect, every note necessary. Elation and anxiety washed over me. I searched my mind for a comparison to this moment. I tried to figure out the math behind this feeling while the physical version of me sat, eyes closed, on the floor taking in the this wondrous music. I wanted to be like him and just let this newfound glory wash over me but something was stopping me. I couldn’t stop trying to figure out what was happening. My brain kept spinning in circles and I tried to find something, anything to help me understand. I was panicked. But, looking down, that version of me was in heaven. Why don’t I get to enjoy this as he is? It wasn’t fair. I was having a meltdown and he was calm as could be. Finally, I gave up. I closed my eyes. And then something incredible happened. I slowly felt myself rejoin my physical body. In stressful moments like this, I’ve always felt a disconnect between my brain and body. But, suddenly, int that moment, they were reconnected and my brain switched off. There was no time for thoughts when this magical music is playing. For the first time in a long time, I stopped thinking. I was just being. I was just accepting. I was just being happy in a beautiful moment. It was something I had forgotten how to do.

 

“Born to Run” paused my thoughts and gave me the momentary peace of mind I had been longing for. It was the thing that used to happen when I would play sports. I could just be. I didn’t have the voices constantly chattering away as I tried to figure everything out like the world was one big math problem that I needed to solve. “Born to Run” allowed me to just be me for a while. It felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders, if only for those four and a half minutes. It was the greatest feeling in the world. Or so I thought. But, music had an even greater gift and was just waiting for me to find it.

 

I started the song over. Partly because I needed that feeling again. And, if I’m being honest, partly because I thought there was a skip on the record in the bridge when they do the descending line just before they all pause and wait for Bruce’s famous “1, 2, 3, 4” to storm back into the final verse. There wasn’t of course but the band hits those notes so perfectly at the end of the run, that I swore it was the same one skipping, what seven times, before resolving. This time I focused all my attention on the words. By the time he said “Baby, this town rips the bones from your back. It’s a death trap…” I felt like he was singing about me, but me in the future; and, somehow he was doing it from the past. Somehow, back in 1975, he knew exactly what 16 year old Bradley would need to hear about 20 year old Bradley 30-some years later (hopefully that makes sense). I felt everything that he felt as he sang those words with all his heart. I felt like I knew him and he knew me. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought and felt the way I did. Maybe someone else understood my thoughts and feelings even better than I did. I finally felt like I wasn’t alone anymore. I cried as that song played for the second time. I felt like I had found my way back home after wandering aimlessly for the past year or two after losing sports. Bruce unlocked that part of my brain and my heart that allowed me to be myself again. I owe him everything for that.

 

That’s what music gave to me. It made me feel “human” in a way nothing else could. I finally felt “normal.” The more music I really listened to, the more I felt like I was part of a larger world of people who knew exactly who I was. I could learn from them. They were teaching me it was OK to be myself, no matter how fucked up I felt most of the time. And whenever I was feeling bad, they gave me a place where I could leave that at the door, put on a record, and escape; even if just for a while. I knew this was what I wanted to do. I knew I wanted to give the gift of music to others. I wanted others to feel OK about being themselves because someone else out there knew exactly what they were feeling. There’s a comfort in that. It’s why people listen to sad songs to feel better. Music gives people permission to be who they are and lets them know they are not alone. I may not know Bruce Springsteen personally, but he’s given me the best friend I’ve ever had in “Born to Run.” I thought it was my duty to pay it forward. If I could make music and help one person feel less alone and less fucked up in the world, then I’ve done my life’s work.

 

This is why I play music: to help people, especially those who’ve lost, or still haven’t found, their connection to the world around them.

 

That is what music gave to me that day so many years ago. That is what I hope to give back to others.

 

I know a lot people who have Asperger’s/Autism might feel that same disconnect I did (and still do sometimes). But, I want them to know it’s OK and they’re not broken. And, there’s a place where you can feel at peace and at home. It’s music. And maybe for some, it isn’t music. TV also does a lesser version of this for me. TV still allows me to shut my brain off for a while so I can relax a bit (Rick & Morty for life!). It doesn’t provide the same life-giving energy that music does, but everyone is different. Maybe it’s books or movies, but these stories can help us understand ourselves better than we can alone.

 

OK, so I’ve just now mentioned Asperger’s in a long post about playing music and having Asperger’s. Well, there’s lots more of that coming in part 2. You see, the whole time I’ve been feeling disconnected from the world, it was really just a product of the Asperger’s. I didn’t know it then. I don’t know how I could have. No one was really talking about it much back when I was kid. They still don’t, really. I don’t think doctors, teachers, parents, etc. are given much information on Asperger’s and what to look for in identifying it early on. I don’t know what would’ve been different, if anything, had I known sooner. I, myself, have only recently found out and started learning about it. It’s been a crazy three year journey since I started learning about it and how it affects me, but my life has already changed for the better by just knowing I have it. Just as it helps me understand myself better, it also helps those around me (like my wife, friends, etc.) understand a little better why I am the way I am. I don’t think younger Brad would have been able to do much with this information. I feel like I found out at the right time in my life.

 

I also really want to impart that I don’t think of Asperger’s as a disability in any way. In fact, it has helped me in numerous ways in the pursuit of my musical career. I’ll talk more about this in part 2 but I don’t think I’d even have gotten into music in the first place had it not been for my Asperger’s; so I definitely think of it as a blessing. I think people will start to be able to better identify Asperger’s in kids once we stop thinking about it as a negative. Now that I understand Asperger’s (and myself) better, there’s been at least a handful of times where I wish I could tell a parent that their child is likely on the spectrum. But, even the one time I brought it up (when it was even about someone else’s kid) they were quite offended by the mere suggestion. Maybe I should just not care (as I’m good at that) and just say it anyways. But I don’t want people to think it’s an insult and then never seriously consider it for their child. They should realized it can be a good thing. It is for me. As with anything in nature, there’s always a balance. So, there will always be negatives to balance out those positives but I still think I’m much better off on the whole because I have Asperger’s. But, more on that in part 2. Stay posted…

 

Random thoughts from an Aspergian Mind... aka this is what it's like to think like me

As I sit here in my room at a hotel near the Denver airport, I've been hard at work mulling over a few things that I probably shouldn't waste so much time and brain energy on:

1) How come the Brewers can take 2 of 3 from the Dodgers but go 0-3 against the Angels, who were mostly sans-Mike Trout?

2) As someone who is outspoken about his struggles with Asperger's/Autism, who enjoys researching/reading articles to help me (and probably moreso those around me) understand myself and my actions, and who is hoping to soon volunteer to help Autistic kids, how the fuck have I never heard of April being Autism Awareness Month until a week ago?!

 

Not doing so well with the awareness piece, ladies and gentleman... I have a vague memory of watching a Jon Stewart benefit but don't recall the specifics or a mention of an "Autism Awareness Month." But if we could get people to start seeing this in their children/students/etc. we could help a lot of kids (and parents/teachers/etc.) have a much easier go of it. I'm not full of regret or anything but I can't help but think of how different my life would've been if I had known I had Asperger's before 3-4 years ago.

3) Why the fuck did anyone listen to fun.?

Sorry, they came on an airport bar recently and jesus fuck... I don't think I've ever drank a $22 bourbon so fast... Of course, that was for a Knob Creek (double, but still a weak pour. Don't think it even filled up the measuring cup thingy all the way), so, yeah, airport pricing can go fuck itself...

4) How the fuck is there a band worse than fun.?

(Hint: they're called Grouplove, but take my word for it and don't look them up... Well, I guess that's not really a hint, it's just giving the answer but I didn't want you all to waste time, energy and your poor fucking ears trying to figure out/guess who it is...)

5) Buffalo Trace bourbon is delicious. OK, so this isn't a question, but still.

If this stuff cost $50 a bottle, I'd still splurge on some every now and again. At $25, it's a steal. I mean, I would never pay a penny more (wink. Just in case Buffalo Trace is listening... Then they would've seen the "wink." Damnit!). Though, full disclosure, my "house" bourbon is still Elijah Craig.

6) Is "Barbara Allen" my favorite traditional folk song?

My intro to this song is from the Bob Dylan Gaslight 1962 bootleg, which is hard as fuck to find something to link to online. But, there is a decent version on Youtube, which for some reason is cut off prematurely:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkOH7Rdfnkg

I can't believe a time existed (and a version of me) who played this tune at almost every show. Good times... I used to know hundreds of old folk songs. I wish I still did...

 7) I'm going to hate the upcoming Star Wars "The Rise of Skywalker" movie... Why will I still go see it?

I didn't like episodes 7 or 8 and the Solo movie was fucking dreadful (though "Solo" is immortalized by the marquee in my "LET'S GO OUT TONIGHT" MUSIC VIDEO) so I didn't have high hopes for it to begin with. But, after seeing the trailer, I'm out. Instead of moving forward with the new characters (Rey and Poe are both pretty fucking awesome, objectively), they are pulling dead people (literally and figuratively/in the Star Wars universe) back into the movie. Just let Rey and Poe be kickass and move on.

To be fair to episode 7, it was a fun watch despite the unimaginative script. And "Rogue One" is just a good movie. I wish we could've seen the rated-R cut as I have to imagine that was a fucking even more incredible movie.

8) Speaking of movies, when does "Hobbs and Shaw" come out?

 

This I could find easily on that ol' interwebs thing, but I'll just dream about how awesome it's gonna be instead. Fuck, Fast and Furious is awesome but these guys are seriously best in show when it comes to that world.

9) How do I make better drum sounds on my Moog Sub 37?

Again, something I could just look up but is more fun to spend hours fucking around with the knobs. So many knobs... I've lost entire days playing with sounds for literally no reason other than I like them and they sound cool. Now if only I could learn how to play a fucking keyboard. Not sure what the fuck the holdup is but for some reason keyboards make no sense to my brain. I think of things in terms of guitars since that's how I learned to play music so maybe that's it. Maybe my brain is like "fuck, this isn't anything like what we know. It's stupid and I hate it." Which sounds like pretty Aspergers-y and how I react to a lot of things, so probably.

10) When was the last time I sat and listened to Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5? And has anyone articulated more of the human experience in a musical piece ever? Maybe "Bold as Love" but that's probably it...

 

I once made the mistake of putting ol' No. 5 on before bed to try and help relax my brain (you can see why going through this inane/insane list of questions I pose to myself and have to answer before moving on to the next one). I ended up spending the next 50 or so minutes getting so emotionally involved that I couldn't fall asleep for another 3 hours. Good times...

11) In this day and age of internets and things, why is NewsRadio not available online and more popular than it is (i.e. not at all)?

Holy shit! It is available on a thing called Crackle, whatever the fuck that is. They also have "The Critic" and "Bewitched." Oh, happy day!

Well, I now have some TV watching to get to, so fuck off. We'll talk next week.

(dictated but not read)

Fuck Columbus, Fuck Portland, Fuck Depression... aka cutting and scars...

I just finished a new song.  It's ridiculous to talk about it since it won't be released for another year, but I love this song so much.  It's a song about cutting, which, unfortunately, I know a little bit about.  Now, to be sure, I've known people who've had extensive issues with cutting.  I dated a girl with more scars than I could count.  We talked about it at length.  She dealt with more than I could bear.  My experience with it is not on the same level and I'm not trying to compare but I can relate, in a different sort of way.  The reasons behind a person being in the mindset to do such a thing are varied.  I do not pretend to understand all, or even any, beyond my own.  And, I realize my reasons were not very common.  They were an outlier and therefore I'm not trying to compare my experience to others.  As I've mentioned, I've intimately known more than a couple people who have struggled with far worse issues.  I'm merely trying to say that I understand this issue more than most.  I've both internally and externally dealt with it.  I wish I hadn't (no one should) but the seed has been sown.   I can't undo my four scars, and I don't particularly care to.  I hold on to them to remind myself of what I can become.  It's not pleasant but it's not meant to be.  I relish the reminders of harder times.  They make me strive for the good times, regardless of how few and far between they are.  I try to keep the memories strong to keep myself on the right path.  Someday, I might tell the whole story, which is long and boring, at least to me, but for now I'll keep it simple:  I struggled with creating a dissociative disorder for myself.  I didn't think I was real.  Or, I didn't think the world around me was real.  I vacillated between those two realities; no doubt influenced by the intake of pain killers, Xanax and copious amounts of alcohol.  Also, the amount of self-hate and depression.  Moving to Portland was the single most tragic thing that ever happened to me, which, I know sounds ridiculous but it's true.  I was immediately depressed upon arriving but tried to associated those feelings with leaving New York City.  No city was ever going to live up to NYC, so I was just experiencing a normal drop off.  Not so.  I knew more than I could realize.  Sure, I started a band, made some albums, some music videos, enjoyed minor success and met my wife here, but the toll it's taken on me is irreparable.  I'll never be the same.  Frankly, I'm surprised my insides have only given out once with the amount of shit I've ingested to try and get by or enjoy myself or life.  Life hasn't been very enjoyable aside from getting married.  I've loved getting married but part of the reason is that I finally get to leave.  You see, my wife didn't feel comfortable moving with me before marriage, which is understandable given how shitty and undependable I can be.  But, Portland is the city in which I tried to murder myself, cut myself to establish the fact that I am a real being and thought about death multiple times per day.  It's not a place I will look back upon fondly.  I tried to kill myself once in Seattle too, but have nothing but good things to say about Seattle.  That is not the case for Portland.  If Portland were destroyed by a nuclear bomb, I would not only be OK, I would rejoice.  I have Asperger's so I don't really care about any of the people I don't know that would have died, and selfishly would love to see this place burned to the ground.  Good things may have happened as a result of this place, but the damage it's done to me and my well-being will never be rectified.  I will live with the literal and figurative scars forever.  I don't expect to outrun them.  I don't expect to get over them.  I don't expect to live happily alongside them, though I'm trying; especially now that I'm married.  Marriage for me was almost as much about self-preservation as it was about love.  I needed something to unselfishly live for.  Which is selfish as fuck, I suppose, saying it out loud.  My wife is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I felt guilty marrying her knowing full well I might kill myself.  I probably won't anymore, as she's unbearably wonderful and amazing and brilliant and beautiful, but I can't guarantee I won't.  I might do it by mistake.  There's only so much a liver can take, and all the drugs, alcohol and pills haven't helped.  Despite a massive cutback, the damage may have been done.  Although I feel like I might live forever given my not-give-a-fuck attitude, but maybe I'm wrong.  I haven't been wrong hardly ever, but it's possible I guess.  I hope Kanye is doing alright... I know he's taken a lot of shit for his SNL comments (which weren't aired, so he was right, black people do have to keep their thoughts to themselves...) which are semi-justified but not wholly.  He's not completely wrong on anything, he just didn't articulate his thoughts in a way that non-Kanye people would understand.  I get it...

Oh yeah, and happy Columbus/murdering, raping and enslaving indigenous people day.  Maybe that's why I'm so down tonight...  Fuck that Italian asshole.

(I'm half Native American for those who didn't know. Dictated but not read)

Why the Good Doctor is Autism-racist (if that's a thing) and why House is much more realistic portrayal of Autism... aka Help an Aspy muthafucker out...

Bradley talks about being Injun Brad, Portland, OR, but mostly about what he thinks of the way people with Asperger's and Autism are portrayed in movies and television.  Bradley also gives some of his favorite (non-diagnosed) Asperger's/Autistic characters in TV and Film and explains why Rick and Morty may be the most important show on television for people with Asperger's and/or Autism.  Any reason to promote Rick and Morty is one Bradley will take, not that the show needs any advertisement at this point.  But, it does need to be recognized for its bravery in the field of Autism.  Thank you Rick for being a (semi) positive role model for us Aspy muthafuckers.  Thanks also to Dr. House and Han Solo, we are forever in your debt...

The worst of sports and religion... aka Soccer and Televangelists...

Perhaps I should not be allowed to watch TV...  I'm not sure if it's the Asperger's or just me being a lazy fuck, but there's something absurdly comforting about watching television for me.  It's not just entertainment or a way to pass time for me.  It's something much more meaningful.  Movies don't do the same thing.  They don't calm my brain in the same way.  TV is like weed, which is probably why they go so well together (not that I'd know... or, would I?  I'll never tell...  *whispers* "they do...").  It stops my brain from being so Asperger's and allows it to relax and become more like a "normal" brain.  I think this is a common occurrence amongst people with mental health issues.  Kanye obviously loves "Rick and Morty" since THIS HAPPENED.  Yeah, so we have that in common, which is nice...

Anyway, here's the fuckin' video:

Video Blog #2... aka Haha! Like Poop! Anyways, it's about Meniere's Disease and Asperger's... Big surprise...

Holy shit, Batman!  I actually came through on my promise to make videos more of a priority and make them on schedule.  Phew, thought I lied to your asses once again, but nope, I did it y'all!  I really am as awesome as I think I am.  OK, maybe enough self-congratulating for now.  Well, one more, look how handsome I am.  And for the record, although it appears my shirt says "Leto," I assure you I am neither a Jared Leto nor Thirty Seconds to Mars fan.  My shirt, in fact, says "Titletown," in reference to Green Bay, WI and my beloved Green Bay Packers' 13 (and counting...) World Championships.  I left in just a hint of green for y'all as a hint (but, shit I just spoiled it anyways...).

Watch the damn video either by CLICKING HERE or just look below these very words.

I highly encourage you to comment, ask questions (this is my "Ask an Asperger's" segment, like Dave Chappelle's famous "Ask a Black Dude" with Paul Mooney) as I promise I won't get offended by any questions and love to help people understand (and humanize) Asperger's and other mental health disorders like depression, addiction, insomnia, etc. which I, unfortunately, know too much about.  Let me help you ask the hard questions, and if you suffer from any of these things, know that you are not alone and it's not something to be ashamed of.  There are many like you and knowing and feeling that is what helped me to be more open about it; that, and my Asperger's...

Finally... my video blog is alive... aka I'm able to stand up without vertigo and record this shit...

This week, Bradley discusses his struggles with Asperger's, why he thinks people have a hard time accepting mental health issues, Kanye West and his bipolar disorder, and wraps on his latest theory regarding cats (hint:  hashbrown catspergers, or #catspergers, as the kids say).

same shit, different week...

Remember last week when I felt like shit due to my inner ear issue?  Well, take that and add headaches, slight vision blurriness, a lack of energy and increased nausea...  Going to see a specialist in a couple days.  Hopefully, they will have something for me that can help with this bullshit...

Who's tired? Just me? Fuck you... aka I'm glad Rick and Morty only has 30 episodes...

My favorite thing this week is WATCHING THIS (from :19-:24).  I know, I know, late to the party.  I've dabbled in Rick and Morty over the years but never had the time or energy or want or really even cared enough to start another fucking TV show.  Fucking Netflix and shit, there's too goddamn much to catch up on.  But, I relented, and the only winner here is me.  Of course I love it.  I always knew I would.  Luckily, if you don't care about sleep you can plow through the 30 episodes goddamn quick, like in a week (yes, I do other shit during the day and only really watch TV between midnight and 3am.  Healthy, right?  Probably explains my love for goddamn infomericals and my obsession with the clinically insane Cathy Mitchell and her RED COPPER 5 MINUTE CHEF.  Or, some of my all-time favorites in THE MAGIC BULLET, the long form infomercial which I've watched on repeat for hours, literally, and I mean "literally" in the literal sense, not the hipster "literally" type of way, and the granddaddy of them all, the 28 minute masterpiece, THE RONCO ROTISSERIE.  Seriously, 28 minutes?!  I know I've wasted at least 20 hours of my life as I've seen this shit at least 40 or 50 times.  Sad...  Well, it would be if I hadn't wasted an equal amount of time WATCHING THIS and actually ended up getting a power pressure cooker; though not the one in the infomercial.  It was Christmas gift and it is truly amazing.  The tenderest chicken and pork I've ever eaten has come out of this thing, in a fraction of the time it would take in a crockpot.  It's fucking so soft it's goddamn falling apart as you're pulling it out of the pressure cooker.  And if you throw in some onions and peppers and tomatillos, and OH MY GOD.  Wait, am I selling pressure cookers or writing a blog?  Seriously, what should I be doing right now?  Apparently, after a few bourbons I can't tell the difference.  Is there a difference?  What am I talking about?  Jesus...).

It's weird but this past week has been good.  No Asperger's meltdowns.  No random obsessions to sidetrack me (apart from catching up on Rick and Morty, but that is just smart.  Just fucking smart).  And, no setbacks in my musical career like the ones which have basically defined the last two years of my life.  It's good.  Like really fucking good.  It was so good, in fact, that I accidentally watched "Get Him to the Greek," one of my all-time favorite movies, and immediately was sad.  I used to be Aldous.  I still am sometimes.  It's not always fun (in fact, it's mostly depressing) but it was/sometimes is so fucking exciting.  I STILL SAY THIS ALL THE FUCKING TIME (though I usually substitute "Bradley Wik" for "Aldous Snow").  It's also weird but I cannot, abso-fucking-lutely cannot do accents (except for my New York accent, but that was hard-earned in the years I spent there) but I can mimic lines, like a parrot with Asperger's.  I once even learned a shitload of lines from the movie so I could mimic his British accent enough to convince an entire group of strangers at a bar that I was from England, only to reveal that I'm not and they must be fucking idiots to not know.  It went over so well.  I almost got punched in the face by a girl who was ready to to go home with me only seconds earlier (she swung and I was not too drunk to dodge).  It was a blast.  Good times...  I mean, how many times have we all DONE INTERVIEWS LIKE THIS...  If you answered never, I would concur as I've not been on the Today Show either.  But, the content rings true, in a completely not true kind of way, if that makes sense.  Hopefully, it doesn't but perhaps you understand the deeper inner turmoil that haunts you daily and tries, unsuccessfully, yet forcefully, to undermine your purest intentions and your dreams and your relationships and your "normal" life as you search endlessly for a respite, however momentary, from the damage it's already inflicted which is growing inward and spreading with each passing hour as you dwell deeper and harder on your own insecurities and faults... Wait, that last one sounded sexual and was quite funny.  "Deeper and harder" made me giggle.  At last, a benefit of being an immature man.  Take that world.  "WHO'S RETARDED NOW?"

It's nice being at home while writing this for once and not in some crappy to mediocre hotel room.  So nice, in fact (which I've said too many times tonight), that I'm going to call it a night earlier than normal (read:  midnight) and sleep in my own fucking bed as long as I possibly can.  Sorry for the short post, but fuck it, I don't care.  Love all y'all.  Goodnight muthafuckers!