Death? aka what I should probably do before I die... Well, I've done most but still...

This week, I'm going to be much more direct and to the point (read: short). "Why?" you may ask. Well, it's because I'M GOING TO FUCKING DISNEY WORLD! Not right now, but I do have to do laundry so I can pack. I've never been and missed a couple chances growing up as we were not able to afford the trip back then. Plus, I wasn't really in the mood for all the kids and whatnot being a brooding, serious teenager. But, seeing as I'm now a grown-ass man who STILL has not been to any Disney property, I think the time has come to check this one off the old list; such that there were such a list in existence. What else would be on my all-time, do at least once in my lifetime list? Hmm...

The Fucking "Fuck Death" List (aka things I should probably do before I die)

#1. See Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden - DONE

You might notice that this superseded "have sex" and I mean it, hard. I grew up on Bruce, worshipped at the Sacred Church of Springsteen, studied at the Springsteen Technical Institute (or STI, as we called it... wait... Shit!), did my Master's Thesis (aka MY ALBUM "IN MY YOUTH, I'M GETTING OLD...") on Springsteen in the modern "throwback" era, finally sold my "best live performer in the world" stock in the past few years (sorry, Kanye's "Pablo" tour sealed the overtaking of the #1 spot for Mr. West), and have purchased so many copies of "Born to Run" over the years (on cassette, then CD, then enhanced CD, then vinyl, then CD/DVD box set, then remastered vinyl) that I finally just decided to get "Born to Run" tattooed on my arm to remind me for the rest of my life how impactful that album (and Bruce) truly is. There's nothing in my life (apart from my brother, sister and mother) that isn't a direct result of my love for that album. It sounds like hyperbole, but (perhaps unfortunately) it is closer to an understatement, seeing as it not only gave me many things in life, but life itself; after saving it on more than occasion (long story, kind of. Well, more weird and sad, I guess). Anyways, I wanted to see the best in the best place to see, well, almost anything, MSG. Knocked this one off the list over ten years ago ("Magic" tour, my third Bruce show overall) but the memories never fade, baby...

#2. Have sex - DONE

Also, one I knocked off the list about ten years ago. I actually did not have sex until I was out of High School. I made a decision early that I did not want to be stuck in fucking Horicon, WI any longer than I had to be. Most of my friends were quite a bit older than me. Each one was out of High School and had stuck around almost entirely because they "fell in love" (such that that can happen in High School) with a girl. "The easiest way to fall in love with a girl is to sleep with her," is what I was told. OK, simple enough. No sex, no falling in love, nothing to stop me from leaving Horicon and then Wisconsin when I wanted to. Needless to say, within weeks of being out of High School and moving to Madison, WI I checked this one off the list. Almost made me not want to leave Wisconsin (didn't know what I was missing...), but "Born to Run" and Woody Guthrie's "Bound for Glory" book wouldn't let me stay for anything. Plus, while I was in San Francisco for a month getting settled so she could then join me, that girl started fucking someone else... So, that made the decision a little easier as well.

#3A. Move to New York City - DONE

#3B. Play folk music at the Gaslight - n/a

#3C. Play folk music at the Cafe Wha? - DONE

OK, so I had to compromise, albeit only a little, on this one. After a few more months in San Francisco and a quick 9 months in Seattle, it was time. I had to go New York. I couldn't wait any longer. After all, Bob Dylan was signed and making albums at age 22 and I was soon turning 20. Time waits for no man. So, I missed the Gaslight by almost 40 years BUT the Wha? was still going strong. BUT, shit! They have a house band (who are fucking unbelievably amazing, by the way) and rarely host any other music. This could be a problem...

Maybe I'll tell the full story one day, but needless to say I got my buddy Jon (the crazy talented man WHO CAN BE FOUND HERE) and I a spot on an up-and-coming industry talent show night. Let's just say it was not the type of music they were hoping for. No, we weren't supposed to be there anyways, but two guys in boots with acoustic guitars, songs about "rambling" and more harmonica solos than you can shake a stick at, didn't go over well. To Jon's credit, he was good enough to warrant a meeting with the gal (who was affiliated with Sony) who ran the show. I was given no such meeting. Neither Jon nor I had the $10K she wanted to "mentor" us into the business anyways. But needless to say, for one night, and one night only, the Cafe Wha? was filled with folk music in all its glory... And to everyone's dismay...

Anyhow, HERE IS THE VIDEO EVIDENCE (not sure why I decided to play in open D tuning.. Sorry for the flubbed chord as I only learned this song in that key the week of).

#4. Make a Rock N' Roll Record and Release it on Vinyl - DONE

Did that shit, BUY IT HERE. Didn't realize how much of a hassle it is to record to tape and master to vinyl, but Ed Brooks is a genius and I couldn't be happier with how it turned out. Figured if Ed could make R.E.M. sound good, I'd be OK. Just kidding, but Ed is the best Mastering technician in all the land. Still can't believe he's worked on my albums. I'm truly a blessed man to have done what I've done in my life.

#5. Get a "Thriller" Jacket and honor my second biggest hero, Michael Jackson - DONE

Done and done. WATCH THE VIDEO HERE. I will always have the scar on my hand from the injury sustained while rehearsing my shitty versions of "Thriller" moves for this video. I can show it to you if I ever meet you and you give a shit. Some of my earliest memories are of "reenacting" Michael's "Thriller," "Bad," "The Way You Make Me Feel," "Smooth Criminal," etc. Michael was my hero until I learned of Bruce, then he was my second hero; until I learned of Kanye, who was my #3 favorite hero until I finally bumped him above Bob Dylan. Michael settles in at #4 on my all-time list, which, coincidentally, is my favorite number (Brett Favre anyone?). So, he's got that going for him, which is nice...

Well, this list could go on forever, so I'll skip to the part that relates to the intro:

#27. Go to Disney World - Almost Done

Later this week muthafuckers.

(dictated but not read)

September 11th thoughts... Remember, I think many of them...

Annual September 11th thoughts and musings...

Like many Americans this weekend, I've been reflecting heavily on what happened 15 years ago and what it means to me; not in a selfish way, just in a personal sense as the events, like for most, are still vividly present, and always will be, in my mind.  I'm certain we all will, at some point, think back to where we were, what we were doing, what we felt, what we thought, how we held and supported those around us, how we tried to make sense of what we were seeing and experiencing, how we prayed for those in New York City living through this nightmare, but mostly, we were trying to figure out just how much this would help propel the career of a one Mr. Ryan Adams based on THIS.  OK, that last part was a joke, sort of.  Besides that, there are always a few things I can't help but be reminded of when September 11th rolls around.  Without irony (looking at you Hipsters), I'd like to say that I love my America, just like all those lame Country songs boldly proclaim while simultaneously giving off the impression they exist solely to capitalize on the sentiment rather than to present and celebrate it.  I truly feel blessed to live in this great nation, and though it has its FAULTS, I don't need fucking Donald Trump to make it "great again."  And, it's fucking offensive for him to say that it isn't great and he's the only fucking one who can do anything about it.  So, with that, Fuck Trump 2016 and here's my thoughts that I think:

Music

The main thing I can't help but feel grateful for is the fact that I live in a country which not only allows, but also encourages, me to create, perform, record and release music of my own creation.  Now, I realize that America is not the only country to give its artists carte blanche but I won't ever forget the conversations I had with a woman named Ling I met in Seattle.  Ling was born and raised in China for the first 30 years of her life.  When she was young, she had an aunt and uncle of hers move to the United States, New York City to be exact, and she had always hoped to someday join them.  By her 30th birthday, she and her parents had saved enough money for her to go.  She arrived in New York wide-eyed and was dead-set on taking it all in.  At the time, I had never been to New York but was dreaming of moving there.  I asked her a lot of questions about the City and her experiences living there.  For instance, what was her favorite thing to do?  Go to Broadway shows, plays or live music performances, was her response.  She marveled at the diversity of subject matter and the celebration of art she saw.  She spoke of her homeland and how restricted it all was there.  No piece of music, art, performance, etc. was allowed to be presented publicly without governmental consent.  It was all strictly censored and monitored.  Most music was nationalistic in nature, as were the plays and musicals.  She even told me of a close family friend who was arrested after displaying a painting in a gallery without permission and then refusing to destroy it.  That's what she came from.  I can't even imagine how fucking mind-blowing New York City and its troves of art must have been to her.  She mentioned, many times, how it felt like she was living in a dream.  She said she could've spent a lifetime just taking it all in, and that she was trying her best to do so.  She lived in a tiny apartment and was frugal as fuck so she could spend all her extra money on going to the symphony and to art museums and Rock N' Roll shows (which she didn't actually like but was in love with the idea of).  It was inspiring to hear her talk of how much she loved America and how wonderful she felt it was.  Whenever I think of Ling and the conversations I had with her, I feel so blessed.  Here I am, some schmuck from a tiny town, population 3500, in Southeastern Wisconsin (Horicon, WI for those keeping score at home), who has been able to play my music at hundreds and hundreds of shows across this great country and back.  My whole life has been shaped and influenced by something that not everyone even gets to enjoy.  I can't imagine what my life would look like if it were not for music.  I don't think I'd even have one anymore, to be honest.  I think about that a lot, and about the men and women who volunteer to defend that privilege on my behalf...

The Armed Forces

I don't think many people understand just how close I was to joining the Army.  I was too young to join immediately after the attacks on September 11th, 2001 and after waiting the additional 4 years, I was, by that time, no longer in support of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  I had a lot of friends who were a few years older than I who went and served their country.  When they came back, very few weren't greatly affected by what they had seen.  After a few cocktails, we would get snippets of what it was like over there.  I had a few friends who loved it and were destined to be in the military for life but most were happy to come home unharmed; although, only physically.  When they left Horicon to serve, I was jealous.  When they arrived home, I was grateful because they were OK (physically, at least) and for what they had done.  I ofttimes wonder how I would've done as a soldier.  I think I would've done a good job but I don't know how I would've handled things.  Mentally, I think I could've compartmentalized the violence I saw, and possibly participated in (thanks Asperger's!), but I also know that the hardest thing in the world for me to do is something I don't believe in.  If I had been sent to Iraq instead of hunting Osama in Afghanistan, I would have definitely had a hard time with it.  Ultimately, I think I made the right decision but it's not hard to imagine my "Alternate 1985" in which I enlist and have an entirely different life's story.  

One of my best friends is an ex-Marine.  He came to this country from Scotland and enlisted to become a citizen.  Like most Marines, he was eventually called to action overseas.  I can't imagine what he experienced.  I've never explicitly asked much about it because I don't think I really want to know.  I can say though, that I feel like he's more of an American citizen than I am because of his service.  I have so much respect for what he's done for our country, and conversely, he has so much respect for what I do as a musician.  We both see the opposite as something we could never be, but trust me, his decision was much harder.  After all, ANYONE CAN PLAY GUITAR...

New York City

When I think of September 11th and what that date means to me, I'm always instantly reminded of two stories from my time in New York.  I moved there in 2006, so these stories are from 5 years later, but the attacks are still very fresh in everyone's minds.  It's so hard to imagine what the people living there at the time went through.  It was unlike anything that had happened to our country for 60 years.  Obviously, I don't have the same connection to that day as those New Yorkers, but twice I felt as though I at least understood some of what they went through.

Tale #1

I had been in New York for about six months and things were going well.  I worked at the Office Depot in Times Square (my 5th different Office Depot store.  I owe Office Depot a lot for allowing me to have a job wherever I decided to move, all across the country) which was pretty fucking cool.  I had a great group of friends, had a good grasp of the geography of the City and was starting to feel like a real New Yorker.  Life was pretty fucking awesome, for once.  That's when I got a small taste of what the events of September 11th had done to the greatest city in the history of mankind.

We were a good 4 or 5 blocks away, on 41st and Broadway, but we both heard and felt it.  The ground shook and there was the sound of a dull explosion.  Immediately we could hear the screams.  Without thinking, many of us ran outside to see what was happening.  When I got over to 6th Ave., I could see the crowds of people streaming through Bryant Park.  You could tell by the way the were running, scattering like buckshot, that they were running away from something but didn't know exactly where to go.  Then I heard another someone shout the word "bomb" and quickly turned to join the crowds.  I made it back to the store and found our buddy Kenny, who worked at the Staples a couple blocks from Grand Central, standing there in the doorway.  He was visibly shaken and hyper beyond belief.  The adrenaline had taken over his body and he couldn't stop moving.  He was talking a mile a minute and we could hardly understand what he was saying.  All any of us heard come out of his mouth was the word "bomb" and then we all started to panic a bit more.  We asked why he came here.  "I don't know," he said, "It was the only place I could think of after I started running."  We went downstairs.  Our Office Depot was a two-story building, the bottom of which was technically a basement, which felt safer to us.  We went to the TV display section and flipped on the news.  The police had cordoned off the streets around Grand Central and the bomb squads were searching the area.  We saw lots of images of dogs sniffing around and people in ridiculous padded uniforms that might protect you from a paintball attack but not a bomb.  A million things raced through our brains but I could tell right away that there was this sense of terrifying familiarity with what was going on.  "It's happening again!" someone shouted, which only enhanced the feeling of dread spreading throughout the room.

My boss and I ran upstairs to help pull people off the street into the store; neither one of us knowing if that was any safer for them, but the streets were a fucking mess and at least no one would get trampled in here.  After a while, things started to calm down.  All of the sudden, the streets turned from a madhouse to a ghost town, without a soul in sight.  I was glad of that.  I went back downstairs where everyone was crowded in front of the TV's which were on full volume.  Everyone was silent.  Whenever a small group would start to build themselves into a fervor, they would be told to quiet down.  Everyone's rapt attention was to be kept on the screens.  Every once in a while you'd hear a "What did they just say?" followed by a "Hey, shhh," followed by a hushed recap of what had just been reported.  After what seemed like an hour, but could've been a matter of minutes, they finally revealed what we had been waiting to hear:  what caused the explosions and whether or not it was terrorists.  It turns out it was not terrorists at all, it was the fault of the terrifically old plumbing and sewage system in the City.  An old water pipe had burst and exploded through the pavement.  There was no bomb, the water had been shut off in that area and there was nothing more to be worried about.

Another pipe would burst nearby later that summer but hardly anyone cared.  It was old hat by then.  As soon as we heard it, someone quipped, "Probably another one of those old fucking pipes," and that was that.  But I won't soon forget the all-too-familiar fear and panic I saw when that first pipe burst.  

Tale #2:

When I moved to New York, I was broke as fuck.  I was lucky because my buddy, A.J. (or Austin, as he preferred to be called as an adult, though I always called him "A.J." the same way he always called me "Brad") had a lot more money saved up than I, as he had moved back to Horicon (he previously moved to San Francisco with me after Jake backed out do to his cardiac ablation surgery.  That ablation was fuckin' everything up...) to work, save money and try and fuck this chick he'd wanted to bang since High School.  I think he was successful though he was always coy about it, which, conversely, made me think he somehow never got there.  Either way, while he was back, he and his dad met this guy, Michael, at a car show in Chicago.  A.J.'s dad made custom parts for Porsches.  Michael just so happened to live on Staten Island.  After talking for a while with A.J. and his dad, he agreed to put us up while we got our shit together in New York.  I can't thank him enough as I don't think we would've been able to move to New York without him agreeing to put up a couple kids in his basement for a few weeks.

Michael and his family were some of the nicest people I've ever met in my whole life.  They were so generous towards us and were like a TV-version of a New York/Italian family, in the best possible sense.  They cared deeply for one another, and even for us, who they had agreed to put up sight unseen.  And, of course, both Michael and his wife were terrific cooks.  I can't thank them enough for how kind and giving they were.  Part of me wished I could just stay with them, but after a couple weeks of getting our work situations figured out and then finding an apartment we actually could afford, we were ready to move out.  Michael offered to give us the extra mattresses we had been sleeping on while staying in their basement and to deliver them to our new place.  We happily obliged.

I'll never forget the drive we made that night.  We loaded up Michael's SUV with the mattresses and what little A.J. and I had brought with us to New York, a couple of duffle bags full of clothes and a guitar, and headed across the Verrazano.  Michael told us how he used to drive this route everyday when he was firefighter; he was now retired.  He worked in the Red Hook/Gowanus area.  He said how happy he was that we had found a place in the City, as he mostly knew Brooklyn before the current wave of gentrification had taken place and he didn't want two young kids from a small town in Wisconsin living there.  As we drove, he pointed out a few landmarks and picked out his old firehouse.  As we drove north, he grew silent.  After a short while, we could see the Brooklyn Bridge.

Back at the house before we left, when he told us he would take us across it, his wife was sort of taken aback.  A sullen look came across her face as she said to Michael, "Are you sure?"  It was an odd moment that A.J. and I clearly didn't understand, but there was no explanation offered.  Michael nodded and off we went.

With the bridge coming better into view, Michael broke the silence that had taken over the car.  He said, "I haven't been back over this bridge since that day..."  He took a long pause.  "I'll never forget the scene," he said, "cars were backed up and everyone was in a panic to get out of the City.  The other side of the bridge was a nightmare but our side, the road we're on now, was wide-open.  No one was heading into the City.  No one had any idea what the fuck was going on.  All we could see was the panicked people trying to get away, the towers which were, by then, smoking and the dust.  The closer we got, the worse the dust got.  The first building had already gone down by the time we got there.  It was just people screaming, covered head to toe in dust.  Then, the second one came down.  I lost some good friends that day.  We were all just so scared..."

We drove in silence the rest of the way.  Neither A.J. nor I knew what to say.  What could we say?  We had no way of knowing how he must have felt at that moment, reliving that day.  We found out later that after September 11th, 2001 the family always drove up to Jersey City and through the Holland Tunnel to get to the City, though it added an extra 30 or so minutes to their trip.  The whole family had explicitly avoided the Brooklyn Bridge for years.  Taking that drive with Michael really made me realize and appreciate what was given and sacrificed that day by all those brave men and women of the FDNY.  It's impossible not to tear up when I think back on Michael's words that night...

So, that's it.  I felt compelled today to express what I've been thinking about for the past week.  This day always weighs heavily on my mind and on my heart.  Oh yeah, and before I forget, GO PACK GO!!!

Everything isn't always the worst... Just sometimes...

Is life the worst?  And, if it is, how often?  Are we talking about all the fucking time?  Or just during the summer?  Who knows...  Let's explore...

One of the things that ofttimes gets lost in my rabbit hole-ian brain is the fact that most of the time life is pretty fucking awesome.  I'm one of those sad sort that seems to relish the opportunity to dwell on the negative minutiae of anything, however trivial.  It's easier, somehow, for my (Aspergian) brain to dwell on the one goddamn thing that drives me fucking mad, as opposed to, say, the ninety-nine other things that are perfectly fine.  After investing innumerable amounts of time, energy and focus into something, I can completely convince myself, and usually others, if for no other reason, as is often the case, than to just shut me the fuck up, that whatever thing I'm destined to destroy, like so many innocent planets in the Star Wars galaxy, is simply the most vile thing ever to be encountered and must be blown to smithereens at once.  It must cease to exist, fully and forever, and never be discussed in open forum so as to reawaken the loathsome beast inside me and unleash its fury, once again, upon its unsuspecting, and mostly uncaring, victims.  My poor girlfriend has undoubtedly heard all of my rants on numerous occasions, and whether she agrees with me or not, it's become her job to placate me regardless lest she wants the longform version (again) which usually includes trips to the computer, passages read from books, CD listens, etc. to prove my (by now, quite insane) point of view.  You can imagine, no doubt, how this can ruin even some of the best things in my life.

Let me give you an example so you can more fully be immersed in this experience.  I don't want people thinking that this is mostly related to grand political, artistic or ideological stands.  It's not.  Here's a real-life example that happened just last week.

My wonderful, absurdly intelligent, handsome, charming, caring and bespectacled brother recently came out to Portland, Oregon for a visit.  It was his third voyage in the past year, his second with his lovely girlfriend.  Obviously preferring the mild coastal climate and the delicious salmon, as many do, he relishes his trips to the Pacific Northwest.  And we are more than excited to host him, although he should probably just fucking move here for fuck's sake, but that's for another time.  One of the highlights of an excursion to Portland, a city bereft of fun, touristy-type things to do, the type of things found in places like New York City, San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, etc., is a visit to Powell's Books.  Now, normally, I would not venture a trip there.  Powell's is one of those nightmarish, paralyzing kind of places for a person with Asperger's.  It's unimaginably large for a bookstore, crowded to the hilt with a large quantity of people of the genre I desperately try to avoid (read:  the most prevalent inhabitant of Portland, the "Hipster" or "anti-Hipster," or whatever the fuck they call themselves nowadays, I can't keep up) and I don't have the layout memorized so I wander aimlessly and can never fucking find anything until I get so pissed off by the people shopping, or just fucking standing around hanging out and generally being in the way, and by the fact that the organization of the books isn't laid out in any goddamn way that makes sense to me, that I just fucking leave and swear to never return.  So, that's where we were and I was actually having a pleasant time since I was just there to be there and not actually trying to find/buy anything.  My brother and his girlfriend, the "Kids" as I call them (they're so young still, at twenty-one and nineteen, respectively), were having fun being overwhelmed by the scene I just described, but in the way a normal person might drink it in and appreciate its uniqueness as a singular bookstore experience.

We were just about to bid "adieu" to Powell's, with the Kids making a final perusal of the Powell's-branded merchandise for a take home memento, when I, as I am wont to do, started looking over the clearance items and stumbled upon THIS.  Now, for those who aren't aware, "Breakfast of Champions" or "Goodbye Blue Monday" is more than likely my favorite novel ever.  I'm currently on my third copy, as I've worn out one altogether, with the pages falling out and shit, the second is currently beginning a life in a similar state, but not quite unreadable as of yet, and the third, still of the used variety, is wrapped in paper awaiting its turn.  In all of the years I've spent moving around this great country of ours, I've carried with me only a small handful of items, ever constant and essential.  They include:

- My gym bag from the 4th grade basketball team, inscribed with:  "Horicon Booster Club" and below that "Brad Wik," on the side pocket.  I always filled this with the clothes I deemed irreplaceable, of which I only retain one item:  my red Adidas gym shorts, with three black stripes down each side, Adidas-style, which I've had since the 7th grade.  I'm a big fan of pockets in shorts, which these have, and of shorts that reside somewhere between the short shorts of the 1970's and what have become of athletic shorts in recent times (read:  too long and baggy).  These shorts are of perfect construction and length, and I'll probably die with these shorts; to say nothing of the gym bag, which I'll never part with, unless it came to a death-match type situation with the next item...

- My Martin D-15 acoustic guitar.  It's constructed of solid mahogany, from the neck to the sides to the top and back.  It's beautiful to look at and has such a distinct sound as compared to most acoustic guitars; the majority of which are constructed with spruce top and rosewood sides.  It is my most prized earthly possession and I would risk death, forging forth into a fiery apartment, at the expense of possible deformation, to save my guitar's life.  Only my guitar, girlfriend and cat are worthy of such a distinction.

- The nine CD's listed HERE

- Lastly, and perhaps most profoundly, the following seven books:

1.  "Breakfast of Champions" or "Goodbye Blue Monday" by Kurt Vonnegut
2.  "Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger
3.  "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
4.  "Cash" by Johnny Cash
5.  "Bound for Glory (book)" by Woody Guthrie
6.  "Chronicles Volume One" by Bob Dylan
7.  "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac

So, of the nineteen items (counting the shorts, which I'm currently wearing, coincidentally, not "ironically" Alanis.  Fucking learn the difference) I carried with me across the United States of America and back, and then back again, as it were, "Breakfast of Champions" was one of my most beloved.  The only book I own that could possibly rival "Breakfast of Champions" in reads is "Weirdos from Another Planet!" the Calvin and Hobbes collection.  But even that would be a stretch, to say the least.  So, to sum up this point, I would say that I was ecstatic to find a coffee mug with the "Breakfast of Champions" logo on it.  I was so excited that even from this store which exemplified the very existence of the "Hipster" culture, I was decidedly forced to buy this coffee mug and be happy about it.  And I was, for a while, at least...

I was so happy I decided, with my girlfriend as a guide, of course, to go look for some additional books to buy.  Normally, I would never subject myself to such torture, which I've previously described fully, but I felt so inspired by my Kurt Vonnegut mug that I sallied forth with a hitherto unknown sense of bravery in regards to Powell's.  I found a used copy of "As I Lay Dying" that I wished to own as well.  As we made our way back to the registers, I felt a twinge of what I call "Hipster-guilt," which is, of course, the Catholic reaction to doing anything which might be described as "Hipster-shit."  Buying a Vonnegut-inspired coffee mug and a used copy of "As I Lay Dying," complete with analysis and commentary, could most definitely be defined as "Hipster-shit."  But, then again, there's the other side of me that reacts violently to the fact that hipsters seem to claim things I love, whether ironically or not.  So, the anti-Hipster part of me fires up and wants to do things doubly as a result of how those cocksuckers tray and make me feel bad about enjoying some piece of art.  How dare those pieces of shit make me feel bad about myself.  I'm the one they should bow to, those cunts.  I'm the one they don't even know they're stealing from mercilessly.  They should be defined by me, not the other way around...  Needless to say, I bought the fucking mug.  Fuck those Hipsters...

I'm sure by this point you're wondering "what's the point of all this?"  "What does this have to do with you dwelling on the minutiae of things?"  Well, goddammit, you needn't be so impatient, you fuckers.  I'm getting there.  Not every truth can be found in less than a thousand words.

I excitedly brought the mug home, proud of my find.  As you would with any store bought item related to food consumption, I washed the mug to ready it for the following morn.  The next morning I awoke, excited yet tentative, as I had to push my Green Bay Packers mugs to the side to enjoy my morning cup of Joe in this new vessel I had obtained.  It's hard for me to make even the most simple of changes, like a different coffee mug, in my life.  It's stupid and I realize it's stupid, but that doesn't make it any easier.  But I wanted this.  I wanted to make this new mug work.  I poured in the milk, as anyone who drinks coffee regularly knows, adding the milk before the coffee ensures that it is mixed thoroughly without dirtying up a spoon.  As I was pouring in the milk I saw it.  The small bump that would henceforth haunt my coffee drinking days.  It was merely a tiny defect in the production process, no larger than a grain of sand but it was there.  And, from the moment I knew it was there, I couldn't neglect its presence.  I'm right-handed and when I'm holding the mug in the drinking position the bump is facing towards me on the inside the cup.  Now, my lip cannot feel it while drinking that delicious, warm elixir.  It doesn't actually affect my morning caffeine experience, but I know it's there and that's enough for me.  It sometimes has ruined my morning.  It doesn't actually affect anything, but it does.  And, since I love the mug's design so much, I'm tempted to order another one online.  I know that the tiny imperfection will forever bother me, so I may have to pony up for a second.  The original mug was perfect in every way except it had an extremely minor imperfection that I know I will probably never move past.  I now might have to pay full price, plus the clearance price, for a mug (well, two mugs) because I can't accept a tiny imperfection, which didn't actually change or mean anything, and just go about my business.  A perfectly good mug was ruined by my affixing on that which was uneventful and I could not change.  Nonetheless, I'll dream of the day when I stop being so cheap and just order the damn second mug; this one unmarred and beholden of my lips to drink from...

All of this to say that sometimes life is the worst.  But most of the time it is not.  And the greatest example of this is Music.  As fucked up as life is on a day to day basis, Music is the one thing that can alleviate the pain enough for me to continue on, strong and full of zest, or with something close to a full dose of zest.  Well, to be honest, quite often the bare minimum of zest, but zest nonetheless.  Now, to be sure, there is a large part of me pissed off beyond what anyone could possibly classify as "normal" about the current state of my most beloved Music, whether that be mainstream Rock N' Roll, alternative Rock, indie Rock, folk Rock, pop Rock, straight up Folk, country-tinged Folk, alt Country, Americana, singer-songwriter, or any of the other bullshit ways people now describe music that used to fit into three categories:  Rock, Pop, Independent.  My anger is expounded upon and illustrated thoroughly HERE and HERE.  It's easy to take stock, as I did, of the newer wave of artists and subsequently tear them apart.  If I were at least ten years older than I am, it would make perfect sense for me to begrudge these youngsters and their lack of talent and dearth of quality material.  It would be much more understandable for me to hate them and for them, in turn, to discount my opinion citing the age gap and how I "just don't get it."  But, unfortunately, I am in the same age range of these little pissants.  I am not quite old enough yet to tell these same Hipster artists/fucks to "Get off my lawn!"

Given this pathetic state of the thing I love so dearly, Music, it would be easy to go one of three ways:

1.  To withdraw into my own little world, more so than I already do, and fill my ears with nothing but Springsteen, Dylan, Stones, Petty, Joel, etc. and pretend people stopped making music many years ago and that is all which has survived and we should cherish it as such.  I would not waste any more time or energy on new music, hell, I wouldn't even acknowledge it still exists as an art form.

2.  To slowly start to distance myself from the thing I loved for so long.  To fill my days watching baseball and football and basketball.  To give up hope completely that things will ever turn around for Music and move on with my life, ingesting Music only passively as I go about my sad, remaining days, full of remembrances to a love that once was, but shall never be again.

3.  Hunting down every copy of every album ever made by Mumford and Sons, the Lumineers, the Head and the Heart, Fun., Twenty-One Pilots, Grouplove, the list goes on... and destroying them, thoroughly and cathartically, to rid the world of them.  Next would be finding every article, blog, twitter, email, text, interview, podcast, etc. and deleting or destroying those as well.  Only the vague memories of them would be left, as that would be un-erasable physically, but those would die off with this generation, a maximum of 80 or so years from now, removing them from history completely.

Number three sounds like too much work, so options one or two are the more likely of the bunch.  Instead, I choose option four (or option Favre as I call it):

4.  To delve deeper into the wonderful history of Music and uncover more of the countless bands and albums I still haven't yet found.  One lifetime isn't enough to enjoy it all, so I should relish what I have discovered and cherish the memories it's given me.  In fact, right now, which isn't "right now" for you in the same sense as it is to me, I should give thanks to a few records that pulled me through some tough times.  Here's the actual proof that life isn't always the worst.  Just sometimes...

Pavement - Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain

This was a record that, like most, found me in High School.  Obviously, not when it initially was released but roughly ten years later.  There was something about it that I didn't quite understand but had always intrigued me.  It wasn't like the other nine CD's listed HERE.  There was a sadness, a desperation, a longing which existed as a part and apart from the music.  It created an aura that didn't actually exist at any time other than when the record was playing.  And I would come to need it.  A couple years out of High School, I moved to New York City.  I had long since left the comforts of Horicon, WI and was coming off stints in San Francisco and Seattle.  I was truly a traveling troubadour, complete with acoustic guitar and harmonica rack accessories.  I was hopelessly obsessed with becoming a folk singer, a very ill-conceived master plan, I must admit.  Armed with troves of Carter Family and Woody Guthrie tunes, plus dozens of my own creations, I was going to singlehandedly reanimate 1962 in the Village.  I truly believed that.  Seriously.  Me and about a thousand other girls and boys, who would all soon be devastatingly disappointed.  If you care, I go into more detail on this subject, HERE and HERE.

After having this dream so thoroughly destroyed, I briefly gave up music altogether.  After all, I didn't know how to write non-Folk lyrics or music.  I had spent years learning the nuance and intricacies of that genre and was unprepared to start over.  For six months, I didn't even touch a guitar.  I didn't sing, I didn't write; I had no inclination to continue forth on my path in music.  And that wasn't easy at all for me to accept.  I felt so lost and confused.  I had nothing else to fall back on.  I skipped college to pursue life as a folk-singer. I left my family and friends for this; for nothing.  But, in spite of giving up on playing music, I never stopped listening to music.  I couldn't.  All those mornings I sat slumped on the "L" train heading to work, aimless in life, ashamed of my failure, I would put on my headphones and play "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain."  There was something so comforting in escaping into the worlds created by "Elevate Me Later," "Cut Your Hair," "Gold Soundz," "Range Life" or, the coup d'etat, "Fillmore Jive" and how it fucking wrecks me every time with those unbelievably beautifully fucked-up guitar solos.  I can't tell you how many times, in a moment of weakness, I reminded myself "Hey, you gotta pay your dues before you pay the rent."  It became a sort of mantra during the harder times to remind myself that nothing comes easy or without sacrifice.  And it most certainly does not.  Or, at least not for me...

Ryan Adams - Rock N Roll

So, I'm well aware of the shit this record takes, especially in lieu of the rest of the Ryan Adams catalogue.  Trust me, I've seen plenty of reviews like THIS or THIS  or THIS over the years.  Almost all of my friends have laughed at me after hearing that I actually like this record.  Hell, you might even be laughing right now but I'm serious.  "Rock N Roll" was the first Ryan Adams record I bought.  Yes, I had heard "New York, New York" but was relatively unimpressed.  It was a good song but kind of fucked me off, though I couldn't describe why.  "Rock N Roll" put off the same vibe as the "Big Balls" version of AC/DC did:  we're here to fucking rock and have some fucking fun, so fuck you if you don't like it.  It's a vibe similarly displayed on Ryan & the Cardinals' "III/IV" album.  I mean, come on, who doesn't love THIS SHIT!  Anyways, this was one of the first "Independent" albums I ever bought.  Ryan's flippant attitude toward standardized songwriting, recording, singles, etc. was so goddamn exciting.  He was, and wasn't, complying to the rules of being a signed, commercial artist.  "Rock N Roll" was, along with Modest Mouse's "The Lonesome Crowded West," my first glimpse into a world where the artists got to do whatever the fuck they wanted and the labels supported them, so long as there was money to be made.  It was the conception of the idea, in my feeble teenage brain, that in creating music you can do whatever the fuck you want as long as it was good and you could sell it.  It was a dangerous thought and would shape my views on the creation of music going forward.

This may sound idiotic, but lyrically, this album taught me a lot.  I don't dwell too much on the specifics, although some of the phrases spoke to me immensely, both then and now.  I remember listening to this album with my mother on a getting-ready-for-school shopping trip when I was sixteen, and she couldn't help but comment upon hearing the line "It's all a bunch of shit, and there's nothing to do around here.  It's totally fucked up.  I'm totally fucked up.  Wish you were here..." that this album sounds a lot like me.  I took immense pride in that as I flipped through the liner notes and played it cool, trying not to express the excitement I felt in being, even vaguely, lumped in with a one Mr. David Ryan Adams.  I realize that the lyrics on this record aren't his finest, but I learned that, even if you're taking a piss, being honest and true to yourself was the only way to go in regards to the words you decide to put forth unto the world to represent you.  It was "Rock N Roll" that convinced me that anything I do must be one hundred percent honest and true to form, whatever that form may be, regardless of the audience, critics, etc.  Art must be truthful, even in its untruthfulness, as this record showed, for it to truly resonate with anyone.  The audiences are much smarter than artists sometimes imagine them to be,  and they deserve our truest and best efforts.  They know the difference and although the music-consuming public isn't on its game right now, it'll find its way back home.  It always does.  And good music will be waiting, grateful of its return...

Sun Kil Moon - Ghosts of the Great Highway

For years, I kept a second acoustic guitar, tuned to the open tuning featured on "Glenn Tipton," around just so I could play that song.  It sounds silly to have a second guitar at the ready for one fucking song, but that's how much I loved that song and this album.  This record carried me through two separate, yet equally difficult, transitional times in my life:  my leaving home and my first real breakup.  Back towards the tail end of when Sony Walkman CD players were the preferred way to listen to music on the go, this was one of the two CD's (the Arcade Fire's "Funeral" being the other) I carried with me at all times when I would go for my nightly walk down E. Johnson St. in Madison, WI.  I would walk down E. Johnson til I hit Tenney Park, cut through the park and then head back up Sherman to Gorham and back home.  Or, equally as often, I would reverse that trip so I could walk along Lake Mendota on the way down to the park.  It was something I did nearly every single night during the year I lived on E. Johnson St.  Sometimes I would walk it almost obligatorily and be home within an hour.  Other times, I might find myself wandering for hours, without a particular destination, unable to return to the apartment shared with three other guys, including two other former Horicon-ites.  The insomnia, which I still sometimes suffer from, started here.  There were nights I wouldn't return home until almost dawn.  I didn't, and still don't, know what causes this but it still happens; although, less frequently, thank God, as it's much harder for me to make it to work the next day after two hours of sleep than it used to be.  I spent many a night on the verge on anxiety attacks only to be soothed by Mark Kozelek's deep, sexy voice and his wondrous compositions.  Mark is also the reason I moved to San Francisco, but that's a story for another day...

The second life-changing event I was able to successfully endure with the help of "Ghosts of the Great Highway" was my first real-life breakup.  Not a bullshit High School or Middle School breakup, but the real deal.  A full-on, we both said "I love you" as an adult, kind of deal.  Being fair to history, this was never a relationship that stood much of an honest chance at working out long-term, but it was exactly the kind of thing that two lonely, depressed, horny adult-kids needed.  I had no clue to the extent of which she was lonely and depressed, to say nothing of horny, which I would find out, in spectacular fashion no less, later on.  Which brings me back to this album, "Glenn Tipton" in particular.  The final verse of this song could have been written for me and *****.  It's tragic and damning and not particularly kind to either character, but that's often how life goes; at least, it was in our case.  I too "found her letters that said so many things that really hurt me bad."  I can never un-read the things I read and she can never un-write the things she wrote, but it's better that it happened the way it did.  I'm glad I found out what I did, and I'm sure she's happier now, however her life has turned out.  I know I am.  Sometimes things just work themselves out and sometimes records have songs about these events years before they happen to you.  It's like I've said for years, everything I do has been done many times before and it's endlessly comforting to hear people sing songs about it.  It always makes me feel so much less alone, and that, to me, is the greatest gift that Music can give...

So, there you go.  There's a little (more than you wanted) insight into my brain and thoughts on a Saturday night after a few bourbons.  Does anyone know if the Brewers won tonight?  Fuck, I'm tired...  OK, if you say so, self, one more...

The Sidewalk Cafe, ellipsis. Wait, did I just say "ellipsis" or did I type it? It's tired in here...

What in the world were we doing at three AM… aka hanging with the waitresses, the walls and the weirdos (too many ellipsis’? ellipsises? ellipsis…)

Some people were looking to disappear, most were already gone.  Being new, it wasn’t really my place to make blanket assumptions, but I think it was fairly safe to say that one of the main draws of this place was the masquerade of it all.  For fucks sake, even I was wearing sunglasses at two-thirty in the morning, trying to not pass out/fall asleep, which would happen from time to time, hiding diligently, in plain sight, from everyone left, but mostly, from myself.  It was eerily simplistic to fall into the mystique and adapt to the scene being played out, week after week.  It was, in its own way, the sort of thing that all of these people (and there was definitely a very specific type of person who enjoyed this) were looking for, after years of being disenfranchised with the distinct lack of effort and non-existent aura most places strive to project.  This, it seemed, even in its own contrived, but still genuine on some level, way filled a desire to go back in time and experience something that we all knew (well, most of us knew) we were doomed to search for, unsatiated, on and on, with an unrelenting and crippling passion should we continue down our respective, and all-consuming, current paths.

For those seven to eight hours (no fucking joke), it was our world, much the same as an actor might get lost playing a character, amongst strangers and friends and people desperately seeking solace from the storm, whatever that may be to them, oblivious to reality.  I know, because I am one of them, that there is a multitude of people who simply cannot function in the type of world our begetters built.  Our brains are addled with dreams and deficiencies, and the way we are meant to exist day to day doesn’t quite compute.  It simply, no matter how you play with the numbers, won’t add up to a meaningful sum.  So, I get it.  I wanted it to exist, just as much as the rest of them.  But, still, I couldn’t fucking stand it.  Something about it just didn’t feel right.  Something was missing, but maybe that was part of the mystique.  Either way, I loved, and completely hated, the Sidewalk Café…

Inside Llewyn Davis, Part II. This Time I've Seen It. I Swear...

Inside Llewyn Davis Part II, I’ve actually seen it this time…

            As promised, to the faithful few of you that actually take the time to read this fucking blog, I am dutifully reporting on the major motion picture “Inside Llewyn Davis,” now that I’ve actually seen the damn thing.  Now, I understand that my take on it, as a former folk singer, is highly sought after by those out there in the internet ether.  People have been clamoring for this for some time now.  I’ve had countless emails and phone calls regarding it.  Well, perhaps not.  But I do know that several of my friends have been patiently waiting for me to say something other than “I liked it,” or “it was good.”  So here goes…  Well, first let me say that I am writing to you now because, yes, I know its hard to believe but its true, I am snowed in.  Yep, in Portland, Oregon.  Snowed in.  Traffic is at a standstill outside my apartment and has been for hours.  No, its not nearly in the same ballpark as Atlanta’s recent catastrophe and failure of the state and local governments to provide any sort of assistance in maintaining adequate roadways for its tax-paying patrons in the case of an emergency and so on.  But its annoying nonetheless.  I was supposed to have band rehearsal, which of course was ruined.  So here I am typing away.  I also had the brilliant idea of going for a walk just a bit ago, which I thought would be fun, looking at the trees and streets filled with fresh snow, throw a snowball at a cop car or whatever.  It sounded like a good idea twenty minutes ago.  Nineteen minutes ago I realized that I’m an idiot.  No matter which way you walk, the snow is always blowing straight into your face and your eyes and it sucks.  It sticks to whatever facial hair you have, hopefully more of a problem for the men,  and then melts and then freezes into little clumps of ice in your beard, eyelashes, etc.  Also, since its not super cold out, the snow is very wet and sticky and I ended up with soaking wet jeans;  everyone’s favorite thing to walk around in.  It was not majestic or pretty or any of that.  It was a shit idea and now I’m cold and wet and in a foul mood.  Fuck, what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, Llewyn Davis…

            Now that I’m back indoors and fixed myself a stiff drink to fight off the chill, let’s get into it.  And I mean that quite seriously.  This movie brought back a lot of shit; some good, some not so much.  There was a very large chunk of my teenage/young adult life dedicated to the cause of folk singing.  I didn’t just play sad songs on an acoustic guitar, I WAS a folk singer.  I rode buses to random cities where I knew a guy or gal who would let me sleep on a couch while I played all the open mics in town.  I took a train to New York and played Carter Family, Guthrie and Bob Dylan songs in the dining car for tips and drinks(as I was only nineteen or twenty at the time, I don’t remember which).  I played on street corners and people would invite me to their homes, give me food and drink(possibly thinking I was homeless?) and have me entertain them with songs and stories from my travels; half of which I probably made up as I went.  I’ve played all across this great country and back multiples times.  I, in a fit of “Bound for Glory” obsession, even hopped a train once.  Although that ended about as boring as it could have.  It was a grain hauling train in Wisconsin and took me from my tiny little town of Horicon to an even tinier unnamed and unincorporated town and I had to call my buddy from a pay phone to come pick me up.  But still, I did it dammit, and it was awesome.  Except for all the times when being a folk singer sucked.  All the shows played to no one except maybe the soundman, who usually left to go smoke.  The constant urge to move or go someplace new, thinking it was always so much better than wherever  I currently was.  Being depressed all the time about having missed out on the sixties folk scene.  Being bitter that no one appreciated my new song about rambling or gambling or gypsies or sailing on the sea or whateverthefuck it was.  Having what was once called the “Worst iTunes Playlist for a Party, Ever.”  Naturally, all I had on my computer was Dylan, Neil Young, every Carter Family song ever recorded, Guthrie upon Guthrie, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James, Robert Johnson, well, you get the idea.  Folk singing wasn’t always bad but it wasn’t always great either.  And I did it for years.  I really gave it a go, really put my heart into it and never set my roots down.  The decision to stop singing folk and form a Rock N’ Roll band was very hard for me.  It wasn’t so much about changing musical styles, but about abandoning a lifestyle for me, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to abandon yet.  But it was also very easy from the standpoint that I had begun to resent folk music for what, at the time, I perceived as a colossal wasting of my years as a young adult.  I’ve come to realize, through intense, inward self-study and self-medicated talks with myself, that my times as a folk singer, like most things, fell somewhere in the middle.  I have started, only recently, to cherish these times for the life lessons and adventures and stories which I now plunder for my newer songs.  By the age of 25, I had seen and done more than a lot of people will in a lifetime.  And some of that was things that I wish I could un-see and undo.  Things that I would never want my child, should I ever have one, to experience.  But it was all part of it, and I know now that I wouldn’t change it if I could.  Hell, at least I’ve gotten a lifetimes worth of song material out of it.  It still seems, though, as if it wasn’t all real.  Like it was part of something that I read somewhere and told, as my own, so many times that it became a real part of me.  I feel like such a different person now.  And I guess, in a way, I am.  But life is mysterious like that and so is our memory.  It’s constantly changing and repainting old scenes with new shades of the same story.  Memories are not unlike dreams that can change over time and as we invent parts and embellish others to make them more interesting to those around us, based on the company we are in.  Our own reality is only real to us and no one else.  It’s also probably one of the reasons I tend to cut ties with people, so I may freely reinterpret the past anyway that I see fit, without the burden of other people’s memories getting in the way.  Who knows...  Anyways, whew…  That was wave number one that hit me when watching this movie.  I told you it was a lot of shit…

            Wave number two was the humor of it all.  For some reason, I was overcome with the comedy of errors that is the life of a folk singer.  It was really, really funny to me.  My girlfriend was getting very irritated with me saying it was funny, but I couldn’t stop laughing at Llewyn and his misguided ways; you know, the whole funny-because-its-true thing.  One of the scenes that has really stuck with me was when Justin Timberlake and the chick(who apparently is with the guy from M*mf*rd *nd S*ns, blech…  Almost ruined the film for me.  Also, by the way, I am not sure but I think I heard his cunty voice singing one of the songs during the movie.  I like the film a lot so I don’t really want to know if it is him as surely he can’t be a part of anything good, ever) are singing their crappy excuse of a folk pop song and everyone in the audience is singing along, either because they’re idiots or because they actually like the fucking song, who knows.  But I’ve totally been there so many times, just stewing and being super pissed off and hating everyone in the room for liking that shit and then just talking through my well-crafted, heartfelt tune.  Fuck all of them.  And driving all the way to Chicago just to play a song for a guy who didn’t like it all and wanted him to join Peter, Paul and Mary.  I totally would’v e done that!  No one ever liked my music!  And when Justin Timberlake throws him a bone and has him come and record with him, Llewyn asks him “Who wrote this?”  So funny!  I loved it.  I’ve done that before!  It’s like a Curb Your Enthusiasm/Larry David awkward moment.  And, I will also admit, shamefully however, that I have yelled at/heckled a performer onstage before.  I’m not proud of it, but it also wasn’t an old lady, so it wasn’t quite as bad.  It was some douche with a newsboy hat who was way too in love with Jason Mraz.  I guess I don’t actually feel that bad, he totally deserved it.  He sucked, and clearly, someone had to tell him.  It wasn't my fault he was playing such terrible music.  In fact, I would have been doing him a disservice had I not said something.  So there, I actually feel quite good about that one. Sort of.  Maybe I am a music snob…

Anyhow, it all seemed like someone was trying to make a movie that was poking fun of everyone, myself included, who wanted to be a bona fide folk singer in the sixties.  This is the exact movie that I would make if I wanted to mock of all those people who loved folk music maybe just a little too much(me included).  The Coen Brothers clearly had a good bead on all the Dylan fanboys(again, myself included) dreaming of Greenwich Village.  Also, on a side note, when did “Dink’s Song” have a real name?  And why was that song the centerpiece of the film?  Not surprisingly, I played that song a ton back in my folk singing/open mic days but it was weird to hear it in a movie.  Speaking of weird, and completely off topic, I was watching “Rock N’ Roll High School” today and I couldn’t help but think of what a strange career PJ Soles has had.  She has been up close and personal with Joey Ramone, Bill Murray and Michael Myers(the fictional psycho serial killer, not Wayne Campbell).  That’s a lady after my own heart.  Rock N’ Roll, Comedy, Horror, she does it all…  What more could you ask for?  But back to Llewyn.  The other thing that I thought particularly funny, was his inability to use condoms properly.  I agree that its fully possible for lightning to strike and for a freak accident to occur, but multiple times?   C’mon, I don’t believe that.  He’s just being careless and lazy.  Get it together buddy, condoms are not that hard to use.  OR, just pull out and shoot it on her stomach.  OR, even better, do both.  Not getting a girl pregnant isn’t rocket science, and I’m sure it wasn’t any different back in the sixties.   I can’t even imagine how horrible it would be to have to go through an abortion, then or now.  I felt bad for the girl and she had every right to be pissed off at Llewyn for making her have to go through that.  Though I suppose that was probably meant to be more of a character flaw, mainly due to his lack of future planning and just general nonchalance toward everything; which always seemed to get in his way.  Either way, I found a lot of humor in his failures and his anger and his resentment towards others, mainly those more successful than him, throughout the film.  It’s a very common theme in the entertainment world, and I’m sure in most fields of work.  I don’t think they quite explored this enough as it has been a very large part of my life as a musician, and in talking to my musician friends, theirs too.  We musicians are a very jealous bunch and we spend quite a bit of time and energy specifically devoted to hating others.  It’s a sort of pastime amongst the brethren.  But anyways, that was wave number two, the folly of it all…

Wave number three was the one I thought might strike first and therefore was the most predictable; the overwhelming urge to move back to New York and, once again, start singing folk.  I knew this would be impossible to avoid so I was quite prepared for it.  I knew that upon seeing the film I would once again wax poetic and romanticize that former part of my life.  Even after seeing, and laughing at, how ridiculous it all was/is, there will always be a part of me that cherished that time immensely and will always want to relive it, sort of.  I know, that in my heart of hearts, I am much happier now with all that is happening in my life, both personally and musically, but it was always much more exciting and chaotic to never know what was going to happen next, to pack up and move to a new city with only a backpack full of clothes and a guitar(my cherished Martin D-15 if you were wondering) and see where life takes you next.  I was in love with the chaos as much as anything else.  It was the whole Dean vs. Sal thing and I know better now.  But even so, I can’t stop myself from daydreaming occasionally about just leaving all my shit at my apartment, except my guitar and my blue Jansport backpack(which I lost some years ago and my wonderful, amazing girlfriend replaced this past Christmas.  Thanks Love!) full of clothes, and taking a bus, or train, to Nashville or New York or Chicago or wherever and just living by the seat of my pants and…  Fuck, someone’s car alarm has been going off for the past twenty fucking minutes and its driving me fucking insane!  I can’t handle it.  They ruined my little folk music fantasy and now I’m pissed.  God, I hope it isn’t my car.  That would suck.  It’s probably not…  Shit, now I got to put on pants and go back out into that fucking snow and check.  Fuck, this sucks…  Well, I guess that’s the end of my thoughts on “Inside Llewyn Davis.”  Hopefully, it was stimulating and titillating; especially for the ladies out there.  Wink, wink…  I should probably learn to type those symbols for the “winks” because I know there’s a way, but I kind of don’t care enough and it’s a little too I’m-a-thirteen-year-old-girl-who-just-got-my-first-iphone-and-I’m-a-textaholic-lol.  So I guess maybe I shouldn’t.  Why am I still talking?  Still titillated, ladies?

Inside Llewyn Davis Part I: Headaches, Memories and Vomit, My Life as a Folksinger...

Llewyn Davis Part I:  Headaches?  We don’t need no stinking headaches…

            To prove both my dedication and insanity, I am writing to you today with a fairly intense migraine.  I say “fairly” because I am no longer throwing up but still can’t see straight, hold my head fully upright or move my eyes without a lot of pain.  I am doing this for a variety of reasons, including, but not limited to:  trying not to focus on the pain or my lingering nausea, the experience of trying to do something worthwhile whilst partially incapacitated but mostly it’s because I didn’t go into work today so I finally have some peace and quiet, and time, to write.  I did, however, make a valiant effort to make it in to work today, despite this crippling affliction, but had to pull my car over so I could open the door and puke, thus negating the rest of the trip and my workday.  I do apologize to the lady walking her dog across the street, as I would imagine it was probably not very pleasant to see or hear…

            Now, for those of you who have never had a migraine in your life, Fuck you and God Bless You.  Go forth and procreate together to hopefully create a entire race of beautiful, wonderful people who only read about migraines in history books, like the Spanish-American War, and view them merely as a past affliction of a not as intelligent race of people, or something of the like.  Unless, of course, you too suffer from an equally terrible plight which should be hidden from the future generations like the Ark of the Covenant, at which point please bag it up and be safe.  Luckily for me, my migraines are only a once in a while type thing and not habitual.  I have known many people who suffer from them constantly and I feel terrible for them and wish there was some type of cure for their intense and repeated suffering.  Personally, I have found pooping helps; though it may have just been a coincidence that I was pooping half an hour after I took some medicine and that was actually what made me be able to see straight finally.  Who knows…

            Anyways, enough of my whining and on with a topic.  I wanted to choose something light, given my current state, but unfortunately the thing that I cannot get out of my mind d54444444444444444qr2w(sorry my cat jumped on the keyboard) is the upcoming movie “Inside Llewyn Davis.”Now, I have only seen the trailer for this movie and already my interest is beyond piqued.  I, like my good friend Jon Fickes(of the Fraidies.  Be on the lookout for their debut album which is going to be amazing!), had a very emotional response when I first saw the trailer.  In case you didn’t know, both Jon and I, separately but coincidentally, moved to New York City, at the same time in 2007.  At the time, neither of us had a band and we were both folk singers; no doubt influenced by our love of Bob Dylan and On the Road and all that jazz, like many, many others.  The difference, however, was that we were really good at it, Jon being much better than I.  I’m not saying this in a pompous sort of way, just matter of factly.  I have travelled across this country and back multiple times, guitar and harmonicas in hand, and have never come across anyone better at folk singing than I, that is, until I met Jon Fickes.  I can say, unequivocally, that he is the best folk singer I have ever seen, bar none.  We were also kind of the only ones, in a true folk sense, that is.  None of that shitty faux-folk stuff thats so prevalent nowadays.  So anyhow, when we got to New York, we were ready.  And man, did we play all the folk singing joints out there.  We played those coffee houses in the Village and east Village and at bars all over the City and in Brooklyn.  We played at two in the morning at the Sidewalk to the “waitresses, walls and weirdos.”  We were, most likely, as I have no factual documentation to prove this, the first people to play original folk music at the Café Wha? in at least twenty years or so. We did it all.  We played anywhere they would let us…  And almost no one cared.  It was depressing.  It made me not want to be a folk singer anymore.  And, more importantly, it made me start a Rock N’ Roll band; which, in retrospect, was the silver lining, I suppose.  It was hard.  We had been folk singers for so long at that point.  We couldn’t imagine not doing it.  I had spent years traveling(or in folk terms:  rambling) so I could write good, honest songs about my experiences.  It was a long, hard transition(that’s what she said.  Sorry I just couldn’t resist).  But life doesn’t give a shit and drags you through it.  Time won’t allow you to wallow in the death of a dream.  So, we left.  We moved on and sort of forgot about all that.  We both started bands.  Jon is about to release his first record and I’m about to start work on my second.  My first record got a lot of good press and airplay and we got to play a ton of shows all over the Pacific Northwest as a result.  Things are going well.  I can’t much complain, though I still do constantly.  Everything was moving the right way.  Then, out of nowhere, we got sucker punched in the back of the head.  The “Inside Llewyn Davis” trailer.  Jon saw it first and told me to watch it.  I did and immediately knew, and felt, what Jon was talking about.  It was a flood of memories and emotion and the joy and sadness of a past life that we both had years ago.  I think about halfway through the trailer I sort of checked out.  I didn’t need to watch anymore to know there wasn’t going to be a good ending for this man.  I already knew it.  I already lived it.  My second thought was that they should have called me and Jon, and, just like Ringo, all we’d have to do is act naturally…

            Now, for sure, there is a large part of me that really doesn’t want to see this film.  I know that I will, at least a couple of times, but I wish I could stop myself from doing it.  Nothing good will come of it.  I know this.  I know that I will become unbearable to be around(advanced apologies to my girlfriend and band), caught up in my own nostalgia and floundering around in the countless memories I still carry, vividly, within my ever-swelling, at the present time anyways, brain.  I hope that I will be able to distance myself from the movie’s main character and watch with only visual entertainment  in mind.  I hope that I will not get caught up in my own neuroses and spiral back into the depression and sadness and hopelessness I once embodied which ruined my life and a relationship in the process.  I hope that this film will not inspire me, for some insane reason, to long for the days of my own folksinging and wish to continue, blindly and stupidly, that imprisoned passion of mine.  I hope that I can just watch as a fan of the Coen Brothers and brilliant movies.  I hope and wish for all of these things.  But I know that in this wish, I am doomed to fail.  I know, just as certain as I know my head and body are in a lot of pain right now, that I will fall prey to all of those aforementioned things.  And so will Jon.  And all of us, who idolized Guthrie and the Carter Family and Dylan and the lot, will feel Llewyn’s pain.  We will embody and embrace that hurt as it is also our own.  We will selfishly share in the sadness.  I may have modeled and lived my life according to the selfish and reckless ways of Dean Moriarty, but I always yearned to fall more on the Sal side of things.  He was right all along.  He dipped his toes into the craziness of Dean, but never fell fully and completely under the spell.  He always kept his head above water.  And when I, I mean Dean, hit bottom,  I, I mean he, looked up and saw that Sal had played it perfectly, right to the end.  He had seen and done enough to satisfy his curiosity, but he did not become addicted to the craziness like Dean and I had.  He had known all along, what we would come to learn, albeit perhaps too late… 

And all of this because of a fucking movie trailer…  God, I hope the Packers win on Sunday so I have something else to think about…  And that handful of Excedrin I took earlier still isn’t doing much, so I’ll be done for now and get to Part II after I finally watch this fucking movie.  Good Night, and Good Luck…