Texas is the Reason February 2, 2010
Posted by misterbuckets in Uncategorized.1 comment so far
(After having this sit here in my drafts for a while, I realized I had to finish it, even as depressing as it may come across. The reason I needed to finish it was to write about what has been happening, however vague. The dour mood could not be avoided, though, as much as I had tried to brighten it.)
After having lived here for nearly three months many things have both come to light and/or dissipated that I was sure would come to fruition, personal and professional. I am not writing this as a diatribe of said hopes but merely to outline, for those of you that read regularly or even sporadically, my feelings of the place as a whole.
Dallas. Hot, boring, and a punch in the face for anyone driving through.
When I say Texas, I mostly mean Austin. Save for one weekend in Dallas, the entirety of my time has been spent here in the state capital. (Dallas, by the way, is a dreary place. The sun may shine brighter and hotter than in the colder north, but, lordy. You want free enterprise? Move to Dallas. The rich survive and the poor get fucked. That is not to say that the people I was surrounded by during my visit were not genuine and gentle, through and through. Complaining about a city, of course, does not entail, at least for me, its everyday inhabitants. Commodious, to say the least, and, above all, hilarious. Fucking nuggets of goodwill, all of them that I encountered.)
Texas moves slow. That is not to say the inhabitants are dumb, quite the contrary. Everyday I encounter people that are not only insightful but also patient, courteous, and understanding. Being a Yankee transplant, I, of course, am constantly dumbfounded at the everyday things.
I bought a car upon arrival, as is semi-needed in an environment like Austin. (There is a happening bike culture already in place but I am a smoker and these hills are outrageous. Plus I need to get mine back in a ride-able condition. [Saying obvious things like, "Well, riding your bike will get you in shape," or, "The hills become easier once you start riding them," are givens so don't start.]) Instead of waiting at the DMV like every other place I have lived, the car dealer actually goes there for you and has it on the car ready for you to pull away, tagged and ready to be flagged by the cops. And, also…concerning the car…I knew exactly what I wanted, a used Volvo (not knowing that seemingly 50% of Austin drives a used Volvo). I found a place north of the city proper (Pflugerville) that only deals in Volvos and has been family run for, like, 25 years or some shit. I called them and talked to Mike, an honest person, or so seemed upon our first conversation. He was the manager and very open about the options. “Listen, I’m glad you called. People go to the website and see the cars and think we got ‘em all, well we don’t. Which one were you lookin’ at?”
“A green one. It’s like a ‘91, or something.”
“Yeah, I got that one. When you wanna come down?”
“Well, I can be down this afternoon.”
“Yeah, that’s good. I’ll be back from lunch at one. Don’t be here at one, though. Sometimes I like to digest, you know.”
“Poop? Sorry.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
“I’ll be there at two.”
“Ohright. You know how to get here?”
“Yeah, I got directions.”
“Ohright.”
The directions were from Google, which have been trustworthy in all of my expeditions. However, in Austin they don’t seem to work too well. In my still-rented full size moving truck I circled and circled the same goddamn strip mall countless times. I even remember punching the steering wheel, a new occasion for me and one that I will never do again as it only adds to the frustration. Finally, after stopping next to a dumpster behind an ill-named store of some sort I decided to call.
“Hey, Mike. I’m lost, man.”
“When you said you had directions did you mean that you got ‘em off Google?”
“Yes.”
“Man, I wished you would’ve told me that. Google doesn’t work here. I tell people all the time, ‘Don’t trust Google maps here in Austin,’ but, ah, well. Where you at?”
I explained and he had me there in a matter of seconds.
I arrived and took a look at the Internet car. As is wont to happen, the photo on the internet and
I was unable to take a photo of my car in motion on a highway, so enjoy this stolen one.
the actual automobile seemed almost completely different. No fault of his and more of mine in that I had already pictured the entire transaction in my mind. Hmmmm.
Sensing my frustration, Mike brought me into the garage where he had a loaner car that he wanted to show me. I had already mentioned my price range, to which he referenced:
“Now, I know this is a little above what you wanted to spend, but I can tell you that this one is ready to go, minus a few things here and there.”
He went on to explain, in detail, what was wrong with it (all very minor) and how they would fix it all beforehand, that is if I wanted to buy it.
“Now, I know,” Mike said, “that I am a car salesman and I know the rap that we get. I have it priced here but I can come down. I do need to make money, though.”
After a little more talking, we shook hands. It would be ready after the weekend, he told me. “Call in the afternoon,” he told me. “We all got a funeral in the morning.”
All said and done, he was completely honest with everything that was said. I have run into some ill-timed issues (as far as my money is concerned) but the car has been fantastic, as a whole. (I did hit a pothole, which busted the entire wheel. And then, in a single day, managed to get two flat tires [at different times] by perils still unknown to me. And then the battery died. After such bad timing one can only laugh, right?)
(I only went through all of that to paint a picture of how these people are [I just instantly assume that I am talking to all northerners] long winded, honest, and upright.)
I only want to be left to my own ways.
The days are sunny and warm, as far as temperature, but I remain in a winter hibernation. Possibly from habit or possibly from my penchant for surrounding myself with things I can associate with, which, as is spelled out in that last statement, not good for moving to a new environ, as far as finding friends and/or like-minded individuals is concerned. Habit peers in at first and before one realizes seemingly overtakes any and all goals. Where I once silently complained of meeting with friends at the same watering hole every week to unload our concerns and worries upon each other, I now find myself fully packed with said concerns. (As I have stated time and time again, in my complaints about Chicago, it has never concerned my close friends, of whom I miss terribly no matter what happens in the coming months.) Where I once complained about distance between home and happening, I now disregard the distance and replace it with an unwanting to experience anything fresh, out of a mental laziness to explain myself and where I have come from. The trouble, I have discovered, is within myself…but this is not an issue solely of myself alone. Everyone houses this penchant. I merely thought myself strong enough to disregard what history has taught man over the ages; one cannot live on bread alone, nor with their own mind as its sole confidant.
It is not from a lonely hierarchy that I write this and this not meant as a diatribe to the wonderful souls that I have met whilst basking in this marvelous, southern sun. This is, instead, an opening of sorts, of myself. The mystery of the coming months is just that. I’ve thrown myself into this fire to test my survival, so to speak. It is a trial of character, and thus far I am ahead.
On a lighter note, there are some fantastic facts about the state of Texas that I have found interesting, if not confounding. Did you know that:
- To drive across Texas is to drive 1/3 the way across the United States.
- Texas is the only state in the U.S. that can fly its flag at the same height as the U.S. Flag.
- Texas is the only state that was a Republic before it became a state.
- The Texas capitol building, here in Austin, is the only one in the country that is taller than the capitol building in Washington , D.C.
- Texas can become a republic again at any time the voters of Texas choose. This was part of the deal when Texas joined the United States.
- Texas has its own power grid.
Not to mention that Texas has the ocean, rivers, lakes, plains, deserts, and mountains. Big Red and Dr. Pepper were both invented in Waco, TX, just up the road from where I reside. (Imagine my embarrassment when I posed the question, “Man…I thought Big Red was a Hoosier thing. I’ve never seen it so popular anywhere except here.”)
Needless to say, I have a lot to learn and accept as a Yankee. Unfortunately not all of my plans have worked out, but, for lack of a better term, that’s life. Without the low there is no high. Though hopes falter a blind faith in the future can keep one afloat.
What the next few months have in store no one knows. I do know, however, that my drive is still intact and my focus is forever honed on the things best for myself. Without the self-preservation instilled in me through lessons learned, both from myself and from those that came before, I would, obviously, be nothing. And neither would you.
(The underlying feeling.)
(Audio only)
(Or what I blast in the new-to-me car)
I’ve Listened to These Recently… January 26, 2010
Posted by misterbuckets in Nonfiction, Reviews.Tags: Music, review, joakim, milky ways, spoon, transference, javelina, beasts among sheep, midlake, the courage of others, sigh, scenes from hell, liars, sisterworld, for whom the bell joels
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…underneath the warm sun of a new climate and an icy reception of my newfound hermit ways.
Joakim
Milky Ways
I discovered Joakim a few years ago while bed-ridden with a flu of sorts. My Nyquil-soaked brain was thirsting for both smart and creepy electronic mayhem and in my relaxed (okay, immobile) state, IDM was not gonna cut it. His Monsters and Silly Songs fit the bill perfectly. I have since searched and searched for more releases by this French DJ, mostly coming up empty (I happened upon a remix 12″ he did of…get this…a Lionel Hampton tune [Hampton was a jazz xylophonist dating back to the 30s]).
However slight his popularity may be in the States, across the pond he is a big deal, and rightly so. Milky Ways finds him both more sparse (the opening “Back to the Wilderness” is an eight-plus minute grab bag of mostly percussive boom-booms with some various samples hovering, retaining the creep vibe I loved so much on his Monsters…, finally culminating in a full-on band jam that Oneida would be proud of), disco (both “Ad Me” and “Love & Romance & a Special Person” have the dancability in place along with an almost indecipherable electronic voice contemplating both loneliness and a love for that special someone), and a wide, patient, and expansive hovering in a cold landscape dotted by dead trees and heavily-coated animals (“Glossy Papers”, “King Kong is Dead”). His perfect blend of electronic and acoustic instruments adds a hint of misdirection and improvisation to both his live shows (rare, at least Stateside, but always worth it) and studio records.
After all of this dissecting and rumination about his singularity, he also releases radio-worthy singles that even your parents may love (“Fly Like an Apple”). It is time for this Frenchman to break here. His big break Stateside is long overdue. The combination of so many good ideas, song structures, and spot-on production makes this record something that can be enjoyed by fans of all genres.
Spoon
Transference
One of the most anticipated albums in recent times, and rightly so, Spoon’s exercise in regression, or transference to an earlier time (couldn’t help it), may be frowned upon by many (namely money-grubbing radio programmers <cough>clearchannel</cough>) but, in reality, displays their love and willingness to display their songs how they see fit, whether it be demos (which make up most of the record) or “finished” recordings. After all, over-thinking a track or an idea has the potential to ruin something that was so promising at the start.
Drummer Jim Eno is again behind the board, as with every other Spoon record, and rightly so. His prowess for capturing both the raw, true garage sound of Spoon along with highlighting the bluesy vocal stylings of front man Britt Daniels is unique and needed. Imagine a world where Spoon had not been booted from the major label years ago and, subsequently, got sucked into the world they don’t belong…writing radio gems, of which they are fully capable, over-produced to the point of unfamiliarity for both long-time fans and the band themselves. Thank you, Spoon, for having a steady head and the backbone to follow your instincts and not a dollar sign.
Opener, “Before Destruction,” clues the listener in on what is to come; the aforementioned raw sound coupled with up-front organs pushing Daniels’s voice ever-further into the memorable place it deserves to be. “The Mystery Zone” is simple, classic Spoon; drums and bass leading the majority of the song, letting the vocals and minimal guitar breathe, seemingly replacing the spotlighted rhythm section as the replacement tempo-keeper. The ballads “Goodnight Laura,” and “Nobody Gets Me But You,” relax the near-aggressive tone of the rest of the record (though nowhere near the downright angry, earlier Series of Sneaks) but take away nothing from the overall scratchy mood of Transference.
This collection came out at the perfect time…after Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga found them at their height of popularity, Transference weeds out the hangers-on from the true fans; there is a lesson that Spoon is teaching all involved in music, or, better yet, art of all mediums: stay in it for the love of it and do whatever it is you feel right.
Javelina
Beasts Among Sheep
Philly’s Javelina play an everyman’s version of metal. Think garage metal along the lines of Karp (RIP), Lair of the Minotaur, or a less-polished Unearthly Trance. I was hoping for more of the face-rape sound of Indian, possibly due to the fact that they seem to share Scott Fricke as a cover artist. Javelina keep it simple, but not to say boring. Well, slightly boring at times. “You’re Going to Hate This,” “Stepchild,” and “Black Lizard” are, by far, the standout tracks but nothing to really get too excited about. Equal parts stoner and a death/thrash hybrid, everything on Beasts Among Sheep has been covered before…many, many times. I picked this up after reading a few reviews (both live and album) that touted them as something worth checking out. I have to realize, though, that some critics are fresh to this whole ‘metal’ thing and something like Javelina, I’m sure, are very exciting. That being said, I cannot downplay Javelina’s excitement and love for playing and would check them out live if they came around.
Midlake
The Courage of Others*
To continue on the previous subject of anticipated records, Midlake’s follow-up to 2006’s The Trials of Van Occupanther has kept my mind reeling for a while. As I sat to myself, thinking, “Really, guys? How long does it take?” Keep in mind, I am an outsider and have no knowledge of their songwriting habits or schedules. In addition, their layered, Steely Dan by-way-of gentle folk (think Simon & Garfunkel with dish towels-on-drums) sound must rack up some serious studio time to pull off.
Now, with album in hand I must say that they have not been twiddling their thumbs and basking in their well-deserved attention from their previous forays. My anticipation and nervousness quickly waned upon hearing the opening track, “Acts of Man.” Again, it is the calming voices in the woods that I so loved previously, along with the melodic coupling of either a flute or piccolo, that flows gently and throughout each number.
While there are no uppers, which were peppered throughout The Trials…, the more somber mood fits the subject matters, man vs. nature vs. man’s trashing of nature vs. nature’s unfortunate quelling of man’s said trashing of what was here long before plastic bottles. No, The Courage… is not an environmentalist diatribe at all but it is impossible to walk away after hearing what seems like love songs to all creatures, mammalian, reptilian, vegetalian (I know, I know), etc. and not want to don pelts and find refuge from the guiding forces of nature in a stump or cave in the deepest recesses of non-civilization.
While there is nothing terribly new or different than their previous work, that is, at the same time, unneeded. The Trials… solidified them as master songwriters/arrangers/producers and they are merely filling out their canon with a brilliance and a timbre of celebration for the simple pleasure of looking outward instead of inward to fully enjoy all that surrounds us, whether hostile or not.
(not an official video but well-done mash-up)
Sigh
Scenes From Hell
Tokyo’s Sigh were the first black metal band from Asia (yes, Russia, or, at the time, USSR, included) dating back to the late 80s. They have honed their craft into something that has the potential, and execution, to be punishing, interesting, and like nothing else one has heard.
While symphonic instruments are nothing at all new to this genre, Sigh’s sporadic inclusion returns its role to a more exciting and purposeful place. The drums/bass/guitar all remain in a semi-lo-fi register, but when everything comes in, an altogether different mood is set. Check out “L’art De Mourir” and its almost celebratory chorus…a victory for black metal’s longevity? Sure, I’ll take that. This is what Michael Bay attempts to convey with his millions and millions of dollars in special effects…both heart attack-inducing build ups and payoffs that are memorable, yes, but in a more honest and down-to-Earth method.
One can easily veer into the, “Well, the Japanese are always doing weird things and into territories un-trodden by the rest of the Western world,” which may be true, but in other aspects (game shows, cartoons, toys, fetishes, etc.). To place that stamp on Sigh would be very short-sighted; they play music that has yet been unreachable from the rest of the metal world (even you, Scandinavia). With absolutely no fear to explore and expound upon what has been long established, a rebellious sound starting long ago and fueled by rabid, DIY-adhering fans the world over, Sigh has continued to take metal where no one else has dared.
Sigh, let others follow in your footsteps so that all of us, metal or not, can benefit from your disinterest in what is popular, kitschy, or attention-grabbing for the sake of simple attention. Amen.
(while not from Scenes From Hell, still a good representation of what Sigh is capable of)
Liars
Sisterworld*
Globe-trotting home-basers Liars never cease to amaze me with each new release. From the ill-fitted, Brooklyn-hype sound of They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top to the self-titled juggernaut from 2007, their sound has morphed with the times, albeit without paying attention to what is going on in current music. Slippery beasts that they are, Sisterworld is no different in that it is even more different than its predecessors. Channeling a Swordfishtrombones-era Tom Waits in the opening stanza of “Scissors,” it, nonetheless, explodes in a sex-on-the-dance-floor stomp, only to revert back into a hole, where discretions from said dance floor may be forgotten. This anarchistic sound, ironically, is their anchor; complete abandonment is an odd place to call home but it fits these gents perfectly. After all, they have called Brooklyn, Berlin, and LA all home, among recording in many places that are not in those places. With all of those frequent flyer miles accrued, why won’t they fly to me and play in my apartment? I’d even feed them.
Listen to the intro of “Proud Evolution” and tell me it doesn’t sound exactly like the Walkmen’s, “What’s in it for Me?” (Liars use guitar instead of the Walkmens’ organ…but you get the gist.) I know that airy guitar is nothing new for either band…but it was eerily alike in both sound and feel. (I am not saying that there was an intentional theft…just pointing out something I thought was awesome as I am a rabid fan of both.) Delve deeper into the song…yes, now the chants have a heartbeat much like the reverbed drums. Liars are not so much a band as a living entity, growing and maturing into nearly a new life form — the future of mankind as we know it? Let’s hope.
Distancing themselves from the much-talked-about conventional song structure of 2007’s Liars, Sisterworld sees them, rather, furthering the idea of listenability by grabbing your attention and then yanking your ears down to where they, themselves, are coming from; while considered ‘outsiders’ by mainstream press, they are trying, really, really trying, to get you to come into their world. If Sisterworld is too scary then you may not be friends, plain and simple. (Not to say that they are changing to try and attain a modicum of mainstream success…it is more of a goal of changing what the mainstream considers listenable.)
The album is not without a mass-population-worthy track despite my ramblings about the outsider initiative/unfortunate placement of Liars. “The Overachievers” is a simple 4/4 exercise in fun, complete with friendly lines such as, “I bought a house with you/We settled down with cats.” They could not be more open-armed in their willingness for others to come and enjoy life as Liars do, and we would all be better off for it.
(Audio only. Don’t ask me about the photo. I don’t know what the hell is going on but enjoy the scenario just as much as you.)
For Whom the Bell Joels
Various MySpace Tracks
http://www.myspace.com/forwhomthebelljoels
I had to throw this in here because, yes, I have been listening to them quite a bit. Why? Well, as you know, I love metal. What you may not know is my life-long love of Billy Joel. It was upon my discovery of my parents’ Greastest Hits Volume I & Volume II that I actually sat down and listened to, and read along with, the Joel. Wow. Needless to say, “Captain Jack” blew my mind. Drugs and masturbation? As my knowledge and love of music grew more expansive with years, I appreciated him and his gigantic catalogue of fantastic songs more and more, even, to this day, “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” No apologies.
On my discovery of the all-Billy Joel metal cover band For Whom the Bell Joels, I was both worried and ecstatic. If nothing else, listen to “Pressure,” the replacement of the organ riff with a guitar is dumbfounding in its perfect placement.
(I’m sure there will be numerous metalheads saying that they are ‘dumbing down the genre’ or ‘not taking metal seriously.’ To that I respond with: shouldn’t that be reserved for bands that act like their taking it seriously while dumbing down the genre? I’m talking to you (hed) pe, or PE, or pee pee, ICP…nevermind, it’s not worth going through them all.)
Can’t we all just have silly fun every once in a while?
* – denotes a yet unreleased record at the time of this writing. It was made available to me by the record companies via my publishers for review/preview purposes only. There was no illegal downloading involved whatsoever…and no artists were hurt in the writing of this slight, inconsequential article. Any links to uncopyrighted material are either due to my own laziness (in downloading the cover art to my computer and then uploading it back onto the internet) (if there is issue with album art taken from sources on the net, contact me and they will be taken down and replaced with someone less of a tightass) or should be brought up with the original uploaders and not myself. We live in a world where I have to spell this out.
The Records That Were Important to Me This Year But Not Necessarily Released This Year, pt. 2 December 24, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Nonfiction, Reviews.Tags: austin, bill callahan, cave, celan, chicago, cobalt, duit on mon dei, einsturzende neubauten, embryonic, ep, flaming lips, gin, halo, harry nilsson, hiems, hunt like devil, iron age, jamz, john lennon, lost weekend, lp, misterbuckets, Music, pussy cats, review, smog, sometimes i wish i were an eagle, texas, unsane, walkmen, worship or die, zaireeka
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And while this may be a list, it is in no way in any order.
To continue this diatribe of what my neighbors have heard thumping through the wall, there was just way too many notable albums I’ve enjoyed this year. Some old, some new, and all important, to me at least.
Harry Nilsson
Duit On Mon Dei
Nilsson made a name for himself penning such classics as “One,” “Me and My Arrow” (from the first feature length cartoon, The Point!), and many others. Also widely known as either “The Fifth Beatle” (a few hold that title) or “The American Beatle,” his penchant for melody, quirky songs (check out “I’d Rather Be Dead” from Son of Schmilsson), and his astounding five-octave range certainly gave him the fuel and the know-how to becaome famous the world over. Alas, his later stuff, like Duit On Mon Dei, proved to be far too weird to be accepted into the mainstream. Where once he had Lennon on lost weekends (a product of, Pussycats, having stood the test of time and recently covered in its entirety by none other than The Walkmen) now finds him still with a record contract but a waning fan base that had moved onto the world-changing punk rock or the damning disco.
Opening the album with a shortened, demo version of “Jesus Christ You’re Tall” proves that he had kind of stopped caring by this point. There was no single from this record though a few would’ve fit perfectly in his earlier canon. The standout “Down by the Sea” is a more realized version than what popped up on the aforementioned Pussycats, a sort of homage to both wonderful songcraft and his work on the Popeye movie soundtrack.
I still am in awe that not more people dig this fellow after realizing the legion of influence the man had on modern pop/psych/kookyness. Died while working on his comeback record, Nilsson lived a wild, satiating life. At times confrontational and others gentle, this monster will never be forgotten in the Buckets household.
Celan
Halo
The unlikely duo of Ari Benjamin Meyers (Einstürzende Neubauten) and Chris Spencer (Unsane) doesn’t make much sense on paper. One, an experimental, homemade instrument German outsider, and the other, a straight-forward aggression-laden tough guy from Brooklyn, put together an amazing record and sound in Halo.
Seemingly more Unsane than Neubauten, the violence and coarseness of Spencer’s voice overshadows all the the layers going on in opener, “A Thousand Charms.” By the time this juggernaut of a band gets to “It’s Low,” every instrument falls into place, whether birthed in a creepy German apartment or not.
I didn’t hear anything about this in the rumor mill and nearly passed it up when it came in a package of materials to review solely because the album artwork BLOWS. Lucky for me I read the bio and instantly dove in. The subsequent injuries are ones that only death can heal.
Recommended for long drives through the country.
The Flaming Lips
Embryonic
I had been a reticent supporter of the Oklahoma weirdos ever since a friend, Patrick Bower, introduced me to Clouds Taste Metallic back in the day. Sure, they had the “…Jelly” hit earlier but I was one of the kids that didn’t have cable growing up nor did I listen to the radio much. (You see, the radio didn’t play anything from Bleach or from the band Mortification…therefore it did me no good.)
Continuing after …Metallic was the 4-disc ball-buster Zaireeka. Luckily by the time of that release I was entrenched in the fertile music scene of Bloomington, Indiana and was able to attend a few ear-bleeding Zaireeka parties. Then the heart- and Earth-shattering The Soft Bulletin came out and I was convinced that we have the new Floyd on our hands.
Then there was the era where I didn’t even know the Lips anymore. Their three record descent into a pop candy hell went on without my ears. The bright colors, radio “hits,” and subsequent fame interested me little…all due to the music itself. I would never go so far to say that they sold out…it just seems that they were attempting to do too many things at one time.
The news of Embryonic came and went for me. I no longer cared. I happened upon a download online of the entire record (legal, mind you. It was through one of my outlets) so I decided upon a quick listen. It was free, after all.
And after all this time, I knew who I was listening to. And why I was listening to it. Here was the classic Lips, decked out in their singular song structures where the melody can, and usually does, venture off wherever necessary (picture a Priest Driven Ambulance, physically as well as an aural example of the circle of Lips). The sounds generated by these meddling old men can be both alarming and gentle (“Aquarius Sabotage” is a perfect example of this) as well as both familiar and foreign (“The Ego’s Last Stand” has parts that are reminiscent of Zaireeka).
I do have to say that leader Coyne’s attitude and disposition is something that I have always been behind even during his crappy music phase. I sincerely believe him to be a good role model for the lil’ weirdos, a fresh and honest voice in this world of ass-kissing, and a pioneer in both what is possible with a band and how far one can take one’s talents and still have someone else pretty much foot the bill.
(Sorry, I couldn’t find a postable video of their better video for “Watching the Planets.”)
Bill Callahan
Sometimes I Wish I Were an Eagle
Fact: I have never been a Smog fan. Nor even a fan of his first solo, Woke on a Whaleheart. They just simply bored me.
I don’t know what happened. It could’ve been myself that changed and accepted such soft and lovely tomes like “The Wind and the Dove,” or he just got much, much better at what he does: a heavy, heady voice over the simplest of melodies. My profound respect for this record was not even dented by the info that in real life the guy is a complete cocksucker, and that says something as I usually write those bastards off quicker than one can say Win Butler. Possibly the impossibility in my head that the author of beauties like this collection could be a shadow of a prick has skewed my perception to be completely false…or maybe the man is completely commodious…just misunderstood.
Though we now live in the same city I will never know for I have no plans to hang out with the guy…I will simply sit and rock by the speakers to the timeless tunes of “Eid Ma Clack Shaw,” “Rococo Zephyr,” and “My Friend.”
Your hard heart, Bill, has softened mine.
Hiems
Worship or Die
I’ve gone on and on about black metal and all that surrounds it: recent popularity, history, and my love for all of it. I have enjoyed the elders in the genre (Darkthrone, Gorgoroth, Immortal, et al.) and the recently-crowned kings (Watain, Leviathan, Krallice, et al.) and everything in between (Hellsaw, Arckanum, Woe, blah blah). I stumbled upon Italy’s Hiems this year on a whim from a review that I read and was simply amazed.
Amazed that, although nothing really new, a release like Worship or Die could sound this exciting. Mostly midtempo (sorry blastbeat hangers-on) wretched mayhem, Hiems takes the greatest parts of Watain (evil groove), Anaal Nathrakh (tasteful, effective samples), and Leviathan (in-the-red decimation) and delivers it in a simple punch across the face. The choruses can be catchy (“Scum Destroyer”), the verses clean and melodic but not annoying (“Race With the Devil”), and the musicianship is all around top-notch; Worship or Die is even more proof that year-end best-of lists are entirely useless.
How many more gems like this are there out there? Countless, I’m assuming.
(Sorry, there is no video of Hiems available. Dig this photo montage instead.)
Iron Age
The Sleeping Eye
Discovered a mere week ago (thank you, Chris Mammothgrinder), Austin, TX’s Iron Age were a hardcore band not long ago. Morphing into a death/thrash powerhouse with the release of The Sleeping Eye seems to be the best thing for them…because they are near-perfect at it.
Breakdowns aplenty, solos puddled here and there, and patience to move slow enough to fully develop ideas, it is no wonder that now-metal-giants Baroness picked these guys for the opening slot on their world domination tour. Dueling, melodic guitar lines fall right into half-time stretchings that eventually blossom into a nasty stench not easily washed off.
Anyone else pick up the Om-worshiping groans of opener “The Sleeping Eye of the Watcher”? Yeah, it was my favorite part of Shrinebuilder, too.
Cobalt
Gin
Colorado’s snow-ridden solo-black metal dude Cobalt is fucking weird. At times menacing (“Arsonry”) and others gentle (“Pregnant Insect”), Cobalt is an honest-to-god all-over-the-place cornucopia of madness, luckily not to the extreme of a Mike Patton project, though.
My loved mid-tempo rage makes up most of Gin, though it is not all “black metal,” per se. There’s thrash, death, and basic rock ‘n roll infused throughout. Could this be the album that gets those friends of yours that “should be into black metal” a ticket to what it’s all about?
Yes.
It is hard to pin down what it is about Gin that makes it so unique; the antique photo on the cover snagged me, sure, and it is an interesting choice, the combination of clean and screech is alluring, and the freedom each song has to go anywhere is really important. I can’t pick a single thing…this is just something to experience.
(Audio only)
Cave
Hunt Like Devil EP/Jamz EP
Psych and jammy music has had a mild resurgence lately. Maybe it is due to the interwebs opening up genres for money-wielding kids to delve into, or maybe it’s the near-mainstream acceptance of marijuana that has munched on a need for “tunes.” Whatever the case, Chicago’s Cave do an excellent job of losing not only the listener but themselves in a washed out mind trip worthy of poor fashion choices and glassy-eyed encounters with society.
I had heard word of them through the Permanent Records newsletter and a few friends. While doing the merch table for a friend I witnessed their controlled mayhem at the Hideout one cool summer night. I could take my eyes off the group of pals playing off of each other wildly and with abandon…farfisas, leslies, and melodicas, oh my!
This may just be good drugs at work (none of the actual musicianship is that great) or taste-makers on the horizon…nevertheless Cave is as fun as mind-bending background music goes.
The Records That Were Important to Me This Year But Not Necessarily Released This Year, pt. 1 December 19, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Nonfiction, Reviews.Tags: 2009, behemoth, best of, black heart procession, bloomington, built to spill, children, daniel amos, hard times hanging at the end of the end of the world, hoosier, indina, jagjaguwar, james jackson toth, king of jeans, lists, medua, morrissey, oneida, pissed jeans, power spirit, racebannon, richard swift, secretly canadian, shrinebuilder, swirling eddies, terry taylor, the new year, them crooked vultures, walkmen, wild beasts, years of refusal
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Because year-end lists are to blame for all my rage.
Music is an art form just as much as any other medium. One cannot put two paintings side by side and say one is a 7.1 and the other a measly 4.9.
‘Nuff said.
This is what I dug this year. The reason that I am scribbling about it is that I enjoy writing about music, especially music I like. Some are better than others but the only ears I have are mine.
Morrissey
Years of Refusal
Anyone that knows me to a significant depth knows that I have been a fan of this guy since my teens. And this is not a weird phenomenon. The cult that surrounds this man, a mysterious, asexual, self-loathing, and astute British gentleman man of letters, consists of rabid scavengers salivating at every mention of a crappy b-side. Granted his canon is wont to have a few duds but the big picture is somewhat surprising. “It’s a miracle/I even made it this far,” he belts in the opening track of his latest, Years of Refusal, and it can’t ring more true. His time in the Smiths is well-covered and it is his solo career that has fascinated me for the greater part of my life. He’s gone from long, dramatic, and mostly cheesy synth ballads (“Late Night Maudlin Street,” Viva Hate, “Driving Your Girlfriend Home,” Kill Uncle, et al.) to in-your-face powerhouse rock (“The Boy Racer,” Southpaw Grammar, “You’re Gonna Need Someone On Your Side,” Your Arsenal, blah blah), all while remaining both reclusive and top 200 chart-worthy.
That’s a lot of cult members for someone that gets little to no airplay. And thank whomever for that.
I didn’t even bat an eye at the last few, You Are The Quarry and something about a circus or something. I had given up. He had given up. At least in my mind. Critics loved them. Critics get too much free shit. They weren’t good.
Then, out of the blue, my old friend, Morrissey, stopped by to blow my…mind. Years of Refusal is both his gift to me and his acknowledgment at my wise decision at not paying attention to him the last five years.
Welcome home, Moz. Have a pint and some veggie nachos with me. We can even just talk about my dog if you want.
Wild Beasts
Two Dancers
I didn’t fully appreciate Two Dancers until I bought a car with a sunroof. You can usually find me in this fine Texas weather at a stoplight looking directly up through said sunroof at where the color don’t change. You can honk to refocus my attention. I understand you have places to go.
Wild Beasts (yes, more Brits) play what I wanted Paul Simon to play circa Graceland. Simply take out what I don’t like and fill it with near-meaningless quips about bootycalls turning into violent outbursts. The magical interplay between the instruments is what really yanked my ears…each attuned to the next player who is focused on the Russian-boy-choir-worthy vocalist, Hayden Thorpe. What a name. From that I can surmise that he is:
- a good swimmer.
- a good liar about wine.
- more knowledgeable about music than expected. Unfortunately it is about Paul Simon.
I don’t know what it is about Paul Simon and his virgin ascent into my life. Last year was Yeasayer.
What does un-Paul Simon have in store for me next year?
Built to Spill
There is No Enemy
I am a late Built to Spill bloomer. Friends dug them back in the day and I ignored them. I was wrapped up in Swedish death metal and discovering my tolerances for alcohol. As I age, so do they. With my recent discovery of their DEEP catalogue I realize that we are now perfectly aligned.
It was on a trip to the Yellow River National Forest that I discovered their song, “The Weather.” Though my daydreams fell through, the poignancy rings true.
With the years I was absent Doug was answering my future questions. “What happens here stays here/’Cause no one, anywhere else/Gives a damn,” (“Tomorrow”) pretty much sums up what one will learn in life:
- With meeting new people, don’t relate a story of your own to one of theirs based solely on one congruence. They won’t care.
- With age one finds solidarity in one’s own likes and the penchant for the majority of others to just not get it.
- What you learn as a youngin’ will stay with you and lie to you the rest of your life.
These points are not brought to the surface to turn the frown upside-down…nay. Put these life principles to music like the Spill boys are capable of and everything balances out once again.
The Walkmen
Live Session EP, iTunes Exclusive
I will buy anything from these guys. Even if that means going though iTunes. Sure, the sound quality is fine but my need to put one song on a mix for a friend is impossible without also supplying my iTunes password. Let’s hear it for security.
The Walkmen live are always a sight to behold. I’ve shared their greatness here and here. Sure, the electricity of the crowd is fantastic and so is watching them pull it off live, but when one has the opportunity to grab the sound and enjoy it at home…mercy.
Hot chocolate’s got nuthin’ on this EP.
Shrinebuilder
Shrinebuilder
Them Crooked Vultures
Them Crooked Vultures
A supergroup used to be a 100% letdown. We Are the World? Done. A monumental thing happened this year: two supergroups, one metal and one almost, formed and actually did what was promised.
Shrinebuilder, the more powerful of the two, combines the Voltron power of Wino (The Obsessed, St. Vitus, dot dot dot), Scott from Neurosis, some dude from Om and Sleep, and some dude from the Melvins. This collection managed to pull off one of the greatest scare-your-neighbors-until-they-come-over-and-hear-the-brilliance moments in the history of metal. Slow and drudging at times, slow and loud at others, Shrinebuilder is a shark behind the sticks of a wrecking ball, a drunk lion at a day care.
With headphones and a dangerous volume it is easy, somehow, for even the lips to go numb.
Them Crooked Vultures is a terrible name obviously dreamt up at an afterparty somewheres in these States after a night of god-knows-what-these-guys-have-access-to. You all know the story. I believe it will be a short-lived project, but one that I was lucky enough to be around to see.
The only thing that could top it would be a soulful duet between Cobain and Mrs. Butterworth at the corner store that you happened upon while just needing some mayo for a great tuna salad you were getting ready to prepare.
The Black Heart Procession
six
A friend introduced me to these guys back in the days of Indianapolis living. He was a positive dude, never drunk, high, or questionable in his manner. Supportive and open-minded as he was, I took his musical advice and checked out the Black Heart Procession.
He said it would be surprising.
I thought that he meant that, besides the name, these guys were smart, airy pop.
I think the surprise was how dark they truly were. Singin’ about the ol’ fire ring (“It’s a Crime I Never Told You About the Diamonds in Your Eyes,” 2) and utter, sparse loneliness, these guys have the ability to unwillingly trap one in their own basement, drown in their car, and get their leg severed in a freak axe accident…all in one afternoon.
Dark, fucking dark.
Do not combine with anti-depressants.
And now for a more upbeat selection by the grooms of gloom:
Children
Hard Times Hanging at the End of the World
Record nerd intro: I was introduced to these guys by going on a whim and picking up their Death Tribe 12″ last year. One ten minute thrash epic on one side and a sweet etching on the other side of a cobra with a Flying V. It was also by chance that I found their full length, Hard Times…, at the missed (by me, it’s still in business) Dave’s Records in Chicago.
Excellent Exodus-esque thrash, complete with good, silly humor (see video below), bombarding the speakers and making the wait for these Austin stoplights as pleasant as a beer session with a friend. Fist-pump-worthy drums (courtesy of Adam Benatti, also of throw-back copiers Early Man) matched with fine-tuned whammy bridges makes this a sure listen for the beach. Pack the Sunkist and vodka, though close to home, we’re goin’ on a mental vacation.
Medusa
En Raga Sul
Southern Indiana is my home and will always be. Bloomington, Indiana is the center of the Hoosier music scene and it is by no means anything to pass over. Home to the much respected labels Secretly Canadian and Jagjaguwar, this little college town was my second home growing up and my primary for about four years. In that time I discovered organic foods, basement shows, wandering aimlessly, and coffee. Everyone was involved in something, whether it be a band, collective, movement, or, christ, I don’t even know. Anyway, projects like Medusa are entirely fathomable and doable.
Consisting mostly of sister band Racebannon (more on them in a bit), Medusa punish in a straight-forward way: fist-to-throat. Simple but enjoyable morsels pepper their album, En Raga Sul, perfectly so that repeat listens are not only punishing but also terribly, terribly frightening.
Racebannon
Acid or Blood
The culmination of Captain Beefheart worship, Hoosier anger, and the open-walled creativity of southern Indiana, Racebannon are the epitome of artistic freedom. Together since high school, the Bannon do what they want…they’ve been together this long, ain’t no record company gonna start putting their stamp on it now.
Chaos is the the easiest word to describe their impossible-to-describe multi-track vocal, guitar, bass, drum mayhem. All are agreeable personalities off stage, even “gentle,” but with weapon in hand the darkness eeks.
One can only witness it live to see the real look in Mike Anderson’s (vocals) eyes as he vomits such classics as “Flip ‘N Fuck.”
(I know I’ve posted this video numerous times before and on various websites but the beginning, when the beat is laid and you see the guys draped in Bloomington Brewing Company Hoodies, his eyes, Mike’s eyes, surely beckon a fight. I’ve seen it happen before and I wanna see another Racebannon-fueled fight before I die.)
Richard Swift
The Atlantic Ocean
Overzealous in its pop synths and polish, Swift’s 2009 The Atlantic Ocean was everything I wanted in something as unlistenable as this: original ideas, proper melodies, and surprises around every corner. (These three things make it unlistenable to the general public in its simple brilliance, and that’s sad.)
Running a parallel with my man, Harry Nilsson, Mr. Swift started small, had the propensity to enlarge, and decided to do his own thing, all with the help of a classy label, a listening public, and his heart, easy to read on the sleeve and all. “The Original Thought” is a perfectly-written pop song despite the obvious woe-is-me lyrical content; a soft intro to introduce the listener to the melody, a surprise upheaval in tempo and attitude, and then a ruckus ending. As he sings, “…it was a typical shame,” one discovers that yes, it is a shame that not only will his music never reach the notoriety it deserves but the artist himself is aware of it.
The soundtrack of a breakdown.
The New Year
The End is Near
Released sometime in to 00s, ex-Bedhead brothers from Dallas follow up their already strong downer canon with something that sounds remarkably like everything else they’ve done. But it was done so well before…you know the rest of the sentiment…
Simple, but complex guitars intertwine to build a blanket to hide under on lonely weekend nights and the subsequent mornings. Brooding and hanging, this is waking up on a wood floor and a moving truck, not a surrender, per se, but an acceptance of broken noses.
Keep understanding the down times and the uptimes by these melodies and cheese, please. I’m on my knees.
Daniel Amos
Doppelgänger
There is a sweet spot in my heart for late eighties, early nineties Christian alternative. Here is where the outsider, from the Christian mainstream, flexed their prowess and exercised their true ability to say whatever it is they wanted. Whether it is anti-Capatalism (“Mall (Over the World”) or the ridiculousness of, er, Capitalism (“A New Car!”), Daniel Amos, brainchild of mastermind Terry Taylor (of Swirling Eddies, DA, Terry Taylor fame) never fails to deliver.
This may seem out of place but it is, in fact, right where it should be.
You see, I wasn’t allowed to listen to “secular” music growing up. Therefore I relied upon my friends in the Christian underground (there’s an underground everywhere…you just have to search) to supply me with original, thinking music for my teenage years. Now the DA and Daniel Amos stuff was delved into later in life, the Swirling Eddies were my soundtrack for many un-Christian activities.
Maybe I’ve been reflecting, maybe just enjoying well-written songs…we’ll never know. Or at least I won’t. The fact remains that when Terry Taylor dies he will be one of the forgotten geniuses of the 70s, 80s, 90s, and beyond.
Pissed Jeans
King of Jeans
This is the perfect example on how the “Best of…” lists are unfruitful, vaguely debatable, and all around useless. Nowhere was Pissed Jeans on a top ___ list, and why? Because lists make no sense.
This is Jesus Lizard power mixed with a bloody, honest delivery ala Darby Crash but without the dumbed-down nonchalance. Here is full-frontal posings on such things at keeping one up at night, the disagreement about wearing a certain colored shirt, and general misgivings that may have taught one something all delivered with such butter and ease that power drinking may come back into my lifestyle only to listen to these cuts.
Behemoth
Evangelion
The opposite of heaven is hell.
The opposite of happiness is sadness.
The opposite of explanation is Behemoth.
Brutal beyond belief. More melodic than thought could be possible. Talented as all get out.
Whoa.
It’s a good thing that Behemoth wasn’t at the feet of Jesus as he lay dying…he would’ve known that these souls are beyond redemption. And to boot they can write a waaaaaaay better song.
Enjoy an angel being ripped to shreds:
James Jackson Toth
Waiting in Vain
A singer/songwriter from Memphis known for his time in Wooden Wand and a fellow-columnist at Your Flesh, Toth immerses himself in what he knows: southern hospitality, hearth, and health. The heartbreak that comes with it is merely a side effect, but one that he has a penchant to write about.
Lay back and let your balls be grabbed by a thing as simple as a good song.
…I have to write this in two parts. There was just way too much cool shit this year.
C’mon, Chicago. I’s Only Kidding. November 22, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Friends and Future Enemies, Nonfiction.Tags: car crash, car thief, cemetery, chicago, chicago botanical garden, couch, crackheads, flickr, graceland, hopleaf, mannequin men, moving, photos, pride parade, relocating, robbery, simons, video, walkmen
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A friend in Chicago, Alan, left a good comment on the last post that got me to thinking that my diatribe on Chicago may convey a feeling of anger and resentment for the city. As if the monstrous metropolis offers nothing of beauty or enjoyment. Where everyday is a struggle to survive and every night one of fear due to the high rate of violence. Chicago is not at all scary or needed to be avoided. I love that City as if I had grown up there.
I took a drive tonight through the countryside of nighttime Hill Country. I thought about Chicago and I felt the first day I moved there in 1998 and the energy I felt throughout my being. I was out of the small town and in a place where things really happened; History itself is a citizen and by god I know he rides the Red Line. It was in Chicago that I learned about the scope of music, the inherent anger of people, and the potential gentleness of a friendship. Simply put, Chicago is the wonderful City and it will reign supreme as probably the most memorable place I have lived.
There are so many places that became my temporary Chicago homes: a few bars, the lakefront, various graveyards, train lines and bus routes, homes and apartments of close friends, certain streets and nooks dark and cold to passers-by.
After breaking my lease in Logan Square (for safety reasons and nothing else) I moved in with Johnny and his ex- in the Swedish neighborhood of Andersonville. Within walking distance were my two bars in the city, the Hopleaf and Simon’s. Hopleaf was for weeknights and early in the evening for dinner and catching up. Simon’s could be the same (as it later turned into for Johnny and I as all we did there was play Scrabble) but was utilized for purposes such as getting drunk and having sex with a stranger. Sure, the majority of the nights were spent debating music or simply unwinding after a week of numbing work. There were those nights, though, where the scope of the events took a few days to unfold and piece together. There was the girl that I encountered twice, and only twice, and each time ruined her birthday (exactly a year apart and under completely different circumstances). Then there was the extremely tall girl that demanded a make-out session on the smoking deck, hopped in a cab with me, and then got left by said cab after she asked to stop to pee and then stumbled down an alley, presumably towards her home. There was the (few) time(s) I got kicked out. Then the times of getting other people kicked out. The late night, after close talks with the guys. The amazing jukebox. The annual Glogg and Thanksgiving dinner. When I went there for what I knew would be the last time was both sweet and sour; each of us, my regular Simon’s group, got older. Drifted, I guess is the easy term. I just didn’t think it would be that easy to drift from someone…yet the memories retained in those bar stools will always be grin-worthy (it was, after all, the first bar I had ever drank at at the age of 19).
Sure, the winters are brutal, but it is these same deadly days that quiets the city, albeit for a moment or two. When the afternoon is bright with virgin snow, a walk down to the lakeshore is not only a good idea, it is a must-do. The silence of the library hushes the city for a short time and one’s own footsteps rhythmically drive you deeper into the cold and out of the streets to breath deep and cough out the frigid, clean air. Cars are scarce, screaming kids unheard, trapped inside to punish those that brought them to this place.
There are so many other things that make Chicago special. Instead of ruminating and coloring my keyboard with sappy old-story-vomit about me and my friends, I went through and dug out some pictures from my episodic time in Chicago.
Scoot in close and share this afghan with Emma and I and take a gander:
Ah, the car crash. No period in my life would be complete without one. Luckily no one was hurt and I didn't get dropped from my insurance for this one.
I deejayed a few parties in Bloomington, Indiana and Indianapolis. Chicago is where I started doing it professionally. And by professionally I mean pissing people off with my lack of "dancable" selection and my penchant for wanting to chase those dancers away.
Music is a lifeblood in Chicago. It is both home to a slew of amazing bands and amazing clubs to host touring bands from the ends of the weird ass Earth. I've stood next to Jeff Mangum, served Sleater Kinney coffee, and HEARD a story about DMX coming in after hours to a friend's work to buy champagne.
A cold winter's night and Nico has a lovely bouquet of flowers. They are neither from me nor for her. Touching, nonetheless.
Booze is essential for flying comfortably. How else can one put up with the hell that is O'Hare? Midway's fine, by the way.
Rooftops are both fun and habitable for short periods of time in Chicago. Grab a beer, get some sun, and invariably spit on various things below.
Old apartments are a great find in Chicago. The rooms are large and sometimes deemed "clean enough" to be graced by now ex-girlfriends.
I'm confused on whether or not I should eat that snow.
The plantlife that lives through the winters are truly spectacular. This is a true storyteller's cue to go, "This here tree has many stories, but I'm gonna tell you just one..."
Brooklyn is known for its brownstones and Chicago is known for its three-flats. Although very alike in nature, some are nicer than others.
Dad Joke #412: I don't know what turns me on more...the picture of the couple fucking or the light switch.
The Mannequin Men live in the dead of winter at some bar off of Irving that I forgot the name of. Chicago's music has a sour, maligned taste to it. I mean that in the best of ways. There is absolutely nothing that sounds like music from Chicago. Dig the Jesus Lizard and you will know.
The street fests in Chicago are legendary for drunkeness, excellent music (this was taken at the Walkmen performance), and free entry (you have to argue, but it is the law because it is a public street). Summer is short and fucking sweet.
On the contrary, the winter time lakefront is notoriously frigid and not enjoyable. A 750mL bottle of good beer, though, can make every situation awesome.
I did not do this nor was this mine. A friend and I just happened upon it one night and had to laugh in disbelief. For what reason, I don't know. Chicago is notoriously rough, only if you're affiliated. For the most part. I guess. Hell, how should I know? There were business cards strewn about and I called the number on it. No one picked up (as it was 2:00am) so I left the message no one wants to leave, "This is the coroner of the pedestrian division of the Streets and Sanitation of Chicago. I'm sorry to inform you but your vehicle has been broken the fuck into."
As I stated before the street festivals are a wonderful addition to the mild Chicago summers. I broke my foot after this fantastic show.
My much-written about neighbor, Ugly Building East, aka Crisco Tower. It both haunted me and intrigued me. Just HOW MUCH male prostitution was going on in there (hence 'Crisco Tower')?
I was lucky enough to live a few blocks east of the famed Graceland Cemetery. I made it a habit to walk by everytime I headed west.
If there is one thing that Chicagoans are proud of it's those few days a year that the cops don't care if you drink outside. At the Pride Parade it is nearly encouraged.
The power of a pillow and the safety of a sheet of paper. Ladies and gentlemen, the printed-at-home mask.
The benefit of the Chicago three-flat is the nearly universal back porch/fire escape. Contructed of wood and large enough to house chairs, tables, plants, arguements, board games, party spill-overs, and landlord/tenant spats, these utilitarian spaces are home to great stories.
Balloons for surprise welcome: Stolen. Sign for surprise welcome: Homemade. Hosting long lost best friend Mad Jack for a weekend: Priceless.
A hot, sunny day inside a mosaic skull. Chicago never ceases to wonder.
Johnny inside the Hopleaf. The only place I've found where 11% beer, sweet breads, and hilarious encounters intersect peacefully.
Though previously posted a while ago, this is needed only as a nice ending to this post on Chicago and everything about it. Here are two examples of the best part, the people; Johnny, my best friend, and his girlfriend, Nora, have been arguing about what to do with her old couch. Johnny and I decide that, obviously, you throw it off the porch. You know, for the hell of it. She kept saying that it would hit the downstairs neighbor’s railing but Johnny insisted that that would be impossible. You can hear her final plea, “Jonathan, it’s gonna hit the neighbor’s thing.” He argues and then hilarity ensues. The landlord fixed the railing after Nora deemed it an accident.
The landlord fixed the railing after Nora deemed it an accident.
Well, I can’t resist. Here is another aspect of Chicago: crackheads. You know ‘em and part of you wants to love ‘em, but, man…hand jamming a dumpster? Best line: “Hey, man? What’re you trying to grab?”
Travelling Such a Distance Makes it Near Impossible to Hold All of This in One’s Hands November 18, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Friends and Future Enemies, Nonfiction.Tags: austin, making new frineds, move, relocate, shrinebuilder, texas
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Everyone knows that moving to a new city can be stressful. There is the actual lifting and relocating of all your valuables, coordinating said moving with kind-hearted helpers, reserving a truck and/or storage space, and then finding a job/apartment/etc. in the new location. Add to that moving to a city completely foreign to you and you can top it all of with finding like-minded individuals, places to go/eat/drink, and general cultural differences. I am fully aware of all these things as I have moved countless times. This time, however, it is the location that is something altogether different.
As you may or may not know I have moved to Austin, Texas. As you also may or may not know I had never been to Austin, nor Texas for that matter, in my life. Why move from the Midwest, you ask? Well, there are a number of reasons:
- I feel that living in the Midwest my entire life has made me a little too comfortable. I know the dialects, the inter-state feuds (Indiana vs. Kentucky, Indiana vs. Michigan, Indiana vs. Ohio, but for some reason I am unaware of an Indiana vs. Illinois), and how to get to many, many places of interest via short cuts.
- I am through with winter. The four seasons are nice but the best city in the Midwest to live in, Chicago, only really has
Chicago winter. If there is a god this is when he turns his back.
three: blistering summer (one to two weeks), frigid winter (months on end), and the rest of the year which simply entails spring/fall weather and a rarely sunny sky. What always got me was the winter, though, and that goes especially for Chicago. Standing and waiting for the bus, which would always take longer than expected ESPECIALLY in the biting winter, while the snot stuck frozen to your face only to board an overcrowded, grumbling bus took some years off of my life. Knee deep snow forced everyone indoors for long, unhealthy periods of time. I feel that I permanently lost some of my social skills during these times.
- The anger and hatred in Chicago is nearly overwhelming, including that of my own. The violence there is no mystery to anyone, but the attitude of the general public is something truly to behold. A few days before I left the city for good, for instance, there were two elderly women in a screaming match that simply entailed, “FUCK YOU!” “NO, FUCK YOU. BRING IT ON!” “YOU COME HERE YOU FUCKING BITCH…YOU HOMELESS WORTHLESS SACK OF SHIT…,” etc. I found myself shrugging it off and just passing
Jackson Blvd. The obvious place to kill your once-loved one.
by, which alarmed me. In another episode close to my departure was a woman running down the middle of Jackson Blvd. downtown screaming while a man chased her yelling, “I’m gonna kill you bitch! You’re dead, you bitch!” After failing to do so he meandered back from whence he came telling all of the passers-by, “Yeah, you heard me. You heard what I said.” I looked around and actually saw people laughing at the drama and, worst of all, found myself joining in on the laughter. When one sees scenes like this almost daily it becomes easier and easier to brush it off…to transform society into a bunch of numbers and beings that do not affect you. I had become that which is the complete opposite of myself, one without compassion. This does not make for a healthy mindset plain and simple.
So, Austin it was. I wanted to move somewhere without a winter but was also affordable. A thriving arts and music scene would be great, too. Though the decision was easy, the transition has not been.
Luckily I had saved up ample money for the move because with things like this surprises always come about. For instance, I lived in a hotel for two weeks while apartment hunting. Anyone should know that that is a long, and pricey, stay in a place that will never, ever feel like any sort of home. They took care of myself and Emma well enough. They gave her a bag of treats and a bandanna to wear and they gave me a bill that was larger than anything I’ve ever paid at one time (until I bought my car, that is). They knew me by name everywhere. The bartender once said, “Wow. You’re still here.” The guy in the restaurant knew how I took my coffee. The front desk asked about Emma and never myself. I was never so happy to hand over multiple checks to a landlord.
Now that I have a place, car, and a semi-regular job the final step, the hardest step, is upon me. I have no close friends. I am not the social butterfly type by any means but the isolation and and near-loneliness has been affecting me more great than I thought it would. Yesterday was a memorable time for that.
I awoke and started my morning ritual. Turning the coffee grinder on, I was reminded that I am almost out as it revved the engine to unsafe RPMs without the hard cherry pits to slow its movement. Shit. I gulped the last of it and paced. And looked through records. And looked at Emma. And then retreated back to bed for an unneeded nap. Sleep didn’t come. Just a mass of jelly thoughts spread over my entire psyche…was this the right decision? With no food in my system a confusion washed over me as to what to do to remedy this. I decided upon a cafe in the neighborhood that seemed slightly promising…except that it was all vegetarian. No matter, I thought, and sat in the booth thumbing through The Onion as is my habit in public places when dining alone. As I began eating, the charm on my necklace, my good luck Turkish evil eye given to me by a dear friend from Turkey, simply fell off. I fished it out of my shirt and then worried what in the hell could this be a sign of.
I ventured back home and then off to work. Work is at a restaurant that is something akin to what I’m into…good, simple, yet creative food in a laid-back atmosphere. The staff all seem very nice and into similar things as I but as we all know nearly every work environment has a social caste not that much unlike a high school that you may have been forced to start half-way through. Everyone, it seems, has a history together. I am not the type that needs to be involved in a lot, I do have a lot going on for myself, but the fact that I have trouble starting conversations about something that I can relate to rears up and punches me right in the face. This is when I drifted towards the two long-haired dudes covered in tattoos for some solace.
“I assume you’re into metal, right?” I say this from my button up/sweater combo. A sure giveaway for a hipster-metal douche. Unfortunately, one cannot begin a conversation with, “Don’t judge me by my choice of clothing…I have been listening to death metal since the age of 14…”
“Yeah.”
“You going to that Shrinebuilder show tonight?”
“Oh, yeah man. It’s gonna be awesome. Total supergroup.” And then he proceeded to list off the incorrect bands that they were from.
Not wanting to be that guy I bit my tongue and continued. “I’ve never been to Emo’s. What’s the lowdown?”
He told me the gist and then walked away. That was good enough, I thought. A sure beginning to something. I haven’t talked to the guy since. He seems nice enough, sure, but he probably assumes that we have nothing in common which is fair enough. I am thankful, however, that I don’t have any sort of self-image issues…I would be even more of a wreck now. I do thoroughly enjoy my own company and thinks everyone should also. If not, meh. Not my problem. It doesn’t solve my lack of a circle of any kind, though, which I know will come with time.
I did not even make it to the show, after all. I was on my way out the door with keys in hand. It was Emma’s face that kept me home. In her sorrow-filled brown eyes I saw my own face distraught at these new surroundings, the lack of familiarity (she was best buds with the neighbors and many others in the Chicago area), and a general loneliness as I had been at work for five hours. So at home I stayed, listening to records, wrestling with her, and staying up late watching a surprisingly good movie.
I am fully aware of this post’s uncharacteristic downer quality and do not plan to relay it again and again in the future. As is fully aware to anyone reading I haven’t had that connection with someone that I can really talk to so it is here that I have gotten it off of my chest and into the warm, sunny air of the internet. Time will pass and things will happen whether I am confused and in a mental lull or not, I am aware. There have been many positives involved with this move, too, and some interesting stories which will be shared at a future date (including my first visit to a strip club, which just reassured my reasoning for never wanting to go to one in the first place).
Here’s to a warm winter and a Christmas that includes beers on a patio. Suck it, Chicago.
“On the run from Johnny Law. Ain’t no trip to Cleveland.” – Dignan, pt. 2 October 26, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Friends and Future Enemies, Nonfiction.Tags: arkansas, austin, elvis, memphis, move, raod trip, relocate, tennessee, texas
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We awoke at 6:00 am in the gray mist of the woods licking the windows of the exact opposite of nature, the cab of a 16 foot moving truck. With back and
Morning: Nature's smoking lounge.
neck sore and face and mind and hair tussed to an almost unrecognizable mish mash of homeless confusion I started up the monster and continued on to the next town, Tupelo, Mississippi. Though I could be happy with driving the Natchez Parkway forever, I decided it would be best to reapply myself to the interstate highway system so as to make it to Austin before I forget where it is the hell I am driving to.
45 minutes and we pull in to Uncle Tupelo and I spot a Waffle House directly ahead. Luckily it is the south and they have parking spaces suitable for a truck of this size. I leave Emma behind with bowls of food and water, which she doesn’t touch, and I enter the restaurant. All three women working exclaim, “GOOD MORNING,” simultaneously and my mind snaps back into society. It is the familiar setup with a counter that goes half the length of the restaurant warmed by blue collars talking about local issues, work days, and college football. I seat myself in a booth and respond to her wonderings of my well-being with a, “Tired. I just woke up.”
“Looks like it. Coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Looks like it? Hmmm. I guess it’s better than, ‘Smells like it.’
Chef Ramsay basking in his love for a being that is not a "Yankee Dankee Doodle fuck."
I perused the menu as if this Waffle House had other breakfast offerings than the countless others. ‘Maybe this is the test market where the CHEF tries out new offerings.’ My sleepy mind got excited for an instant until I re-centered myself in these surroundings and realized the closest thing there is to a chef in here is a dirty apron. My imagination has the ability to entertain me for days but also get my hopes up into something that is completely unrealistic.
I devoured my generic breakfast in record time (I hadn’t eaten since lunch the prior day) and planned out the drive to the next city, Memphis. I paid up and was taken a bit back as the waitress’s once jovial attitude into my well-being turning into an attitude of getting me the hell out of there as soon as possible. With tip in hand I guess goodbyes are much less important. No matter.
I returned to the truck to see that I had left the back completely open (after I retrieved Emma’s food). Luckily no one messed with anything…or maybe they had and realized that most everything I had was of no use to them. (“Well, Bobby, sorry to call you down here. I thought this was gonna be a gold mine but…I don’t think we can even sell these heavy metal records around here…let alone a wizard painting and dirty sheets. ‘Mon, let’s get.”) I climbed into the cab/bedroom and headed out.
Black background. WHOA EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED NOW.
Something that always interested me was the varying street signs in each state. Growing up in Indiana and riding in the car for hours on end visiting family I would constantly watch the reflecting informations zip by, fascinated by the shapes and numbers. The first time we had driven out-of-state I was so impressed with their signs…some in the shape of the state…others just circles…strange numbers and letters…all of it awe-inspiring. I think that this has carried into my adult life as I still anticipate the crossing of a state line just to see what their signs are gonna look like. I have to say that after traveling through most of the states that my childhood was robbed of actual cool signs (Texas has highway signs in both white AND BLACK. Super cool).
The only thing worse than Elvis is...god damn. We're all revelling in it.
Under perpetual gray skies, I arrived in Memphis (I guess the iPhone thought it best to go north to catch an interstate rather than continue south…or something. I am too trusting) and it was inevitable that Elvis would cross my mind. I even thought of detouring over to Graceland but then realized the ridiculousness of such a thing – ridiculous in that I hate that guy and his music. Elvis, to me, is the poster child of excess and forgetting where one came from. Sure, he was groundbreaking for his time but if the country, at that time, was a true place of freedom and equality and not the god-loving and black-hating place it was Elvis would’ve been nothing except another white guy trying to sound like he had a soul, one like a black man. Rock N’ Roll was, and still is, meant to be dangerous…this includes doing things other than swiveling one’s hips in a fully-clothed shock to only old white people. Case in point: Chuck Berry loved to have women shit in his mouth. Memphis should be remembered, along with New Orleans, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland…hell, too many to name. Point being Elvis is the king of nothing except possibly the birth of American hype; sensational yet so goddamned empty.
As noted in pt. 1 Tennessee has a big problem with not properly identifying roads and exits and general locale (automatically omitting themselves from my mind’s coveted Best State Highway Signs award). Couple the bad markings with shoddy construction happening in the general area I needed for the connection to my interstate highway and I was driving in circles, ovals, and squares eventually ending up in a neighborhood with boards and wheelchairs like others have citizens. What makes this situation even more frustrating is that I was paralleling the road I needed but had no way to get there. One hour and countless grimaces later I found myself on the highway headed for the beautiful Arkansas, the “Natural State”.
Little Rock was pretty enough to look around but uninteresting enough to keep going. Heading south I was readying myself to pass through both Arkadelphia AND Texarkana. Now, mind you, Texarkana is an understandable name for a town that straddles the state line…but Arkadelphia? They must’ve also had a bell struck by lightning…
One last stop before Texas. A fill up at a truck stop that was adjacent to a CB radio fix it shop and a liquor store. Not bad. Another painful fill up and a cup of coffee and I was on the road again.
I expected the coffee to be bad, but not to be infused with a booze of some sort. Maybe it was my rattled brain having not a good night’s sleep in what seems weeks or I was just hoping…but the coffee both smelled and tasted like there was whiskey in it. I did leave it unattended for a second while I grabbed a lid and, yes, there were trucker dudes milling about but I seriously doubt they would sneak something in it. Maybe there were two canisters, one for coffee and the other for Bobby Joe’s coffee which shouldn’t be partaken of. I decided to drink it anyway and “just see” if it was and sure enough my head lightened up…but, then again, I was also CONVINCED there was whiskey in it so it may have been a placebo effect. I will just never know. I do know that for the next road trip I am setting up my camp stove and stovetop espresso for the journey. If I want whiskey in my coffee I will do it myself on my own time. And not included in that time is driving 1700 miles across the country.
I reach Texarkana and, like a welcome, the gray skies opened up to warm sunshine and stars placed on all the overpasses. I must be in Texas. I wanted to talk to every driver passing me just to get a feel for what I have to (hopefully) look forward to. I have to remember though that there is Texas and then there’s Austin. I’ll just keep my piehole shut until I get to Austin. I may not be liked around these parts.
Coolest cop to be pulled over by. Unless it's that fucker, Brady...
The drive was incredibly uneventful but nonetheless beautiful. War planes of all sorts overhead. Guns shops. Texas highway patrol. Everything is just as I would’ve imagined it if I had ever imagined Texas wasteland, I suppose. Dallas was just a spit away and it was here that my heart began to pound. Closer and closer my future life is a mere hundreds of miles away. ‘Roll down the window and breathe in the Texas air and surrender yourself to the horizon.’
Pasghetti and Meat Bulbs.
Timing is everything and it is to blame for my arrival in Dallas at rush hour. In Texas they seemingly converge all of the highway transitions into small areas making these multi-layered dried spaghetti messes that are both awesome and frightening. Unlike Tennessee, though, Texas has everything clearly marked making my highway switch in the middle of rush hour not so painful. Another thing: Texas motorists are extremely polite. Never did I have to wait to merge or become surprised at someone’s sudden lane change; everything in it’s right place. Of course I am coming from a place that exclaims a choir of horns as soon as the light turns green. Bah…despite where I live I will never, ever miss the underlying anger and disrespect that seems to infect the majority of the layman population.
Now onto Waco and onto a new short term goal: take a road trip to the site of the Koresh compound only for photo opportunities. I’m sure there has to be some sort of memorial or remembrance there…or maybe not. I do need to go, though. (Ironically I was in Government class in high school when the shit went down. The teacher, Mr. Smith [whom everone called Santa for reasons I do not need to go into] had us watch it as an exercise of “History in the making/Your government at work”. What I, and everyone else, saw that day was truly the government at work. Do some reading on the situation. Much like a dude in a bar, all I can say is, “Fucked up, man.”)
The sun setting and the air warming, I am a true road warrior by this point. My prowess with this monster is impressive, I must say, and the piloting it has become almost enjoyable. The governor is set at 75mph so all I have to do is keep it floored and scoff at the people who sporadically slow down/speed up much like if they were…oh, they are on their cell phones. Now hillier the night air is yet becoming even more warm. An outstretched hand out the window reveals air not that unlike what you find in a pissed diaper. I’m fine with it. The only time I want to see the 30s now is in a Charlie Chaplin film (which were done in a studio I would regularly pass on my way to my bar in Chicago).
Christ hates long drives.
I see lights on the horizon and convince myself that I have arrived. What I don’t realize is the spread that the surrounding metropolitan area has; at the first onset of never-ending lights I had another 40 miles to go. No worries…just dips underneath overpasses and death metal on the stereo to truly summon in the night. Countless mini-civilizations teased my brain and heart. Emma slept. Lights everywhere. Cars, trucks, buses, information. Those 40 miles are now an identical blur to each other.
I saw no welcome sign. Just a sign that read “Downtown Next 4 Exits”. Here it is.
It was 8:30pm and I had nowhere to go, no one expecting me (some friends knew that I was moving but didn’t know when), and no idea how to get through the city. I don’t recall if I had mentioned this before, but I had never been to Austin, nor Texas for that matter, in my life. What may be too much to handle for someone else, this is my method of operation. For some reason I have grown comfortable in this way; time saved by not planning and adventures waiting for the same reason.
I drove through downtown and pulled off on a side street to find a hotel for the night. I remembered one simply called the Austin Motel from perusing online. I found the number and called. They had one pet-friendly unit available for the night and I made my way over.
The Austin Motel was situated on South Congress (referred to as Soco only by local realtors) and “in the middle of it all,” which was fine and all but I planned on getting a six pack, drinking three, and going to sleep at an decent time. I met Drew, the night desk attendant, and he bummed me a cigarette and we talked about freelance writing (he was a book critic published in Paste and the much-touted Believer). I told him that I covered music but omitted the ‘metal’ part as people are instantly either intrigued (which is good) or turned off (the usual response). A short conversation about music and I moved some belongings into the room.
The Austin Motel was built in the 30s and wears its age with the utmost grace and poise. Each room is different, decorated in whatever the hell is kitschy and handy, and I instantly felt at home. I stretched out and enjoyed beer. As the muscles in my legs happily adjusted to a fully-stretched out relaxation they had forgotten in the past few days I drifted off to sleep quicker than I could weigh the pros and cons of sneaking a cigarette in this non smoking environment.
Sure, I had a lot of things to cover now that I had arrived (transferring the contents of the truck to a storage space, finding a place to live, and eventually finding a job) but it was impossible not to simply relish the fact that I had actually made it.
Chicago is but a memory now compromised of both sweet and sour.
Austin is a blank slate with which to form my own memories of henceforth.
There are countless questions/scenarios/worries plaguing me with this foreign place but all I can grasp and wallow in is that I’ve already done the hardest part which is releasing oneself from their current comforts.
When nothing is comfortable anything is possible.
And for your viewing pleasure:
“On the run from Johnny Law. Ain’t no trip to Cleveland.” -Dignan, pt.1 October 22, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Friends and Future Enemies, Nonfiction.Tags: bourbon, indiana, moving, natchez, penske, relocating, road trip, tennessee
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The preparations for moving are many and it is this that I always forget. Though I was unemployed for the last week and a half that I was in Chicago I was far from getting everything done/packed/cleaned before my big-hearted friends came over to help me load the behemoth truck. Amber summed it up best with, “What the hell were you doing the last week and a half?” Johnny’s reply of, “I can always count on you for pointing out the elephant in the room, Amber. None of us wanted to say it.” I just stood and shrugged. I really didn’t know.
Nature-loving brutal motherfuckers finally get to be heard.
Where I was supposed to leave Monday, I stayed an extra day to clean and put the last remaining things in the sixteen foot sedan-killer. Tuesday morning I awoke and looked at the vacant room around me, the sleeping bag on the floor that only half warmed my sleep (thank you, Emma, for warming my loins), and my computer where I had tried to fall asleep to Such Hawks Such Hounds but failed due to the excellent nature of the documentary. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It was too reminiscent of a place I had squatted in in Bloomington, Indiana (entered and exited through a window to my blanket and pillow on the floor next to a CD player with only one CD in my library seeing as how I had sold the rest of them to live) and only a future was ahead of me.
The truck was parked two blocks away and was thankfully still there when we turned the corner. The day was sunny and brisk holding steady in the 30s. I have always liked the ice blue color of the sky on a day such as this but would much rather enjoy it from the inside. We hopped in and fired it up. Now you may or may not remember but I only recently acquired my license after a ten-year hiatus from driving. Though I had taken numerous weekend camping trips over the summer I was always blessed with a small car to weave through the Chicago traffic. Now in a true monster (I was surprised I didn’t need a CDL to drive this fucker) I took a deep breath and blasted the latest Converge album, kicked it into ‘D,’ and cursed anyone who dared to cut me off. (I’m not gonna shuffle around my belongings to stop quickly for any prick that is stupid enough to get in front of this death machine.) Luckily I only had two turns to make to get on the interstate and it went by pretty smooth.
I left at 11:00am so as to miss the morning rush. What I forgot is the Dan Ryan in Chicago knows no slow time; lane after lane of asses with cellphones in their talking cracks going every which way is enough to force one to actually put up with the CTA. Shudder. As the skyline shrank in my nonexistent rear view mirror I envisioned Chicago as Springwood, Ohio and therefore
Breathe deep the Jameson breath of Daley.
impossible to leave. In 30 minutes I was never so happy to see the ‘Welcome to Indiana’ sign woosh overhead.
I understand why people in Chicago always think of Indiana as a horribly ugly place. The northern half of the state is just that. Flat, dumb, and incredibly bland. The whipped cream on this hideous place is Indianapolis, home to the greatest football team, the most boring downtown, and some of the dearest people that I know. Three breaths and I was through the Crossroads of America and into the promised land, at least as far as Indiana is concerened.
Southern Indiana is truly beautiful. Maybe not from interstate 65, but I know, from growing up there, that it holds pockets of truly breathtaking scenes. (Brown County, Lawrence County [where I was reared], and Monroe County…truly a trifecta, er, triFUCKYEAH of nature.) Rolling through and over and under I reflect on my life in the midwest. 21 years in Indiana and roughly 10 in Chicago. The excitement of the approach of each of the four seasons. Christmases young and old. Child birthdays morphed into drunk birthdays. Forays by road and air to countless places. Good loves and bad loves. This is where I have attempted to figure everything out only to figure out that it can’t be figured out. Everything just moves all the time. With the Ohio River just ahead I waved goodbye to Indiana for what may be the last time. You big boot, you Hoosier, I hate to love you but it is impossible not to.
Pulling into the first filling station I had thought, “Huh…this gets pretty good gas mileage. I made it this far without a fill up!” Then I stood and watched the amount of gas blasting into the tank. The pump automatically stopped at $75.00, possibly because no one ever buys this much gas so surely it must be spilling all over the pavement. I just stopped there not really wanting to know how much it would REALLY hold and pulled out.
They wouldn't let me even TRY to swing it. Whatever.
Louisville. City traffic pt. 3. My death monster annoys other drivers as much as they annoy me. No one lets you merge. No one understands when you accidentally veer into another lane and consciously inch back over. With change comes sacrifice and with this I am sacrificing peace of mind, comfort, and a steady heartbeat. With every exit and merge and jerk move I gasp and curse and point to the sky with the tallest finger. The absence of buildings comforts the mind and unwhitens my knuckles to again relax and lose my mind in the music.
Resisting the urge to pull off at the countless bourbon distilleries on the way I venture onto Tennessee. The expanse of the mountains is belittling. As the truck barreled down the sides, the momentum carrying us halfway up the next climb, it was impossible not to couple it with life’s breaths. Heaves. Failings and accomplishments. The wonder of what is over the next crest. Death and life are equal at this point and it is only with steps forward that one finds which is waiting for them.
The destination for the first night is the Natchez Parkway, a 400+ mile foray into the woods of the south. There are a few backpacking places that I read about and was determined to find. Unfortunately it was 9:00pm by this point and Tennessee will now forever be remembered by me as ‘The State With Shitty Road Markings That More Often Than Not Remain Dark Even With Headlights Directly On Them.’ Coolest bumper sticker ever.
I found myself in a small, small, small town looking for an entrance to the Parkway. As I passed countless bars and sideroads I decided to go with my guts and start down a one lane country road. In the death monster. My gut can be a fucker sometimes. Luckily I only encountered one other auto, a truck that repeatedly flashed its lights at me. “Is he saying stop? Don’t go further? What the hell?” I continued and realized that this was going nowhere fast. I managed to turn the beast around and head back from whence I came and find another way to get lost. One that hopefully would not involve being anally raped and left for dead while Emma would have to feast on my body for nourishment until she finally succumbed to the death grip.
I stayed on the main road thinking that surely there would be a sign somewhere for this goddamn parkway. GIVE ME FUCKING BEAUTY AND NATURE ALREADY. Ten miles and there was a sign! Good job, Tennessee! And it is here that I left civilization…
Two lanes and a 50mph speed limit did not afford good travel time but with the beauty all cares went out the window. In most places the woods was set off
The presence of man never looked so beautiful.
about ten feet from the road which is something the parks department does for the sake of the animals. You see, if the woods is set off like that you have more time to see an approaching animal and therefore have time to brake to let the scared-shitless beast time to cross and have a dirty, happy life. (This is something I learned from Adam in Alaska…except they do it up there for the moose because those will kill you and your car in the middle of nowhere.) Around nearly every bend was a small gathering of deer munching on the mown grass (a neighbor explained to my father and me as a kid that mown grass is like candy to horses so I assume it is the same for deer…that man was later incarcerated for manslaughter) and more often than not running alongside the truck but, luckily, never coming any closer. I reduced my speed to 30mph to both take in the scenery and protect any wildlife that I may not see.
I finally noticed the mile markers on the sides of the road. It read 440. The trailhead I was looking for was at 218. At 30mph I knew there was no way I was gonna make it. Any other person would’ve probably sped up so as to reach their destination sooner but I chose to remain at my constant 30mph. After all the reason for taking this road was for the beauty and not the efficiency. I had no job or place to live waiting for me in Texas so I might as well enjoy it, right? Indeed. My new plan was to drive until I got sleepy and then pull off to one of the many stops and just sleep in the truck. Can’t be all that bad, right? I mean sure there was my 65lb. pack, an 85lb. dog, and bucket seats…when one is tired they can sleep anywhere. At least I can.
I passed a sign that read Devil’s Backbone. Wow. I’ve only heard of it and never had the opportunity to hike it. Why not at midnight? Fortunately, for my own safety, my hiking boots were packed away and I only had my beat up Chucks therefore dissuading me from any attempts at night hiking. I did, however, stop and just take in the woody air and stretch out a little bit. I looked at the physical map and measured the distance to the trailhead. Nope. Not gonna make the trailhead.
I traveled another 20 or 30 miles like this until finally I had no choice but to pull over. The night air crept in and moistened the interior and quieted my entire body. Time for sleep. But how?
I tried to fill the gap between the seats with the pack and my other bag but it just wasn’t cutting it. On top of that, Emma’s size pretty much ensconced the other seat so I had no place to lay my head. I guess it’ll just have to be upright in the seat.
Try to stretch out…
Use the jacket as the pillow against the door…
Ow, my back…
My neck…
Here, like this…
This…will…have…to…do…
In the Wild You’re Allowed to Eat Anything You Want, pt. 3 September 8, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Friends and Future Enemies, Nonfiction.1 comment so far
It was a shit day and it is in those times where my decisions can be made quickly and effectively. The inner monologue reads something like:
“Crap. There are too many people on this train. I bet Iowa doesn’t have a lot of people. I’m going to Iowa tomorrow.”
I went home to my roommate and asked her what she thought about it. As Emma cocked her head at the inflection of the question I thought better. “I’ll print off a map to show you…here, see?” She then farted the green light.
The fine fellows over at Enterprise are beginning to know me. “Where are you off to this weekend?”
“Amateur demolition derby in Iowa.”
<silence>
“Really I’m just camping. Again. The Iowa part was true.”
I then explained the lay of the Yellow River State Forest nestled in the northeast corner of the State That Everyone Forgets Exists. The Yellow River is a main northern tributary to the Mississippi River and thankfully the state has designated quite a large area as a state forest pushing out RV campers, shitty river trailers, and gawdy boat ramps.
The drive began on the Kennedy, a well-known nightmare interstate heading west out of Chicago. To add to the suicidal melee that is the clogged artery construction had closed all lanes BUT ONE. And with the pile of errands needed before my departure (previously covered freeze-dried yumminess, tobacco, and the like) I found myself in the heart of rush hour. My nonchalance at the whole gridlocked mindfuck was due to the fact that I knew that in a matter of hours I would be in the middle of nowhere away from these asses preventing and sort of efficient movement. I thumbed through my portable metal collection and joked with Emma about federal funds given to state for the improvement of the American infrastructure (which she’s really into) and how I actually helped pay for this. She summed it up perfectly with, “Life’s funny, huh, master?”
(I am not delusional nor does Emma speak English.)
Out of gridlock and on the open road. I always have an internal debate on the safe speed to drive. 10 mph over the limit? 9 mph seems safer as far as tickets go. Unfortunately the rental had no cruise control so in actuality I was lucky to merely maintain a constant speed. As I sped further and further away from the City of Rude Shoulders my smile grew wider and my legs became more antsy.
Only as clear as a cellphone travelling at 60mph will let it be.
Passing through Wisconsin I found myself dumbfounded at a wind farm just off the highway. The sheer mass and movement of these monolithic turbines baffled me. So quiet and so useful they rested permanently facing the same direction, some fast and some slow. It is these differences that sets my mind to wonder, “…well, they are made of cells like us…is there an inkling of personality in each? I think so. #23 is just sitting there while #12 and #41 are really going for the gold. They should chop #23 down as a lesson to freeloaders.”
Now with sun setting and the Forest a few hours away still I retreated deeper into my noodle as if around the campfire already. Ideas mentally scribbled and goals adjusted to better the chance of attainability.
Why is it that I remain in a city that I have grown to only sort of like anymore?
Is it my friends? I couldn’t find those fuckers anywhere else, I know…but should I remain for them? Would they for me?
I want to see stars every night. Where could I make that happen?
Am I in a place where I am able to move?
What would I sell and what would I keep?
Where am I?
Like a beacon in the blue evening the Mississippi spread out in front of me as I descended into one of the most beautiful valleys in the world. The breadth of that behemoth is truly a wonder. Like a more scenic English Channel. What my grandfather’s creek looked like to an ant. The jugular of the lower 48. If it weren’t for the guardrails I may have just driven straight into it, not from a wish to die but to live. To feel the water around me that second. Of course if I had done that I would’ve cursed myself for both stranding myself and, most likely, killing my love and partner in adventure. Stay on the road!
A few turns and I was on a highway not unlike Highway 3 in Alaska through the Chugach Range with the railroad paralleling on the side. I stuck my head out of the window, mimicking Emma, and breathed in the clean air and dirty bugs.
The only stress in nature is survival. And only the strong survive. It is these tests that make the heart beat and the mind delve into ideas. This is living in the truest form in that it is the meaning of life. Go, go, go. Always forward.
State Forest Road happened upon me almost before I was ready. I turned and winded back further from the exposed horizon line and into the shoulder to shoulder trees. The air grew cooler and thickened with the flying insects. Miles go by until a small wooden sign simply reading “Trailheads” slowed its approach to my right. (A brief, bad idea: matching T-shirts for Emma and I that simply says Trailheadz.) We pulled into the lot and stretched legs/relieved bladders. While Emma waited chained to a stake I partook in my favorite pre-hike traditions:
- Check all supplies/needs and leave unneeds in glove compartment.
- Rest the pack on the back bumper at a height that makes the initial lift much easier.
- Arms through straps and a final reflection upon the modern world. Deep, I know.
- Turning on the headlamp. It is at this point I feel completely surrendered.
I invested in a pack for Emma with small side bags not unlike a mule’s. It was the perfect size for her food and my whiskey and with her muscular make up not at all impeding on her ability to move. Then I forgot it was Emma, Emmy Award winner for Best Dramatic Dog. At first it was only growls. Then a refusal to walk straight ahead. Then wimpering. Finally, before even making it to the trailhead, I turned and she had lie down on her side. It was like trying to walk a cat after a stroke; the creature didn’t even give it a shot. What a quitter. I am not one to force my will so I had no choice but to remove my already heavy pack (60-70lbs) so as to squeeze her pack inside of mine. (I wish it was as sexy as what is going through your head at that statement.) With no car bumper to rest the pack on I submitted to a full squat and continued onto the trail.
A beacon in the dead of night. Only 6 miles to sleep.
The sign read “MOST DIFFICULT” so I knew I was in the right place. I knew I didn’t want to come across anyone, especially novice campers, children, yippy dogs, or even another campfire for that matter. It turned out to basically be a moist creek bed complete with boulders, fell trees, and a grade steep enough to wind me every half mile or so. A few forks, a few breaks to take in the night, and a few, “Where in the hell are you, Emma?”’s and we happened upon the first campsite. Two fire rings and cleared areas seemed fine enough but the visibility from the trail turned me off enough to keep searching. Luckily I discovered a small trail leading from one of the clearings into the woods where I found my favorite campsite to this day.
Greatest campsite ever. Hands down.
A perfect, natural circle skirted by old pines and underbrush galore. The sexiness and contrast of brown needles to green evergreen saplings dropped my jaw and shattered my psyche. I removed my pack and stood in wonder for what seems like hours. It gave real meaning to the term ‘getting wood.’ The inhuman sounds got my feet and hands to working for kindling. Axe in hand and fell trees aplenty, I stacked a healthy pile next to my self-made pit (at least three inches deep with dirt piled in a crown due to the absence of safety rocks) and began with my favorite fire starter, a boom box blasting Prodigy’s “Firestarter”. But really…cotton balls and Jewel brand petroleum jelly (only due to its thrifty price…any will do). Crackling, bright needles gave way to large, smelly-sappy pine hunks in no time and within 15 minutes I was seated with crossed feet and Maker’s Mark in hand.
It was here that I nearly decided to move from Chicago before the end of the year. Destination and purpose to be explained later.
Now fresh in the head with a whole new plan I retired into the tent. Emma’s love for sleeping with me, honestly, doubles my pleasure in camping. Sure, she does it at home (well, most of the time. She’s grown to love the floor of my closet quite a bit) but it is the protection and warmth that she offers that cannot be found with anything else. Guns are only warm after you shoot them. And you have to be awake to do so. This is why dogs are better. And the fact that guns have no loyalty. I can’t get behind that.
Wet, new day. Dew glistening and it looks like an advertisement for something that in actuality has nothing to do with the woods…like soap or menthol cigarettes. After realizing that all of our water is gone I quickly packed and headed south to Big Paint Creek, a mere mile and a half.
The morning hike brought new noises and new smells, nature changing every second. The sound of running water set my mouth to follow. A few steps down the banks of a dried tributary and we found ourselves at the quaint life-giver. Water filter now in full effect, I quickly filled the bottle and set about firing up the stove and coffee and a breakfast of Pasta Primavera (The only disgusting freeze-dried meal I’ve come across is bacon and eggs…therefore
Breakfast for dinner is awesome. Dinner for breakfast is awesomely iffy.
breakfasts usually consist of dinners.). With nothing but wind, a wandering dog (waiting her turn for the remnants of my pot o’ pasta), and a running creek I dined on the greatest meal one could ask for. (In the woods each meal replenishes the famished body, therefore always the best meal in the world.)
Satiated, Emma and I decide to follow the creek to a trail that finishes atop a short peak for a, hopefully, stunning overlook. As the brush grew heavy I made a mental note to either buy a machete or stick to the trails. Sure, I didn’t know how much further this nearly impassable wall of weeds would go but forward is always better than backward. Right? On and on and finally…a road? I consulted the map and realized my folly…this was Little Paint Creek. I was only slightly off course but now that I had my bearings the trail should just be up here. Little further. No, just up here.
Whew. Here it is.
Just off the trail I saw a kitten lying down in the brush. Being so close to the road I thought that it may have been hit by a car so I concocted my Hero Plan of Action:
- Chain Emma to a tree so as to not eat the kitten.
- Approach slowly and let the beast smell my hand and pet it for a few seconds to calm it.
- Pick it up, being careful not to move it too much in case of broken bones.
- Loosely tie it to the top of my pack and find a building or a passing car to get it help ASAP.
- Pat myself on the back for being such a good person.
With Emma chained and wondering why, I slowly approached. The black and white tissue box darted its eyes towards me and I slowed. A few high pitched meows and it immediately bolted away from me and to…the saw mill that rested 50 yards away that I had somehow not seen. Huh. Okay. Kitten’s fine. Lives at a sawmill, I suppose. I retrieved the confused dog and ventured to the sawmill to do a little investigation.
A sign greeted me explaining the presence of the mill. It was owned and operated by the DNR. Because of the forest fire prevention set in place, lighting
Serial killer's sleeping quarters.
rarely ignites a forest fire. As you know fires are needed to refresh a forest. Wash it so to speak.
We continued down a horse trail that eventually opened up to a fork. Without a sign in place I consulted my long term friend Guts and chose the high road. Up and up we climbed until finally we came to a clearing with a stunning tree complete with scratches of lovers and fellow hikers that had made it this far. After a misstep and a
They are either dead or pregnant now.
near topple over the ravine (the near-death of the situation occurred to me only a few minutes after the event…WHOA) I retrieved a cigarette and a dram of whiskey so as to enjoy the overlook properly. Distant trees never move in the wind and seem as insignificant as lint. A road could be seen a few miles away and shared with the trees an insignificance to distant eyes. Cars were marbles slowly following the path somewhere far, far away from me. Good riddance. Standing up and hoisting the pack again we turned and started the descent. More people on horseback and smiles and greetings were exchanged. Folks that descend into the woods are the best kind: solitary, smart, and helpful only if needed. I can only imagine the white settlers of this land bugging the shit out of the natives. Like a entire race of little brothers.
As we again reached the fork a “new” trail opened up that I hadn’t noticed before. This one was through a much denser woods and on the side of a steep incline. After traveling for what should’ve been the mileage to the next campsite I again realized my folly in getting lost. I knelt down and looked closely at the trail and my stomach sank at the discovery: deer prints. This is a deer trail. Not wanting to turn back I decided to venture on, all the while pushing my new boots to the utmost with the combination of the 65 added lbs to my already 170lb body and an incline that stretched the uppers to keep my ankles from snapping. As I continued I stepped on a fairly large rock and slipped slightly which, in turn, sent the rock toppling down the hill and into an unseen valley. Emma took off for the moss-less roller while I shouted for her to remain next to me. Suddenly there was nothing. No noise. No bark. No running. Just me screaming her name over and over. With her lack of foresight I was convinced she had run off the edge and into a rocky creek possibly a hundred feet below. I sat and waited, swearing to myself that if she returns a punishment will be handed down in the worst way. What that is, I do not know. I don’t hit her at all, seeing as how dogs do not understand that form of punishment, so possibly a yelling at and a chaining to a tree will suffice. Everything left my mind, though, as soon as she came trotting up with that big, stupid grin of hers happy as a bumblebee.
I remained seated with her and we just took in the scenery and collected our thoughts. I decided upon following the distant creek noise as it will surely head back to the creek where we were earlier and then bearings will be had and all will be well. Right?
Six miles later and finally a familiar sight…the black and white kitten. Sure enough the sawmill rested silent in the near distance and both anger and relief
The kitten, named Goddamnit by yours truly, wondering why I've returned.
overtook me. I looked at the map and chose an easy trail that lead to a different campsite a mere two miles into the woods. The same woods that has already mixed me up and nearly claimed both of our lives. It will not defeat me, though.
A few miles and a stop for fresh water and finally a sign for the upcoming campground rested my still-walking-weary legs. A short trip up a slight incline and the campsite appeared, full of graciousness and kind silence. I chose the second site in, deep enough to be away from the trail but close enough to the water source for my morning coffee. With camp quickly set up dinner was at hand. A fellow backpacker appeared from around some foliage to offer up some wood from a gigantic pile at his site a few steps away. I followed him and found a three-sided woodpile fortress, three times the size of the popular couch cushion variety built as a child. I loaded up and thanked him for the info and we never spoke again. Perfect.
Now with a gigantic fire I sat and daydreamed about upcoming choices. Choices that once were fantastic ideas. Unrealistic. Until the reality set in and here I was actually weighing the pros and cons. As the cons slowly drifted away with their fear-driven notions the pros simply sat next to me and shared this wonderfully warming fire. And it was with an orange, toasty face and clear, whiskied head that the choice was made: I am moving to Austin, Texas.
There are many wonderful things about Chicago, yes, and I have enjoyed them all. It is, after all, the longest I’ve remained in one place my entire adult life for good reason. I’ve met some of the most wonderful people, many of whom have become my closest friends, the kind one seeks out as soon as language begins vibrating the tongue. I have my regular places that know me as well as I know them and, of course, my job that has given me opportunities that I would never have had anywhere else. It is important, though, to realize that change needs to happen and that sometimes it isn’t your own choices that brings these changes about; simply it is the ebb and flow of everything that forces these things into existence.
Fact: My job has not provided me with the satisfaction it once did. There is not one thing responsible for these but many. Both myself and the direction of the company have changed immensely since I first began there six and a half years ago. While they continue on their path I shall, too. Where once my interest in coffee and the entire culture surrounding it piqued my interest it is now my first loves that have taken over that section of my brain: music and writing. I know that I cannot do both, coffee and writing that is, to the utmost so that decision had to be made. And it was easy. Music has been a part of my life as long as I can remember (making radio shows in my room at the age of seven, a family friend showing up out of the blue in his RV and entertaining us with his songs even before that). Writing has been a more recent thing, though it is now ten years that I’ve been doing it on a regular basis. (I should really put up some of the early stuff written on an old typewriter in a terribly unsafe apartment.) The realization that I really don’t care that much about coffee was relieving in so many ways.
Fact: I am burned out on Chicago. The sheer size is daunting enough. I don’t go to many of my friends’ happenings for the sole reason of travel time. To allot two hours of public transportation travel to go to an art opening or someone’s birthday seems ludicrous to me. Another factor is the overwhelming anger and frustration and violence of this gigantic monster of segregation. People getting shot by police in the middle of the afternoon on downtown streets. Homeless people attempting to punch me for no reason forcing me to then punch them out of protection and instinct. Random people yelling obscenities at each other almost daily. It sours the soul and makes it nearly impossible to have a good day when this barrage of negativity is shoved down your throat only to be shit out in your toilet the next morning forcing one to be constantly reminded of what mankind has really become. A competition and a cesspool of muck and mire only those that roll in it understand. I will never therefore I must not pretend to. Eat my shorts, “humanity.”
These are two simple reasons I’m giving but there are many more, possibly outlined at a later time.
With a clear head and a tired dog I retreated to the tent for my last night in the blessed woods. Sleep crept in quickly and quietly closed my eyes and rested my overworked brain. The sun woke me with the gentlest hug and color and within minutes the coffee was on as well as breakfast. I realized a smile that couldn’t be removed with gasoline planted itself on my face and I probably resembled Emma after a nice walk. After gathering everything and packing up I said goodbye to the campsite in a near-teary state with thanks for the guidance it has shown me.
And it is this relationship that has been my strongest ever. It is these woods, splattered across this immense ball in space, that offer us so much, whether it be advice, solace, shelter, or mere beauty. It doesn’t even take a strong mind or body to enjoy…just patience and a realization that one is nothing without the other. In return for giving nature its due respect it will give you the things most truly needed: honesty and guidance.
In the Wild You’re Allowed to Eat Anything You Want, pt. 2 August 8, 2009
Posted by misterbuckets in Friends and Future Enemies, Nonfiction.Tags: backpacking, beer, bloomington, chicago, chicagoist, dog, indiana, misterbuckets, outdoors, pet, vinyl, woods
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Growing up in the country of southern Indiana gave me a thirst and a taste for the outdoors. With no neighbors in sight I instead found comfort in wandering the fields surrounding our house. Maybe I’ve come to the part in my life where I reflect more than usual, maybe it’s just a need to grasp something I can fully understand, but I definitely felt the need to return to southern Indiana and breathe in the air that inflated my body in the first place.
Wait patiently and one of these monsters will surely fall and kill you.
I knew that my destination would be the Hoosier National Forest located a few miles north of where I grew up and a few miles south of where I learned many a life lesson. After some internet wilderness stalking I happened upon the Charles C. Deam Wilderness resting on the southern border of Lake Monroe. With dozens of miles of trails, multiple antique cemeteries, and lack of modern conveniences I was sold. The fact that it was my home turf just added to the welcoming feeling. It’s almost as if I knew all those trees by name anyway. (‘Hey, Chance…how’s the bum limb? Oh! Slipper! Lookin’ good!’)
After leaving work I stopped by the rental car place where a god awful VW bug, painted a sorority beach slut yellow, was waiting for me. I stopped by the REI to pick up some freeze-dried goodies and then home to pick up the thawed goodie of a dog and hit the road.
Driving through northern Indiana reminded me of why the state gets a poor rap. Completely flat, sparse, and horrendously ugly. One reaches Indianapolis, aka The Crossroads of America (because everyone drives through and never stops), and then Martinsville (the current home of the KKK) and then the beauty overtakes any other thoughts. Rolling hills show their goods and the air holds the scent of sustainability and love. I chose to miss the exit so as to drive through the city of Bloomington, an odd liberal university town in the guts of red state epitome. It was a need of mine to drive by old apartments that housed my young drunk bones and piece together the events that have brought me to where I am today. The cool, summer night brought back memories of basement shows, walking with friends/co-conspirators, and long gone people hopefully in better places now than then.
Continuing out of town I located the short highway 446 that cuts Lake Monroe in half and accesses the many recreation areas that pepper the hills like shotgun spray. The road I needed to take, Firetower Way, was a small gravel vein nearly invisible in the dark of Indiana night. After turning around time and again I surrendered myself to the gravel and the woods and my reeling brain. Three miles of bumps and nothing brought us to the small parking lot at the Grubb Ridge trailhead.
As Emma happily relieved herself in the brush I readied myself for the woods. This means:
- Placing phone and house keys in the glove compartment.
- Double-checking supplies, most importantly food, water, and tobacco.
- Taking a breath and saying goodbye to the music that I pollute all my waking hours with.
- Bug spray application.
- A final look at the edge of the woods that are readying to swallow me whole.
A recent rainfall moistened the ground to the consistency of a bloated sponge making the six mile trek a little more difficult than usual. It can be easy to focus on negative aspects but the haunting, quiet surroundings prevents the mind, my mind, from doing so. I can only trudge along and smile at the lack of people, responsibilities, and gneral society hubbub. As the humidity soaked my brow and being the trail winded through seemingly untouched woods,
When you befriend trees they will actually build stairs for you. Fascinating.
opening up every now and again to marked campsites, each one being “still too close to the road” for my liking. An hour and a half in I found the short plateau that would be my home for the night.
I set to work on firewood first and foremost. The damp kindling was, luckily, no match for my cotton ball/petroleum jelly firestarter combo and after only a few minutes I became the god of light. Surrounding fell trees provided ample fuel for my nocturnal episode of thinking and it was here that I was sitting when I heard the thunder roll.
A rainfall in the woods is nothing to worry about because the canopy will absorb 3/4 of the downfall. However when your backpacking partner (a loose term in that she refuses to carry ANYTHING) is a dog that shudders at the mention of thunder it is a completely different story. A hug and a cradling does nothing to her fear-induced epilepsy. I quickly set up the tent and rain flap much to her glee as she retreated into the shelter right away leaving me to the fire and the whiskey. As she dozed I remained transfixed, lost in what would become one of the most important decisions of my life. Which will be written about at another time.
After a few hours I joined her in the tent and joined her in fear as I realized the entire shelter had been overrun with Daddy Long Leg spiders. Don’t get me wrong, bugs and the like bother me none. Spiders, on the other hand, core me like an apple; the addition of those two legs makes all the difference in the world. It’s like they have the unmatched ability to both transform me to a child so as to beat me up on the playground and belittle me to a useless mound of ACK simultaneously. Who gave these fuckers so much power? The only way to overcome my arachnophobia was to rid my sleeping quarters of the harmless beasts. Headlamp and a dram of whiskey for courage I set about grabbing hair-thin legs and tossed them into the surrounding brush. (Though my fear is great I don’t wish to kill them. It is their home that I’ve intruded, after all.) Now with an almost spider-free tent (a few scurried over my face as I drifted off to sleep) I lied and waited for the storm. The lightning flashes retarded my descent into sleep for only a short period. I can’t say the same for the wide-eyed hound at my side. Poor Ladybird.
The birds screamed at me until consciousness racked my slumber. The rain continued as did the thunder. The deep gray of the sky held a banner that read, “All Day Summer Storm!” The choice stared me in the face: continue and receive a selfish satisfaction of rope swings and dangerous thunderstorm lake swimming or hike back to the car to get this poor blessing of a dog out from the middle of her greatest fear. Though I am, more often than not, an extremely selfish person I also cannot stand by while something I care about so deeply stands and trembles out of their own pants. If she had pants on.
Mentally mold this to a female business outfit and you get the idea.
After packing everything in a quick and efficient manner (I think I’m getting good at this) we headed back to the slut mobile. Though her apprehension remained for half of the hike I think a realization came that she would soon be out of trouble and into the safe haven of 50mph motion and warm arms of death metal. A hop in her step and a calm in my heart at making the right decision we got muddy, funny, and cruddy and up to the knees in filth we found ourselves back at the trailhead.
A little dismayed at the shortened trip I decided to make a few stops in Bloomington to revisit some haunts. First stop was Soma, the coffee house where I began my illustrious coffee career. A few steps down and I looked around at the unchanged decor; flyers for upcoming theme parties and basement shows, goofy signs, and summer students at laptops sitting next to aquarium televisions and neon green and orange walls. I ordered a double espresso and thought to strike up a conversation with the young lady barista.
“You know I used to work here. Like ten years ago.”
“Huh.” Walks away seemingly creeped out by my statement. It could’ve been that I have inadvertently become a questionable character or the simple fact that I was covered head to toe in dried mud. I finished the poorly pulled shot (but tasty nonetheless) and walked through, head cocked due to the low doorways, to the attached record store, deemed Best Record Store in the World by yours truly.
Smiles all around at Soma. Just don't try to start conversation while both looking and smelling like shit.
TD’s CDs and LPs.
Rows and stacks and corners and geometric miracles housed the kookiest music found in Indiana. It is here that I began the poor, and fun, habit of spending any extra cash on records of all kinds. True aural sex. A new (to me) local section caught my eye. A Merzbow remix of Racebannon? Dear god! Old friends’ bands re-released on vinyl? For ten greens? Oh, lord. Nerd boner. Noner. Hardy boy.
With arms full I approached the counter. Creepy exchange #2 is go:
“You know I haven’t been here since Tom ran the place.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Tom Donahue. He’s the ‘TD’ in TD’s. He died of cancer a few years ago.”
“Huh. Will this be all?”
With squinted, jilted eyes and clenched fists to his nonchalance at the death of my friend and stupidity of history of his workplace I said, “I’ll take a T-shirt as well. <pause> Medium.” I felt like David Lee Roth in the beginning of the Yankee Rose video. (I wanted to link it but it has disappeared from the intercontinental video machine.)
I made my way back to the car with fresh vinyl and an aroma of mud and woods to find Emma sitting patiently with those brown eyes that melt me like chocolate. Next stop, Upland brewery for a few growlers of delicious beer that is unavailable anywhere else. Can’t go home with ears happy and liver bored, after all.
Feeling slightly out of place in my weathered outfit, I planted myself at the bar next to a lunch-drunk blonde that was more inquisitive than creeped out. Which was more confusing than any of the awkward exchanges prior.
“Doo yoo wooork innn constuction?”
“No. Ha. No, just got back from camping in the National Forest. I am just stopping by to bring some beer back to Chicago.”
“I’mmm goooing camping tooonight. It’ss a d-d-date.”
“Oh, nice. Where are you going?”
“I’on’t knoooow. What’sss down there?”
“Well, if you take 446…,” and I went on to explain the different camping options. Probably more than she wanted to know.
The picture in my mind of her Chicago friends. Sure, nice to look at but a nightmare to be alone with.
“Yooooou. Know. I havvve girlfriends that live in Shakagooo. THEY THINK IT’SSS THE GREATEST. ‘S’not so cooool.”
“I agree. When people first move there they think it’s really awesome. Then they find out about the crime and the poor schools and the crooked government…”
“YEEEEAH. Not cooool.”
“Well, I’m not saying that Chicago’s not cool. It really is a great city. I’m just a little tired of it is all.”
<burp>
“So, are you going camping just for fun?”
“Whyyy elssse would I beee going?”
“Good point.”
“And I’m gonnnnnna wear thissss,” motioning to her skirt. Her legs turned slightly towards me. I think I was getting hit on. But usually that doesn’t include advice for a date later in the day…or does it? I have no clue as I am the worst person to consult about the rules of dating and whatnot. I did, however, find myself kinda creeped out by her.
“Really?”
“Hahahahaha…noooo.” Now hand on my leg. I should enjoy this but I don’t. In my mind she is the picture perfect example of an unhappy relationship. ‘Yeah, we met at a bar. At NOON. I gave her advice for her date and the dude found out, came to Chicago, and beat the crap out of me. She then cared for me after he cut off my left foot.’
My growlers were finally ready and I quickly wished her luck on her date and made my way back to the car. I felt the need to explain my long absence to the questioning eyes of my dog. ‘Really, Emma, it was nothing. I mean she was rather forward but I would never leave you.’
This is how a super dog sleeps.
Now with beer and music I was ready to return to the city for a long night of music and libation liberation. The only thing between me and that was 150 miles of loud, dangerous highway.
Emma slept and I daydreamed about the near future and the happiness that has already reared its beautiful head. More on that at a more proper time.
Enjoy some Southern Indiana Nutso Metal Masterminds.
