Around here, I’m different just like everyone else. It’s a cashmere sweater in July – comfortable but not what I need. Everyone’s pretty much the same no matter where you go. The big question is what I’m doing. Productivity measured in time or money doesn’t make any sense. The amount of words is a gauge for how much time I’ve put in but it doesn’t reflect any kind of worth. The only thing I have to go on is my gut. That’s what got me into this mess. Continue reading
A new source of pride in our economy is what you can do with an internet jukebox. The game is getting your best value. That means finding the right mix of music that represents how broad your taste is while remaining obscure enough to keep the plebeians from recognizing the chorus and singing along. Prices are on the rise, so only real music lovers play this game. Others use a defensive response to tune it out. Tuning out annoying sounds is a prime survival skill in the city. I’m doing it right now to write this – except I’m not because I paid for the jukebox and Freddie Mercury is encouraging me to go on with the show. Continue reading Slice of Life
I’ve had a daily obligation to yoga for about 7 days now. From 2pm until 7pm I am in yoga class. Only about an hour of that is actually doing yoga. The rest is getting myself clean, dressed and transported to the studio in time for the 4:30 class and then there’s another hour on the bus after class to get back downtown. It’s a big daily time commitment for a hobby. Something only the privileged can really manage easily. So ironically, if I had a job by now, I’d never be able to enjoy this yoga intensive. That’s my silver lining to unemployment. Continue reading Wearing Down
“Where can I find a good punk scene?” she asks.
“What exactly is it you think punk is?” I reply to the adorable pixie-girl with a purple mohawk. She giggles and admits she doesn’t know. It’s surprising how often I hear beautiful young people complain that the punk scene is just not what it used to be. There’s a subculture of post-punk children that are brainwashed to think they have come too late to be involved in a real punk scene. They shave their heads, sew patches on their denim and pay too much money to see old guys play music that only mimics days long passed. How can they be nostalgic for something that’s literally right in front of them?
The core of punk is less a music genre and more a way of life. The music ranges across a vast spectrum of styles but there’s a consistent energy almost bordering on angst in every group. Something soulful and genuine that can’t be cultivated – only unearthed. The best way to maintain legit punk status is to continually not care what other people think of you and your art. That’s exceptionally hard to do, especially in today’s instant-gratification social mediaverse. And the irony is once you’ve discovered what it is to be punk, the meaning changes again. It’s a concept that never stops moving because it’s so close to the beating heart of society.
The calling card of any healthy punk scene is having fun on stage. But that is a temporary part of the underground whole. There are very few days of glory for someone living a truly punk lifestyle. Most days involve working for someone you don’t respect and complaining about things you can’t change. The monotony of everyday life washes up against you like waves on a beach until you’re so fed up you can’t hold it in anymore. That’s when the artistic element of punk emerges, raw and gasping from underneath the cruel nihilism of entropy.
The main thing I avoid when selecting favorite people and places is drama. Unless there’s a stage show, in which case the drama should be dialed up to at least an 8 or 9. Unscripted drama had its time when we squished reality up against a TV camera. The value of that genre lasted about as long as shock rock. Writing and directing the chaos that we seek is best left to a collaboration, like bullfights. That doesn’t mean I won’t watch when it’s free. Continue reading Drahmah
Last Saturday, our eyes met across the bar exchanging furtive glances over our respective pints. He was too shy to approach me until the stranger sitting between us literally made him swap seats. Boy-next-door cute, I assumed he wouldn’t even pass the chit-chat test. To my surprise, a genuine kindness shone through the dive bar malaise surrounding me. We nervously exchanged digits and made plans for Thursday. That was more than 3 days away. He might actually be interested in me. Continue reading A Proper Date
Since I’ve been in Seattle, I’ve managed to get laid twice and not lose my independence. I think mostly just to see if I could. I view myself as somewhat asexual these days, so it’s always a surprise when someone wants that sort of thing from me. I tried to play coy for a few days but my desire for orgasms is very real. I figure why not have some fun, right? My misguided motivation is probably why things didn’t shape up that well. Sort of like instant karma. Continue reading Bad Sex
Today I had two goals. Walk downtown to get my ORCA discounted bus pass and fill out the application for a new social security card. Naturally, walking in a new city alone, I packed my pocket knife. I never really got scared walking in Memphis because I know how to walk in that city – rarely. So far, walking in downtown Seattle doesn’t require that much situational awareness but new is new. I may be Memphis as fuck but it never hurts to have backup. Continue reading Federal Property
As I traipse around Memphis with no car and very little energy I have one overwhelming thought running through my mind – Why did I do this? All of the things happening in my life sound like good things when you say them out loud.
“I’m moving to Seattle.”
“I visited the Grand Canyon.”
“I’m flying my cats home with me on Tuesday.”
The responses I get are unanimously encouraging because that’s how you react when someone does something massively life-changing. Unfortunately these platitudes are hollow as birthday wishes on Facebook. Most people are just thinly veiling jealous resentment or straight up apathy.
So I smile and let them tell me about their road trip or the time they visited the Canyon. All the while I’m repressing a constant state of panic that no one takes seriously. I spend my time keeping the quiver out of my voice and fighting back tears. I’m fully convinced that this venture is going to kill me. It’s the only logical answer to this much fear. I’m going to die in the pacific northwest.
No matter how great my fortune seems right now the cold hand of terror is gripping my chest. I can sense my own mortality and only the convention of human existence keeps me going. Those who have gone before me continually assure me I’ll be fine. I just ask them to recall the last time they voluntarily abandoned everything familiar to live completely alone with no solid plan for the future. The most common response is a knowing smile and pat on my shoulder.
I’m never gonna survive this life. But I’ll go down swinging.