I literally just made myself dopesick talking about the last year of my using with my buddies at the diner. I'm never one to sit around and "war story" the fuck out of people, but apparently I needed to get some shit out. It was like someone dropped a few ex~lax into the dormant volcano of a constipated asshole, and exploded all over the shellac of the table I was sitting at.
My heart started racing as I talked about my x-girlfriend finding me overdosed and bleeding from the ear on the floor of my old apartment, a light film of sweat appeared on my brow as I went into graphic detail about the last few days before I flew back to NY to finally kick, and before I knew it... that fucking pit in my stomach that had been filled with love and AA bullshit, was now a black hole of want. Want more. Want more of anything. I could almost feel the needle piercing my arm as I broke up pieces of white toast into my eggs over easy. I felt the rush of the cocaine from a speedball hitting the back of my throat while the heroin chased close behind, comforting my nose into a warm fuzzy blanket, relieving my heart from exploding as I shoveled slimy chicken abortion sopped up by soggy, starchy, white bread down my gullet. Trying to fill the black hole of a war~story with warming comfort food.
I felt my eyes popping out of my head as I got closer to the end of the story, and all I wanted to do was dive out the huge glass window onto Franklin, and jump into the first shitty Honda civic I saw with two no english speaking mexicans in the front seats....
The good thing about being sober and staying sober is... having some sort of choice when that insane wave comes over you and you almost feel like you've never made one meeting in your life, and it was all some weird dream. Like waking up from an insane drug dream, having to really check and make sure that you didn't get loaded the night before, I've had to do that on more than several occasions. So after my hour long rant at the table, and sending myself into what I thought might turn into and overwhelming craving frenzy... I took a deep breath, paid the check, drank my fucking water, and went outside and smoked a cigarette on the walk to the car. My heart slowed down as Danny drove me home and we laughed about what douchebags some people we know are... now I'm sitting here writing it, instead of actually having to live it.
To all the dickheads that were in my position 5 years ago, when I couldn't get an hour sober, let alone a day, all I have to give you is this...
It's a lot easier to stay sober, than it is to get sober. If that makes absolutely no sense at all, maybe re-read this little blog... and do the fucking steps.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
We partied like pigs, with an endless supply of slop being poured down the chute into the troff. The mass relapsers toasted away almost a hundred years of sobriety in a joint effort over some sangria at a dark restaurant, I was to join the pack a week later. 18 years, 15, years 9 years, 20 years, and so on... the clinking glasses at the toast may as well have been filled with gasoline, overflowing onto the table candles, causing a fire that would tear through everyones lives within seconds.
The fact that most of us were in recovery for so long and now being cut from the bondage of freedom, drew us closer together, forming a pact of slow suicide and total devastation of everything good that had been built over the years. Some of us made it back with a few scrapes, some of us died and came back to tell the tale, and some still wander the streets failing miserably at succeeding.
I wouldn't consider myself lucky, but I am damn thankful to be one of the ones that got out "alive." The only thing that sucks is having to watch or hear about the others that weren't as un-stubborn as I.
I won't go into detail about what happened yesterday, just know that you are in my prayers (god that sounds fucking gay). I hope you get the chance that Lazie and I were given, and I hope that when you come out of this... you once again join our little cult of shitbag idiots trying to keep our heads above water and out of our asses.
I fucking love you Ron.
The fact that most of us were in recovery for so long and now being cut from the bondage of freedom, drew us closer together, forming a pact of slow suicide and total devastation of everything good that had been built over the years. Some of us made it back with a few scrapes, some of us died and came back to tell the tale, and some still wander the streets failing miserably at succeeding.
I wouldn't consider myself lucky, but I am damn thankful to be one of the ones that got out "alive." The only thing that sucks is having to watch or hear about the others that weren't as un-stubborn as I.
I won't go into detail about what happened yesterday, just know that you are in my prayers (god that sounds fucking gay). I hope you get the chance that Lazie and I were given, and I hope that when you come out of this... you once again join our little cult of shitbag idiots trying to keep our heads above water and out of our asses.
I fucking love you Ron.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Toys in the basement.
The existence of light in my life has only come from being pushed into the darkest corners of the basement. The cold, wet floor, the imaginary rats nibbling at my bare ankles, the annoyance of a leaky pipe overhead, dripping ice cold rusty water into the deepest lobe of my ear. The flies buzzing around my eyelids that were once maggots, mutated from a dead rats mouth that had been caught by a mousetrap in the early summer heat.
The sounds of a normal every day life come from the beams above my head, I can hear them going about their lives, they scare me... cooking, cleaning, talking on the phone, listening to music, enjoying stuff. I can't relate, I have no idea how they do it, and I am miles away from any sort of comprehension of it. The abscesses on my hands have become so painfully swollen, it's almost impossible to swat away the flying maggots from my face, so I let them land on my eyelids and scratch their legs together. It was annoying at first, but I have adjusted myself to deal with the lowest form of uncomfortability, so I close my eyes and eventually they fly off for a few minutes to circle the room in search of a more rotten substance than my face. A chip in the tin foil on the one window above the broken washing machine let's me know that it is daytime. I know it is a warm summer day, but I also know that no matter how hot it is outside, I will still be freezing. So I stay paralyzed in my little nook, it is where I am the most comfortable. My feet had fallen asleep an hour prior to the flying maggot circus, now I just can't feel them at all. I have to pee, but I can't move, so it just streams into my lap forming a puddle in my lap. It's warm for a few minutes, and it feels really nice, but it eventually turns into a cold shitty feeling that matches the rest of my body. I can smell death in the room, but I can't tell if it's me or the decomposed rat in the other corner. I see a shadow walk past the rip in the tin foil, my heart starts to race. I magically get feeling back in my legs as I hear a knock at the top of the stairs. I rise up like nothing was ever wrong with me and pull myself up the wooden steps by the splintered railing. I open the door to a man with a shaved head and a mouth full of balloons, he is my best friend. He doesn't say a word, he just spits two balloons into his hand, and places the cold slimy balls of hope and joy into my open, sweaty palm.
I slam the door in his face and rush back down the stairs almost killing myself. I tie the dirty, bloody shoelace around the top of my bicep, load the gun, and pull the trigger. The abscesses in my hands make it nearly impossible, but I fumble it all together just enough to hit the vein. The flying maggots instantly turn into butterflies, as the film of cold dirty sweat that had been layering my face all morning magically disappears. I stand tall and stretch, almost touching the beams on the ceiling. The normal strangers above me don't seem so scary anymore, and I could probably have a conversation about anything they would like to talk about if I was to go up and join them...
The sounds of a normal every day life come from the beams above my head, I can hear them going about their lives, they scare me... cooking, cleaning, talking on the phone, listening to music, enjoying stuff. I can't relate, I have no idea how they do it, and I am miles away from any sort of comprehension of it. The abscesses on my hands have become so painfully swollen, it's almost impossible to swat away the flying maggots from my face, so I let them land on my eyelids and scratch their legs together. It was annoying at first, but I have adjusted myself to deal with the lowest form of uncomfortability, so I close my eyes and eventually they fly off for a few minutes to circle the room in search of a more rotten substance than my face. A chip in the tin foil on the one window above the broken washing machine let's me know that it is daytime. I know it is a warm summer day, but I also know that no matter how hot it is outside, I will still be freezing. So I stay paralyzed in my little nook, it is where I am the most comfortable. My feet had fallen asleep an hour prior to the flying maggot circus, now I just can't feel them at all. I have to pee, but I can't move, so it just streams into my lap forming a puddle in my lap. It's warm for a few minutes, and it feels really nice, but it eventually turns into a cold shitty feeling that matches the rest of my body. I can smell death in the room, but I can't tell if it's me or the decomposed rat in the other corner. I see a shadow walk past the rip in the tin foil, my heart starts to race. I magically get feeling back in my legs as I hear a knock at the top of the stairs. I rise up like nothing was ever wrong with me and pull myself up the wooden steps by the splintered railing. I open the door to a man with a shaved head and a mouth full of balloons, he is my best friend. He doesn't say a word, he just spits two balloons into his hand, and places the cold slimy balls of hope and joy into my open, sweaty palm.
I slam the door in his face and rush back down the stairs almost killing myself. I tie the dirty, bloody shoelace around the top of my bicep, load the gun, and pull the trigger. The abscesses in my hands make it nearly impossible, but I fumble it all together just enough to hit the vein. The flying maggots instantly turn into butterflies, as the film of cold dirty sweat that had been layering my face all morning magically disappears. I stand tall and stretch, almost touching the beams on the ceiling. The normal strangers above me don't seem so scary anymore, and I could probably have a conversation about anything they would like to talk about if I was to go up and join them...
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
HELLOOOO CLEVELAND!!!! (Tour pt.3)
Pulled into Cleveland in the late morning. Dead trees are a sure of me not wanting to step off the bus, wrapping my scarf tightly around my neck, I brace myself for the 7 second walk from the bus to the hotel lobby. After a few minutes of room switching and roommate confusion, I grab myself a grande soy chai from the Starbucks in the lobby, and head upstairs to once again, throw my lufa in the shower, post my toothbrush up so it's not touching anything on the bathroom counter, and shove my face in the pillow for a nice, hard, power nap.
After a shitty burger and a band meeting in the restaurant downstairs, I go back to the room and start digging around on the internet for the underdog strip clubs. It's Monday, so I find the places that have the most girls, call them ahead of time and tell them that we are in the rock band playing in town tomorrow night... that way we are assured no cover, and will usually get a vip section roped off for us, which is exactly what happened. I was a little bummed Sebastian didn't come, with him there that just assures every girl in the building will notice us, and flock like uummmm..... a stripper to a bottle of Grey Goose.
We did just fine dominating the strip club without him, and stealing all the girls from the 4 creepy old dudes sitting in the corners. I danced, I high fived the guys, and chugged redbull until I felt my heart skip. I don't do strip clubs usually but hey... when you're in a place like Cleveland Ohio with an entire day off, there isn't much else to do except stare at halfass strippers with lazy eyes, band aids, and shittier tattoos than me. The dj played a little metal for us, giving us a break from all the techno/Buckcherry fuck party that they usually grease the poll to, and I just sat back and watched everyone get hammered, while the band aids fell off in my lap.
Now all jacked up on redbull I sit on the bed chainsmoking, and listening to a Foo Fighters mix, while Jimbo types an email in the next bed... I'll probably sit here staring at the tv until about 7am, pass out, then wake up and start gearing up to rip the fucking faces off everyone in Cleveland tonight.
After a shitty burger and a band meeting in the restaurant downstairs, I go back to the room and start digging around on the internet for the underdog strip clubs. It's Monday, so I find the places that have the most girls, call them ahead of time and tell them that we are in the rock band playing in town tomorrow night... that way we are assured no cover, and will usually get a vip section roped off for us, which is exactly what happened. I was a little bummed Sebastian didn't come, with him there that just assures every girl in the building will notice us, and flock like uummmm..... a stripper to a bottle of Grey Goose.
We did just fine dominating the strip club without him, and stealing all the girls from the 4 creepy old dudes sitting in the corners. I danced, I high fived the guys, and chugged redbull until I felt my heart skip. I don't do strip clubs usually but hey... when you're in a place like Cleveland Ohio with an entire day off, there isn't much else to do except stare at halfass strippers with lazy eyes, band aids, and shittier tattoos than me. The dj played a little metal for us, giving us a break from all the techno/Buckcherry fuck party that they usually grease the poll to, and I just sat back and watched everyone get hammered, while the band aids fell off in my lap.
Now all jacked up on redbull I sit on the bed chainsmoking, and listening to a Foo Fighters mix, while Jimbo types an email in the next bed... I'll probably sit here staring at the tv until about 7am, pass out, then wake up and start gearing up to rip the fucking faces off everyone in Cleveland tonight.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The tour pt.2
Tonight's show in Michigan was my favorite so far, I finally got my legs a little more stable and feel more comfortable on the stage with the guys. You would think that growing up on the east coast I would be adjusted to this shitty cold weather, but I'm not, I'm a total baby about it ever being under 60 degrees. The house was packed tonight and I think we put on a kickass fucking rock show for everyone, I'm still all weirded out when people ask me to sign shit or take pictures with them, but I went out right after the show and met with the fans to hang out for a bit. I honestly don't know how my friends do that shit on the daily, I guess it's something you just get used to... hopefully I will have the opportunity to "get used to it."
Sebastian and Corey are very similar in the sense that they just have rock running through their veins instead of blood at all times, I am a very blessed mother fucker to have both those guys in my life, in different ways they show me how to be humble and appreciate what goes on in this crazy unpredictable world of music. Corey's sister came to visit and brought my favorite little girl in Detroit Jaylynn, they came to soundcheck to watch us work out the kinks I was having trouble with the past few shows. It's nice to see the fam on the road man, it really centers me and makes me feel good that people will actually drive an hour out of their way just to give me a hug.
I'm starting to get more comfortable around the guys and don't feel like "the new guy" anymore, even though I totally am and absolutely know my roll around here, it's just nice to be around a bunch of really nice guys that get it. They are just here to rock the fuck out and make the crowd want more... thats all I give a fuck about. Talking to fans after the show, you always get the "how could you live on a bus for that long?" question... Honestly, if it's with the right people, I could live on this fucking thing... as long as I get to do this shit 4 or 5 nights a week and my neck holds out, I'm totally ok with playing the rock music as long as they will let me.
Like I said before, I been very lucky to play with such amazing people, who are not only huge musicians, but also very good friends. It's not like work at all... it's like I've been at summer camp for like 3 years now, and it doesn't look like summer is going to be over for a while. These mother truckers laugh, eat, smoke, drink, and kill it on stage... It's a tour so of course people get cranky or shitty at one another from time to time, but for the most part so far it has been a very respectful crew.
Playing with Bobby Jarzombek is also pretty fucking huge. That guy is a fucking metronome made of solid steel, and one of the nicest dudes you will ever meet in your life. So yeah, I get to rock with that dude every night, he makes feel like I'm just playing along to the cd. Nick and Johnny are also ripping guitar players, nick is 21, adorable, perfect long rock hair, totally rock skinny ripped when he takes his shirt off on stage... if I was even just a little gay I'd totally fuck that kid in his sleep. Johnny not so much, nice guy though.. and an absolute shredder.
I feel like I'm starting to belong somewhere finally, I've done so many shitty tours, coming home broke as fuck, starving, playing to like 20 people (if that) a night, all across the country in some shitty converted van that's always breaking down, with at least one super aggravating asshole around me the entire time... Now it's like God or whoever the fuck has got my back was just like, "here dude... you earned it, take a year off and be treated with a little respect for doing the only thing you've ever loved for so long."
I stay humble, remain forever grateful to play these packed houses full of rabid fans, with people that I would no questions asked take a bullet for if I had to, and never... NEVER take a shower in the dressing room without throwing a towel on the floor first.
Tonight's show makes sitting in a parking lot staring out the window at some shitty ghetto liquor store window all day long... totally fucking worth the wait.
Sebastian and Corey are very similar in the sense that they just have rock running through their veins instead of blood at all times, I am a very blessed mother fucker to have both those guys in my life, in different ways they show me how to be humble and appreciate what goes on in this crazy unpredictable world of music. Corey's sister came to visit and brought my favorite little girl in Detroit Jaylynn, they came to soundcheck to watch us work out the kinks I was having trouble with the past few shows. It's nice to see the fam on the road man, it really centers me and makes me feel good that people will actually drive an hour out of their way just to give me a hug.
I'm starting to get more comfortable around the guys and don't feel like "the new guy" anymore, even though I totally am and absolutely know my roll around here, it's just nice to be around a bunch of really nice guys that get it. They are just here to rock the fuck out and make the crowd want more... thats all I give a fuck about. Talking to fans after the show, you always get the "how could you live on a bus for that long?" question... Honestly, if it's with the right people, I could live on this fucking thing... as long as I get to do this shit 4 or 5 nights a week and my neck holds out, I'm totally ok with playing the rock music as long as they will let me.
Like I said before, I been very lucky to play with such amazing people, who are not only huge musicians, but also very good friends. It's not like work at all... it's like I've been at summer camp for like 3 years now, and it doesn't look like summer is going to be over for a while. These mother truckers laugh, eat, smoke, drink, and kill it on stage... It's a tour so of course people get cranky or shitty at one another from time to time, but for the most part so far it has been a very respectful crew.
Playing with Bobby Jarzombek is also pretty fucking huge. That guy is a fucking metronome made of solid steel, and one of the nicest dudes you will ever meet in your life. So yeah, I get to rock with that dude every night, he makes feel like I'm just playing along to the cd. Nick and Johnny are also ripping guitar players, nick is 21, adorable, perfect long rock hair, totally rock skinny ripped when he takes his shirt off on stage... if I was even just a little gay I'd totally fuck that kid in his sleep. Johnny not so much, nice guy though.. and an absolute shredder.
I feel like I'm starting to belong somewhere finally, I've done so many shitty tours, coming home broke as fuck, starving, playing to like 20 people (if that) a night, all across the country in some shitty converted van that's always breaking down, with at least one super aggravating asshole around me the entire time... Now it's like God or whoever the fuck has got my back was just like, "here dude... you earned it, take a year off and be treated with a little respect for doing the only thing you've ever loved for so long."
I stay humble, remain forever grateful to play these packed houses full of rabid fans, with people that I would no questions asked take a bullet for if I had to, and never... NEVER take a shower in the dressing room without throwing a towel on the floor first.
Tonight's show makes sitting in a parking lot staring out the window at some shitty ghetto liquor store window all day long... totally fucking worth the wait.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The first days of tour pt. 1
Got a pretty decent nights sleep last night, with no sleep the night before, a 6am flight, a 2 hour layover, then rehearsal till midnight... I should have knocked out as soon as I got back to the hotel, instead I dicked around on Facebook and kept going down the the lobby to smoke. Bobby the drummer got back to the room and we chatted for a bit, finally knocking out around 4am, as soon as my face hit the pillow I was done. Woke up with bones cracking and sleep staining my eyes around 11am, an hour till check out, and 2 hours till bus call... just enough time to shower and throw all my shit in the bathroom in the suitcase.
I was feeling a little more confident after last nights rehearsal, just tripping a little on all the breakdowns and segues I needed to learn for tonights show... but hey, I'm a fucking professional now so no problem right? Besides, after Sebastian high fived me about 97 times I started to feel a little more comfortable, he's real excited to play with me which is awesome.
I thought about my Father a lot today, wondering if I was passing his house on my way to Guitar Center, or if anyone else in my "family" was near where we were playing. I heard everyone moved here from the east coast years ago, but I don't really give a shit enough about most of them to track them down. There's a few cousins that I still care about and will put on the list if they ask, but for all I care, my "Dad" could live in Africa and I wouldn't know the difference.
I finally make it to the lobby of the hotel and the first thing I do of course, is look for the coffee. I float into the restaurant looking bewildered and completely out of place. The waiter asks me if I'm in a band, then gives me free coffee and a super firm handshake... after I make it well known that I could give two fucks that he plays drums, I hunch down and start rolling my suitcase towards the big white bus parked out front. I have to stay hunched because the airline broke the God damn handle on it. I toss the bag in the first bay, and step onto what used to be George Jones' production bus. I might as well have stepped into a guest room in the Scarface mansion. The bus is so fucking rad, completely white with Christmas lights wrapped around the mirror on the ceiling, a swordfish etched into the glass separating the sink from the couch, grey carpet running from the drivers seat to the back, with another etching of a beach setting with palm trees on the glass in the back lounge. I claim my bunk, then take a walk with Jimbo to find a Starbucks. The daily mission of any tour I've been on in the past 5 years has been to find coffee... and keep drinking it until I can't feel my face.
The venue was close, so right after we jacked up on caffeine, me and Jimbo decided to not wait for the rest of the guys to finish breakfast, and walked over to get things rolling. I was hoping to get one more rehearsal in before tonights show. Sebastian didn't sing last night and one of the guitar players missed a flight and didn't arrive till 11pm. So I was a little on edge, the coffee was not helping that situation at all... but I kept drinking it anyway. I had to go pick up a new bass head, graciously provided to me by my family and other bandmate. The one I had been using for the last 10 years just wasn't cutting it anymore. Unfortunately I had to spend about 3 hours in the Greensboro North Carolina Guitar Center to get it... which in real people time is like 5 days. Everyone was very nice, but it's fucking Guitar Center, I can't be in that place for more than 30 seconds before I want to kick the little bass slapping emo douchebag in the back... it's cool man, I get it, you know your scales and can play some sweet Avenged Sevenfold riffs. Now get back in your room and jerk off to the girls that I have sex with until you get a sweet job at Starbucks, and make sure you practice making soy chai late's for when I come back next year you hopeless little dickfuck.
I finally get the bass head in the back of the runners car, and 3 hours later we start to drive down the freeway in the now pouring rain back to the venue. By the time I get back everyone is all done checking their shit, so I throw my new bass head up onto the 8x10 and plug it in. I didn't even hit a note on my bass before I felt the difference in size, this thing is a fucking monster. Bas finally showed up, high fived me a few times, then ran through some songs. It was my first time playing with him and I thought it went pretty well, then after soundcheck he high fived me like three more times... so I knew I must have done ok.
Touring looked so cool when I was a kid... I would sit on my couch and watch this brand new channel called Mtv, dreaming of one day getting to lick the neck of my guitar and have girls fall all over me. I would stare into the mirror next to the tv practicing my moves with wooden sauce spoons or a broom, my mood would sometimes switch from being a drummer one day, to be a guitar player the next... Videos like "Home sweet Home" or "Dead or alive" would come on, and I would dream of being on the bus with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a grossly hot blonde from some beach village. I would watch bootleg Metallica shows and Live after Death, wishing I could play like Cliff Burton and Steve Harris... now back to the day.....
I'm pretty sure I've got all the segues and little nick nacks down, and I am more confident about the show, even though just a couple of hours before we hit the stage I realized that I had learned 2 of the songs in the wrong key... and had to relearn them all over again. So just to be sure, I threw on the headphones and jammed the songs a few more times in the hallway before we went on. Dave the TM comes out of the dressing room and throws both of his hands in the air giving me a 10 minute warning. I take a deep breath, give my bass to Jimbo, and go into the bathroom to make sure my hair is ok...
Honestly, a good show for me is having a good hair night.
I take a quick peek out into the crowd, see that the room is just about packed, take one more deep breath, then go into the dressing room for a few more high fives and a 10 minute headstand. I like to walk on my hands a lot, and before a show I'll usually go upsidedown against the wall for a generic version of a Keith Richards blood transfusion, just to get my shit pumping..
I walk down the hall stretching and flapping my arms, making sure not to knock my hair out of place. I come up stage right to grab my bass, Johnny the guitar player on my side is already there smiling. We don't high five....
The crowd starts screaming because they see us warming up on the side, it's always a good feeling stepping out onto that stage... even when you know they aren't screaming for you, they could give a fuck if it was me or some other hired gun up there. I'm just stoked cuz in about 35 seconds I'm about to bust into "Slave to the grind," a song from a band I was not to into 25 years ago...
and if you would have told me that when I was 16, sitting in Terry whatever her last name was' T-top Firebird, in the parking lot of the Garden state Plaza mall, smoking Marlboro reds and hating the music her hair sprayed, white tassled leather jacket wearing ass was listening to.. that 25 years later I would be touring the world with the singer of that band, I probably would have punched you in the face... but here I am, standing on this stage, staring at a club full of people screaming for him.
The intro starts to roll, the lights get lower, the crowd gets louder... and as I start to make my way across the stage with bass in hand, I remember why I do this. At first when I was a kid, it was totally about girls, money, and booze... it was the only way I knew how to think, I had never ever picked up an instrument, and I already wanted to be in the back lounge of a tour bus getting a blow job with some stupid sunglasses on. Now it's different, I do like taking pictures with people and signing shit, with an occasional chick to hang with or whatever, I don't drink or do drugs anymore so that's out of the picture... but the real reason I do this, is so I can't move my neck when I wake up in the morning. The feeling that is produced when I lock in with the drummer, and everything is at the right tempo, is undeniably better than any speedball I have ever done. Ok... let's not get too carried away here, maybe it's not as good as a giant speedball, but holy fuck does it come close. The intro stops, Bobby hits the high hat 4 times, and we start Slave... I see Sebastian out of the corner of my left eye, just smiling and waiting. This guy has been doing this since I was in fantasy camp on my living room couch, and it looks like he's about to take the stage for the first time ever. I love that about him, Sebastian is the epitome of a rock star... we roll through the intro to the song, and as the song kicks in, Sebastian runs up on stage screaming, swinging the mic over his head like a helicopter blade. I look up, and he turns back and points and smiles, it's on and we are killing it. About 7 high fives later, we are almost through the 5th song... I am nailing just about all of the stuff we went over during the small rehearsal we had, hitting every ending, and with only a few glitches... I successfully make it to the end of the show. He makes up all come to the front of the stage to take a bow, which totally freaked me out. I'm not in Queen, or Van Halen, I just want to go backstage, crack a bottle of water, and light a cigarette. The best cigarette for me ever is right after a show... I'll suck down like three in a row. Baz tries to get me to come sign some shit at the merch table but again, I know my place.. so I grab like 9 slices of pizza, a coke, and sit on the stage watch it all go down. After about an hour of watching that, and signing some shit here and there, I head back to the bus. I get a light round of applause for a job semi-well done, and I hit my bunk with sweaty balls as we drive to Baltimore...
I was feeling a little more confident after last nights rehearsal, just tripping a little on all the breakdowns and segues I needed to learn for tonights show... but hey, I'm a fucking professional now so no problem right? Besides, after Sebastian high fived me about 97 times I started to feel a little more comfortable, he's real excited to play with me which is awesome.
I thought about my Father a lot today, wondering if I was passing his house on my way to Guitar Center, or if anyone else in my "family" was near where we were playing. I heard everyone moved here from the east coast years ago, but I don't really give a shit enough about most of them to track them down. There's a few cousins that I still care about and will put on the list if they ask, but for all I care, my "Dad" could live in Africa and I wouldn't know the difference.
I finally make it to the lobby of the hotel and the first thing I do of course, is look for the coffee. I float into the restaurant looking bewildered and completely out of place. The waiter asks me if I'm in a band, then gives me free coffee and a super firm handshake... after I make it well known that I could give two fucks that he plays drums, I hunch down and start rolling my suitcase towards the big white bus parked out front. I have to stay hunched because the airline broke the God damn handle on it. I toss the bag in the first bay, and step onto what used to be George Jones' production bus. I might as well have stepped into a guest room in the Scarface mansion. The bus is so fucking rad, completely white with Christmas lights wrapped around the mirror on the ceiling, a swordfish etched into the glass separating the sink from the couch, grey carpet running from the drivers seat to the back, with another etching of a beach setting with palm trees on the glass in the back lounge. I claim my bunk, then take a walk with Jimbo to find a Starbucks. The daily mission of any tour I've been on in the past 5 years has been to find coffee... and keep drinking it until I can't feel my face.
The venue was close, so right after we jacked up on caffeine, me and Jimbo decided to not wait for the rest of the guys to finish breakfast, and walked over to get things rolling. I was hoping to get one more rehearsal in before tonights show. Sebastian didn't sing last night and one of the guitar players missed a flight and didn't arrive till 11pm. So I was a little on edge, the coffee was not helping that situation at all... but I kept drinking it anyway. I had to go pick up a new bass head, graciously provided to me by my family and other bandmate. The one I had been using for the last 10 years just wasn't cutting it anymore. Unfortunately I had to spend about 3 hours in the Greensboro North Carolina Guitar Center to get it... which in real people time is like 5 days. Everyone was very nice, but it's fucking Guitar Center, I can't be in that place for more than 30 seconds before I want to kick the little bass slapping emo douchebag in the back... it's cool man, I get it, you know your scales and can play some sweet Avenged Sevenfold riffs. Now get back in your room and jerk off to the girls that I have sex with until you get a sweet job at Starbucks, and make sure you practice making soy chai late's for when I come back next year you hopeless little dickfuck.
I finally get the bass head in the back of the runners car, and 3 hours later we start to drive down the freeway in the now pouring rain back to the venue. By the time I get back everyone is all done checking their shit, so I throw my new bass head up onto the 8x10 and plug it in. I didn't even hit a note on my bass before I felt the difference in size, this thing is a fucking monster. Bas finally showed up, high fived me a few times, then ran through some songs. It was my first time playing with him and I thought it went pretty well, then after soundcheck he high fived me like three more times... so I knew I must have done ok.
Touring looked so cool when I was a kid... I would sit on my couch and watch this brand new channel called Mtv, dreaming of one day getting to lick the neck of my guitar and have girls fall all over me. I would stare into the mirror next to the tv practicing my moves with wooden sauce spoons or a broom, my mood would sometimes switch from being a drummer one day, to be a guitar player the next... Videos like "Home sweet Home" or "Dead or alive" would come on, and I would dream of being on the bus with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a grossly hot blonde from some beach village. I would watch bootleg Metallica shows and Live after Death, wishing I could play like Cliff Burton and Steve Harris... now back to the day.....
I'm pretty sure I've got all the segues and little nick nacks down, and I am more confident about the show, even though just a couple of hours before we hit the stage I realized that I had learned 2 of the songs in the wrong key... and had to relearn them all over again. So just to be sure, I threw on the headphones and jammed the songs a few more times in the hallway before we went on. Dave the TM comes out of the dressing room and throws both of his hands in the air giving me a 10 minute warning. I take a deep breath, give my bass to Jimbo, and go into the bathroom to make sure my hair is ok...
Honestly, a good show for me is having a good hair night.
I take a quick peek out into the crowd, see that the room is just about packed, take one more deep breath, then go into the dressing room for a few more high fives and a 10 minute headstand. I like to walk on my hands a lot, and before a show I'll usually go upsidedown against the wall for a generic version of a Keith Richards blood transfusion, just to get my shit pumping..
I walk down the hall stretching and flapping my arms, making sure not to knock my hair out of place. I come up stage right to grab my bass, Johnny the guitar player on my side is already there smiling. We don't high five....
The crowd starts screaming because they see us warming up on the side, it's always a good feeling stepping out onto that stage... even when you know they aren't screaming for you, they could give a fuck if it was me or some other hired gun up there. I'm just stoked cuz in about 35 seconds I'm about to bust into "Slave to the grind," a song from a band I was not to into 25 years ago...
and if you would have told me that when I was 16, sitting in Terry whatever her last name was' T-top Firebird, in the parking lot of the Garden state Plaza mall, smoking Marlboro reds and hating the music her hair sprayed, white tassled leather jacket wearing ass was listening to.. that 25 years later I would be touring the world with the singer of that band, I probably would have punched you in the face... but here I am, standing on this stage, staring at a club full of people screaming for him.
The intro starts to roll, the lights get lower, the crowd gets louder... and as I start to make my way across the stage with bass in hand, I remember why I do this. At first when I was a kid, it was totally about girls, money, and booze... it was the only way I knew how to think, I had never ever picked up an instrument, and I already wanted to be in the back lounge of a tour bus getting a blow job with some stupid sunglasses on. Now it's different, I do like taking pictures with people and signing shit, with an occasional chick to hang with or whatever, I don't drink or do drugs anymore so that's out of the picture... but the real reason I do this, is so I can't move my neck when I wake up in the morning. The feeling that is produced when I lock in with the drummer, and everything is at the right tempo, is undeniably better than any speedball I have ever done. Ok... let's not get too carried away here, maybe it's not as good as a giant speedball, but holy fuck does it come close. The intro stops, Bobby hits the high hat 4 times, and we start Slave... I see Sebastian out of the corner of my left eye, just smiling and waiting. This guy has been doing this since I was in fantasy camp on my living room couch, and it looks like he's about to take the stage for the first time ever. I love that about him, Sebastian is the epitome of a rock star... we roll through the intro to the song, and as the song kicks in, Sebastian runs up on stage screaming, swinging the mic over his head like a helicopter blade. I look up, and he turns back and points and smiles, it's on and we are killing it. About 7 high fives later, we are almost through the 5th song... I am nailing just about all of the stuff we went over during the small rehearsal we had, hitting every ending, and with only a few glitches... I successfully make it to the end of the show. He makes up all come to the front of the stage to take a bow, which totally freaked me out. I'm not in Queen, or Van Halen, I just want to go backstage, crack a bottle of water, and light a cigarette. The best cigarette for me ever is right after a show... I'll suck down like three in a row. Baz tries to get me to come sign some shit at the merch table but again, I know my place.. so I grab like 9 slices of pizza, a coke, and sit on the stage watch it all go down. After about an hour of watching that, and signing some shit here and there, I head back to the bus. I get a light round of applause for a job semi-well done, and I hit my bunk with sweaty balls as we drive to Baltimore...
Friday, January 13, 2012
Disguises.
We all have guardian angels, they quietly follow us and do their best to protect us from the evil seductress that would love nothing more than to help us go down in flames. Mine is my great Grandmother, I believe she is the voice in my head that makes me feel guilty when I am doing something like lying or cheating, she's the voice that tells me I'm a good writer and musician, and that I should call my Mother more than once a month.
There is also a Dark Lord in all of us as well... most people are genetically structured to ignore this voice and automatically do the right thing, I unfortunately was not born with that convenience. My Dark Lord uses a megaphone, wakes up at least a half hour before my guardian angel, and stays up well past anyone else in my head. He also disguises himself as my angel, masking something that will soak me in shame as a warm ball of light.. only to strip off his fake wings after the fact, and point his blackened crooked finger at me as I hang my head in complete remorse.
Escaping this voice just won't happen, it wasn't there when I was a child, and I'm not really sure what night it was when he floated through my bedroom window, riding on a warm breeze past my poster of Farrah Fawcett, and gently streaming himself up my left nostril into my brain. It doesn't make any sense to me a lot of the time, my Grandmothers spirit is way stronger than anything I had ever seen, or unseen... before she died her connection to God was so intense that all she did was sit in a chair with a knitted quilt over her legs, praying in Italian... from the time she opened her eyes in the morning, until she fell asleep. I'm pretty sure she even prayed in her sleep. The safest I had ever felt in my life was when I would sleep in her bed as a little boy, resting my eyes to the sound of her heartbeat and the whisperings of one hundred Hail Mary's.
I'm pretty sure I handed the Dark Lord a megaphone when I was about 12, and listened whenever he spoke. The more I listened the more powerful he became, and before I knew it, I was trapped in the grips of a hopeless state of existence, disguised as an easy carefree life. Believing that the path of the numb was the easiest way to live... until it gets so dark you have no way out except to want to die. Wrapping around my brain like a squid, shedding black ink to cloud any type of sanity. The angels voice is now in all lower case letters, and the bold, and capitalized Dark Lord types fear and judgement into the keyboard on my tongue. There are brief moments when I hear my Grandmother praying, and it scares the shit out of me. The sacred place where I used to rest on her chest is now well decomposed and gone forever, and my only hope is to quiet my mind enough to listen to her, so she can tell me where my new resting place is... it's somewhere, it's somewhere real close. All I have to do is find her voice again and listen carefully. God is in the pause... maybe the resting place is somewhere in her Hail Mary.
There is also a Dark Lord in all of us as well... most people are genetically structured to ignore this voice and automatically do the right thing, I unfortunately was not born with that convenience. My Dark Lord uses a megaphone, wakes up at least a half hour before my guardian angel, and stays up well past anyone else in my head. He also disguises himself as my angel, masking something that will soak me in shame as a warm ball of light.. only to strip off his fake wings after the fact, and point his blackened crooked finger at me as I hang my head in complete remorse.
Escaping this voice just won't happen, it wasn't there when I was a child, and I'm not really sure what night it was when he floated through my bedroom window, riding on a warm breeze past my poster of Farrah Fawcett, and gently streaming himself up my left nostril into my brain. It doesn't make any sense to me a lot of the time, my Grandmothers spirit is way stronger than anything I had ever seen, or unseen... before she died her connection to God was so intense that all she did was sit in a chair with a knitted quilt over her legs, praying in Italian... from the time she opened her eyes in the morning, until she fell asleep. I'm pretty sure she even prayed in her sleep. The safest I had ever felt in my life was when I would sleep in her bed as a little boy, resting my eyes to the sound of her heartbeat and the whisperings of one hundred Hail Mary's.
I'm pretty sure I handed the Dark Lord a megaphone when I was about 12, and listened whenever he spoke. The more I listened the more powerful he became, and before I knew it, I was trapped in the grips of a hopeless state of existence, disguised as an easy carefree life. Believing that the path of the numb was the easiest way to live... until it gets so dark you have no way out except to want to die. Wrapping around my brain like a squid, shedding black ink to cloud any type of sanity. The angels voice is now in all lower case letters, and the bold, and capitalized Dark Lord types fear and judgement into the keyboard on my tongue. There are brief moments when I hear my Grandmother praying, and it scares the shit out of me. The sacred place where I used to rest on her chest is now well decomposed and gone forever, and my only hope is to quiet my mind enough to listen to her, so she can tell me where my new resting place is... it's somewhere, it's somewhere real close. All I have to do is find her voice again and listen carefully. God is in the pause... maybe the resting place is somewhere in her Hail Mary.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The first two years..... part 1
I have always been way to detached to actually have a real feeling, unless I'm about to get my ass kicked or something... anything having to do with physical pain always scares the shit out of me. Emotional? emotional pain is overrated. Unless it's good old fashion rage. If my girlfriend is coming home with a load of some other dudes curdled up cum in her mouth every night and kissing me with it, that would make my entire body turn red, but when family members or close friends die, I usually have to either pretend to cry, or just look bummed. When honestly I really just don't feel any different. I mean yeah I'm sad that people in my life are gone, but I don't get people that get so emotional that they cry hysterically at funerals and hug each other and whatnot. I'm always there consoling someone, and pretending i'm really sad. I'm surprised I didn't grow up skinning cats and burying them alive in the woods half the time....
So when we pulled up in front of the Onyx cafe on Vermont st. in Loz Feliz California, two days before Christmas, with two guitars, and two dollars to our names.... there wasn't an ounce of fear in my bloodstream. I knew we were doing the right thing, no matter how ridiculous everyone thought it was. Driving across the entire country on nothing but blind faith and a whim of boredom to "look for a drummer" and be rich and famous rock stars should have taken a little more planning than a 30 second conversation on the New York State Thruway, then turning onto Rt. 80 west and going for it. It was a real "Welcome to the Jungle" kind of moment for us. Thank God we didn't really think it through, who knows where we would be today.
Even though we had no money, nowhere to go, and no friends in town because everyone was elsewhere for the holidays, I had this unbelievable amount of faith that I never had before, about anything in my life... I dreamt about this moment for years while I sat on my Mother's couch, smoking her Virginia Slim 120's, drinking my Stepfathers vodka and smoking his roaches. I watched the news about the earthquakes, the riots, the famous people dying on the strip... I wanted it all. I remember watching those two bank robbers in North Hollywood in the armored suits, walking down the street shooting at cops, and all I could think was, "man it's fucking February and it looks so warm out there!"
The whole drive cross country I just kept cracking my window to see if it was getting warmer, the closer we got to California. I literally pictured this place like the Europeans probably do... I pictured myself walking barefoot in the sand down Hollywood Blvd, with a hollowed out pineapple full of rum and heroin, while I watched Tom Cruise blow James Cagney on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. The air would be warm, breezy, and salty. Then God would drop a record contract out of the sky while I stood in front of The Whiskey and I would sign it, and never have to work again.....
So when we pulled up in front of the Onyx cafe on Vermont st. in Loz Feliz California, two days before Christmas, with two guitars, and two dollars to our names.... there wasn't an ounce of fear in my bloodstream. I knew we were doing the right thing, no matter how ridiculous everyone thought it was. Driving across the entire country on nothing but blind faith and a whim of boredom to "look for a drummer" and be rich and famous rock stars should have taken a little more planning than a 30 second conversation on the New York State Thruway, then turning onto Rt. 80 west and going for it. It was a real "Welcome to the Jungle" kind of moment for us. Thank God we didn't really think it through, who knows where we would be today.
Even though we had no money, nowhere to go, and no friends in town because everyone was elsewhere for the holidays, I had this unbelievable amount of faith that I never had before, about anything in my life... I dreamt about this moment for years while I sat on my Mother's couch, smoking her Virginia Slim 120's, drinking my Stepfathers vodka and smoking his roaches. I watched the news about the earthquakes, the riots, the famous people dying on the strip... I wanted it all. I remember watching those two bank robbers in North Hollywood in the armored suits, walking down the street shooting at cops, and all I could think was, "man it's fucking February and it looks so warm out there!"
The whole drive cross country I just kept cracking my window to see if it was getting warmer, the closer we got to California. I literally pictured this place like the Europeans probably do... I pictured myself walking barefoot in the sand down Hollywood Blvd, with a hollowed out pineapple full of rum and heroin, while I watched Tom Cruise blow James Cagney on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. The air would be warm, breezy, and salty. Then God would drop a record contract out of the sky while I stood in front of The Whiskey and I would sign it, and never have to work again.....
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Gems from the past.
I found a bunch of shit that I had written over a 10 year period in a folder deep in the bottom of a box. Reading through most of it has surely made me grateful for what I'm like today, but this one in particular really stood out to me, and kinda made me a little dopesick...
4-11-04
If I die tonight, this was nobody's fault but my own. I have been dying to stick a needle in my arm for a long time now, and the more I drank, smoke, and started taking pills... I knew it would eventually come down to this.
Yesterday I did a speedball for the first time in 7 years, and the feeling was so fucking amazing, not a care in the world. Now I couldn't find dope because I had to work, and it was too late when I got off, so I got some coke... and I can't stop shooting it. I have no pills to come down off of, and I feel like my heart is going to explode. I shut my phone off and am cleaning my room like it's never been cleaned before. I said many times over those 7 years that I would never do this again. I'm supposed to go on tour friday, and if I make it till then I'll be fine, and if I live long enough for Corey to call me tomorrow, I will also be ok.
I want help, but I don't want to live anymore. My band is good, and they are the best thing I have ever done with myself. Honestly, they are the only thing that has kept me alive and off the needle for this long. But once I get that feeling, a whole different monster takes over.
It's 6am right now and I'm washing the shower curtain. Two nights ago I smoked freebase up until I had to go to band practice. I went home, took 4 valium, and barely made it through the day. I slept all through sunday and most of monday, called up my friend in Venice who I knew got high. He gave me this pager number and 20 minutes later, I was in Tower records parking lot waiting for heroin. Met the guy, walked down to my coke dealers house, found another friend with syringe, and within an hour I was doing speedballs. After 7 years it only took me one hour and I didn't have to walk more than 2 blocks all together. It was to easy.
My cousin asked me what was wrong with me at work tonight... I told him I was sick, but he knows what's up.
Ok I'm going to do one more shot then finish cleaning my room...
I love you.
Jason
4-11-04
If I die tonight, this was nobody's fault but my own. I have been dying to stick a needle in my arm for a long time now, and the more I drank, smoke, and started taking pills... I knew it would eventually come down to this.
Yesterday I did a speedball for the first time in 7 years, and the feeling was so fucking amazing, not a care in the world. Now I couldn't find dope because I had to work, and it was too late when I got off, so I got some coke... and I can't stop shooting it. I have no pills to come down off of, and I feel like my heart is going to explode. I shut my phone off and am cleaning my room like it's never been cleaned before. I said many times over those 7 years that I would never do this again. I'm supposed to go on tour friday, and if I make it till then I'll be fine, and if I live long enough for Corey to call me tomorrow, I will also be ok.
I want help, but I don't want to live anymore. My band is good, and they are the best thing I have ever done with myself. Honestly, they are the only thing that has kept me alive and off the needle for this long. But once I get that feeling, a whole different monster takes over.
It's 6am right now and I'm washing the shower curtain. Two nights ago I smoked freebase up until I had to go to band practice. I went home, took 4 valium, and barely made it through the day. I slept all through sunday and most of monday, called up my friend in Venice who I knew got high. He gave me this pager number and 20 minutes later, I was in Tower records parking lot waiting for heroin. Met the guy, walked down to my coke dealers house, found another friend with syringe, and within an hour I was doing speedballs. After 7 years it only took me one hour and I didn't have to walk more than 2 blocks all together. It was to easy.
My cousin asked me what was wrong with me at work tonight... I told him I was sick, but he knows what's up.
Ok I'm going to do one more shot then finish cleaning my room...
I love you.
Jason
Gems from the past.
I found a bunch of shit that I had written over a 10 year period in a folder deep in the bottom of a box. Reading through most of it has surely made me grateful for what I'm like today, but this one in particular really stood out to me, and kinda made me a little dopesick...
4-11-04
If I die tonight, this was nobody's fault but my own. I have been dying to stick a needle in my arm for a long time now, and the more I drank, smoke, and started taking pills... I knew it would eventually come down to this.
Yesterday I did a speedball for the first time in 7 years, and the feeling was so fucking amazing, not a care in the world. Now I couldn't find dope because I had to work, and it was too late when I got off, so I got some coke... and I can't stop shooting it. I have no pills to come down off of, and I feel like my heart is going to explode. I shut my phone off and am cleaning my room like it's never been cleaned before. I said many times over those 7 years that I would never do this again. I'm supposed to go on tour friday, and if I make it till then I'll be fine, and if I live long enough for Corey to call me tomorrow, I will also be ok.
I want help, but I don't want to live anymore. My band is good, and they are the best thing I have ever done with myself. Honestly, they are the only thing that has kept me alive and off the needle for this long. But once I get that feeling, a whole different monster takes over.
It's 6am right now and I'm washing the shower curtain. Two nights ago I smoked freebase up until I had to go to band practice. I went home, took 4 valium, and barely made it through the day. I slept all through sunday and most of monday, called up my friend in Venice who I knew got high. He gave me this pager number and 20 minutes later, I was in Tower records parking lot waiting for heroin. Met the guy, walked down to my coke dealers house, found another friend with syringe, and within an hour I was doing speedballs. After 7 years it only took me one hour and I didn't have to walk more than 2 blocks all together. It was to easy.
My cousin asked me what was wrong with me at work tonight... I told him I was sick, but he knows what's up.
Ok I'm going to do one more shot then finish cleaning my room...
I love you.
Jason
4-11-04
If I die tonight, this was nobody's fault but my own. I have been dying to stick a needle in my arm for a long time now, and the more I drank, smoke, and started taking pills... I knew it would eventually come down to this.
Yesterday I did a speedball for the first time in 7 years, and the feeling was so fucking amazing, not a care in the world. Now I couldn't find dope because I had to work, and it was too late when I got off, so I got some coke... and I can't stop shooting it. I have no pills to come down off of, and I feel like my heart is going to explode. I shut my phone off and am cleaning my room like it's never been cleaned before. I said many times over those 7 years that I would never do this again. I'm supposed to go on tour friday, and if I make it till then I'll be fine, and if I live long enough for Corey to call me tomorrow, I will also be ok.
I want help, but I don't want to live anymore. My band is good, and they are the best thing I have ever done with myself. Honestly, they are the only thing that has kept me alive and off the needle for this long. But once I get that feeling, a whole different monster takes over.
It's 6am right now and I'm washing the shower curtain. Two nights ago I smoked freebase up until I had to go to band practice. I went home, took 4 valium, and barely made it through the day. I slept all through sunday and most of monday, called up my friend in Venice who I knew got high. He gave me this pager number and 20 minutes later, I was in Tower records parking lot waiting for heroin. Met the guy, walked down to my coke dealers house, found another friend with syringe, and within an hour I was doing speedballs. After 7 years it only took me one hour and I didn't have to walk more than 2 blocks all together. It was to easy.
My cousin asked me what was wrong with me at work tonight... I told him I was sick, but he knows what's up.
Ok I'm going to do one more shot then finish cleaning my room...
I love you.
Jason
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