Venezuela

I have always been bored with the business of it all. I would always rather be the one who deals with all the pleasures of life.

Deeming myself the “George Hamilton of punk rock,” and living a hammering lifestyle has put me on a less than permanent couch tour for most of my life. Occasional scraps of togetherness have been forced onto me by my occasional will to succeed, but for the most part I have lived off the generosity of my friends and family my entire existence. The days rage with handouts as I grift from womb to womb.

Most would call this a lonely soulless way to live, and to be completely honest, when I am actually awake and totally aware of my surroundings, it sucks so bad that I would rather eat a rusty razor blade sandwich on moldy bread, washed down with a Chlamydia milkshake, then have to sleep on one more of my friends couches, or ask for a ride to wherever I don’t even really want to be anyway.

 When I actually take a step back and look at the “stuff part” of my life, the materialistic section of it all, it makes it real easy to get depressed… but not enough to actually do something about it. I don’t have a license… take the bus. I don’t have an apartment because I’m “on the road a lot…” so I crash at friends houses and apartments. I have always been either a great starter but never ever finished anything really, either that or I just completely half ass a whole thing… complaining the entire time about nothing.

I could be on a leer jet with the Rolling Stones, getting my dick sucked by an 18 year old virgin, all while shooting non addictive speedballs with Keith Richards, as he shows me how to play “Moonlight mile” on the acoustic guitar that he is going to give me when he’s done… I would still find something to complain about, and by the way I only said 18 because it’s illegal to bang 16 year olds, but it would probably be more entertaining to show a 16 year old supermodel how to… fuck, I’m just gonna stop right there with that one before I start getting all Polanski.

“Oooh Jason… you’re soooo honest in your writing… we love you.”

 Go fuck yourself, this is the only thing that keeps me alive 80 percent of the time. I don’t write for you, I don’t write for anyone but myself. That’s why it’s so God damn repetitive.

Ok…. so I may not be on a private jet with the Rolling Stones, but…. I am on a huge 747 with Slipknot and Stone Sour, on our way back from Brazil, one band for which I played bass for 2 nights ago and rocked the fuck out of over 100,000 people. There isn’t an 18 year old girl blowing me, but let’s just say the girls like to travel in pairs down there, and just sit in your hotel lobby. The absolute true meaning of “shooting fish in a barrel….” and I’m sitting here complaining… see? I wasn’t fucking lying. 

I could take a million dollar scratch off ticket to Vegas and turn it into a coke dusted Ziploc bag and a sticky shot-glass covered in fruit-flies while driving Biz Markie’s Ferrari right into the back of a cop car with a family of four strapped to the hood. I actually won the $100 roll at the cee~lo game backstage before Slipknot went on last night, so with the 4 people with balls big enough to drop a bill on one or two dice rolls… I got my room service bill for the weekend handled.

Nothing fills the hole completely… Nothing. It’s just a temporary fix, but then again everything is a temporary fix. Nothing is forever.

If I got my head out my ass far enough to live comfortably, I think I might have a shot at being kind of happy. Definitely happier than I am or have been ever in my life. It’s like…. almost there.

I was on stage a few months ago in front of 60,000 people, feeling like a complete fraud. I wanted to blow my head off the entire time… so much for a dream come true fixing you right? So I come back to Los Angeles and start going to the place that I can get my “medicine” talking about my stupid whiney feelings and what not, and low and behold… playing in front of 100,000 a few months later and not wanting to blow my head off, at least not till the show was over. I totally enjoyed the show though, and didn’t feel like a total piece of shit till like 5 minutes after I got off stage…. Progress.

I’m flying over Venezuela as we speak (I type). I have a few hundred dollars in my pocket, and a few more in the bank. I just watched Arthur and cried like a little baby when Hobson died so I know there is a feeling in there somewhere… but none of it is enough. I will sit here thinking about how my back hurts and my neck is killing me, how I will never be an Arthur and fall in love with a Naomi, and how there is 3 hours and 45 minutes left of this 10.5 hour flight from a weekend people only dream of. The type of shit I used to watch on television when I was a kid, the type of shit I still watch on television today. Barstool dreaming becoming a reality isn’t enough for this little manboy. I need something bigger. I’ve had something bigger. I just refuse to accept that this Great Spirit actually exists most of the time, and that I am the same as all the rest of the whiney AA faggots. I tell everyone I am the same, but deep down I know I am different… and unfortunately, that will eventually kill me. It will kill me while I’m not even paying attention… because I’m rarely ever paying attention.

The Great Spirit is in the adrenaline… not the “jump out of a plane” adrenaline, the kind of adrenaline that gets you killed. Like stealing some shit from a store kind of adrenaline, fucking your friends wife kind of adrenaline, the kind of adrenaline that makes you feel so shitty… you don’t even want to be alive. Once you get to the other side of this behavior is when you can start enjoying the Great Spirit.

For guys like me…

The Great Spirit is the stink on a stripper pole, It’s finding a vein and hitting it on the first try,  it’s an all access backstage pass… My Great Spirit has been a mirage for years.