This whole blog thing is really helping me put things in perspective. Though I know that no one reads these (hopefully people will when I'm in Japan), I'm finding that I'm getting a lot out of my system. And since Ihad all but completely quit journalling, this is the next best thing.
So, before I leave for Evan Dando tonight, I'm going to post one of my old blogs from Myspace. This was my last post before I left Strasbourg for Chicago. It was over two years ago. Seems like nothing has changed.
I'd also like to add that two comments were tagged on it--both nice and funny. Chrispy and Alexander.
So, here it is:
My favorite Bob Dylan song of all time is positively "Positively Fourth Street". What this song does is not only characterize the loneliness the narrator feels upon losing his main girl (who he apparently considers a cold bitch, and I would have to assume rightfully so), but he struggles with the agony of "seeing her on the street". The lyrics are Dylan's best (this from a man that "likes" not "loves" Dylan. I could easily lose an argument over this point) because he describes typical situations with the gravity they deserve. I like big obtuse lyrics about the state of the world and the complexity of human emotion (think "Billy Corgan") but Dylan was able to directly ASSAULT the concept he was exploring with this song. In case you need a refresher...
You got a lotta nerve
To say you are my friend
When I was down
You just stood there grinning
You got a lotta nerve
To say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on
The side that's winning
You say I let you down
You know it's not like that
If you're so hurt
Why then don't you show it
You say you lost your faith
But that's not where it's at
You had no faith to lose
And you know it
I know the reason
That you talk behind my back
I used to be among the crowd
You're in with
Do you take me for such a fool
To think I'd make contact
With the one who tries to hide
What he don't know to begin with
You see me on the street
You always act surprised
You say, "How are you?" "Good luck"
But you don't mean it
When you know as well as me
You'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once
And scream it
No, I do not feel that good
When I see the heartbreaks you embrace
If I was a master thief
Perhaps I'd rob them
And now I know you're dissatisfied
With your position and your place
Don't you understand
It's not my problem
I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment
I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is
To see you
This sounds completely absurd, but I always really wanted to have this song not only be great, but also meaningful to me. Now I have it, and I occassionally feel like shit. This is a song about feeling like shit, so I guess it works in all regards.
Oh, and a nice video... I don't know how I stumbled across this, but I actually have footage of Bob Dylan practicing this song in his bedroom!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2kh8rHD4wQ
All this comes up because I saw Herman Dune last night. It was a great show, and I can't help but feel like I had a bold revelation. Herman Dune played songs that tackled this aspect of life... the simple moments that say so much--the complexity of everything. His songs are about things important to me (girls, music, travelling, etc.) and he writes them in an uber-selfish fashion. Everything revolves around him and the stories are completely his. Here's a sample of the lyrics...
I fell asleep on a roadtripAnd the snow storm made me cross concreteBetween high-speed highway lanes and exit lanesAnd I woke up to a sign that said "for U-turns it's the second right"And the thought that I could dieGetting out of my car trying to stopA crazy blind New Jersey traffic-jamThe thought, it told me:Hey, David you could have called your parentsYou could have sang a beautiful song with your sisterYou could have been in the cabin last springYou could have written something good eventuallyYou could have told someone you loved you didAnd then, by chance, I got back on the roadAnd I could start not thinking about anything that mattersIt's like when I sent that letter and forgot to write your name on itIt's like the pictures I took on tour and never found the filmAnd back to the radio "Back In My Arms Again" by the SupremesAnd even now, even right nowIt doesn't feel like I could have said it...
This probably reads ridiculous, but it sounds amazing when you hear it with HD's beautiful voice. You follow the story and fill in the pieces with your own memories.
I got drunk and went to the concert alone. I don't really have friends in Strasbourg anymore (wha happen?) and Carole wanted to see a movie. This was a good concert to go to alone... and to be drunk at. I stole Carole's big sunglasses and made one of my final trips down the main road heading toward Laiterie and Molodoi. I didn't see a whole lot of concerts here that were proper concerts. Mostly just "music" which is very different from an actual event. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed them and look forward to the constant barrage of concerts that Chicago has.
There was a kid in the front row that I had seen somewhere else. God, this kid had a real face. He was just stunning. He was front row also at a concert I had seen not too long ago, but is blurry. I don't remember exactly what it was. I sort of feel like I remember him from Chicago, but that would be impossible. He's got this face that really should be famous. I don't know why I bring this up because it sounds horribly creepy, but god, just with that face he could be the future of rock and roll. It's partially Evan Dando (from the Lemonheads--who by the way made an amazing new record. I guess I should say "he" made a really good record because there are no former "Lemonheads" on it besides him. The Lemonheads are one of those bands (like Dinosaur Jr, Nine Inch Nails) that are really just the frontman with whoever is playing at the moment. But the new Lemonheads album is played by the two guys from the Descendents, so it sounds 60 percent like a Lemonheads' and 40 percent like a new Descendents album. This adds up to a great album. Highly highly recommended. I've decided that the thing the world needs most is "slack". Bring the Slack Back! The early nineties were such a great time because the answer to every problem was that things are so shitty that there is no answer to any problem. I feel (in these trying times in history) that I simply want to "just laugh" and acknowledge that "we can never do anything about anything anyway" as E. Dando sings. It is quite refreshing and makes me sentimental simultaneously. Here is a video from the MC5 with Mark Arm (his holiness) and Evan Dando who sounds like he needs a nap.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKstu5riJ4s&mode=related&search=
) but anyway, he looks like Evan Dando, but much more attractive, and he should become a lead singer of a really good rock band and save the lives of the youth of today with his wit and biting social commentary. I'd tell him this, but I don't know how to say all that in French.
The concert really made me quite sentimental, and being really drunk didn't help much. I got that annoying lump in the throat that is common among people that are sad but horribly prevalent among Cullinane men. I've seen every Cullinane male break down and try to swallow that fucker, and every one is unsuccessful every time. I'm lucky that I was alone because I might have made a fool of myself otherwise.
The reason I got so sad was three-fold. I was sad that I will be leaving Carole in just two and a half weeks because we are getting along so well. Many of the songs are about two people (Herman and his girlfriend, I'd assume) that are separated by "the sea".
In preparation for Jamie's voyage across the sea (which unfortunately was cancelled) I taught Carole to say "shit squirrel" so she could insult Nagle properly (as any slightly intelligent person is required to do). She says it so wonderfully... I wish I could get it on tape. She says "up yours, shit squirrel" and it makes you melt, or me at least. I guess it's the accent, but it's also just really nice when she says it.
We were laying down before the concert, listening to Herman Dune, and Carole said something really nice. Normally, she doesn't say nice things to me, which I like because I never have to question her sincerity. The worst part of the United States is the overt politeness that everyone feels the need to convey to total strangers. People that I talk to beyond a superficial level usually hate the human race with a passion, yet we've had it instilled that we always have to be polite. Not even polite, just fake-polite. It's all for survival. But Carole never acts fake-polite. She is totally honest, and I really like it. She never says things that are cheesy or corny or sentimental, but she sometimes hints at them. We were lying down and she said (after a stint of depressed silence), "but we have just gotten to be fine, shit squirrel." This is the kind of thing that is really hard to hear and to contemplate. We have just gotten fine. And it is really fucking hard to "get fine", especially for people like me, and (I'm assuming) also for people like her. Getting fine doesn't come easy. We can play ping pong for three hours, get a meal, take a nap, go to a concert, have a snack, sleep, wake up, eat breakfast, listen to music, lather rinse repeat repeat repeat and there is no pressure on any single moment. This is really new to me. Generally I feel gobs of pressure. I get angry, pouty, miserable by activity number four. I need to go home, to be alone, to watch Judge Mathis and curse the world.
It's tough to tell whether all of this is Carole or the inevitable departure. The one fight we had was fueled by this argument. Oddly, I stated that the inevitable departure did not create my liking for Carole; she said she believed that it played a part into her sadness. After that, I told her that we couldn't talk about it anymore... she wants to cry often, but that would be complete and utter torture for me, as I'm leaving more than just her behind.
The song that I'm sure will strike a nerve upon my return even more than it does now is "I wish that I will see you soon".
Here's a snazzy little music video for the song...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGAmnjZYxdU
I know when I return to Chicago, I'll be met with the constant "why the fuck are you playing this
pussy shit, bob?" without any sort of understanding of how many times I've listened to this song here and it meaning so much.
The second third of the three-fold sadness is the fact that there is not only someone "going" away... Carole is the "going" but Adriana is the "gone". I hesitate to write too much about this, but I envisioned fantasies of how much this song would mean to us when I was back in the States and she was still in Strasbourg. We'd play it in anticipation to her return to Chicago and then have it mean the world to both of us as we tried to maintain a long distance relationship after she left for grad school.
I discovered Herman Dune on the local radio station where they played him about six times
every night. I listened for "123 Apple Tree" every night so that I could think about her for the three and a half minutes that the song lasted. It was a private anthem to her.
I don't like to admit that I'm upset over what happened with her, but I am. And during the concert, I couldn't help but fluctuate between my sadness over the "going" and my sadness over the "gone". They were like split screens in my mind. The worst part is that I had a week of my life where I confidently had both of them. They were neither going or gone, but simply here. Not together, but each had her own place in my life, and I wanted that to stay the way it was forever.
Of course, that's selfish, and I should just realize that it would inevitably crumble and leave me in the moment I am now... depressed over the fact that the detritus of my time in France will even crumble and dissolve.
The third part is just that. The single most interesting and exciting part of my life is going to end
very soon. No longer will I be living the story but will soon be expected to relive it. People will question me probably about three times a day asking, "how was France", and I'll say, "It was great!" to which they'll say, "tell me about it." and I'll simply try to explain bits and pieces of what went down without ever really describing what it was like. In fact, I don't even understand it... I'm sure I will eventually, but it makes no sense to me now. It was just like a holiday that kept getting better as I made my home here homier and homier. I don't want to leave.
I could probably marry Carole and stay here, but god, that would be really bold. I don't think I have that in me.
And in reality, the trip wasn't really that great. It's not like I did something new and innovative. Thousands of people do this kind of thing every year, and I'm no big deal. I hope I don't have some sort of bogus chip on my shoulder when I come back home, and I certainly hope that I don't act differently (well, only in a different, but good way... I'm really really trying to break certain bad social habits and--of course--trying to not be so bloody awkward). Who knows, though.
So these three things made me really sad, and I found that I entered into the music and totally connected with it; the way I'm wont to do at concerts that I drunkenly attend by myself. I got that fucking lump in my throat; my brain was swirling; I was thinking about the state of myself simultaneously with complete and utter focus on every musical measure crossing my ears. I made the most of my fifteen euros.
On the way home I listened to "Don't Look Back in Anger" over and over again at full blast for no apparent reason except that it is a really great song--a perfect song. I don't like the band, but damn, that song is untouchable. I got a beer for the road, left my new tee shirt at the place, sprinted back to successfully regain it, tried to make late night plans, and once again my text messages went unreplied. Wha happen? I stayed in, staring at the walls feeling depressed and pensive until I fell asleep, probably drunkenly snoring and having nightmarish visions of animal attacks.Then I walked to my school (I'm done with work!) to write this and realized I was full of shit.
My album of choice was Motley Crue's "Decade of Decadence" because I like to listen to cock rock when I'm hungover. Along with milkshakes, Teen Wolf, and asparin, it always seems to cure it. I started with "Looks that Kill" and began to think about the potential I had to sing this at karaoke when I return to Chicago. I had tried "Girls Girls Girls" (the second best song to feature motocycle revving up at the beginning (the first is Roxy Music's "Love is the Drug" and the third is Jane's Addiction's "Been Caught Stealing")) but I butchered it. I can get the first minute and a half down all right, but the time when Mr. Neil sings the higher of the two "Girls Girls Girls" refrains, I lose it. Then my voice is shot, and it's a long song, so I just end up making a fool of myself. "Looks that Kill" might be a good choice, though. It's high pitched, but I think it's my kind of high pitched, and the chorus is pretty throaty. I decided to start memorizing the lyrics.
Then "Girls Girls Girls" came on. God. That song is just fucking great! My favorite part is during the interlude where somebody goes "hey Tommy, look at that one over there!" with gratuitous whistling. Yes, it's a classic.
Hungover, but recovering, my mind went in another direction all together. I was freaked out at
the thought of Carole. I was freaked out at the thought of caring about anyone at all. I don't want to care and be cared for; that just ain't my style. I belong on a motorcycle cruising the streets with my drinking buddies looking for the next strip club to cause a ruckus in. I need to be fucking free, like the Crue, like the demons that live in and on my skin. I need a tattoo and should try to get a drug addiction. God, I need a beer. Fuck that, I need a shot. Two shots. And then I need to find a slut because I'm a male slut, and I'll go back to Chicago and be the male slut that I'm so good at being.
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. God, I'm not sensitive. The night of Herman Dune was a night of bullshit. I don't care about people. I don't care about world issues. All I care about is music. And music defines my mood and all that I try to acheive out of life. I'm ridiculous.Most people that have spent more than three evenings with me would respond aptly to this concept with "duh!" I have a feeling everyone understands this about me but me... even after I read High Fidelity this year. How is it that I allow myself to be such a musical sponge? My identity is really just the identity of the music playing in the background.
But maybe that's not so bad. And (in some ways) I'd much rather be in Motley Crue mode than in Herman Dune mode. I remember one of the first nights I did karaoke at the Blue Frog, there was this girl that drove from Kansas City with her mother to audition for American Idol. I sang "Funkytown" with her. This was not the most interesting part of the evening. I also did my classic rendition of Billy Idol's "Rebel Yell", but I did it spot on. It was so spot on (with microphone twirls, jump kicks, god, I even wrapped the cord around a cute girl sitting in the front) that I got invited to a table of women (they were strictly for hunger) that were in Chicago for a conference for Planned Parenthood or something. Essentially they were (to put it delicately) forward thinking females, but to put it abrasively, they were raging feminist dykes. One kept saying, "I bet you do this every night to pick up women. This is your schtick." It wasn't at that point, but I decided to make it such. (on a side note, karaoke is not a good way to meet women. Maybe I don't sing as well as I thought?) We drank and laughed; I was charming, tried to take the least looking lesbian home, and ended up at the beach and had a very strange evening.
And this is what I'll return to. I'll be the grand prize winner of the male slut karaoke olympics. And that's really fine by me because I can also be the hyper-sensitive thoughtful "nice guy" that cries when another hyper-sensitive thoughtful "nice guy" plays hyper-sensitive thoughtful songs on his hyper-sensitive thoughtful guitar.
In essence, I no longer have to have a shared experience with other people, I only have to have appropriate background music playing.
It's difficult to say whether this is a blessing or a curse, but I'll find out soon.
And maybe it would be in my best interest to stop listening to "Positively Fourth Street" all together. I mean, what would the Crue do? They'd tell me that Adriana got really annoying. She nagged at me all the time and found my (once) witty banter to be annoying and pointless. And her ass was growing exponentially because she couldn't keep up with my diet of Doner Kebobs (or my metabolism). If I see her on the street, I'll wish that she could stand inside my shoes in order to realize what a drag it is to see her, but, shit, that moment will pass by like all the others. The Crue never got sentimental at the strip clubs they visited (and named in "Girls Girls Girls"). It was just a venue of pleasure, and why can't life just be one elongated venue of pleasure?
And Carole, well, she's just a fond memory. Not yet, but soon enough. I guess I just haven't known her long enough to discover her flaws.
This is all so dark; I don't know why my mind is taking me in this direction.
From here on out, I'll have to make my musical selections with care and delicacy. Even if I wake up thinking Motley Crue are the lamest band of miscreants on the planet, and they have nothing in them that's in me... well, maybe I should listen to that, knowing they'll drop me down a few rungs of the ladder and allow me to see how futile everything is. Bob Dylan's great and all, and Herman Dune is overwhelmingly outstanding, but not all the time. When I fly out of Frankfurt, I think a little Crue is in order. After all, what's the point in trying to make yourself sad when you already are? And this machine is built with solutions.
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