Taking Back Control

So... I was "stood up" last night. Which is really no big deal and not anything that hasn't happened before. Maybe it was karma for keeping someone else guessing, or for some other shitty dating thing I've done. I am not perfect, and while I generally try and treat people they way I'd like to be treated, I fail sometimes. We're all human, we've all been screwed and we've all screwed over someone else. It happens.

But, sitting in front of my PC last night, I began to think... I thought about two things, really. First, that dating sucks, and modern options for dating suck. And second, that I should make a form/post/whatever that was 100% brutally honest, and that anyone applying to date me should have the both read it, and fill one out the same way.

This morning, on my drive into work, Bob and Tom (the radio show) were talking to a mormon comedian who had tried the online dating thing. Then the comedian talked about speed dating. He mentioned that, hey, if you like getting rejected once a day, try speed dating, where you get rejected 30 times an hour!

Dating sucks. Well, no, scratch that... trying to date, beginning to date, however you want to say it... that sucks. Knowing someone, spending time together, getting to know each other... that stuff is nice. But the getting there sucks. The finding someone who is willing sucks - on both ends. It's not always me, and it's not always her.

The thing that pisses me off - and yes, it really does piss me off - about last night... I have no idea what made this person decide to be a bitch and blow me off. What I thought was nice and polite - and yes, I know, I am apparently way too nice and way too polite - did that turn out to be "clingy" or "desperate." You know, that's bullshit. I emailed to confirm a date the day before, then texted a few hours before when I got no response. The last communication I had before that said feel free to call me. Maybe that is too passive. But do you crazy ass girls really think that much about this shit?

I swear, some people are way too fucking insane for my tastes. Girls are pretty much all just bat-shit crazy - either it's too clingy this, or they are too clingy that. Either I am not Jesusy enough, or too much. I cuss too much, not enough. I'm too clean-cut, or not enough. Or they're too clean-cut, or not enough, too Jesusy or not enough, etc etc etc. Girls... you are all nuts. Women, you are all nuts. Ladies... damn, you crazy.

Stay tuned... I am so doing a dating application post.

Happiness is a warm, yes it is...

No, there is not a word missing in the title. Go listen to the White Album.

So, I just read a pretty basic advice colume on Slate.com - Dear Prudence (again with the White Album!). I dug her advice to a sad, self-loathing but otherwise normal person. Well, actually... I didn't think it was all that great, but the book she reference, the Happiness Hypothesis, well, I checked that out and thought it looked good.

For reason, this caused my brain to flash a big neon sign inside my head that said: HAPPINESS!!! Which lead me down the path to my whatever and ever, amen, type of thoughts on love, life, liberty and said pursuit of said wonderful thing, happiness.

This, in turn, made me think about my social life. Made me recall, and want to relate, that I have a date tonight. Including the gut feeling that said date tonight will not happen, because I haven't heard back from an email I sent yesterday to confirm said date.

Which lead me back to last night, thinking about the Firefly pilot episode, where Book and Inara discuss the captain, Mal. I'm going to paraphrase, but the scene I'm refering to went kind of like this:

Inara: Why are you so interested in the captain?
Book: Because he remains suchs a mystery. Why are you?
Inara: Because so few men are.

I don't know why, but the essence of that conversation really struck deep at my heart, yesterday, and at why I feel so lacking in the relationship department. I want to be mysterious, and want someone to find me that way, and, likewise, want to find a girl who is mysterious and who intrigues me.

If Shakespear said "know thyself," a quote I put a lot of weight in, I wonder if that leads to happiness? And, likewise, wouldn't "know someone else," too? Maybe not. I am babbling here.

The point is, happiness is subjective, from the point of the person wishing to achieve happiness. I think we'd all list that when attempting to find a partner/spouse/mate/friend.

To achieve that with someone else proves to be quite the chore, however. And no book is going to ever fix the communication problems between the sexes or between lovers/potential lovers. What may to me be a simple reminder and a way to finalize plans may seem to someone else as desparate, pushy, too interested, or some other strange way of contact.

It is in those moments when Richard Cheese is the, albeit short-term, answer to happiness.

Alone, listless...

Things go, and as far as things go, things go well. Maybe better: things are going well.

Not that I thought otherwise, but it is a LOT of hard work trying to get things rolling in the music biz. Thankfully I have finally got some shows set up and it seems as though some of my networking efforts are paying off, too. I've got to hope I can repay some of these favors sometimes... I suppose that's why I keep going to shows.

I have been supremely busy. I think about friends I haven't talked to recently, and others who I've been ignoring. It's tough. My schedule has been packed full of stuff. I routinely only get one night during the week to myself... and now, because of all that is happening, that turns out to be my practice and updates night.

There's that word, that has been popping up some much recently in my thoughts... "routine." I usually am giving advice to friends on how to break up the routine and monotony of their lives. And even though I am not in a rut -this is a self-inflicted, and very needed routine - it's getting a little old.

Which says nothing of the lack of time for, or simply lack of, a social life. To say the least, I am bored. And I hate being bored. Routine and busyness leads to stress, and though I love making my way in the musical sense, it is stressful. I wish I had a way, and someone with whom, to disconnect. But that's asking for icing on the cake, I guess.

I have such a sneaking suspicion that things are going to get worse before they get better, on the homefront and in our country. Holidays are always tight for me, financially, and I'm getting to the point for I need to make some changes in my household - be it ridding myself of a roommate, or finding a way to create some space, or whatnot. It's also getting to the point where the free and easy work, for the musical stuff, is running out. It looks like my next steps will be paying to join organizations, and organizing a trip or several trips down to Nashville (TN) to start trying to break into publishing. That means money.

I need a secretary. A sexy one. And a rich one.

Gets up, lights a cigarette he's grown to hate...

God, I need a cigarette. Now that I have decided to quit, for a very good reason - so I can sing - it is hard to actually quit. What was easy - has been easy so many times before - is a damned chore now.

My lack of a good smoke (or ten) has made me a bit... twitchy and grouchy. Last night, I was thinking... "well, I'll write my way out of it." Didn't really work, but was a good idea. Besides, it is good to unleash, in the written sense, from time to time.

I heard a great line in a song this morning. "I am an impressionist." The song was about a painter, but the lines that followed, describing seeing something and painting one's take on it, made me really consider how that applies to me.

We are all impressionists, to some extent. But my storytelling - my songcraft - is decidedly less so, I think. Maybe I should try to be more impressionist. Less detailed.

I read an article this morning, in the Indy Star. It was actually an interview with the Pacers basketball coach, Jim O'Brien. Obie mentioned reading a book called The Last Lecture. I looked it up on Amazon. Very, very cool concept. Sometimes, professors are asked to, or just do, give a "final lecture" at the end of their semesters, to impart wisdom and things of great import to students they (likely) will never teach again. Well, in the book, this certain college professor, Randy Pausch, had recently found out he was terminally ill with cancer. So, then, he decided to give his final lecture - his actual FINAL lecture, knowing that, yes, this is my last chance to impart wisdom, to leave my legacy. The book sounds like a fantastic read. It also sounds a bit like Tuesdays With Morrie, and excellent book written by Mitch Albom that I would recommend to anyone.

I thought this was particularly coincidental, considering my "stage speech" post from last night. It has a certain existential twist to it that I find delectably evil.

The sad thing about books like those, and times when people try and remind me that "all will be well" or to "live life like no tomorrow" is that it is hard to sustain that kind of energy throughout every day of your life. I like optomism, I do, and I can play that card, usually, most any time I want. But that doesn't mean that sometimes it doesn't ring false. It does ring false, sometimes, in other words.

Change and growth are inevitable.

I wonder what my last words would be, what my last lecture be. Would it be full of the kind of metaphors for living life to its fullest, the ones that sometimes fill me with hope and other times turn my stomach?

I think it would be full of stories and songs. And I think most of those stories and songs would be good, positive, uplifting, hopeful.

Yes, I view myself as a songwriter and as a storyteller, and sometimes when I think of that, I think that I deal in lead, like a gunslinger. That's because sometimes those songs are driven by and made to resemble a bullet straight to the heart.

That's only because that is what matters. I deal in dreams and hopes and fears and love because those are the things that move and drive my life. I write how I write and sing what I sing because that is the fuel that, well, keeps the ember burning, to borrow from last night.

I am reminded of the scene in Almost Famous, where William is on the phone with Lester Bangs, and Lester reminds him that, "we're not cool." I'm not cool. I am an ordinary, lonely soul, documenting what that feels like so you've got someplace to go when you feel lonely and ordinary, or when you are on cloud #9 and want to stay that way.

I deal in lead, people. If you're not ready for the bullet, then you better get out of the war.

Won't let the light escape from me...

I should be in bed. In fact, I was. I just couldn't sleep. As is so often the case when I don't fall asleep quickly, my mind begins to think. And that means love, god, and etc.

I said a little prayer. More like, asked a few questions, the same one from, what? 2, 5, 10 years ago? Does it ever change?

So I said my peace (piece?). Then turned over, and had a little vision. A stool, a stage, a mic and a guitar. Out there, the faces, maybe just one of those faces, of someone I have loved, another love crashed and burned. Or, perhaps, someone who loved me who I didn't love back. I asked myself, on that stage, how I would introduce a song (any song, really) about love, love found, love lost, love whatever.

What would I say to them? To Jessyka, Katey, Jess, Dana, Becca, Melissa? To Tara, Rachel, Kathy, Stephanie, Bethy, Lynette... to any of them, past, present, future, almost, never was?



It is funny how love works. Its funny how we, as human beings, turn it into such an impersonal, inhuman thing. There have been times when I have loved, and really, truly loved. And sometimes, that love hits a brick wall. There have been other times when I am that brick wall that someone else's love is smacking against, futile and twisting and empty because I am not reciprocating.

We really are callous, selfish people. We tell one girl that we love her, and she disappears for 6 months - won't call, won't write, disappears of the map. We tell one girl we like her, and she seduces us, sleeps with us, fills our head with hopes and dreams, and then disappears... dead? Or just too chicken to say she doesn't want to see us? Does it matter? Does it hurt any less? We do this while another girl over here needs us... while one won't stop texting, while one won't stop calling, and while one won't stay out of our business. We ignore them, we ignore their feelings, even as we bitch, moan, HATE, HURT over the fact that these other girls are doing those same things to us.

Now, change "we" and "us" to "I" and "me." Change "one girl" and "another girl" to "you" and "you."

Or take your pick of a handful of the people connected in each of our lives.

Life isn't hard. But love is hard. And we make it harder... we add religion, jealousy, past relationships, a lifetime of hurt and hope and dreams that no one can live up to, no one can cure. We pine for those that don't want us, and cast aside the ones that do want us but whom we don't want. Everyone has been the hurt and the hurter.

And maybe this is what God means when he says that man is evil. It sure feels like it.

I sit and I think... maybe I ask for too much. Maybe I want too much, or what I want isn't what I should want? But I am selfish. I haven't dated a girl who was my type - one quick crash and burn fuck-up aside - since college. Of the handful of girls I have dated, and yes, cynics in the audience, of the handful of girls I've slept with, too... I haven't wanted, loved, needed all of them. I manage to destroy and hurt the ones I don't want and need... and I managed to let myself get hurt and destroyed by the ones I did need, I did want.

Have you ever felt like, if only you could've loved someone more? If only I could've loved more, then so and so would've stayed, would've loved me more, would've worked out. DO you have any IDEA what that fucking feels like, to stand there with your broken dreams, bloodied, defeated, dead on the floor? Have you ever cried so fucking hard that you lost your breath, that you almost passed out for lack of oxygen? Have you ever hurt so much that the only way to sleep was whiskey, vicatin and sleeping pills, all together?

I have. And that is where these songs come from. That's where they are going. That's what they are about, the lives we lead, the pain we cause, the joy we hope for. Love is a wonderful thing, but it's a wicked thing, too.

Maybe that's why I write. It's the only way I know how to humanize love. It's the only way I know how to deal with my best friend falling for my dream girl, for my close friend feeling tossed aside, for my roommates too busy with their girlfriends to hang out anymore. Mostly, it's how I deal with what is left inside of MY hopes and dreams.

A tiny glimmer, a small spark... lies deep, deep down. Ashamed. Afraid. But hot. Burning so hot it hurts. And God, wherever and whoever he is, I thank him it is there, even as I wonder if/why he punishes me for these broken attempts at capturing some kind of Eden here on earth.

I won't let that darkness swallow it. Won't let the light escape from it. But it IS hard. And ever time I see your face, or your face, or your face, I am reminded by how easily you cast me aside, how easily I cast you aside, all in the name of sex and god and love and happiness.

Ashamed. Afraid. But hot... still. The sad thing is something, some time, has got to change. Have you ever watched an ember in a fire? How beautiful it is with its orange glow? What becomes of the ember? If you add to it, it flares to life, becoming a consuming fire, hot and bright. And, if you don't, it dies. If you don't it dies.

I don't want to compromise. I don't want to settle. And neither do I wish to be selfish. Neither do I wish to be callous, uncaring, a brick wall.

I will not be ashamed. I will no longer fear. I will go down fighting... with guitar in hand, with throat sore from singing and roaring, with fingers bloodied and bruised. With heart on sleeve. If the ember dies, so be it. I'm going to make damn sure you don't ever forget the glow for the time that it lasted.

I suggest we learn to love ourselves before it's made illegal

So... things are... different. I can't complain - I had a good weekend. But, you know, nothing happened, other than me talking with Cory about the same shit we've spent the last two weeks discussing. He doesn't have any answers yet. I don't have any answers yet. And while I want to punch Cory for A) being vaguely stupid and B) because I am jealous of what success might mean for him (not about the "who" - I couldn't care less about who it is, it's that thought of it being the thing we keep searching for, to final grab it and have the "fairy tale" junk work for once).

It's just that this curse of what I want - sometimes, what I think I need and, sometimes, what I think I deserve - can't be laid to rest. I want to take things easy, to release my expectations, and let come what may. But then I start to think... why should I lower my expectations? Just because I haven't met someone who can live up to those expectations, why should I lower them? I stop, then, and think, "well damn... it's not like those expectations are that high." And, they aren't.

One could accuse me of having my head up in the clouds. And yes, I have made my fair share of mistakes. I don't ask for perfection. Only... substance. Conscience. Taste. Moral value. Self-worth.

I don't want a consolation prize.

The queen's prize awaits...

Ok, so yeah, I didn't announce that this is "GbV month," and it is not, and I did use the lyrics of another band to title this entry, that band being GbV and not Pearl Jam. Sue me.

Last night was fun. I busted ass on the elliptical at work, then jetted home and got cleaned up. Cory and I talked set-lists for our upcoming shows, grab a bite to eat, and the practiced. It was soooo good to practice - not just with Cory, but period. And I think I may have found a key to get me back into performing... I really enjoyed singing last night.

Really. Cory had a copy of a show we played as Souls Harbour with Chris and Kim, and while there were moments that were fantastic, there were moments where it was decidedly less so. I sounded good every once in a while - good, but not great - and simply terrible most of the time. The rest of us weren't really much better, except for Chris, who somehow got the shaft and didn't get to sing as much. We watched enough of the tape to cue up a song that I can't remember how to play, don't remember the lyrics for, and have someone lost the sheet where all of that was written down (damnit). We had both had enough just listening to snippets by then, so we moved on to actual practice.

The thing was, I was astonished when I opened my voice to sing. I mean, here I was, listening to myself (albeit 4-5 years ago), my voice all pinched, nasaly, out of key and off pitch. And then, now, I open my mouth to sing, and voice was... it was startling how much I have improved. And, I mean, this is something Cory has pointed out a few times recently, but I don't think I had anything to compare it to. To be honest, I still thought I sucked as a singer.

Not that I am Josh Groban or Nina Simone or Nancy Sinatra, or even, you know, Harry Connick, Jr. No, I am just me. But I am enjoying that fact that "me" is a much better singer than "me" was five years ago, and you know, probably two or three years ago.

C and I banged through 14-16 songs, just trying to get a grip on what sounds good, what would make a good set, what we both felt comfortable with, and, you know, what wasn't in the key of A. Apparently, I have written a LOT of songs in the key of A major. Damn. But oh well, songs is songs and that's what I do.

Not everything we played worked, but enough of it did that I am really excited for the upcoming shows in Bloomington and Indianapolis.

The queen's prize awaits, and she better be ready, because it is back, improved, not new. This is old soul kind of music, acoustic rock and roll in the grand traditions of our forefathers (Pete and Uncle Neil, I am looking at you).

For those about to rock, we salute you.

Sometimes I rise, sometimes I fall

This has been one helluva crazy week. Monday meant Heroes, which was brilliant as always, but which also included Joe berating me for not calling him to hang out more often. Mike pretty much told Joe straight up that the reason why so many of his friends have been ignoring him is because he is "mean" and "a dick." Okay... true, but awkward. I simply pointed out the fact that I've been busy like a mad honk mah-fah lately... also very, very true.

Tuesday night, I ended up going over to see Mom after work. The purpose for the occasion was a lesson in balancing my finances (mom does this for a living, I wanted to make some changes, so it made sense to discuss this with her), and we did do that. Of course, though, Mom wanted to talk growing up and relationships and my current state of mind, just checking up on all three. It was a nice time - i didn't expect less, either. I love Mom and get along splendidly with her. Still, I had to pick something up to eat on the way home 'cause it was too late to cook and eat. I'm trying not to eat out, and trying not to eat late. Double fail on Tuesday night then. Monday, too.

And... Wednesday, too. We got free tix to the Pacers game last night. I felt guilty for not wanting to go. Yeah... like 4 people from work showed up. Sad. But I did have a good time. Only issue was, I didn't eat before I went (nor did I exercise at work, either). I have been bad this week. Didn't exercise last night, haven't brought my lunch all week, even though it's prepared at home. I just keep forgetting it.

If this damn day every ends (work-wise), i can go lift and run and do my fun little exercise stuff. And then Cory is coming up. Which means we are probably going to go grab a bite to eat.

Epic Fail. I am epic fail.

There are about a hundred things going down this week, and a hundred more every week this month. Which is both good and band, because the winter is when I feel the most lonely, on average. It's like, summer is for horny people, winter is for lonely people, and hey, I can be both! No worries, though, things are good, if a little too busy. We take what we can get.

My mind is at ease, and it's also not changing about much. Not sure what that says about me. Not sure I care. Listening to Sublime right now to close out my day at work, as it is, looking forward to this evening, so it's all good.

Memories Like Fingerprints

It never ceases to amaze me what little things can do to make me feel. I have never denied that I am a mercurial individual. Lately things have been great, steady and charging forward with life. I have dealt with a lot of stuff lately, internal and external, and feel like I am emerging from the crucible of my own doing to become a better person.

Regardless, I do still hurt and can still be lonely. Yesterday, I sat down to look for a couple of songs I had written a long time ago. They were not where they were supposed to be – my songbook, which is a shambles of its once former glory – so I had to search through many a dump-pile, folder, and loose stack of papers in search of them. I never did find them, but I did come across so many songs I had written that I had forgotten about.

Putting aside for the moment how embarrassed I was at some of these songs – I have always felt my writing needs to take a quantum leap forward, and the juvenile nature of the lyrics I saw yesterday made me ill – I was reminded how often I wrote of loneliness, despair, broken love and broken relationships.

There were songs that I had written in some of the darkest periods of my life – just after my engagement was broken off, right after my grandmother died, the times after my girlfriend moved out of my house. The sad thing was the common thread that bound them all together.

I question everything, and blame everything on myself.

Making matters worse – ok, not worse, because I am not feeling bad or down, just odd, like I need to add something else to the crucible – I have been reading a book about Guided By Voices, a band from Dayton, Ohio. In it, at a certain point, the lead singer and creative force of the band is talking about growing up in a small town. He talks about how, growing up in a small time, people are expected to get married quickly, settle down, get a real job, have a family.

This of course is exactly what I wanted right after high school. I wanted to marry my high school sweetheart, both of us from tiny country towns. When I went to college and my world blew up, things changed a bit between her and I, but soon I had a new goal – get married to my college sweetheart, have jobs, have kids, have the house with the white picket fence. That dream ended, painfully, enough to fuck me up for a few years.

But my small town kid, small town dreams remained. So I met the woman that wound up being my last serious relationship. We fell in love. She moved in, all the way from Pennsylvania. My dreams seemed attainable again. I even took steps to make sure my heart and head were ready to take such a big, life-changing step. In the end, impatience, fear, financial strain, and a dozen other things added up to such a weight that we couldn’t sustain the relationship.

So, as I laid down to sleep last night, all these old songs were running through my head, and this story about small town relationships was running through my head, which lead me to have the most amazing, fucked-up and vivid dream I have had in a long time. Seriously, it was odd and very, very revealing – too much for the internet, that’s for sure. Suffice it to say, though, when I woke up I was in a Toad The Wet Sprocket mood. Listening to them right now, in fact.

As I pulled myself out of dream-world, and shook off the sleep, the questions, blame, and guilt began. For what has been a pretty good couple of weeks, even a pretty good month and year so far, it was kind of an odd feeling. It was amazing to me how the little things I had looked at yesterday had elicited such a strong reaction.

I know I doubt myself far too much. When it comes to relationships, I tend to blame myself for every failure and every mistake. But that is not the way it really is. Everything is a two way street – friendships, romances, even the relationships we have with our parents. The good times, the bad times, they are all what we make them and what we make of them, together.

When I look at my life, now, I see that life is what I make it. My past is what I make it, too. My future, maybe that is what I make it. I hope so, I think so. It is so easy to lay blame to me, or to god, or to others. But it is much better to look at those things as lessons. If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough, if you’re gonna fall down you gotta get back up – that’s the way the song goes.

My dreams, they haven’t all come true. My life hasn’t turned out the way I planned it. Sometimes I wonder why. But most of the time I see that as a blessing, albeit maybe a blessing in disguise. I could be bitter, resentful, and play the blame game and bring myself down. Or I could choose to see things in a different light. I mean… it sure has made for some good songs along the way.

I do still want my silly small town Midwestern dream. It’s part of what I know, part of who I am. It’s ok to want that and dream for it, too. And yes, I still think about past loves, I still miss them, I still get lonely. I still drink myself silly and make an ass out of myself some nights. And, still others, I sit down with a guitar and sing lonely lost songs about lonely lost loves, and I sing them to those lonely lost loves. And each song makes my voice – internal and external – all the more stronger.

This life… it’s worth walking through that crucible. It’s worth a little pain and a little regret. Because it comes with joy and goodness, happiness and highlights. The reward of life is getting to live it, and what comes with it each and every day, and all the things you get to see, experience, and feel, from day one until the last day.

Besides, I’d rather be a cryin’ little pussy than a faggy goth kid, any day.

Reaches for her, and the water turns to red hot... won't be long to be burned, burned again.

It has always been a little rough to be a heart-first individual, and... many times, I just don't cut it. Sometimes my heart gets the best of me.

Other times, though... I don't let it get the best of me. Those are days when I choose to listen to my head, rather than my heart.

Oh, in the situation I am thinking of, I have listened to the heart before. And what it got me? Wasted time. And I've tasted a life wasted... I am never going back to that shit again.

No, sometimes some things that strike deep in are hearts are just like sirens of the deep... sirens that call us, and call us, and call us, only to lead us to our doom, to bring us into cold, freezing waters, raging out of control. We freeze or we drown or our heads get crashed upon the rocks.

Do I want something wild, uncaged, free, untamed? Absolutely. But tempered by time, maturity, and wisdom. It is one thing to be scared, cowardly, never taking the leap of faith. It is another to be brash, reckless, destructive with lust, love, vigor.

No, both of those paths lead to time wasted. Balance. Balance in all things.

Balance. Balance.

Like a mantra, like a river. That is the lesson I come away with when I look into the eyes of the siren.

It is easy to want to reach out. Just remember sometimes the water turns to red hot, and it burns. And the siren calls another sailor to her trap, and to his death.