Melting Faces

Think about all the truly great bands that have come out over the years. It seems that most of them start with the article “the.” The Beatles, The Who, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin. (I didn’t say all of them) I’m trying to start a band and the first thing we have decided on is that we need a name that begins with “the.” Here are some suggestions.

The Guys
The Master Baiters
The Senate Minority
The Chocolate Pudding Blues Band
The Last Time I Saw These Guys They Were Sober

Ya know, something that really rolls off the tongue. So far it’s me and two other guys and we all play guitar, so we’re exploring the idea of making that the key instrument instead of, say…the tuba. The tuba idea was kicked around also, but we were all pretty wasted on Red Stripes and Jägermeister and we decided that the tuba just didn't melt enough faces when put through a speaker. So the first step (ruling out the tuba and deciding to go with guitars) has been taken and all we need is a name to begin our rise to triumphant glory. (this is what they’ll say on the VH1 special. “It was the beginning of their rise to triumphant glory.”)

Most of our practices have consisted of us getting together, listening to music, drinking beer, and talking about what we would like to play. No actual playing as of yet (except for the time Atchison came over and we played the beginnings to about eight songs but never actually made it all the way through) but we believe strongly in the naming of the band so we have made that the first priority.

A question occurred to me yesterday, as we were drinking and talking about music of the early 90’s, and I find myself wondering about it today. When do you become too old to rock? I’m only 26, but it’s different than when I was in bands in college. In college, when we got together to jam we drank and talked about stuff like our crappy jobs and hot girls. Now that I work for a living we get together, drink and talk about serious stuff like government and the current economic situation. We also talk about our crappy jobs and hot women, so I guess nothing much has changed.

Look for us to be on the radio soon. With a name like The Parisian Democrats (or some other variation on a “the” name) we are a sure thing to be on the top of the billboards soon.

Ghosts from the Past

So today would have been my third wedding anniversary. I find myself pondering about what-if’s and could-have-been’s. I also find it ironic that just yesterday I got my letter from the New School in New York that said I didn’t make it into their Creative Writing graduate program. I didn’t really think that I would be one of the twenty-six people that they picked out of the thousand or so applicants, but it still is a let down. So my day has consisted of thinking about where my life is headed now.

I was going through a bunch of old songs that I had written while still in college, and one seemed to jump at me. The song was written during a totally different time in my life, but it applies to my current situation as well. It’s odd how songs can do that. Reflect one period of time when written, but still be prevalent at other times and in different situations. Here’s the first verse and chorus.

So Tired
I’m so tired
Of waking up every day
Wondering what I’m waking up for
I’m so tired
Of looking for the right girl
One who wants a little more
I’m so tired
Of trying to get by
And fucking up along the way
I’m so tired
Of waiting for a change
And watching it all slip away

Chorus: I’ve got to
Spread my wings and rise above this wasted life
I’ve been here way too long
I’ve got to get out of this same routine
It’s not where I belong
Soft sorrow and complacency
Are gonna be the death of me
I’ve got to get out from under this stone
And fly away

So, I’ve got some motivation from my past self, now I just have to put it into action.

Sunday, Burning Sunday

So, I spent all day today reading. Some of you might be saying, “Well, what a nice way to spend a Sunday.” I agree, spending a Sunday reading is a very pleasant idea…when you do it by choice. No, my Sunday spent reading was against my will. “Were you held hostage by a terrorist organization?” In a way, yes. Not an organization, per say, but reading was not the way I had originally planned to spend today. I had planned on mowing my lawn, washing my truck, and playing a little tennis, but my bowels had other ideas about how I should spend my time.

It all started about six o’ clock this morning with a gurgle and a pain deep down in my stomach like someone was trying to pull it through my navel. I immediately woke up to tell this person to get bent and explain the laws of human physiology that made this feat impossible when I realized that I was alone and my stomach was actually trying to crawl out of my navel. This was a different situation all together. I sat on my bed in the dawn light and pondered my options when another gurgle and a jolt of pain made my options very clear. I headed toward the bathroom and commenced my day.

Sautéed onions were the cause of this fun filled day of leisure reading, and occasional weeping. You see when a full-blown cause of “the terrible D word” hits there is not much you can really do about it. What happens is that every fifteen minutes or so you get this cramp and your stomach goes into a spasmic convulsion warning you that you have approximately two minutes before it evacuates itself via your backdoor like a robber escaping the scene of a crime. The bad thing is that your stomach doesn’t discriminate when it comes to your current location; whether it be the office, a traffic jam, or on a Farris wheel.

The way most people counter this unscrupulous behavior of the stomach is to remain within five strides a bathroom and pray a lot. The way I dealt with my situation is that I just headed my stomach off at the pass, so to speak, and spent all day seated on the throne (with occasional respites to walk around and wake up my right leg that seems to go to sleep after and hour) so that when my stomach gurgles and says time to get to a toilet I can say “Ha Stomach! Beat ya to the punch! I’m already here, so do your worst!” Then my stomach would yell loudly, swish around, and evacuate quickly just in case I was joking and on the off chance that I was wearing any undergarment that it could ruin.

This worked most of the day, but then I ran into a situation about mid-day. Fate (being my arch enemy when it comes to humility and self-actualization) decided to pull a three pronged attack on me and cause me to risk mortal embarrassment and a good pair of shorts. At about one o’ clock the stars aligned correctly and I ran out of toilet paper, smoked my last cigarette, and I finished the current book I was reading. Two of the problems (TP and a book) could be solved in the comfort on my own home and within a quick sprint to the bathroom, but cigarettes I would have to go out for. This created a dent in the comfort zone I had built up. I had to decide either to remain in the house without smoking or risk a foray into the outside world for supplies with the danger of surprising countless strangers in the middle of a convenience store with a loud rumble in my lions and a sudden stench. If you are yourself a smoker then you know what my decision ended up being.

So I risked a trip. Everything went smoothly at the store. I bought my cigarettes, a bottle of Tums, and a ginger ale without ruining someone else’s day. It was on the ride home that my stomach decided to strike against me and teach me a lesson about mocking it. About half-way to my house the (now familiar) gurgle rose in my bowels and the pain shot across my abdomen signaling my two-minute warning when I was five minutes from the house. Thus I broke several speed laws and defied the forces of gravity and inertia around several corners to make it to my house. My neighbors (who were all outside doing yard work and other home improvement activities) must have been awfully surprised when I peeled down the street, pulled into my drive-way sideways, and rushed from my truck to my door sweating and holding a paper bag closely to my stomach like a heroin addict rushing inside to open a vein. I’ll now have to send out a memo to everyone on my street with a letter explaining my actions and a copy of a drug test report to prove that they are not living next to a junky.

About seven o’ clock I emerged from the bathroom feeling empty to my bones and with a burning in my lower regions that hints at possible hemorrhoidial problem later in the future. I have made it long enough to type this narrative down in case no one hears from again and they enter my house to find the dried up husk of my former self sitting on the toilet with twenty empty cigarette packs, eighteen well read books, and twenty-four cardboard toilet paper rolls scattered around me. I hope everyone’s Sunday was better than mine.

*Note: This blog was an exaggeration of actual events. The author only had four rolls of toilet paper, not twenty-four.