Given into utter vulgarity. Obstructed vision. Pulsing maggots find the surface
They are never hungry. Well fed, content and thriving. Twice blessed is he in this dungeon of iniquity
A hidden highway leading nowhere. Frost, fog amongst grotesque sunlight. Painted in ivory. Curious in it's elegance. How long, left alone to wander? Striding fast. Impervious and blind. Blissfully ignorant and charmed by the sights.
Where he's going there are no mirrors. A destination long planned, yet unknown. A perilous march into obscurity. Pained, yet smiling and wilting at once. Fading into naught, into a never ending cloud of nocturnal purgatory.
He likes it there and it will be his home. Unreal estate. Picket fences painted black. Skeletal dogs and neighbors unknown.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Jeffry (part 2)
It's been awhile, and this time of year it's always on my mind, so I've decided it's time to share another one of my father's misadventures with you all. To brush you up, remember Anamosa Iowa's prodigal son died five years ago about this time of year. I like to remember him for his completely off the wall, over the top absurd sense of humor and keen spirit for adventure. He had that in fucking spades. He was only 48 years old when he passed, but the man packed enough maniacal treachery into those 48 years to last five lifetimes. So, with all that said, it's time to talk about my pappy and his rooster
It was sometime during the summer of 2005. I was 19. Living with two other room mates, and for the sake of anonymity, they shall remain nameless. They are good friends of mine to this day. We lived in a big blue house in my hometown. None of us were of legal age to drink, yet we always had a fridge stocked with beer and various other nefarious concoctions and potions. We were a raucous crew. Anyone who knew us would tell you that. Parties every weekend. Sometimes during the week. A constant cycle of death/thrash metal being pumped through the stereo. We were unruly 19 year olds working entry level jobs and living without a care in the world. None of us had girlfriends yet. Much simpler times. I look back at those times with great fondness. Friendships were forged, solidified. Memories were made about every weekend. One day during that feel good summer, a few of my cronies and I were gathered in the living room. We were taking turns passing around a large, fancy looking bong. The stereo pumping out the requisite extreme metal. Sitting around cackling, doubling over and laughing about whatever ridiculous things that a group of 19 year old hessians would typically be laughing about. All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. Not a subtle knock. A loud, abrupt rapping. Now, when something like this happens under these circumstances, panic sets in and it sets in fast. The first thing that comes to mind is COPS!!
Now, it should be noted that while a good majority of my friends knew my father and his eccentric ways, another contingent of them did not know him that well. So, I went to the door, with great trepidation and uneasiness, expecting the police to be waiting to bust us all or demand entry to the home. Much to my surprise(and relief), it was not the cops. It was my father. And boy, was he shitfaced. He was not alone. Under his arm, was a rooster. A live rooster. I called to my friends in the living room, who were all cowering in fear. I said, "Hey dudes, come on out it's just my dad". They all slowly shuffled their way to the front door and we all went outside to see what he wanted, or why he was there. He explained that he just happened to be in the neighborhood, and he wanted us to meet his new pet. This rooster. I wish I could recall it's name, but I can't quite remember back that far(probably that dastardly bong). Not only did he have this rooster, but he claimed his rooster could do "tricks". He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dog food. Which he promptly fed to his rooster pal. My friends, all blasted out of their gourds, howled with laughter. This pleased my father. He was always keenly aware of his ridiculous sense of humor and penchant for the absurd. He got a real kick out of making people laugh like that. He stuck around for a bit, fed his chicken more dog food, talked a bit with my friends and I, and then shambled off on his way. Walking to who knows where. He just showed up on a Saturday afternoon. With a live chicken under his arm, and a pocket full of dog food. Straight up Jeff Tjaden shit. That is the dad that I miss. He may have not been a "role model" or one of those dad's that was going to teach you how to throw a proper curve ball or give you advice on how to feed your 401K, but he taught me plenty about life without ever really being all that aware of what he was teaching. The man lived, and he lived fucking hard.
You get one life. Live that motherfucker hard
It was sometime during the summer of 2005. I was 19. Living with two other room mates, and for the sake of anonymity, they shall remain nameless. They are good friends of mine to this day. We lived in a big blue house in my hometown. None of us were of legal age to drink, yet we always had a fridge stocked with beer and various other nefarious concoctions and potions. We were a raucous crew. Anyone who knew us would tell you that. Parties every weekend. Sometimes during the week. A constant cycle of death/thrash metal being pumped through the stereo. We were unruly 19 year olds working entry level jobs and living without a care in the world. None of us had girlfriends yet. Much simpler times. I look back at those times with great fondness. Friendships were forged, solidified. Memories were made about every weekend. One day during that feel good summer, a few of my cronies and I were gathered in the living room. We were taking turns passing around a large, fancy looking bong. The stereo pumping out the requisite extreme metal. Sitting around cackling, doubling over and laughing about whatever ridiculous things that a group of 19 year old hessians would typically be laughing about. All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. Not a subtle knock. A loud, abrupt rapping. Now, when something like this happens under these circumstances, panic sets in and it sets in fast. The first thing that comes to mind is COPS!!
Now, it should be noted that while a good majority of my friends knew my father and his eccentric ways, another contingent of them did not know him that well. So, I went to the door, with great trepidation and uneasiness, expecting the police to be waiting to bust us all or demand entry to the home. Much to my surprise(and relief), it was not the cops. It was my father. And boy, was he shitfaced. He was not alone. Under his arm, was a rooster. A live rooster. I called to my friends in the living room, who were all cowering in fear. I said, "Hey dudes, come on out it's just my dad". They all slowly shuffled their way to the front door and we all went outside to see what he wanted, or why he was there. He explained that he just happened to be in the neighborhood, and he wanted us to meet his new pet. This rooster. I wish I could recall it's name, but I can't quite remember back that far(probably that dastardly bong). Not only did he have this rooster, but he claimed his rooster could do "tricks". He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dog food. Which he promptly fed to his rooster pal. My friends, all blasted out of their gourds, howled with laughter. This pleased my father. He was always keenly aware of his ridiculous sense of humor and penchant for the absurd. He got a real kick out of making people laugh like that. He stuck around for a bit, fed his chicken more dog food, talked a bit with my friends and I, and then shambled off on his way. Walking to who knows where. He just showed up on a Saturday afternoon. With a live chicken under his arm, and a pocket full of dog food. Straight up Jeff Tjaden shit. That is the dad that I miss. He may have not been a "role model" or one of those dad's that was going to teach you how to throw a proper curve ball or give you advice on how to feed your 401K, but he taught me plenty about life without ever really being all that aware of what he was teaching. The man lived, and he lived fucking hard.
You get one life. Live that motherfucker hard
Sunday, September 1, 2013
An open letter to my Father on his birthday
Dad,
Today would have been your 53rd birthday. It has been 5 years since you left this earth, a frail broken shell of a man. I typically like to keep your memory alive on this day by doing something, and this time I wanted to write you a letter. I have been thinking about you a lot lately, and it seems like the more time has passed since you left the more and more I think about you and the legacy you left behind. I think about you every day pops, and I just wanted to clue you in with what I have been up to and whats' going on with Mike and I. I will start with Mike. Mike still lives in Monticello. He doesn't live in the old house on River Road anymore. The place was starting to get pretty run down so Mike and his girlfriend live in town now and are renting a house. It's a pretty nice place they have. Mike lives with his girlfriend Brittney. She's a good kid and I think you would like her. I know she would laugh at you and some of your stupid jokes. Mike still works at Welter's Storage. He's doing pretty well there. They seem to like him and he busts his fucking ass at that place. He just bought a new truck last winter. It's a Ford. You might not approve of that, but it's loud and looks pretty sharp. I think you'd like his truck. He takes good care of it. He still plays guitar, and he has only gotten better since you last heard him. I remember the times you would show up at Pumpkinfest in Anamosa to watch him play. One time you showed up completely shitfaced and Gravy Jay and I had to take you home later that day and you had us busting up in the car all the way back. You really pissed us off that day. Sort of embarrassed Mike I think. He forgave you though. Anyway, Mike is still playing and yeah, he's pretty good. He sings songs now too. I don't think you ever got to hear him sing. He's pretty good. He makes me tear up every time I hear him play. I can't help it. I think it is because I know the pain he has experienced and when I hear it come out in his songs I just can't help but break down a little bit. A few weeks ago he caught a 26 inch long rainbow trout. 26 fucking inches! Can you believe that shit? He and his work buddy ended up smoking it. Too bad you weren't there to smoke it with him. I know you would be proud of the man Mike has become. I know I am.
Grandma is doing pretty good. She's 75 and pretty sharp yet. Her dog died a few months ago. I know you hated that fucking dog. I did too. I'm going to go see her tomorrow. I am going to look through old pictures of us and try not to cry in front of Grandma. I don't think she has ever seen me cry and I don't know how she would handle it. I don't think I have ever seen her cry either. I guess I don't know how I would handle it. Funny how that works. She doesn't talk about you too much. Probably hard for her. I know she loved you, to put up with all the shit you put her through for 48 years and good god man, did you ever put her through some bullshit. Like that time you and Dan Hamilton brought the tear gas to school back in the 70's. Fuck man, if you pulled a stunt like that today you would be in prison for life. Or that time you did some concrete work around the foundation of her house and wrote in the fresh concrete "THIS WILL COST YOU A 12 PACK OF OLD MILL AND A CARTON OF MARLBOROS." What the fuck man? That was a straight shit head move. That shit is still there. I see it every time I go see her. A lasting imprint of your arrogant rascal ways. But I digress. Your mother is alive and well. She gets lonely sometimes, but like I said I am going to see her tomorrow.
As for me? I dunno man. I think I am doing alright. I work as a pest control technician now. Bet you didn't see that coming did ya? I work in Cedar Rapids. I have been doing it for about 2 years now. I really like it. I get to play with bugs and rodents every day. It's pretty cool. And hey guess what? I bought a house in Cedar Rapids too. I suppose I am doing ok for myself. I make pretty good money. More than I thought I would ever make not having a degree or anything. I live here alone, save for when Tony is here. You remember Tony. You met him at my graduation party. You made turtle soup. It was awesome. Tony liked it. I want you to know I appreciated when you did stuff like that for me. We had a good turn out that day. You were always an awesome cook. Yeah, I am still single. I have met a few awesome girls over the last few years I was really into, but for any number of reasons the feelings were never reciprocal. You know what I mean? Sometimes I can be a tough egg to crack and it takes me a while to get comfortable around someone, especially if I really like them because the pain of rejection is something I have always struggled with. I know you did too. I know it hurt you bad when Mom left you, but she had to do it. I remember the last time I talked to you when you weren't in the hospital. You were pretty coherent that day. It was late August 2008. The sun was shining. We sat in the yard in lawn chairs and watched the sun go down over the river. I remember it like it was yesterday. I stopped over to have a few beers with you, and I was actually struggling with some stuff myself. A girl I had been dating had broken it off with me, and I came down there to let off some steam. We had a good talk. You gave me some good insight that day. So you know what? Even though that girl broke it off with me or whatever, we became really good friends and I still talk to her this day. All because of that talk that you and I had. I know dudes don't like to be "friend zoned" but in this case it was the right thing to do. So yeah. I am still lone wolfing it. There is nothing that pains me more in my life than knowing you won't ever get to meet my kids. I plan on having kids one day Dad, and I really wanted you to see them. I have a feeling you would have been an excellent grandpa. Life's not fair though right? Remember Nick Kremer? Robby Kremer's boy? He got married last weekend. I was his best man. He technically had two best men, his brother was the other one. It was an awesome time. We all got shit faced at the reception and someone (I think Derek Kurth) requested the DJ play "Seminole Wind" by John Anderson as a dedication to you, because that was one of your favorite songs. Boy was that an emotional moment. Even though you've been gone for 5 years, people still love you and remember you. I wish there was a way you could know that. So yeah, things are OK I think, though I have been run down lately. I have a great job, a nice little house, I make more money than I ever thought I would, but I am not truly happy. Maybe it is because I am alone a lot. I have been drinking a lot. I know you wouldn't like that. It's something I am working on taking care of. Don't worry. It seems to be the only way for me to take my mind off things. I won't let it get out of control. You know I am stronger than that. Speaking of stronger, I have been hitting the weights pretty heavy. I wish you could see me. You always marveled at the size of my biceps, and now they are bigger than ever! I am stronger than I have ever been. I look a lot like you when you were in your prime. I could definitely beat you arm wrestling now. I could probably kick your ass too, like I always wanted to when I was a teenager. You had a good ass kicking coming and you know it. I don't play in any bands anymore, though I would like to find some like minded dudes to start something cool. I have a hankering for it again. I need that sort of outlet to get out the negative vibes. Know what I mean? I will find something I am sure. I guess to wrap this thing up, I miss you a lot pops, and I wanted to write this letter to you on your birthday because maybe it helps me deal with the grieving, even 5 years later. This time of year is always a bittersweet time for me. Summer ends, and we begin the slow crawl into the beautiful autumn season. It is just a melancholy time of year. I went down to the river a few weeks ago to see you. It was a beautiful day. I could feel you. I still hear your voice Dad. I can still hear your laugh. When I am down by that river I can feel it all. It all comes rushing back. I still remember all the times in your old brown Chevy truck when we would go up to Uncle Haney's to ride mini bikes and fish on the sand bar. You always had Billy Squire and ZZ Top CD's crackin' in the truck. Man you loved ZZ Top. And now I love them too. You were a great Dad. Despite your many shortcomings. You taught me so much. I'll never forget you. I love you Dad. Hammer on Ramrod
Sincerely,
Benjamin Jeffry Tjaden
Today would have been your 53rd birthday. It has been 5 years since you left this earth, a frail broken shell of a man. I typically like to keep your memory alive on this day by doing something, and this time I wanted to write you a letter. I have been thinking about you a lot lately, and it seems like the more time has passed since you left the more and more I think about you and the legacy you left behind. I think about you every day pops, and I just wanted to clue you in with what I have been up to and whats' going on with Mike and I. I will start with Mike. Mike still lives in Monticello. He doesn't live in the old house on River Road anymore. The place was starting to get pretty run down so Mike and his girlfriend live in town now and are renting a house. It's a pretty nice place they have. Mike lives with his girlfriend Brittney. She's a good kid and I think you would like her. I know she would laugh at you and some of your stupid jokes. Mike still works at Welter's Storage. He's doing pretty well there. They seem to like him and he busts his fucking ass at that place. He just bought a new truck last winter. It's a Ford. You might not approve of that, but it's loud and looks pretty sharp. I think you'd like his truck. He takes good care of it. He still plays guitar, and he has only gotten better since you last heard him. I remember the times you would show up at Pumpkinfest in Anamosa to watch him play. One time you showed up completely shitfaced and Gravy Jay and I had to take you home later that day and you had us busting up in the car all the way back. You really pissed us off that day. Sort of embarrassed Mike I think. He forgave you though. Anyway, Mike is still playing and yeah, he's pretty good. He sings songs now too. I don't think you ever got to hear him sing. He's pretty good. He makes me tear up every time I hear him play. I can't help it. I think it is because I know the pain he has experienced and when I hear it come out in his songs I just can't help but break down a little bit. A few weeks ago he caught a 26 inch long rainbow trout. 26 fucking inches! Can you believe that shit? He and his work buddy ended up smoking it. Too bad you weren't there to smoke it with him. I know you would be proud of the man Mike has become. I know I am.
Grandma is doing pretty good. She's 75 and pretty sharp yet. Her dog died a few months ago. I know you hated that fucking dog. I did too. I'm going to go see her tomorrow. I am going to look through old pictures of us and try not to cry in front of Grandma. I don't think she has ever seen me cry and I don't know how she would handle it. I don't think I have ever seen her cry either. I guess I don't know how I would handle it. Funny how that works. She doesn't talk about you too much. Probably hard for her. I know she loved you, to put up with all the shit you put her through for 48 years and good god man, did you ever put her through some bullshit. Like that time you and Dan Hamilton brought the tear gas to school back in the 70's. Fuck man, if you pulled a stunt like that today you would be in prison for life. Or that time you did some concrete work around the foundation of her house and wrote in the fresh concrete "THIS WILL COST YOU A 12 PACK OF OLD MILL AND A CARTON OF MARLBOROS." What the fuck man? That was a straight shit head move. That shit is still there. I see it every time I go see her. A lasting imprint of your arrogant rascal ways. But I digress. Your mother is alive and well. She gets lonely sometimes, but like I said I am going to see her tomorrow.
As for me? I dunno man. I think I am doing alright. I work as a pest control technician now. Bet you didn't see that coming did ya? I work in Cedar Rapids. I have been doing it for about 2 years now. I really like it. I get to play with bugs and rodents every day. It's pretty cool. And hey guess what? I bought a house in Cedar Rapids too. I suppose I am doing ok for myself. I make pretty good money. More than I thought I would ever make not having a degree or anything. I live here alone, save for when Tony is here. You remember Tony. You met him at my graduation party. You made turtle soup. It was awesome. Tony liked it. I want you to know I appreciated when you did stuff like that for me. We had a good turn out that day. You were always an awesome cook. Yeah, I am still single. I have met a few awesome girls over the last few years I was really into, but for any number of reasons the feelings were never reciprocal. You know what I mean? Sometimes I can be a tough egg to crack and it takes me a while to get comfortable around someone, especially if I really like them because the pain of rejection is something I have always struggled with. I know you did too. I know it hurt you bad when Mom left you, but she had to do it. I remember the last time I talked to you when you weren't in the hospital. You were pretty coherent that day. It was late August 2008. The sun was shining. We sat in the yard in lawn chairs and watched the sun go down over the river. I remember it like it was yesterday. I stopped over to have a few beers with you, and I was actually struggling with some stuff myself. A girl I had been dating had broken it off with me, and I came down there to let off some steam. We had a good talk. You gave me some good insight that day. So you know what? Even though that girl broke it off with me or whatever, we became really good friends and I still talk to her this day. All because of that talk that you and I had. I know dudes don't like to be "friend zoned" but in this case it was the right thing to do. So yeah. I am still lone wolfing it. There is nothing that pains me more in my life than knowing you won't ever get to meet my kids. I plan on having kids one day Dad, and I really wanted you to see them. I have a feeling you would have been an excellent grandpa. Life's not fair though right? Remember Nick Kremer? Robby Kremer's boy? He got married last weekend. I was his best man. He technically had two best men, his brother was the other one. It was an awesome time. We all got shit faced at the reception and someone (I think Derek Kurth) requested the DJ play "Seminole Wind" by John Anderson as a dedication to you, because that was one of your favorite songs. Boy was that an emotional moment. Even though you've been gone for 5 years, people still love you and remember you. I wish there was a way you could know that. So yeah, things are OK I think, though I have been run down lately. I have a great job, a nice little house, I make more money than I ever thought I would, but I am not truly happy. Maybe it is because I am alone a lot. I have been drinking a lot. I know you wouldn't like that. It's something I am working on taking care of. Don't worry. It seems to be the only way for me to take my mind off things. I won't let it get out of control. You know I am stronger than that. Speaking of stronger, I have been hitting the weights pretty heavy. I wish you could see me. You always marveled at the size of my biceps, and now they are bigger than ever! I am stronger than I have ever been. I look a lot like you when you were in your prime. I could definitely beat you arm wrestling now. I could probably kick your ass too, like I always wanted to when I was a teenager. You had a good ass kicking coming and you know it. I don't play in any bands anymore, though I would like to find some like minded dudes to start something cool. I have a hankering for it again. I need that sort of outlet to get out the negative vibes. Know what I mean? I will find something I am sure. I guess to wrap this thing up, I miss you a lot pops, and I wanted to write this letter to you on your birthday because maybe it helps me deal with the grieving, even 5 years later. This time of year is always a bittersweet time for me. Summer ends, and we begin the slow crawl into the beautiful autumn season. It is just a melancholy time of year. I went down to the river a few weeks ago to see you. It was a beautiful day. I could feel you. I still hear your voice Dad. I can still hear your laugh. When I am down by that river I can feel it all. It all comes rushing back. I still remember all the times in your old brown Chevy truck when we would go up to Uncle Haney's to ride mini bikes and fish on the sand bar. You always had Billy Squire and ZZ Top CD's crackin' in the truck. Man you loved ZZ Top. And now I love them too. You were a great Dad. Despite your many shortcomings. You taught me so much. I'll never forget you. I love you Dad. Hammer on Ramrod
Sincerely,
Benjamin Jeffry Tjaden
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Bachelorhood (continued)
Last Friday night I was sitting at home. Alone and bored. Anymore I can't stand being alone. I get restless and anxious. So at around 8:30 or so I decided I was going to head out to a local watering hole, despite the fact that I had to work in the morning. I wanted to check out a place downtown that my buddy's band was supposedly playing at that night. So I showered, and got myself somewhat gussied up and hopped in my truck and hit the streets. The night's soundtrack was "Smiling Dogs", the 2010 debut album from Man's Gin. A band I have been enamored with over the last few weeks. Think Johnny Cash meets Eddie Vedder, meets a stripped down Nirvana with tinges of folk and blues, and you have somewhat of an idea. I got down to the venue around 9, and it became clear right away that it was not in fact the band I was searching for. This appeared to be some sort of funky, bass driven abomination. The singer was a bloated white guy in a 'do rag and he had neck tattoos. So I slammed my beer and got the hell out of there. I decided to hit up the local biker bar, despite my trepidation toward loud obnoxious leather chap wearing scalawags. This place usually had something going on and a nice throng of people if you like to observe humans in their own habitat like I do.
I parked my truck down the street about a block away and gingerly walked up to the establishment. The large backward hat wearing goon working the front gate demanded to see my identification, despite seeing me in there a countless number of times. I complied and was in the gate. I ordered 16 oz of my favorite swill, and decided to check out the band. It was a local act, and they were playing covers. Typical fare for a night out here in Cedar Rapids. There were a good number of people up by the stage, dancing and gyrating along to 80's butt rawk and a slew of current radio hits. The singer of the band was a female. She was attractive. Great voice, that more or less suited all of the other people's songs she was singing. I glanced around and took stock of the attendees. Typical crowd for this place. You had your biker bros, all decked out in their garb of leather and ridiculous head gear despite the 95 degree heat. I've never understood this culture, even working at a motorcycle parts distribution center for 5 years. Apparently you strap an obnoxiously loud roaring slab of metal and bolts between your legs and all of a sudden you're the baddest dude on the block. Yawn. Anyways, so you have the biker dudes, your Affliction shirt wearing, sloping forehead types, and last but not least, the stable of cougars. The older gals. Out on the prowl. Some more predatory than others. Best to steer clear of these ladies. They will burn you up and bleed you dry. I skulked around the outer perimeter of the dance floor and watched the followers of the band. Watched them watch. After being there for about 20 minutes I questioned why I even came here. Was my boredom so staggering and paramount that I was willing to subject myself to this absurdity? Apparently it was. So I watched the dudebrah's in Affliction shirts, and the biker clan in the leather chaps go about and conduct themselves in their own various ways. The Affliction dudes trying to scam on women. The biker dudes babbling needlessly loud about handlebars and tailpipes. The cougars laughing amongst themselves. A few of them eyeing their respective prey. At some point, a nerdish looking, stumpy, sawed off guy in thick rimmed glasses and a closely shaved head walked up beside me and stood there for a bit. I glanced over at him. He said "Hey man!" and he clicked my glass as a friendly gesture. I'm not sure if he thought he knew me, or maybe he was just being friendly. He seemed affable, and easy going, though he was wild eyed and had an air of cretinism about him. I smiled, and laughed a hearty laugh and clicked his glass with enthusiasm. I love meeting people like this guy. Infinitely weird and strange looking, but with something about him you can't quite put your finger on. A guy like him has probably seen a few things. Done a few things. Maybe last weekend he got vodka drunk and had sex with a cantaloupe. Maybe he has a collection of shrunken heads at home, in a box under his bed. Perhaps he has some sort of hidden prehensile tail. Some people can be goddamn fascinating. Anyway, this guy stood there for a few minutes before scurrying off and I never saw him again. I considered leaving at this point. I am getting tired, and as mentioned before, I have to work the next day. Then I saw her.
I ordered one more beer. It was about 10:45, and I wanted to get back to my bed and be up and ready to spray weeds in the morning. As I previously mentioned, I wasn't really having much fun aside from meeting that crazy looking melon sex enthusiast. I shambled back to the dance floor area, and was just sort of looking around, back at the bar, back toward the door. The crowd was getting thick as it got later. More people pouring in. More bikers. Goddamn man, where do all of these guys come from? Like cockroaches they come out of the wood work. My eyes scanned the bar again. Something caught my eye. There was a girl. At the bar. And she was looking right at me. I looked at her for what seemed like ten seconds. She was gorgeous. She was of average height. Somewhat of a slender build, but with all of the right curves in all of the right places, if you know what I mean. She had medium length hair. Dark, bouncy, and feathery. It fell about her shoulders in a storybook fashion. She appeared to be anywhere from about 23 to 26 years old. She looked like one of those girls that could be in a Pepsi commercial. Her eyes were a steely blue, and they were piercing. Like two shimmering sapphires, featured prominently and illuminating the entire room. Once they locked on to me, I couldn't look away. She was wearing a dress, light blue and white, and it featured her spectacular figure and numerous appealing characteristics in a way that makes a man want to get down on all fours and bay at a mid summer moon. Anyways, she locked onto me. And she winked. She winked one eye. At me? I sheepishly turned and looked behind me, assuming she was flirting with someone other than me. Perhaps someone she knew standing behind me. I did not see anyone behind me, or near me that appeared to acknowledge this curious wink of hers. I turned back around. Looked back at her. She was laughing.
Now to be fair to myself, I was looking damn good that night. Earlier in the evening I had gone to the gym. So the muscles and the machismo, testosterone and all that, was something I had working in my favor. I have also lost about 30 lbs in the last few months. So I am looking somewhat trim, lean, with biceps bulging. I had a nice couple days worth of reddish colored, thin stubble growing on my jaw. The hair that remains on my skull, however thin, was groomed accordingly. I wore a nice shirt, and some jeans I haven't been able to fit into for some time. I also have a tan for the first time in my life. Working outside all the time is definitely a great thing for a guy's skin and complexion. Typically I like to keep pretty humble. I don't think I am a spectacular looking dude by any means. But when I try, I can look like a respectable, handsome motherfucker. So this girl. She winked. Right at me. You might wonder what sort of action I took after this exchange went down. Like I mentioned earlier, my reaction to her wink was probably somewhat humorous to her, as she was laughing. I was filled with panic at this point. Do I approach her now? What if she was just being friendly? What if she saw me standing awkwardly and was just fucking with my head? Women love to head fuck me. What if she did have genuine interest and that was her way of trying to get my attention? So many scenarios cycled through my brain. I should probably do something right? Approach her? Wink back? Wave and smile? So you want to know what I did? I blinked at her a few times, mouth agape, and I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING. I finished my beer. I walked up to the bar tender and closed my tab and I left. Shuffled down the sidewalk, back into my truck, fired up the engine, and drove myself back home and to bed.
What would you have done in this situation? Should I have approached her? Made awkward conversation and offered to buy her a drink? What if she WASN'T winking at me? Boy that would have made me feel silly. What if she was in fact flirting with me, and I went to talk to her, and she was a total dummy? A lack of intelligence in a woman will always be my biggest turn off. I don't care if you look like Katy Perry. If you can't hold my attention in some sort of engaging conversation, I can't be bothered. I guess I will never know. Lately I feel like I can't get out of my own way as it is. Apparently a ridiculously gorgeous woman in a beautiful dress who (might) have been winking at me couldn't get me out of my own head. Maybe I will see this girl again down the road, when I feel more inclined to throw some caution to the wind. Perhaps I never see her again. Lately I've got the failing man's blues, and I need a good axe to grind. Got a stone in my head and a hole in my heart. This whole entry tonight sort of might make it seem like I am a hapless, dubious malcontent when it comes down to reading and or understanding women. That's because I am. Honestly folks, what was I supposed to do? Yeah, I could have taken a shot, gone up there and said SOMETHING to her. I can only assume she had a few cocktails in her, found me mildly attractive and gave a playful wink. Maybe I am reading too far into the whole thing. This just sort of seems like the thing you're supposed to pick up on, and I chose to ignore it. I have found myself completely exasperated with trying to pick up on clues like this, as earlier entries have indicated. As I grow older and continue down this road, dwelling in solidarity and bachelorhood, I sometimes wonder if there might not be any sort of match for me out there anymore. I know I am probably wrong. Probably. I think on this particular night, with this woman I didn't feel up for the challenge. Didn't feel like playing that game. I am so completely out of touch with the whole courtship ritual I don't even know what to do when something smacks me right in the face.
Yeah, I get it. A guy has to make the effort, put himself out there on that branch and not be afraid for it to crack. It can only break so many times right? Hell, I've taken enough falls to know that by now. Next time the babe with the shimmering sapphire eyes and the bouncing locks gives me that wink, I will be ready. Just gotta keep on grinding that axe for now. Keep on bayin' at that cold moon. One of these days, she's bound to howl back
I parked my truck down the street about a block away and gingerly walked up to the establishment. The large backward hat wearing goon working the front gate demanded to see my identification, despite seeing me in there a countless number of times. I complied and was in the gate. I ordered 16 oz of my favorite swill, and decided to check out the band. It was a local act, and they were playing covers. Typical fare for a night out here in Cedar Rapids. There were a good number of people up by the stage, dancing and gyrating along to 80's butt rawk and a slew of current radio hits. The singer of the band was a female. She was attractive. Great voice, that more or less suited all of the other people's songs she was singing. I glanced around and took stock of the attendees. Typical crowd for this place. You had your biker bros, all decked out in their garb of leather and ridiculous head gear despite the 95 degree heat. I've never understood this culture, even working at a motorcycle parts distribution center for 5 years. Apparently you strap an obnoxiously loud roaring slab of metal and bolts between your legs and all of a sudden you're the baddest dude on the block. Yawn. Anyways, so you have the biker dudes, your Affliction shirt wearing, sloping forehead types, and last but not least, the stable of cougars. The older gals. Out on the prowl. Some more predatory than others. Best to steer clear of these ladies. They will burn you up and bleed you dry. I skulked around the outer perimeter of the dance floor and watched the followers of the band. Watched them watch. After being there for about 20 minutes I questioned why I even came here. Was my boredom so staggering and paramount that I was willing to subject myself to this absurdity? Apparently it was. So I watched the dudebrah's in Affliction shirts, and the biker clan in the leather chaps go about and conduct themselves in their own various ways. The Affliction dudes trying to scam on women. The biker dudes babbling needlessly loud about handlebars and tailpipes. The cougars laughing amongst themselves. A few of them eyeing their respective prey. At some point, a nerdish looking, stumpy, sawed off guy in thick rimmed glasses and a closely shaved head walked up beside me and stood there for a bit. I glanced over at him. He said "Hey man!" and he clicked my glass as a friendly gesture. I'm not sure if he thought he knew me, or maybe he was just being friendly. He seemed affable, and easy going, though he was wild eyed and had an air of cretinism about him. I smiled, and laughed a hearty laugh and clicked his glass with enthusiasm. I love meeting people like this guy. Infinitely weird and strange looking, but with something about him you can't quite put your finger on. A guy like him has probably seen a few things. Done a few things. Maybe last weekend he got vodka drunk and had sex with a cantaloupe. Maybe he has a collection of shrunken heads at home, in a box under his bed. Perhaps he has some sort of hidden prehensile tail. Some people can be goddamn fascinating. Anyway, this guy stood there for a few minutes before scurrying off and I never saw him again. I considered leaving at this point. I am getting tired, and as mentioned before, I have to work the next day. Then I saw her.
I ordered one more beer. It was about 10:45, and I wanted to get back to my bed and be up and ready to spray weeds in the morning. As I previously mentioned, I wasn't really having much fun aside from meeting that crazy looking melon sex enthusiast. I shambled back to the dance floor area, and was just sort of looking around, back at the bar, back toward the door. The crowd was getting thick as it got later. More people pouring in. More bikers. Goddamn man, where do all of these guys come from? Like cockroaches they come out of the wood work. My eyes scanned the bar again. Something caught my eye. There was a girl. At the bar. And she was looking right at me. I looked at her for what seemed like ten seconds. She was gorgeous. She was of average height. Somewhat of a slender build, but with all of the right curves in all of the right places, if you know what I mean. She had medium length hair. Dark, bouncy, and feathery. It fell about her shoulders in a storybook fashion. She appeared to be anywhere from about 23 to 26 years old. She looked like one of those girls that could be in a Pepsi commercial. Her eyes were a steely blue, and they were piercing. Like two shimmering sapphires, featured prominently and illuminating the entire room. Once they locked on to me, I couldn't look away. She was wearing a dress, light blue and white, and it featured her spectacular figure and numerous appealing characteristics in a way that makes a man want to get down on all fours and bay at a mid summer moon. Anyways, she locked onto me. And she winked. She winked one eye. At me? I sheepishly turned and looked behind me, assuming she was flirting with someone other than me. Perhaps someone she knew standing behind me. I did not see anyone behind me, or near me that appeared to acknowledge this curious wink of hers. I turned back around. Looked back at her. She was laughing.
Now to be fair to myself, I was looking damn good that night. Earlier in the evening I had gone to the gym. So the muscles and the machismo, testosterone and all that, was something I had working in my favor. I have also lost about 30 lbs in the last few months. So I am looking somewhat trim, lean, with biceps bulging. I had a nice couple days worth of reddish colored, thin stubble growing on my jaw. The hair that remains on my skull, however thin, was groomed accordingly. I wore a nice shirt, and some jeans I haven't been able to fit into for some time. I also have a tan for the first time in my life. Working outside all the time is definitely a great thing for a guy's skin and complexion. Typically I like to keep pretty humble. I don't think I am a spectacular looking dude by any means. But when I try, I can look like a respectable, handsome motherfucker. So this girl. She winked. Right at me. You might wonder what sort of action I took after this exchange went down. Like I mentioned earlier, my reaction to her wink was probably somewhat humorous to her, as she was laughing. I was filled with panic at this point. Do I approach her now? What if she was just being friendly? What if she saw me standing awkwardly and was just fucking with my head? Women love to head fuck me. What if she did have genuine interest and that was her way of trying to get my attention? So many scenarios cycled through my brain. I should probably do something right? Approach her? Wink back? Wave and smile? So you want to know what I did? I blinked at her a few times, mouth agape, and I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING. I finished my beer. I walked up to the bar tender and closed my tab and I left. Shuffled down the sidewalk, back into my truck, fired up the engine, and drove myself back home and to bed.
What would you have done in this situation? Should I have approached her? Made awkward conversation and offered to buy her a drink? What if she WASN'T winking at me? Boy that would have made me feel silly. What if she was in fact flirting with me, and I went to talk to her, and she was a total dummy? A lack of intelligence in a woman will always be my biggest turn off. I don't care if you look like Katy Perry. If you can't hold my attention in some sort of engaging conversation, I can't be bothered. I guess I will never know. Lately I feel like I can't get out of my own way as it is. Apparently a ridiculously gorgeous woman in a beautiful dress who (might) have been winking at me couldn't get me out of my own head. Maybe I will see this girl again down the road, when I feel more inclined to throw some caution to the wind. Perhaps I never see her again. Lately I've got the failing man's blues, and I need a good axe to grind. Got a stone in my head and a hole in my heart. This whole entry tonight sort of might make it seem like I am a hapless, dubious malcontent when it comes down to reading and or understanding women. That's because I am. Honestly folks, what was I supposed to do? Yeah, I could have taken a shot, gone up there and said SOMETHING to her. I can only assume she had a few cocktails in her, found me mildly attractive and gave a playful wink. Maybe I am reading too far into the whole thing. This just sort of seems like the thing you're supposed to pick up on, and I chose to ignore it. I have found myself completely exasperated with trying to pick up on clues like this, as earlier entries have indicated. As I grow older and continue down this road, dwelling in solidarity and bachelorhood, I sometimes wonder if there might not be any sort of match for me out there anymore. I know I am probably wrong. Probably. I think on this particular night, with this woman I didn't feel up for the challenge. Didn't feel like playing that game. I am so completely out of touch with the whole courtship ritual I don't even know what to do when something smacks me right in the face.
Yeah, I get it. A guy has to make the effort, put himself out there on that branch and not be afraid for it to crack. It can only break so many times right? Hell, I've taken enough falls to know that by now. Next time the babe with the shimmering sapphire eyes and the bouncing locks gives me that wink, I will be ready. Just gotta keep on grinding that axe for now. Keep on bayin' at that cold moon. One of these days, she's bound to howl back
Monday, July 15, 2013
Love, Art, and the Gradual Mutation of a Man
Once in a while all of us go through a period of flux. An all encompassing darkness. It keeps a person grounded in reality. Sometimes you need to be put back in your place. Lately I feel like I want to pull my own goddamn intestines out through my mouth. The last few months for me, have been trying. The perils and stresses of home ownership and dealing with storm damage, confusing stomach ailments, the overwhelming workload I recently took on, and a myriad of other predicaments and situations have taken a toll on my mind. Sometimes you need to be completely burned down, dismantled and destroyed in order to rebuild your psyche and piece back together your fragile, broken mind. When faced with strife and turmoil, I have always used this method of rebuilding and every time, I glean something from it and I gradually mutate into something new, advancing the evolution of my character. Bile encrusted, booze addled, piss soaked nihilism can only get you by for so long. I am going to use this once abandoned blog to help me to get some things off my chest, and out of my skull.
Over the last few months I have been experiencing a myriad of strange and unusual stomach ailments. It begins as a slow, warm sensation of queasiness late at night. Typically I will wake in the morning to fits of gagging and violent dry heaving. No acid. No stomach bile. I never actually vomit. This occurs in the morning, and after most meals during the day. These symptoms and the late night uneasiness have caused me to eat much, much less than I am accustomed to. I have no appetite. My weight has dropped from about 290 lbs in mid March, to about 265 now here in July. I am fine with the weight loss. I needed to lose the weight. I have been working out regularly, but rarely partaking in any major cardiovascular exercise. The weight loss is slightly unusual to say the least. The late night symptoms are the worst. I do not sleep well. This has caused me to become slightly aloof, and at times even downright delirious. I do what I can to adjust. Some nights I just don't sleep at all and I go to work in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. I did see a doctor about a month ago. Blood work was conducted. They determined it to be "acid reflux" despite me persistently telling them I do not actually have any acid, bile, or any sort of heart burn related symptoms. I was prescribed medication. It so far has yielded zero results. The blood work came back, and apparently I am clear of whatever obscure maladies they had tested me for. I have tried a meat-less diet, thinking it could be something diet related. So far it has been two weeks since I last consumed any sort of meat. I don't seem to have the dry heaving as much, and the late night queasiness isn't as bad, but it still happens. It is something I have accepted for now. I have scheduled some time off from work in late July and I will be seeing a new physician. I am not nearly as concerned about these symptoms and ailments as some of my friends and family seem to be. I've always had a strong tolerance for pain. Whatever the problem, it's nothing I can't shoulder. The point I will be making here is, I feel that the stomach ailment and everything else that has come about, is due to a larger and more overarching problem.
Ever since I was a very young child, I have been fascinated with art. Pictures, drawings, paintings, scenes, sunrises, moonscapes, and everything in between. Animals. Humans. Obscure, ancient monsters from storybook lore. My grandmother was a very gifted painter, and sketch artist. From a very young age she taught me everything she knew about letting your imagination go, and making a connection from mind, to pencil or brush. I would draw pictures for hours upon hours as a child. I grew quite skilled at it. Won a few minor awards as a grade schooler in some duck stamp competition. I excelled at crafting animals, and putting them into various settings or scenes. My grandmother was so proud. As I grew older however, I grew away from it. One of the biggest regrets of my life. I know that if I stuck with it, I could have done something I would someday be very proud of. When I was a senior in high school I was voted "Most artistic" but it was a bogus, bullshit accolade without merit. I won the vote based on reputation alone, and there were in fact several students in my graduating class who were leagues ahead of my skill level, and any of them should have won the vote. I shrugged it off. It meant nothing to me. But as I grew into my later teen years and into my early twenties, art took on a new meaning. I found art in music, in writings, spoken word, comedy, many places. Art no longer had a finite boundary to me. As you mature, you find new musings, so to speak. I do wish I had continued to draw, sketch and doodle. I found myself writing poetry to myself. Things that were on my mind. Evocative, non linear meanderings, that if read by anyone other than myself, would be completely useless and without meaning. But they always made sense to me. Open interpretation is a beautiful thing. These late night, THC fueled musings would eventually find their way into the lyrical canon for a number of the bands I would go on to be featured in, into my mid twenties. I am still immensely proud of some of the lyrics I wrote for those bands. Stark, mysterious, and oftentimes, downright misanthropic stream of consciousness rants that flowed freely within the antagonistic approach of the music we had created. It always felt like a reptilian, reactionary response to all of the wrong, all of the fucked up things going on around us at that point in our lives. We lived it. Breathed it in.
If you are still reading this, I am in fact going somewhere. As stated above, I am in a state of flux. Over the last few months I have been starving for some sort of creative artistic outlet. I have always felt that art should be created for the artist. For the individual. If you are creating art for anyone other than you, in my opinion, you are doing it wrong. Art should be about individualistic expression. Not about pleasing the eye, mind, or ears of others. If someone else can glean whatever enjoyment or pleasant reaction from it, that is just an added bonus. I haven't been in a position or had an opportunity lately to express myself, or purge my inner demons and get whatever negative energy out of my head, soul, what have you. That is something that I am working on figuring out. I want to get involved with music again. I need it. It's not something I do for pleasure. I require the cathartic outlet, the stream of blood born vitriol that it provides.
Lastly, and most importantly, is love. I recently was asked by someone if I have ever been in "love" before. I was initially insulted by this inquiry. What kind of question is that? The answer to the question, was no. As it always has been. After a few days, and weeks, this question lingered in my mind, and instead of being insulted, I was filled with a deep, languishing sorrow. Why have I never been in love? Does everyone need love? What exactly, is love? I've been pondering this now for days. I have loved before. The feeling, notion or idea has never been reciprocated to me. Always unrequited. I have never truly understood why. It seems like whenever I meet someone who I truly enjoy being with, or genuinely enjoy sharing mutual company with, after a few weeks, or months, they grow weary of me. It seems like whenever they finally see what I am, or who I am, they drift away. Some more abruptly than others. It is maddening. I am a complex, and oftentimes confusing individual. I have typically been extremely picky with who I have chosen to date, or spend time with. I do know what it is to love. I have never been "in love" where it was reciprocated to me and made clear that the other party did in fact, "love" me. It has beleaguered me for some time now. Is being in love a look? A knowing glance? A mutual acknowledgement? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is deeper and more profound than that. For now, I do not know.
In the end, I will be fine. It is a beautiful, expansive planet we inhabit and I intend on doing whatever I need to do to bring myself out of this period of stagnation and despair. I've been lifting weights. Writing. Singing songs. I am in talks with one of my favorite musician friends for an August collaboration/songwriting session. There is always a push-pull, ying yang type effect with things. Or so I have believed. A Phoenix from the ashes method, if you will. I will create art again. I will continue to be patient with this precarious idea of love. If someone wants to be with you, they will be with you. If they don't want to share your company and invest the time with you, there is nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. And you move along, and you do it with class and dignity. I have been lone wolfing it this far, and I will keep on howling. I will always have a heavy heart, and a mind like a volcano. I've always found reprieve with the deep bonding friendship with the folks who I am closest to in life, and they have never disappointed me. Even in writing this, for my eyes to see has helped to ease my troubles some. This isn't an entry for people to cast pity, or for some sympathetic reaction. I've never believed in that shit. Life will be fucking hard. Get hard or die. No pity. If other people may read this who have been experiencing recent inner struggles and turmoil, maybe it will give them some sort of bastardized insight. So for now I will refrain from pulling my entrails out through my esophagus.
Live hard, and love strong. Even if it goes unrequited. Surround yourself with like minded individuals, and eliminate the parasitic ones. In a society of conniving opportunistic vultures, be a fucking lion
Over the last few months I have been experiencing a myriad of strange and unusual stomach ailments. It begins as a slow, warm sensation of queasiness late at night. Typically I will wake in the morning to fits of gagging and violent dry heaving. No acid. No stomach bile. I never actually vomit. This occurs in the morning, and after most meals during the day. These symptoms and the late night uneasiness have caused me to eat much, much less than I am accustomed to. I have no appetite. My weight has dropped from about 290 lbs in mid March, to about 265 now here in July. I am fine with the weight loss. I needed to lose the weight. I have been working out regularly, but rarely partaking in any major cardiovascular exercise. The weight loss is slightly unusual to say the least. The late night symptoms are the worst. I do not sleep well. This has caused me to become slightly aloof, and at times even downright delirious. I do what I can to adjust. Some nights I just don't sleep at all and I go to work in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. I did see a doctor about a month ago. Blood work was conducted. They determined it to be "acid reflux" despite me persistently telling them I do not actually have any acid, bile, or any sort of heart burn related symptoms. I was prescribed medication. It so far has yielded zero results. The blood work came back, and apparently I am clear of whatever obscure maladies they had tested me for. I have tried a meat-less diet, thinking it could be something diet related. So far it has been two weeks since I last consumed any sort of meat. I don't seem to have the dry heaving as much, and the late night queasiness isn't as bad, but it still happens. It is something I have accepted for now. I have scheduled some time off from work in late July and I will be seeing a new physician. I am not nearly as concerned about these symptoms and ailments as some of my friends and family seem to be. I've always had a strong tolerance for pain. Whatever the problem, it's nothing I can't shoulder. The point I will be making here is, I feel that the stomach ailment and everything else that has come about, is due to a larger and more overarching problem.
Ever since I was a very young child, I have been fascinated with art. Pictures, drawings, paintings, scenes, sunrises, moonscapes, and everything in between. Animals. Humans. Obscure, ancient monsters from storybook lore. My grandmother was a very gifted painter, and sketch artist. From a very young age she taught me everything she knew about letting your imagination go, and making a connection from mind, to pencil or brush. I would draw pictures for hours upon hours as a child. I grew quite skilled at it. Won a few minor awards as a grade schooler in some duck stamp competition. I excelled at crafting animals, and putting them into various settings or scenes. My grandmother was so proud. As I grew older however, I grew away from it. One of the biggest regrets of my life. I know that if I stuck with it, I could have done something I would someday be very proud of. When I was a senior in high school I was voted "Most artistic" but it was a bogus, bullshit accolade without merit. I won the vote based on reputation alone, and there were in fact several students in my graduating class who were leagues ahead of my skill level, and any of them should have won the vote. I shrugged it off. It meant nothing to me. But as I grew into my later teen years and into my early twenties, art took on a new meaning. I found art in music, in writings, spoken word, comedy, many places. Art no longer had a finite boundary to me. As you mature, you find new musings, so to speak. I do wish I had continued to draw, sketch and doodle. I found myself writing poetry to myself. Things that were on my mind. Evocative, non linear meanderings, that if read by anyone other than myself, would be completely useless and without meaning. But they always made sense to me. Open interpretation is a beautiful thing. These late night, THC fueled musings would eventually find their way into the lyrical canon for a number of the bands I would go on to be featured in, into my mid twenties. I am still immensely proud of some of the lyrics I wrote for those bands. Stark, mysterious, and oftentimes, downright misanthropic stream of consciousness rants that flowed freely within the antagonistic approach of the music we had created. It always felt like a reptilian, reactionary response to all of the wrong, all of the fucked up things going on around us at that point in our lives. We lived it. Breathed it in.
If you are still reading this, I am in fact going somewhere. As stated above, I am in a state of flux. Over the last few months I have been starving for some sort of creative artistic outlet. I have always felt that art should be created for the artist. For the individual. If you are creating art for anyone other than you, in my opinion, you are doing it wrong. Art should be about individualistic expression. Not about pleasing the eye, mind, or ears of others. If someone else can glean whatever enjoyment or pleasant reaction from it, that is just an added bonus. I haven't been in a position or had an opportunity lately to express myself, or purge my inner demons and get whatever negative energy out of my head, soul, what have you. That is something that I am working on figuring out. I want to get involved with music again. I need it. It's not something I do for pleasure. I require the cathartic outlet, the stream of blood born vitriol that it provides.
Lastly, and most importantly, is love. I recently was asked by someone if I have ever been in "love" before. I was initially insulted by this inquiry. What kind of question is that? The answer to the question, was no. As it always has been. After a few days, and weeks, this question lingered in my mind, and instead of being insulted, I was filled with a deep, languishing sorrow. Why have I never been in love? Does everyone need love? What exactly, is love? I've been pondering this now for days. I have loved before. The feeling, notion or idea has never been reciprocated to me. Always unrequited. I have never truly understood why. It seems like whenever I meet someone who I truly enjoy being with, or genuinely enjoy sharing mutual company with, after a few weeks, or months, they grow weary of me. It seems like whenever they finally see what I am, or who I am, they drift away. Some more abruptly than others. It is maddening. I am a complex, and oftentimes confusing individual. I have typically been extremely picky with who I have chosen to date, or spend time with. I do know what it is to love. I have never been "in love" where it was reciprocated to me and made clear that the other party did in fact, "love" me. It has beleaguered me for some time now. Is being in love a look? A knowing glance? A mutual acknowledgement? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is deeper and more profound than that. For now, I do not know.
In the end, I will be fine. It is a beautiful, expansive planet we inhabit and I intend on doing whatever I need to do to bring myself out of this period of stagnation and despair. I've been lifting weights. Writing. Singing songs. I am in talks with one of my favorite musician friends for an August collaboration/songwriting session. There is always a push-pull, ying yang type effect with things. Or so I have believed. A Phoenix from the ashes method, if you will. I will create art again. I will continue to be patient with this precarious idea of love. If someone wants to be with you, they will be with you. If they don't want to share your company and invest the time with you, there is nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. And you move along, and you do it with class and dignity. I have been lone wolfing it this far, and I will keep on howling. I will always have a heavy heart, and a mind like a volcano. I've always found reprieve with the deep bonding friendship with the folks who I am closest to in life, and they have never disappointed me. Even in writing this, for my eyes to see has helped to ease my troubles some. This isn't an entry for people to cast pity, or for some sympathetic reaction. I've never believed in that shit. Life will be fucking hard. Get hard or die. No pity. If other people may read this who have been experiencing recent inner struggles and turmoil, maybe it will give them some sort of bastardized insight. So for now I will refrain from pulling my entrails out through my esophagus.
Live hard, and love strong. Even if it goes unrequited. Surround yourself with like minded individuals, and eliminate the parasitic ones. In a society of conniving opportunistic vultures, be a fucking lion
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Dogma Condemned
It's been a few weeks folks, and lately some things have got me roilin' and broilin', so it's time for me to write a little bit on here. This time I am taking the gloves off so to speak. Time to have the inevitable discussion on organized religion. Now before you groan and take to commenting and start fussin' on me, hear me out. I don't have a problem with folks who follow god's teachings or live by the code of the bible. What I do have a problem with, is when you try applying these teachings to other people's rights and make judgements on their lives and way of living. And plus, this is my fucking blog, and I made it clear from the get go that you won't like a lot of this stuff. So if you think you are going to be offended, you might as well just close the tab now. Because like I said, the gloves are coming off tonight and we're gonna have a little bare knuckle street brawl
When I was just a kid, my Mom raised my brother and I as little button up shirt wearing Christians. I don't know the exact age that I first started going to church, but I do know that I was baptized and my brother as well. I assume my mother just thought it was the right thing to do. Dad never attended church with us. I will get to him later. It was always my mom, brother and grandma and I. At a young age I thought I had a pretty good idea of how things worked. You went to church, listened to the pastor preach from behind his pulpit and tell tales of miracles and this super rad dude named Jesus. It all seemed legit back then. Completely harmless, and obviously the stuff this guy was saying made sense at the time. I was young. Squishy underdeveloped brain and all. He said if you did good things, behaved like a decent human, didn't steal from your neighbor, fuck other dude's wives, or murder anyone, you had a pretty good shot of getting into heaven. But there was always a catch. You couldn't worship any other gods. Only that god. If you did, you would piss off the one "true" god and that motherfucker wouldn't let you in heaven then. Shit like that would get you a VIP pass to hell, to hang out with god's old homey Satan. Fire, brimstone, eternal torment, all that fun shit that Morbid Angel was always blathering on about in their lyric booklets. Long story short, when I was a kid, I didn't want to go to hell and get prodded by demons with pointy garden tools for all of eternity, so I did as I was told, went to church, bowed my head in prayer, and didn't question a damn thing about it. There was no other alternative. You were either going to church and praying and living by god's code, or you were going to hell. Simple as that.
A lot of things happen to a person's brain as they get older. You begin to question things. When you hit about 16 or so, you start questioning a LOT of things. I wish I could tell you how old I was when I started sort of questioning the Judeo Christian doctrine, but I want to say I was probably 18 or 19. As cliche as it probably sounds, a lot of it stems from my burgeoning obsession with heavy metal music, and the lyrical fodder and images it paints. I remember the very first time I listened to Morbid Angel. I was 19. I was smoking a lot of weed, sitting in my room with my headphones, reading the lyrics. These dudes were some blasphemous motherfuckers. Devil worship and christ bashing was a big topic for them. I remember the first time reading the lyrics and I was quite honestly, aghast. My whole world was turned upside down. I remember thinking, man, is listening to this shit gonna get me a straight ticket to hell? Nowadays even reading what I just typed makes me want to puke and shit all over myself, just because it sounds that stupid. It was at that point that I sort of realized it was ok to question religion and it's hypocrisy and shortcomings. I started inhaling and consuming any and all sorts of blasphemous christ bashing metal bands I could find. Listening to bands like this, who had two outstretched middle fingers toward religion and the church with unabashed defiance was what sort of led me to start questioning any and all religion. I started reading anything I could find on Atheism, Agnosticism, and anything else that cast skepticism on the subject. I was hooked. Obviously I had heard of these things before, but I never sought them out, because from a young age, it was bored and drilled into my skull that all of this was wrong, and Jesus was the light and the way. Heavy music, and it's "taboo" subject matter, opened my eyes to life outside of theism. It really didn't take me long to realize that I didn't want to consider myself a good ole christian boy anymore. I could go on and ramble about it some more, but I think you get the general idea. To sum it up, young disenfranchised misfit kid starts listening to death metal, starts questioning religion, does some research, abandons religion. Simple as that
In early November 2008, I was at work one day, when I got a call to come to the front desk. This seemed odd to me, as I never got called to the front desk for anything. I dismounted my machine and made my way up there. My mom was there, and she had a look on her face I will never forget. She looked morose, and filled with despair. She told me that my dad was sick, and I had to go now. A bit of a back story, my dad at this point was a full blown career alcoholic, and he was in and out of the hospital all the time with liver problems. I had always known that alcoholism was going to kill my dad. He knew it too. He just didn't care. He felt he had nothing to live for, and nothing to look forward to, so he got drunk 24/7 to make life liveable. So I went and told my supervisor I had to go, and I proceeded to the hospital in Iowa City. Dad was at the veterans hospital. He had a brief stint in the army back in the 70's, so he got free healthcare through the vet clinic. Which is a good thing, because the bills he would have racked up would have been astronomical. Once I got to the hospital the doctor was very blunt. Dad was scheduled to leave that day, but as he was getting ready to go, he began to have some sort of seizure or withdrawl symptoms. They ran some tests, and discovered that his liver, or his kidneys were failing. I don't exactly know what was failing, all I DID know was whatever it was, was something he needed to survive. Doc laid it on thick. He told me dad was dying, and they wanted to know what we wanted to do with him.
Dad was ineligible for a liver transplant. Getting a liver transplant isn't easy if you are a career drunk with no money. Bottom line was, he needed a new liver and he wasn't going to get one. All they could do was keep him there and make him comfortable until we decided what we wanted to do. By we I mean my brother and I. Over a 2 week period we drove back and forth to Iowa City every day in my crappy little Chrysler Lebaron to see dad in the hospital. He had various IV's and cords and wires hooked into him, pumping fluids in, giving him essential things he needed to survive. Eventually, the doctor told us that dad couldn't stay there anymore, he wasn't going to come out of this, and he was taking up bed space for someone who actually could get help and needed it. Let me be clear on this. Dad knew he was dying. For the most part he was pretty coherent during the ordeal. This hospital had a lot of attractive young college age nurses running about tending to patients, and he had more than a few he was fond of. Even on his death bed he found time to mingle and flirt, and crack witty jokes. It was just who he was. He was 48 years old, laying there dying, and he was cracking jokes flirting with girls 25 years younger than him. He was a rascal, a scamp, a coot, and a motherfucker all rolled into one. He was my dad. Anyway, he was well aware of his precarious state, and eventually we had to make the heavy decision to take him off of the life support and he was sent to a different part of the hospital where he could be more comfortable. No more IV's no more machines hooked into him. I had a few heady talks with him. Told him I loved him. Told him no matter what he did in his past, he was my dad and I forgave him. He didn't say a whole lot when things got heavy like that, but I could tell he understood what I was trying to get across.
My favorite and most lasting memory of Jeffry Lynn Tjaden came on one of the last days I ever saw him alive. My brother, grandma, and mother and I were all at the hospital, and the hospital staff sent a lady to talk to us. She was some sort of hospital chaplain,, or something. I am not exactly sure of her title. She sat us down in a room adjacent to the room my father was staying in. She wanted to ask us if we thought that dad wanted to see a priest, as he was on his deathbed. On an important note, I must make it clear that my father was never a religious man. I remember as a child him mocking and ridiculing any and all sorts of religion. He was a sarcastic, bastard of a man. I recall being confused by this, and just dismissed it as dad being, well dad. Anyway, my mom thought it might be imperative that dad see a priest, because after all, she was somewhat religious, and she wanted dad to be at "peace" and all that. Immediately I scoffed at this notion. I wasn't certain, but I assumed dad wouldn't want any part of that at all. I did my best to keep a straight face, and went in to ask him:
"Dad, hey there is a lady in here that wants to know if you want to see a priest. Do you want to see a priest?"
*Dad looks at me hard. Then he glances up at the ceiling in the room, for what seems like an eternity. Finally he looks back at me, and I will never forget it, deadpan fucking serious look on his face and he says "No. Send in a whore"
"Ok dad I will go tell them that". I snickered to myself, walked back into the room and said, "No, he doesn't want to see a priest"
This scene I just described to you, had an enormous impact on my life. I will never forget that. On his deathbed, fully aware that any time he was going to expire, my dad refused to acknowledge religion, or entertain any thought of the afterlife. That was huge for me. Even now, as I am, a full blown atheist, I am not so sure even I could do that. I was 22 then, and I had more or less considered myself an atheist, but that cemented it in stone for me. To stare death in the face and not beg for forgiveness. No repentance. No confessional. Straight up defiance in the face of mortality. Jeff Tjaden passed away on November 26th 2008. He was cremated, and his ashes spread to the mighty Maquoketa river. No religious ceremony was performed at his funeral.
So, why am I attacking religion tonight? Why am I telling this long, drawn out, rambling personal tale for any and all to see, opening myself up to scrutiny, and ridicule? The other day the Supreme Court began a hearing on whether or not they would strike down the Defense of Marriage Act. It was a law passed that proclaimed that, in essence, it's only cool for a man and a woman to marry. There is a whole shit ton of other legal mumbo jumbo involved, and quite frankly this post is long enough. Bottom line is a lot of people, (99% of them on the conservative right wing spectrum) don't want gays to get married because apparently THE BIBLE SAYS IT AINT RIGHT. In my opinion, one person's religious ideals should never infringe on the rights of others. Not everyone in the world is a christian. You can't tell other folks what they can and can't do because your belief system says what is or isn't right according to their morals. Let people be free to love who they want to love. I think that as a whole, human beings are so self absorbed, so selfish, they think they are entitled to an eternal life in heaven, right after they just lived their life on earth. If you really think about it, isn't that the most fucked up selfish thing you can imagine? You get to live, then you die, but then you go to heaven and live forever? Fuck that. You live one life. You get one. You live it the best you can. You don't need a strict code or the rules of an ancient book to know what is right or wrong. Don't steal shit. Don't fuck other dude's wives. Don't kill people. Don't molest little kids. Oh wait a minute. Didn't some Catholic pries.... You get the idea. You don't need religion to figure out how not to be a fucking cretin. If anyone reads this long meandering tale, I know I will catch some flak from religious folks. That's fine. Don't bother wasting your time posting angry comments. That is energy you can be devoting to bible worship and self righteousness.
Love,
Blasphemous Atheist dickhead
When I was just a kid, my Mom raised my brother and I as little button up shirt wearing Christians. I don't know the exact age that I first started going to church, but I do know that I was baptized and my brother as well. I assume my mother just thought it was the right thing to do. Dad never attended church with us. I will get to him later. It was always my mom, brother and grandma and I. At a young age I thought I had a pretty good idea of how things worked. You went to church, listened to the pastor preach from behind his pulpit and tell tales of miracles and this super rad dude named Jesus. It all seemed legit back then. Completely harmless, and obviously the stuff this guy was saying made sense at the time. I was young. Squishy underdeveloped brain and all. He said if you did good things, behaved like a decent human, didn't steal from your neighbor, fuck other dude's wives, or murder anyone, you had a pretty good shot of getting into heaven. But there was always a catch. You couldn't worship any other gods. Only that god. If you did, you would piss off the one "true" god and that motherfucker wouldn't let you in heaven then. Shit like that would get you a VIP pass to hell, to hang out with god's old homey Satan. Fire, brimstone, eternal torment, all that fun shit that Morbid Angel was always blathering on about in their lyric booklets. Long story short, when I was a kid, I didn't want to go to hell and get prodded by demons with pointy garden tools for all of eternity, so I did as I was told, went to church, bowed my head in prayer, and didn't question a damn thing about it. There was no other alternative. You were either going to church and praying and living by god's code, or you were going to hell. Simple as that.
A lot of things happen to a person's brain as they get older. You begin to question things. When you hit about 16 or so, you start questioning a LOT of things. I wish I could tell you how old I was when I started sort of questioning the Judeo Christian doctrine, but I want to say I was probably 18 or 19. As cliche as it probably sounds, a lot of it stems from my burgeoning obsession with heavy metal music, and the lyrical fodder and images it paints. I remember the very first time I listened to Morbid Angel. I was 19. I was smoking a lot of weed, sitting in my room with my headphones, reading the lyrics. These dudes were some blasphemous motherfuckers. Devil worship and christ bashing was a big topic for them. I remember the first time reading the lyrics and I was quite honestly, aghast. My whole world was turned upside down. I remember thinking, man, is listening to this shit gonna get me a straight ticket to hell? Nowadays even reading what I just typed makes me want to puke and shit all over myself, just because it sounds that stupid. It was at that point that I sort of realized it was ok to question religion and it's hypocrisy and shortcomings. I started inhaling and consuming any and all sorts of blasphemous christ bashing metal bands I could find. Listening to bands like this, who had two outstretched middle fingers toward religion and the church with unabashed defiance was what sort of led me to start questioning any and all religion. I started reading anything I could find on Atheism, Agnosticism, and anything else that cast skepticism on the subject. I was hooked. Obviously I had heard of these things before, but I never sought them out, because from a young age, it was bored and drilled into my skull that all of this was wrong, and Jesus was the light and the way. Heavy music, and it's "taboo" subject matter, opened my eyes to life outside of theism. It really didn't take me long to realize that I didn't want to consider myself a good ole christian boy anymore. I could go on and ramble about it some more, but I think you get the general idea. To sum it up, young disenfranchised misfit kid starts listening to death metal, starts questioning religion, does some research, abandons religion. Simple as that
In early November 2008, I was at work one day, when I got a call to come to the front desk. This seemed odd to me, as I never got called to the front desk for anything. I dismounted my machine and made my way up there. My mom was there, and she had a look on her face I will never forget. She looked morose, and filled with despair. She told me that my dad was sick, and I had to go now. A bit of a back story, my dad at this point was a full blown career alcoholic, and he was in and out of the hospital all the time with liver problems. I had always known that alcoholism was going to kill my dad. He knew it too. He just didn't care. He felt he had nothing to live for, and nothing to look forward to, so he got drunk 24/7 to make life liveable. So I went and told my supervisor I had to go, and I proceeded to the hospital in Iowa City. Dad was at the veterans hospital. He had a brief stint in the army back in the 70's, so he got free healthcare through the vet clinic. Which is a good thing, because the bills he would have racked up would have been astronomical. Once I got to the hospital the doctor was very blunt. Dad was scheduled to leave that day, but as he was getting ready to go, he began to have some sort of seizure or withdrawl symptoms. They ran some tests, and discovered that his liver, or his kidneys were failing. I don't exactly know what was failing, all I DID know was whatever it was, was something he needed to survive. Doc laid it on thick. He told me dad was dying, and they wanted to know what we wanted to do with him.
Dad was ineligible for a liver transplant. Getting a liver transplant isn't easy if you are a career drunk with no money. Bottom line was, he needed a new liver and he wasn't going to get one. All they could do was keep him there and make him comfortable until we decided what we wanted to do. By we I mean my brother and I. Over a 2 week period we drove back and forth to Iowa City every day in my crappy little Chrysler Lebaron to see dad in the hospital. He had various IV's and cords and wires hooked into him, pumping fluids in, giving him essential things he needed to survive. Eventually, the doctor told us that dad couldn't stay there anymore, he wasn't going to come out of this, and he was taking up bed space for someone who actually could get help and needed it. Let me be clear on this. Dad knew he was dying. For the most part he was pretty coherent during the ordeal. This hospital had a lot of attractive young college age nurses running about tending to patients, and he had more than a few he was fond of. Even on his death bed he found time to mingle and flirt, and crack witty jokes. It was just who he was. He was 48 years old, laying there dying, and he was cracking jokes flirting with girls 25 years younger than him. He was a rascal, a scamp, a coot, and a motherfucker all rolled into one. He was my dad. Anyway, he was well aware of his precarious state, and eventually we had to make the heavy decision to take him off of the life support and he was sent to a different part of the hospital where he could be more comfortable. No more IV's no more machines hooked into him. I had a few heady talks with him. Told him I loved him. Told him no matter what he did in his past, he was my dad and I forgave him. He didn't say a whole lot when things got heavy like that, but I could tell he understood what I was trying to get across.
My favorite and most lasting memory of Jeffry Lynn Tjaden came on one of the last days I ever saw him alive. My brother, grandma, and mother and I were all at the hospital, and the hospital staff sent a lady to talk to us. She was some sort of hospital chaplain,, or something. I am not exactly sure of her title. She sat us down in a room adjacent to the room my father was staying in. She wanted to ask us if we thought that dad wanted to see a priest, as he was on his deathbed. On an important note, I must make it clear that my father was never a religious man. I remember as a child him mocking and ridiculing any and all sorts of religion. He was a sarcastic, bastard of a man. I recall being confused by this, and just dismissed it as dad being, well dad. Anyway, my mom thought it might be imperative that dad see a priest, because after all, she was somewhat religious, and she wanted dad to be at "peace" and all that. Immediately I scoffed at this notion. I wasn't certain, but I assumed dad wouldn't want any part of that at all. I did my best to keep a straight face, and went in to ask him:
"Dad, hey there is a lady in here that wants to know if you want to see a priest. Do you want to see a priest?"
*Dad looks at me hard. Then he glances up at the ceiling in the room, for what seems like an eternity. Finally he looks back at me, and I will never forget it, deadpan fucking serious look on his face and he says "No. Send in a whore"
"Ok dad I will go tell them that". I snickered to myself, walked back into the room and said, "No, he doesn't want to see a priest"
This scene I just described to you, had an enormous impact on my life. I will never forget that. On his deathbed, fully aware that any time he was going to expire, my dad refused to acknowledge religion, or entertain any thought of the afterlife. That was huge for me. Even now, as I am, a full blown atheist, I am not so sure even I could do that. I was 22 then, and I had more or less considered myself an atheist, but that cemented it in stone for me. To stare death in the face and not beg for forgiveness. No repentance. No confessional. Straight up defiance in the face of mortality. Jeff Tjaden passed away on November 26th 2008. He was cremated, and his ashes spread to the mighty Maquoketa river. No religious ceremony was performed at his funeral.
So, why am I attacking religion tonight? Why am I telling this long, drawn out, rambling personal tale for any and all to see, opening myself up to scrutiny, and ridicule? The other day the Supreme Court began a hearing on whether or not they would strike down the Defense of Marriage Act. It was a law passed that proclaimed that, in essence, it's only cool for a man and a woman to marry. There is a whole shit ton of other legal mumbo jumbo involved, and quite frankly this post is long enough. Bottom line is a lot of people, (99% of them on the conservative right wing spectrum) don't want gays to get married because apparently THE BIBLE SAYS IT AINT RIGHT. In my opinion, one person's religious ideals should never infringe on the rights of others. Not everyone in the world is a christian. You can't tell other folks what they can and can't do because your belief system says what is or isn't right according to their morals. Let people be free to love who they want to love. I think that as a whole, human beings are so self absorbed, so selfish, they think they are entitled to an eternal life in heaven, right after they just lived their life on earth. If you really think about it, isn't that the most fucked up selfish thing you can imagine? You get to live, then you die, but then you go to heaven and live forever? Fuck that. You live one life. You get one. You live it the best you can. You don't need a strict code or the rules of an ancient book to know what is right or wrong. Don't steal shit. Don't fuck other dude's wives. Don't kill people. Don't molest little kids. Oh wait a minute. Didn't some Catholic pries.... You get the idea. You don't need religion to figure out how not to be a fucking cretin. If anyone reads this long meandering tale, I know I will catch some flak from religious folks. That's fine. Don't bother wasting your time posting angry comments. That is energy you can be devoting to bible worship and self righteousness.
Love,
Blasphemous Atheist dickhead
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Bachelorhood
There has been a topic I have been wanting to discuss for awhile now, I just haven't quite decided how I want to go about doing it, but here goes. I want to talk about bachelorhood. I guess a lot of you who read this probably know me fairly well, and if so, you know that about 98% of the time I am single. Sometimes folks wonder why I don't have a significant other, or wonder why I can't sustain a functioning relationship. I often struggle with relaying a sensible answer when asked this question. I will do my best to address this here.
I think a lot of my perpetual bachelorhood boils down to me simply being wrapped up in my own head, absorbed in my own little universe I have created for myself. What I am trying to get at here, is I like to do, what I want to do. I know that sounds completely selfish, and it is. I have been in a few short lived relationships over the years, and often times when I feel like I am being yanked out of my comfort zone, or placed in a scenario I am uncomfortable with, I panic and run away. I guess this blog sort of helps me explain it the best. As silly and pathetic as it may sound, this is a topic I have had endless discussions with my mother about. Her theory is that I "haven't found the right girl yet" and "I will know when it is right". Well, I just turned 27, and I often times wonder if that is the case. I put a lot of blame on myself. For example, I don't want to go to a club and dance and mingle with a bunch of pretty people I have nothing in common with. I don't want to watch network sitcoms and feign interest in whatever is going on in the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy(is that still a thing girls do)? I am also not going to be your fucking "redneck romeo" so to speak. (Why do so many women want a redneck romeo? Having teeth is good right?) This is the sort of scenario I do my best to avoid. I am also very aware that one must make "sacrifices" when they are in a working relationship. Only problem is, I have been (mostly) single for so long, I know and understand the alternatives to any sort of scenario like this that gets lobbed my way. When it comes down to going out to a shitty dance club and shelling out cash for expensive drinks, as opposed to hanging out with my idiot friends and laughing about primitive, stupid nerd topics and drinking tall boy PBR's, I am almost always going to opt for the latter. My idea of a fun night in is hanging out with a few close pals and blasting our favorite Nasum album or whatever sort of Grindcore filth we may be infatuated with at any given time. Like I said, it boils down to selfishness on my part. Then people might say, "oh you just need to find a girl who likes to do those things too". The odds of any human female wanting to engage in such activities is fairly slim. Meeting women is hard. Actually approaching them with the intent of courtship is even more difficult, to me anyway. I can't approach women in a social setting. It typically goes like this: I see a girl who catches my eye. She appears to be single, so I make decide I might approach her. That is when I play out a scenario in my mind. What do I say to her? What do I not say? What if she is visibly repulsed by my presence? What if I stutter?(I am prone to fits of stuttering when I am nervous) And Jesus, what if she has pepper spray? These all cycle through my brain, and I end up not going near her. Even with the prompting and goading of my cronies who I might be out with. I have tried the online dating circuit, it is somewhat alluring, but even with that nothing seems to stick. Most of the women on there can be fickle, and they know what they are after, and usually, it is not a feller like me. Sometimes I wonder if my apprehension toward a fruitful relationship stems from the rocky marriage my parents were going through when I was a child. That can easily be refuted though. My brother who is 3 years younger than me has a very good relationship going with a girl he has been with for almost 4 years, so obviously it didn't affect him. I have also had several friends of mine who suffered through miserable relationships and wasted countless years of their lives with horrible, life sucking women. But I have even more close friends who have great relationships and are married or currently engaged to be wed to women they love. All of these are just examples I try to apply to myself and glean from them what I can. I just don't want to be stuck in a situation that it might be hard to get out of. Sometimes being a red blooded heterosexual male can be tough. The urge to procreate can get the best of a guy from time to time, and I have had my share of failed conquests with women who have kicked me to the curb and moved on with their lives. I don't want to make it sound like I have been some sort of heart throb or lothario, because I am far from it. I have however, had a few potential women come into my life, briefly try and understand my many foibles and idiosyncracies, get fed up, and move on. It happens. In hindsight, a few of them would have made for great girlfriends. If any of them might be reading this, well, maybe now you know why things went the way they did. It is going to have to be a spectacularly weird and eccentric woman, to understand me I am afraid. Someone who laughs at all of the strange things I like to laugh at. Someone who I can talk to, and not just talk for the sake of conversation, something truly engaging and interesting. So far, I haven't found anything like that. To sort of wrap things up so to speak, I am aware of my many shortcomings and writing it in this stupid blog makes me want to work on being a better human being. In the meantime though, this perpetual cycle of bachelorhood works well enough for me. I can do what I want, when I want, and not have to worry about hurting anyone's feelings or alienating anyone in the process.
With everything I have stated thus far, I want to make it clear that I am very happy with my current situation. Living alone, in my little home and doing whatever simple nerd activities that I find myself dabbling in whenever I am not working. I am however, very open to the prospect of meeting a gal to spend time with and potentially settle down and create adorable little offspring. I feel like I owe my momma grand kids, and goddammit with all the shit I have put her through, she has rightfully earned it. I guess I just haven't found the right one yet. Oh shit, maybe momma does know best
I think a lot of my perpetual bachelorhood boils down to me simply being wrapped up in my own head, absorbed in my own little universe I have created for myself. What I am trying to get at here, is I like to do, what I want to do. I know that sounds completely selfish, and it is. I have been in a few short lived relationships over the years, and often times when I feel like I am being yanked out of my comfort zone, or placed in a scenario I am uncomfortable with, I panic and run away. I guess this blog sort of helps me explain it the best. As silly and pathetic as it may sound, this is a topic I have had endless discussions with my mother about. Her theory is that I "haven't found the right girl yet" and "I will know when it is right". Well, I just turned 27, and I often times wonder if that is the case. I put a lot of blame on myself. For example, I don't want to go to a club and dance and mingle with a bunch of pretty people I have nothing in common with. I don't want to watch network sitcoms and feign interest in whatever is going on in the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy(is that still a thing girls do)? I am also not going to be your fucking "redneck romeo" so to speak. (Why do so many women want a redneck romeo? Having teeth is good right?) This is the sort of scenario I do my best to avoid. I am also very aware that one must make "sacrifices" when they are in a working relationship. Only problem is, I have been (mostly) single for so long, I know and understand the alternatives to any sort of scenario like this that gets lobbed my way. When it comes down to going out to a shitty dance club and shelling out cash for expensive drinks, as opposed to hanging out with my idiot friends and laughing about primitive, stupid nerd topics and drinking tall boy PBR's, I am almost always going to opt for the latter. My idea of a fun night in is hanging out with a few close pals and blasting our favorite Nasum album or whatever sort of Grindcore filth we may be infatuated with at any given time. Like I said, it boils down to selfishness on my part. Then people might say, "oh you just need to find a girl who likes to do those things too". The odds of any human female wanting to engage in such activities is fairly slim. Meeting women is hard. Actually approaching them with the intent of courtship is even more difficult, to me anyway. I can't approach women in a social setting. It typically goes like this: I see a girl who catches my eye. She appears to be single, so I make decide I might approach her. That is when I play out a scenario in my mind. What do I say to her? What do I not say? What if she is visibly repulsed by my presence? What if I stutter?(I am prone to fits of stuttering when I am nervous) And Jesus, what if she has pepper spray? These all cycle through my brain, and I end up not going near her. Even with the prompting and goading of my cronies who I might be out with. I have tried the online dating circuit, it is somewhat alluring, but even with that nothing seems to stick. Most of the women on there can be fickle, and they know what they are after, and usually, it is not a feller like me. Sometimes I wonder if my apprehension toward a fruitful relationship stems from the rocky marriage my parents were going through when I was a child. That can easily be refuted though. My brother who is 3 years younger than me has a very good relationship going with a girl he has been with for almost 4 years, so obviously it didn't affect him. I have also had several friends of mine who suffered through miserable relationships and wasted countless years of their lives with horrible, life sucking women. But I have even more close friends who have great relationships and are married or currently engaged to be wed to women they love. All of these are just examples I try to apply to myself and glean from them what I can. I just don't want to be stuck in a situation that it might be hard to get out of. Sometimes being a red blooded heterosexual male can be tough. The urge to procreate can get the best of a guy from time to time, and I have had my share of failed conquests with women who have kicked me to the curb and moved on with their lives. I don't want to make it sound like I have been some sort of heart throb or lothario, because I am far from it. I have however, had a few potential women come into my life, briefly try and understand my many foibles and idiosyncracies, get fed up, and move on. It happens. In hindsight, a few of them would have made for great girlfriends. If any of them might be reading this, well, maybe now you know why things went the way they did. It is going to have to be a spectacularly weird and eccentric woman, to understand me I am afraid. Someone who laughs at all of the strange things I like to laugh at. Someone who I can talk to, and not just talk for the sake of conversation, something truly engaging and interesting. So far, I haven't found anything like that. To sort of wrap things up so to speak, I am aware of my many shortcomings and writing it in this stupid blog makes me want to work on being a better human being. In the meantime though, this perpetual cycle of bachelorhood works well enough for me. I can do what I want, when I want, and not have to worry about hurting anyone's feelings or alienating anyone in the process.
With everything I have stated thus far, I want to make it clear that I am very happy with my current situation. Living alone, in my little home and doing whatever simple nerd activities that I find myself dabbling in whenever I am not working. I am however, very open to the prospect of meeting a gal to spend time with and potentially settle down and create adorable little offspring. I feel like I owe my momma grand kids, and goddammit with all the shit I have put her through, she has rightfully earned it. I guess I just haven't found the right one yet. Oh shit, maybe momma does know best
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Jeffry
I think I'd like to take a second to talk about my pappy, the late Jeffry Lynn Tjaden. As a lot of you who are probably reading this already know, he passed away in November of 2008, and sometimes I like to reminisce about him. Let me be clear first: My dad probably wouldn't have won any father of the year awards. Among other things he was a drunk, a womanizer, a general rabble rouser, and a duck hunt enthusiast(yeah, the NES game strangely enough). He was also a deeply misunderstood and highly intelligent man. Without knowing my dad for the first 22 years of my life I wouldn't be the man I am today, for better or for worse. In his own crude way, he taught me how to stick up for myself, and not to "BE SUCH A GODDAMN PUSSY!", so I definitely appreciate that. I think I may share a tale or two of some of his misadventures on this blog here. So, it begins.
One of my favorite Jeff Tjaden tales takes place during the summer of 2003. I was 17, and entering my senior year of high school. Things were lookin' alright for me. I was young, I had a car, and I had two jobs. Working part time at Fareway, the local grocery store, and also working part time at Appleby Canoe Rental, as a "dock dummy" as my father liked to call it. Basically I would spend weekend mornings or afternoons either unloading trailers of canoes down at the canoe launch point on the Maquoketa river, or spend them on the other end at Pictured Rocks loading the canoes when the legions of drunk scalawags would paddle in for the night. My dad was the one who helped me get the job. He was driving the shuttle bus for Appleby's. It was a job he loved, being the lady-lovin' fiend that he was. He liked to sit down there at Pictured Rocks and flirt with ladies who had one too many appletinis on the water that day. I think it made him feel young again, or something like that. He never really did want to grow up. Anyway, Dad worked down there for a couple of summers until he got his last OWI in 2002. So by 2003 he was full fledged "give up on life career drunk". It was sort of sad, but it was just the way it was. You can say all you want about trying to get one of your loved ones help, or getting them clean, but it just didn't work like that with him. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make them drink so to speak. Anyway, after all of this happened, he liked to spend his days swigging on cheap vodka or whatever sort of nasty swill he could get his hands on, and one day in that good ole summer of '03 pappy decided he was gonna go down the river by himself. A solo mission, if you will.
It was late August. The last day of summer before school started. I was out cruising the streets one late afternoon/early evening in my 1987 Chevy Caprice. A real sweet honey of a ride. I had purchased some plastic "chrome" looking hubcaps for it, because apparently that was a thing you did when you were a 17 year old virgin who listened to way too much Metallica and had never touched a boob before. I was out driving around, and I got a call on my newfangled cellular phone. It was one of those old school Nokia phones with the super obnoxiously loud analog style ring tones that you could hear three blocks away. It was my dads new girlfriend. She was panicked. Dad had gone out on the river that day, hours ago, and he still hadn't popped up at the end pick up point yet. She feared he may have had too much to drink and possibly drowned or hurt himself. I let out a long sigh, and knew that my last day of summer just got reeeeeaaaaal interesting. I proceeded to tell her that he was probably fine, and he would turn up eventually. After a long pause at the other end, she finally agreed, and she said she would go back down to Pictured Rocks to wait for him. A few hours tick by. Now it is later, probably 9 o'clock or so. I was at home, preparing myself for my senior year of high school. Another phone call. Dad's girlfriend again. Dad still isn't back yet. She has already called the police. I angrily hang up the phone, grab my little bro and hop in my Caprice and head down to Pictured Rocks, where there are a few sheriff deputies and some other folks, among them the owner of the canoe rental. We all start discussing possible scenarios about what may have happened to him. The policemen inform me they have a helicopter out looking for him downriver, and a few officers in a boat motoring down the river in hopes of finding him. At this point my brother and I are a little bit concerned, but still holding out hope that he probably passed out on a sandbar somewhere. A short while later, probably sometime around 10 PM and after a lot of waiting around(which is all Mike and I could really do anyway), we are approached by one of the officers. The helicopter has found my dad. He was on a sandbar. Had a nice fire going, and there he was, out cold. Passed out by the fire. Snoring away like a motherfucker. He was awoken by the chopper, and shortly after that more officers arrived in a boat. They tied onto his canoe with their boat, and towed him in. So there are my brother Mike and I, sitting down at the boat ramp at pictured rocks, and we see a boat, motoring towards us, our pappy close behind, with a smug, and satisfied look on his face. He was wearing his usual garb. Some sort of redneck off brand beer hat, a dress shirt with the sleeves cut off, and jeans that he cut off into "jorts". The man had impeccable style. Motherfucker was completely unfazed. Did not give a god damn that he had a few dozen cops, and family members out looking for him. As they pulled in, he slooooowwwwly lurched up out of his canoe, and says "Well goddamn. I got to tippin' that vodka bottle down my neck and found myself disorientated". Disorientated, This is what he told the cops. He then proceeded to tell Mike and I, and anyone else who would listen about how "goddamn annoyed he was with that motherfuckin' helicopter waking him up". Then, I shit you not, he uncorks his cooler jug and takes a long hearty slurg from it, and caps it back up. The cops give him a stern lecture, and astonishingly, did not charge him with anything, bless their souls. I angrily told him to get in my fucking car and I drove him back home. Just another day in the life of Jeff Tjaden.
One of my favorite Jeff Tjaden tales takes place during the summer of 2003. I was 17, and entering my senior year of high school. Things were lookin' alright for me. I was young, I had a car, and I had two jobs. Working part time at Fareway, the local grocery store, and also working part time at Appleby Canoe Rental, as a "dock dummy" as my father liked to call it. Basically I would spend weekend mornings or afternoons either unloading trailers of canoes down at the canoe launch point on the Maquoketa river, or spend them on the other end at Pictured Rocks loading the canoes when the legions of drunk scalawags would paddle in for the night. My dad was the one who helped me get the job. He was driving the shuttle bus for Appleby's. It was a job he loved, being the lady-lovin' fiend that he was. He liked to sit down there at Pictured Rocks and flirt with ladies who had one too many appletinis on the water that day. I think it made him feel young again, or something like that. He never really did want to grow up. Anyway, Dad worked down there for a couple of summers until he got his last OWI in 2002. So by 2003 he was full fledged "give up on life career drunk". It was sort of sad, but it was just the way it was. You can say all you want about trying to get one of your loved ones help, or getting them clean, but it just didn't work like that with him. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make them drink so to speak. Anyway, after all of this happened, he liked to spend his days swigging on cheap vodka or whatever sort of nasty swill he could get his hands on, and one day in that good ole summer of '03 pappy decided he was gonna go down the river by himself. A solo mission, if you will.
It was late August. The last day of summer before school started. I was out cruising the streets one late afternoon/early evening in my 1987 Chevy Caprice. A real sweet honey of a ride. I had purchased some plastic "chrome" looking hubcaps for it, because apparently that was a thing you did when you were a 17 year old virgin who listened to way too much Metallica and had never touched a boob before. I was out driving around, and I got a call on my newfangled cellular phone. It was one of those old school Nokia phones with the super obnoxiously loud analog style ring tones that you could hear three blocks away. It was my dads new girlfriend. She was panicked. Dad had gone out on the river that day, hours ago, and he still hadn't popped up at the end pick up point yet. She feared he may have had too much to drink and possibly drowned or hurt himself. I let out a long sigh, and knew that my last day of summer just got reeeeeaaaaal interesting. I proceeded to tell her that he was probably fine, and he would turn up eventually. After a long pause at the other end, she finally agreed, and she said she would go back down to Pictured Rocks to wait for him. A few hours tick by. Now it is later, probably 9 o'clock or so. I was at home, preparing myself for my senior year of high school. Another phone call. Dad's girlfriend again. Dad still isn't back yet. She has already called the police. I angrily hang up the phone, grab my little bro and hop in my Caprice and head down to Pictured Rocks, where there are a few sheriff deputies and some other folks, among them the owner of the canoe rental. We all start discussing possible scenarios about what may have happened to him. The policemen inform me they have a helicopter out looking for him downriver, and a few officers in a boat motoring down the river in hopes of finding him. At this point my brother and I are a little bit concerned, but still holding out hope that he probably passed out on a sandbar somewhere. A short while later, probably sometime around 10 PM and after a lot of waiting around(which is all Mike and I could really do anyway), we are approached by one of the officers. The helicopter has found my dad. He was on a sandbar. Had a nice fire going, and there he was, out cold. Passed out by the fire. Snoring away like a motherfucker. He was awoken by the chopper, and shortly after that more officers arrived in a boat. They tied onto his canoe with their boat, and towed him in. So there are my brother Mike and I, sitting down at the boat ramp at pictured rocks, and we see a boat, motoring towards us, our pappy close behind, with a smug, and satisfied look on his face. He was wearing his usual garb. Some sort of redneck off brand beer hat, a dress shirt with the sleeves cut off, and jeans that he cut off into "jorts". The man had impeccable style. Motherfucker was completely unfazed. Did not give a god damn that he had a few dozen cops, and family members out looking for him. As they pulled in, he slooooowwwwly lurched up out of his canoe, and says "Well goddamn. I got to tippin' that vodka bottle down my neck and found myself disorientated". Disorientated, This is what he told the cops. He then proceeded to tell Mike and I, and anyone else who would listen about how "goddamn annoyed he was with that motherfuckin' helicopter waking him up". Then, I shit you not, he uncorks his cooler jug and takes a long hearty slurg from it, and caps it back up. The cops give him a stern lecture, and astonishingly, did not charge him with anything, bless their souls. I angrily told him to get in my fucking car and I drove him back home. Just another day in the life of Jeff Tjaden.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Affable morons and an endless glass of iced tea
Last night I went out with a group of friends. I decided I was going to go sober for the evening. One of my latest (and probably short lived) attempts at trying to better myself so I don't wake up Monday morning hating myself. Being out in a bar and staying sober is one of the strangest experiences I have ever encountered. I never realized how loud and obnoxious people can be. I was out with my cousin and some pals celebrating a feller's birthday. I got to the establishment at about 8 o'clock. I ordered an iced tea. It was fairly early in the night, but the crew was drinking hard. There was a couple there who informed me they don't get out much, but they had a babysitter and tonight they were going to really let loose. Small talk ensued, and fresh drinks were coming often for the other folks in the group. At approximately 10 or so I really started to look around and take stock of the situation. We were in a fairly large bar, with sports memorabilia adorning the walls, and a few large televisions tuned to the latest tough guy fight. I was starting to feel antsy, and my agoraphobia was starting to really set in. I was on about my 6th iced tea for the night, and I was making trip after trip to the restroom. The married couple who were "letting loose" were doing just that. Voices were getting louder. Shots were being ordered. I smiled, and laughed uncomfortably as the patrons of our group got increasingly silly as the night ticked away. A tiny, adorable Asian waitress kept my iced tea coming at a good clip. After about my 9th one she asked me why I wasn't drinking? And how I could be out with people who were and not want to drink? I informed her that lately my drinking habits have become increasingly worrisome and I was sort of conducting a social experiment with myself to see if I actually could be out in public in a bar with people who were drinking, and not drink myself. She commended me on my will power and fortitude. I found myself both infatuated, and enamored with her. She seemed to genuinely care about what I was saying. After an uncomfortable pause in the dialogue she scurried away to attend to other patrons.
Midnight happened upon us quickly. At this point the jukebox is being played by a few of the people from our group. Your standard 90's alt rock and radio friendly fare. The bar was empty, save a few scattered people in the back few booths, and our group of about 10 people, of which only 4 were folks that I actually knew. The guy sitting to the right of me was a co-worker of the birthday boy. He wore what appeared to be a brand new Green Bay Packers sweatshirt and an oversized ball cap pulled tightly over his elongated, oddly shaped cranium. His eyes were small, and black. He talked needlessly loud, but the things he was saying I found amusing. At one point talk shifted to another co-worker of the birthday boy and this loud colorful feller to my right. Some Czechoslovakian guy they worked with. My new friend quipped "Yeah, Sergio. His hobbies include buying things in bulk, and tearing phone books in half". For some reason this struck me as maddeningly hilarious, and I threw my head back and cackled heartily. Shots arrived. Someone bought me a "shot" of Sprite, because they either felt bad for me or wanted me to feel included. I downed it sheepishly and carried on listening to the crude banter and half mumbled sing alongs of the heavily soused throng.
About 1 AM or so it was decided we would disband and make our way to another bar closer to home. Time to close out the tabs. Our tiny, adorable Asian waitress arrived at our table. I politely asked her to ring me up so I could be on my way. In my head I was trying to do the math on what my bill might be, I probably had about twelve or so iced teas I thought. My tiny overworked bladder was swollen, my eyes were heavy, and I was ready to go home and watch obscure Netflix documentaries and fall asleep on my couch. The waitress returned with my tab. $2.15 was my total. " Two fifteen?!" I exclaimed both surprised and thrilled. A look of panic and concern washed over the face of the sweet little waitress. "Yeah? Is that ok?" she asked. Then it dawned on me that when you are out in an establishment drinking non alcoholic drinks, you usually get free refills. I was quick to explain to her that I was unaware that I had been receiving free refills all night, and I was surprised and happy to have such a miniscule bar tab for once. She laughed, I laughed. I gave her a $10 and told her to keep the change. I said my goodbyes, exchanged high fives, bro hugs, etc, and I was on my way.
So to conclude this entry, I went out last night, and I didn't drink any alcohol. I genuinely had a good time with my friends, and I enjoyed conversing with that little Asian woman. She was sweet and endearing. It was an experiment. I don't know what happens next. I can be a little bit aloof sometimes, and I change my mind a lot, but getting a grip on my drinking habits is something that I have wanted to do for a while now. It could be an interesting road. Goodnight
Midnight happened upon us quickly. At this point the jukebox is being played by a few of the people from our group. Your standard 90's alt rock and radio friendly fare. The bar was empty, save a few scattered people in the back few booths, and our group of about 10 people, of which only 4 were folks that I actually knew. The guy sitting to the right of me was a co-worker of the birthday boy. He wore what appeared to be a brand new Green Bay Packers sweatshirt and an oversized ball cap pulled tightly over his elongated, oddly shaped cranium. His eyes were small, and black. He talked needlessly loud, but the things he was saying I found amusing. At one point talk shifted to another co-worker of the birthday boy and this loud colorful feller to my right. Some Czechoslovakian guy they worked with. My new friend quipped "Yeah, Sergio. His hobbies include buying things in bulk, and tearing phone books in half". For some reason this struck me as maddeningly hilarious, and I threw my head back and cackled heartily. Shots arrived. Someone bought me a "shot" of Sprite, because they either felt bad for me or wanted me to feel included. I downed it sheepishly and carried on listening to the crude banter and half mumbled sing alongs of the heavily soused throng.
About 1 AM or so it was decided we would disband and make our way to another bar closer to home. Time to close out the tabs. Our tiny, adorable Asian waitress arrived at our table. I politely asked her to ring me up so I could be on my way. In my head I was trying to do the math on what my bill might be, I probably had about twelve or so iced teas I thought. My tiny overworked bladder was swollen, my eyes were heavy, and I was ready to go home and watch obscure Netflix documentaries and fall asleep on my couch. The waitress returned with my tab. $2.15 was my total. " Two fifteen?!" I exclaimed both surprised and thrilled. A look of panic and concern washed over the face of the sweet little waitress. "Yeah? Is that ok?" she asked. Then it dawned on me that when you are out in an establishment drinking non alcoholic drinks, you usually get free refills. I was quick to explain to her that I was unaware that I had been receiving free refills all night, and I was surprised and happy to have such a miniscule bar tab for once. She laughed, I laughed. I gave her a $10 and told her to keep the change. I said my goodbyes, exchanged high fives, bro hugs, etc, and I was on my way.
So to conclude this entry, I went out last night, and I didn't drink any alcohol. I genuinely had a good time with my friends, and I enjoyed conversing with that little Asian woman. She was sweet and endearing. It was an experiment. I don't know what happens next. I can be a little bit aloof sometimes, and I change my mind a lot, but getting a grip on my drinking habits is something that I have wanted to do for a while now. It could be an interesting road. Goodnight
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Disclaimer
As a bit of a disclaimer, I want to make it clear that not all of the entries on this blog will be as long and rambling as the one that preceded this one. I am new to blogging and the story of my stupid band was a long, meandering, boring one to say the least. Now I bet ya want to read it eh?
Miserable Prick
I think for my first actual blog entry I want to talk about my old band Miserable Prick. My brother Mike, my best friend Nick Kremer, and I started a crappy 3 piece filthy racket of a music project back in the fall of 2006. That fall and winter we mostly were just out there sort of fucking around, and trying to decide what sort of music we were capable of making, if we were capable at all. My brother had always been a pretty gifted guitar player. Kremer had actually purchased a drum kit sometime in the spring of '05. Don't fucking doubt me on the dates of this shit either. Steel trap memory. Anyway, we fucked around out there for the duration of that winter season. Kremer continually improving on the drums. Mike honing his guitar talents. I was sort of the vocalist by default, and we didn't bother with a bass player. I think we were sort of in line with the thinking of bands like Pig Destroyer and the like who didn't bother with bass. That and we didn't really know any bass players anyway. We practiced in my mom's garage. She lived in a little hamlet known as "Hollywood", north of Monticello. Kremer and I moved out to Hollywood, we lived in the upstairs of this duplex, and my mom lived downstairs. We had moved out to this area because prior to us moving into the upstairs, my mom let us jam out in the garage. We had a crappy ass PA system (I can't remember the brand), and we would crank that fucker up and just let er rip. The guy who lived upstairs prior to us was pretty cool with us jamming in mom's garage downstairs. Well this feller decided he was going to move out from the upstairs, and Kremer, my brother and I all sort of started panicking about a potential new person moving up there who wouldn't be so accepting of 3 young cretins making terrible musick downstairs every weekend. So Kremer and I decided to move up into the upstairs apartment. Kremer and I moved up there in the spring of 2007. April. It was awesome. It is sort of a quiet, wooded area. Not a lot of traffic. It wasn't officially a part of Monticello, it was sort of an area unto itself. We had a fire pit out back, and mom lived downstairs. Life was good. Kremer and I were both 21. Heavy partying every weekend. We were jamming a lot, basically whenever we wanted to, my Mom was working two jobs so she wasn't home much, and when she was she didn't care that we jammed. I should also add that my brother was also living downstairs with mom too. He was 18.
Anyways, trying to keep up with the subject at hand here, things sort of started getting more "official" in the spring of 07 once Kremer and I made the move out there to sort of keep things going. We made it a habit of recording most of the stuff we played on a little Tascam? recording unit that we had purchased. At that point we had realized that trying to play any sort of techy death metal or grind was going to be way beyond any of our talents as musicians. Kremer and I were just starting to get into heavier sludge and doom metal. That definitely started rubbing off on our songwriting. Eyehategod was a big influence. Acid Bath was definitely there. Doomier stuff like Electric Wizard. Writing songs was always a laborious affair. I was constantly writing lyrics back then. I was sort of exploring a lot of certain botanical substances in those days, and I would hole myself up in my room with my headphones and a notebook and write a few days a week. Kremer and Mike's approach to writing songs was as easy as drinking 7 or 8 beers and then getting behind their respective instruments.
To keep it simple: We were awful. After a summer and a half we had more or less crafted 5 or 6 very basic, 3 or 4 segment songs that we deemed good enough to get drunk and play in front of our friends. The thing is, those times in that garage were some of the best times of my life. A lot of memories were forged in that dank ass basement. Kremer, Mike, and I grew up out there, we learned a lot about ourselves during those summers from 2007 to 2009. A few people came and went as temporary members. Guys like Kevin James(who we called the secret Asian man, because he was, ya know, Asian) on guitar, Jesse Albaugh had a brief stint on guitar, Isaac Helgens had a brief stint as a bass player(I am eternally thankful to Isaac for him contributing the idea to cover Electric Wizard's "Torquemada 71", we had a blast playing that song). But it was always the core of Nick Kremer, Mike Tjaden, and I. We lived it and breathed it everyday. Even though we were terrible. I like to think our songs had an endearing sincerity about them, as rudimentary as they were. There exists footage of these songs being played live at a house party Kremer and I hosted upstairs in April of 2009. If anyone wants to see these songs "performed" live contact me.
Anyways, trying to keep up with the subject at hand here, things sort of started getting more "official" in the spring of 07 once Kremer and I made the move out there to sort of keep things going. We made it a habit of recording most of the stuff we played on a little Tascam? recording unit that we had purchased. At that point we had realized that trying to play any sort of techy death metal or grind was going to be way beyond any of our talents as musicians. Kremer and I were just starting to get into heavier sludge and doom metal. That definitely started rubbing off on our songwriting. Eyehategod was a big influence. Acid Bath was definitely there. Doomier stuff like Electric Wizard. Writing songs was always a laborious affair. I was constantly writing lyrics back then. I was sort of exploring a lot of certain botanical substances in those days, and I would hole myself up in my room with my headphones and a notebook and write a few days a week. Kremer and Mike's approach to writing songs was as easy as drinking 7 or 8 beers and then getting behind their respective instruments.
To keep it simple: We were awful. After a summer and a half we had more or less crafted 5 or 6 very basic, 3 or 4 segment songs that we deemed good enough to get drunk and play in front of our friends. The thing is, those times in that garage were some of the best times of my life. A lot of memories were forged in that dank ass basement. Kremer, Mike, and I grew up out there, we learned a lot about ourselves during those summers from 2007 to 2009. A few people came and went as temporary members. Guys like Kevin James(who we called the secret Asian man, because he was, ya know, Asian) on guitar, Jesse Albaugh had a brief stint on guitar, Isaac Helgens had a brief stint as a bass player(I am eternally thankful to Isaac for him contributing the idea to cover Electric Wizard's "Torquemada 71", we had a blast playing that song). But it was always the core of Nick Kremer, Mike Tjaden, and I. We lived it and breathed it everyday. Even though we were terrible. I like to think our songs had an endearing sincerity about them, as rudimentary as they were. There exists footage of these songs being played live at a house party Kremer and I hosted upstairs in April of 2009. If anyone wants to see these songs "performed" live contact me.
Welcome
Greetings. Welcome to The Reluctant Misanthrope internet blog. I am new to blogging. I am a technological cave dweller when it comes to these things. I have put a considerable amount of thought into this over the last few weeks, starting a blog that is. I have always wanted to sort of discuss things out of the public eye so to speak. I am prone to posting incendiary facebook rants at 3 AM shitfaced drunk, and I have been offending people as of late, so I am creating this to get things off my chest, and hoping that only like minded folks will find their way to this blog. I don't have a real good starting point yet, but give me a few days and I will have something for people to read. Thanks for stopping?
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