From time to time, I sit in a chair or on a couch in the evening and put some music on with an intention of having a release.
Mentally. My surroundings are somewhat cleared, as I head to the place that others are not. Be that outside, or the basement, maybe the bedroom.. Headphones are necessary if others are inhabiting my house at the time. The release. More times than not, it happens, and it's wonderfully healthy. It's something that can't be forced, but that just has to grow organically, like a fucking $5 apple at Whole Foods. It's a certain song that happens to hit you, and releases more tunes beyond that. Some might call it rocking out. I'm okay with that. Your stress, brains, inhibitions--all out the door. It's a time to feel the rock and roll course through your veins, muscles, and BONES. Fuckin' A, man. I'm serious. It's a release, and it's necessary. With the past two weeks taking a right-hook sucker punch to my family's face, hitting Vic square in the brain, no one has had a chance to catch their breath, process, deal, or release. Me, which I hate to even mention because it ain't about me at all, I am possibly going to do all of these aforementioned things this evening. Catch my breath, process, deal, and release. To make sense of everything, it takes punk rock and roll for me. It takes primal angst, it takes music and lyrics that offend or confuse everyone other than a few, it takes a fist in the air, a clenched jaw, a bit of loud singing and chanting from the basement. Lots of deep breaths and massive exhales as Bad Brains plays. It's the music that helped me deal with people...ass-wipe people...growing up. The judgmental, the chosen religious righteous, the closed-minded, noninclusive, and of course, The Man. Punk rock gives me power. It reminds me that I am invincible, until I'm not. It unites me with people that matter, the people that I am texting with right now, that share the same religion. We don't wear leather jackets or chains and shit,. We just find energy and strength and unity and resiliency in this music that makes sense in a back-handed, "eat shit" sort of way. That's the release, certainly. It somehow brings things into perspective too, in my simple little mind. It wipes things clean, then allows me to start processing with a new, shiny white canvas. Punk is the acid that you pour all over your stress and mental bullshit. It is a remover. It is a drug that cures, and I am over-the-goddamn-top right now that I am in it's cabinet. Right now, something "life giving" is paramount. And although it might not help anyone other than *me*, this music is making a difference right now...as is the Traveller Bourbon. And if I can get right, if I can write words and thoughts and listen to punk rock at an unhealthy volume, and breathe *** and think , and not think *** and breathe some more *** and breathe...then I can help. I can help my family better. Mentally and physically. Then the remover has done its job. The punk has not only assisted, it has been the prominent treatment. It's music. But it's more. My music this evening doesn't make me cry or cower, but scream at life as if we're best friends and that we've got a lot of fucking work to do. Matt Todd and Punk Rock Music are best friends tonight. So please, let's fucking go. Let's fucking go.
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You're lucky, I'm hammered. This should be fun. Maybe.
This week of stress and bullshit has come to an end. Kids are screening it up, which is totally fine for tonight, and dad is self quarantined with a major case of wanting to be left the hell alone. With gin. And a laptop. A bit before, and now after the Cards game, I am listening to rock and roll. I just listen to the good stuff. No crap here. I have a mix called "MFT Tunes" going on in my headphones right now. I don't give myself nicknames--that's fucking dumb. But my colleagues have coined "MFT", so, so be it. Here we are. 98.6% of the tunes on "MFT Tunes" are sweet-ass rock and roll, but Ice Cube's "Wicked" just came on. Meaningful. And Excellent. This tune helped pay the rent back when we had college parties and we charged $5 a head just to enter our house. Full kegs, giant porch, superior sound system, bouncer, and "Wicked". Fraternities were jealous. God Bless the 1990s. And God Bless your five dollars. We clearly got evicted eventually. And then we set the house on fire. True story. For a different hammered blog post. Now AC/DC is playing, which isn't uncommon at all. I've been lucky enough to see them live a few times, but seeing them live is no substitute for allowing them to be the soundtrack to my youth. We could make a movie, me and my buds, that would rival "Dazed and Confused". AC/DC would be prevalent. Again, back in the early 1990s AC/DC happened to be blasting on my really good buddy's 6x9s in his 1964 Chevy Impala while we were beside ourselves flying down backcountry roads in the Southern Missouri Ozarks. A trash bag of Iowa ditch weed and trunk load of Busch Bavarian was our vice this night. We were indestructible. But, dig this, in the middle of gawddamn nowhere-Ozark-Mountain-twisty-backroads, we ran upon a checkpoint. Of course we stepped on the gas and flew right through it, like any drunk degenerate would. And while the chase ensued, we chucked every bit of evidence we could out the damn window. Beer cans, paraphernalia, bottles. Eventually, the fuzz pulled us over and pulled us out of the car. As they searched the car with their flashlights, they found nothing. The sobriety check on my driver was going swimmingly, also, and we were feeling optimistic about our chances of blowing past a checkpoint and playing the dumb kid card. Then the flashlight shined on a cigar box on the backseat floorboard. The second we noticed the beam hit that cigar box, we knew we were effed.. 42 beautifully hand-rolled joints of pure Iowa ditch weed, neatly tucked inside of a cigar box. Our day's work, foiled. Jail. Being a dumb kid was incredible. We lived, and we were lucky. We didn't get too crazy, but crazy enough to know now that we did it the right way. We dodged a hundred bullets, but the ones the got us weren't too bad and we got a lesson from em. I'm going to listen to a little more music and enjoy the evening. And yes, you should as well. Good times then, for sure. Good times now, for sure. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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