The Ataris were a bad choice. Normally I find this band to be cathartic. Hope-injecting. But tonight? Not so much. I think it's time that I cut my losses, crawl under the covers with an episode of "How I Met Your Mother," and pray for sleep.
Here's hoping I can ignore the thoughts. Girls, insecurities, and loss. I should be worrying about more important things.
It's been a while--relatively speaking--since I've blogged. Or written anything, really. I've been trying to mentally process the events of the past two months. And last Sunday, there was another "event" added to this list. A big one. I'll probably feel compelled to elaborate on this at some point, but for now? It's all processing. Digesting. None of it is really cohesive. Even in talking with my friends and family? My words haven't been too coherent as of late.
In the meantime? I have some words of inspiration to share with you. Courtesy of stand-up comic, Greg Giraldo:
I never believed in soulmates at all. Until I saw Sigfried and Roy. You have a gay lion tamer who hooked up with another gay lion tamer. What are the odds of that happening? Talk about holding out for Mr. Right, that sounds like a pretty beautiful story. People say they can't find someone who shares their interests? Sigfried found another gay lion tamer. Hang in there.
If you're having a hard time finding love? Don't sweat it. You'll find your own gay lion tamer.
...Has to be one of my favorite albums to listen to on a rainy, chilly, Friday night spent alone with a cup of coffee and aimless driving. It sounds like basements, friends, young love, anxiety, and excitement. It's exactly what I needed to hear last night. I fuckin' love this band.
Twenty-five isn't so bad. Yet. But to be fair? I'm more than a bit biased at the moment. My stomach is full of P.F. Chang's and several alcoholic beverages, I spent the night with my family, and I was given a copy of this...
Yup. I'm more than a bit stoked. I have other thoughts, of course, but I'm far too busy digesting my birthday cake to digest those thoughts and spit them out. Tomorrow.
"Just take a moment to have a fit once in a while. I do it nightly and like it, but that's my style." In the realm of lyrics I love by bands I loathe, that's probably number one. I'm not a 311 fan but that line has stuck with me for years.
It's not so much the words as the thoughts behind them. What irks me about many a hardcore band is the blind, simplistic optimism. The world isn't a perfect place, and we shouldn't be expected to treat it as such. There are some mountains you won't be able to climb without taking a break and working things out.
At least, that's how I justify the way I've been feeling lately. Last night in particular. I was a mess when I posted that angry string of frustrated words. Several of which I meant at the moment, but wouldn't mean now. But that's what those little freak-outs are all about.
Putting them on the page, into the air--wherever you're aiming your machine gun of a mouth--so they don't fester and rot in your head where they will inevitably cause yourself more damage than letting them out there in a controlled, responsible manner ever could.
That being said? 311 is an absurdly mediocre band.
And I'm less than thirty minutes away from turning 25. Sup, quarterlife crisis? I'm nowhere near where I thought I would be at 25, but I'd be lying if I said I was completely miserable.
Heart-broken? Fucking shattered. Miserable? Fuck that noise. I'm good to go. Now, cue that one Jimmy Eat World at starting at 25 or whatever...
It was silly of me to think I was going to make it the weekend without some sort of silly reminder. The kind that begins as a slight, subtle pulse of nostalgia and slowly radiates throughout my psyche, encompassing mental real estate as it goes.
It started with a text from a friend, and the realization that my in-box was very, very full. 800+ text messages. All from the same girl. Why weren't they deleted? Because I get lazy in terms of telephone maintenance unless that sucker is nearing capacity. It reached a point where it was an inside joke that we would eventually be able to document our entire relationship because I never deleted anything.
The solution should have been an easy one. Empty the whole damn thing. But that's not possible, due to a few important messages from friends that need to be saved. Yeah. About that.
Throw in the painful realization that I've been completely shut-off from her life, and you have yourself one mess of a head. Not too long ago I was the number one go-to whenever anything major happened. Now? I find things out through away messages.
It makes me wonder if she was sincere when she said: "Let's still be friends."
The new split 7" from the Copyrights and the Dopamines--appropriately titled Songs About Fucking Up--is exactly what I needed to hear this week.
The title just about sums up the lyrical content, but if you've never heard the bands before and you dig the "classic" pop-punk sound? Get on it. Both bands are very much in the vein of early Green Day, the Descendents, the Ergs!, Screeching Weasel, and/or MxPx.
It's smart, fast, fun punk rock with just as much melody as heart...
Sometime in history
I bet someone stood here and said,
"I tried and failed"
With that in mind
Please send me on my way
Pat me on the back and
Tell me it's okay
Fifteen minutes into my post-work nap today, the phone rang.
It was one of my close friends. Drunk. Very drunk. At six o'clock at night. She was three drinks deep in less than two hours. And she's a small girl. "Andy, I'm really drunk. And I told my boyfriend I think we need to break-up. And he talks to his ex all the time. And I don't think he loves me." That's a paraphrasing of what she was saying. The details are pretty irrelevant to all of this. It led to a discussion about what it means to "love" somebody, and just how much one should sacrifice when you're with another person.
If you ask me, it all boils down to respect. And pain. They say that love is a painful thing. This is true. But if the one you love is causing a significant amount of pain--whether they know it or not--and they're aware of this and not quite willing to change the actions that cause said-pain, can they really care that much about you?
Probably not. My advice? Learn how to be selfish. Stick up for yourself. Be your own number one. I'm not saying that you shouldn't take the other person into account, or that you should walk away from them. And I'm certainly not suggesting that you deliberately cause any sort of drama. But let them know how you feel, let them know that it's not okay.
Just do what's best for you. Even if it means walking away. Or letting something go. At that point in the conversation, I was talking more about myself than her. But hey. Whatever works, right?
I had a few potential entry topics running through my head. But nothing was coming out correctly. So, instead, here's one of my favorite covers from one of my favorite songwriters. How Frank Turner isn't bigger is beyond me. But, given that he's recently found his way to the States via Epitaph Records, I would like to think it's just a matter of time.
Listen to the passion in his voice. I dig the Postal Service, but he puts a brand new twist on this one...
I forgot how much I enjoyed this show. But spontaneously purchasing season two and three of the show have re-invigorated my interest in the series. I can relate to Ted. Except, y'know, I'm not a huge vagina.
I am, however, extremely sore. Today was a good day. Poolside, drinking beer, and spending time with the family, followed by a dusk run spent listening to the new Rancid album.
My entries are becoming more consistent, more frequent. And with that, they are beginning to yo-yo. Bummed out, completely stoked, bummed out, ridiculous. I'm not sure how readers feel about that sort of thing, but from where I'm standing? That in and of itself is a good sign.
A few years back, something similar happened. And it crushed me. I crumbled, allowed myself to lie there in bed, sobbing. I wasn't myself for months. And that just...Sucked. Now, when I feel those tides start to rise, I head for high-ground. But not before venting. I think that might be the key. For me, at least. Venting. Putting it out there somehow. Talking to a friend, writing in this blog, whatever is available to me at the time. And then I do what I need to do. That way I'm talking it out instead of simply avoiding it.
If the car's in neutral, you can press down on that gas pedal all you want and you won't go anywhere. You need to shift that shit into drive. Or you're gonna stall that sucker. I think that's what happens, anyway. I'm not very good with cars. Maybe I should research this before trying to use metaphors and junk, eh? Ah well. You get the point.
That being said? After that last entry I had a pretty good day...
I spent the evening watching movies with my family. It says alot about my personality that both Slumdog Millionaire andFanboys were viewed, and while the former was far and away a superior film, it was the latter that made me feel something emotionally. I'm a nerd. Don't judge me.
In other news: I'm really happy that I'm one week away from the big 2-5 and late-night drives listening to Less Than Jake are still the best way for me to sort out and organize my thoughts. Why some people allow themselves to only appreciate that band as a "fun, summertime" band is beyond me. I strongly recommend "One Last Cigarette" and "Faction" for late-night thinking.