Talking to Rockstars

I'm not certain, but I think it happened somewhere in the moment that I told my old acquaintance from Chapel Hill (who is now the drummer for The Comas) what I now do for a living. Technical marketing. He just stared at me. Maybe the music was too loud in Slim's, and he didn't hear me. But I might have just as well mimed my job title to him. No comprendo. There was an awkward silence. When I worked at the Cat's Cradle, and I worked at the record label, Mammoth, I felt like I actually had a modest finger on the wavering pulse of the Chapel Hill music scene. So, I'm sure the last thing he expected me to say was something like technical marketing. It just didn't register. And that shit got to me. All weekend, I've been thinking about what it is that I do. Why I've made the decisions I've made, and why I've become who I am. One thing that maximum 'me-time' and minimal 'friends-time' has revealed is that, maybe there is something to this whole 'I need to find myself thing.' I was spacing out looking at this picture someone shot of Neko Case. What would you say to somebody who realizes herself as fully as Neko Case? Certainly not that you are persuing a career in technical marketing. I mean, I guess if it was your life dream, and that's what you were all about, then fine. But, c'mon.

I hate going backstage at clubs. My roommate Rachel was asking me to talk to the road manager for Social Distortion (who I used to work with at the Cat's Cradle about seven or eight years ago) and try to get back stage to meet Mike Ness. But what do you say to Mike Ness? Hey, you're one of the few remaining figureheads for punk rock! Well, I'm in technical marketing. End of discussion.

I remember when I first got my job at the Cat's Cradle, and I was doing retail promotions for the record label. I was so proud of what I did. I was poor, but I was proud. Now, I have to make money or I'll starve. But am I proud of what I do? No, I survive. Don't get me wrong, I love my life. But I guess I just feel like I need to keep striving to acclaimate what I'm doing with what I'm wanting. Keep working to close that gap.

Questions about Hunter

In retrospect, it was a little mean to mention that Hunter S. Thompson had committed suicide at the height of my roommates' drunken partying. But I really couldn't believe what I had read, and I had to tell them about it. (Given their states, they may have been equally shocked hearing about it the second time this afternoon...) And I expected fanfare. I expected it to be on the cover of everything. I expected to hear people talking about it on the Judah today. But its a holiday, I guess, and nobody has time for depression. Hell, I don't know, but I know that it didn't even stay a headline in MyYahoo! headlines for more than half a day. Is Mr. Thompson that much a footnote? I never read Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, but I saw the movie, which was enough to send me into undesired flashbacks. I've ready other pieces he's written, but let's be honest. His body of work is varied. Its his voice, his cavalier, maverick attitude that kept his name on our Gen X / Gen Y minds and influence lists for the past ten to fifteen. What does it say about us...to us, that he kills himself? People like that are supposed to stay hard forever, right? Fucking suicide? I wonder if he just lost hope---well, if that's the case, where does that leave us? I think a lot of people looked to him to provide a voice, shed some light. Now, that's gone. So while he, Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, and Virginia Woolf are all having a marvelous tea party up there, we are left down here to try and deal (more alone now) with what's going on here. I hope it was that bad, Hunter. I hope it was worth it.

V.D. stands for...

Valentine's Day, and I'm happy to be single. No, really. I got a card from a friend of the family, a call from my Mom, and a package in the mail that contained the Replacements album 'Pleased to Meet Me' on vinyl...I can pretend it was a Valentine's gift, can't I? Brock and I had another repeat discussion about futures & wives, and I'm still not sold on the idea. I definitely want children, even if I have to adopt, but I'm not tearing into line to be a husband. So many guys are so happy they found any girl to take their bullshit. Personally, I don't want to burden anyone.

Weekend was rock star. Perpetual Groove at the Connecticut Yankee on Friday. Show was sold out and we had to wait outside, but fortunately we got in after waiting about an hour on the block. I swear I saw the girl that played Regina Jorge in Mean Girls there, but it couldn't have been her. Ended up drinking Tecate beers out of cans at a party in the Mission. Bad ratio. Lots of dudes.

Saturday started early with a cab ride to Bill Graham Civic Center. Missed the first half of Umphrey's McGee dorkin' around in mini-Shakedown Street waiting on Brock. Ended up catching the last half of their set, along with an expected Franklin's Tower w/ Phil Lesh. Hiked up to the seats, and were surrounded by girls with bunny ears. The Bunny Brigade, as they are formally known. Phil & Friends took the stage, and played a nice first set. I had no problem convincing Brock that the floor was the place to be, so we attracted some other new friends to go down there with us during set break. That was the second best idea of the entire night. Chris Robinson outdid himself on vocals, and the second set was out of this world. A Mardi Gras parade, dancers on stage, and Brown Sugar > After Midnight > Wait Til the Midnight Hour to close the set!!! The encore didn't stand a chance to that. My lips were pinned to my cheeks walking out of there. Two late nights later, we ended up at the Palomar Hotel in Steve Molitz (keyboard player for Particle and this version of Phil & Friends) hotel room---I had no idea that was where we were until he walked in at like 3:30 A.M. Surreality, for certain. Pillow felt pretty good that night (morning?), and Sunday was as lazy as it gets. The only thing I wished is that everyone from home could have joined in. They would have loved it.

DK, Mauren, and Jer - before we new it, it was 4:45 A.M. 

Nearing the end of the evening, Rachel's face says it all. 

Losers are tiresome

Reading Home Land by Sam Lipsyte, because it was mentioned in either GQ or Vanity Fair, SF Flavorpill, and something else. Plus, I'd finished reading everything worth while in Punk Planet's We Owe You Nothing. You read about these driven individuals, and it makes you want to do something great with your life. Then, you keep picking up fiction that's about, well, losers and failures. Why aren't more writers atleast a little more upbeat? I read Steve Martin' book, and it was droll as well. Home Land is good, and its funny in that fucked up way, like how American Psycho is funny. But the narrator? Another loser. Tired of reading about the losers, I must say.

Weekend was quite a time. Though Friday was pretty uneventful, Saturday was The Court and Spark at Cafe Du Nord. First time there, and was definitely impressed. Late nite ensued, and pictures are posted above to prove it.

Work. I dug fingernails under my skin trying to find a job here. Getting one has thrown me back into the cycle, where I concentrate on four hundred things all day, then live vicariously through whatever TV on DVD series we have at the apartment. I look forward to that. And it is the most pathetic thing on earth. What we all need isn't television or magazines to constantly tell us we aren't good enough or successful enough (I've got the twenty Lexus / Mercedes / BMW's I walk by on Montgomery Street every fucking morning to tell me that). We need one person to tell us we are doing the right thing. One person. One person that we can actually trust knows what they are talking about, and tell us that we are right. Being out here in SF, without the comfort of hundreds of people telling you how great you are every night, I really could use one person who has already made it to say, "Yep, you're right on track, man." That's all. I'm so busy now, my friends get neglected, and voicemails go unanswered. But right now, I can't promise its worth it.