The Lounge

For comics, I always leaned more toward the oddballs. Some of my favorites have been: Anything from Alan Moore, Bone, Tekkon Kinkreet (Black and White), Sandman, The Maxx, Arkham Asylum.

Next on my comic to-read list: Maus.

So I've been working on this next record and nothing else lately. Occasionally I have to shut out the world and just focus on one thing. But I think I know what the shape of the album is now -- which songs will go on the record and which will be for the next EP. Which is a relief. I'm kind of obsessive about how songs fit together to form the larger picture. An individual song's success is less interesting to me than the role in plays in the larger piece. But now that I'm doing something spanning multiple records, it zooms back out another notch, and I'm working to make sure each album fits into the larger picture as well. It makes my head hurt sometimes, but I think I've finally got a good handle on what part 2 will exactly be. I can sit a little easier now.

My neighbor died recently. I didn't know him well. I've only lived here about 10 months now, and we maybe had 10 conversations in that span. But I liked him. His name was Chuck.

When I first moved in, he and his wife, both in their mid-60s, explained the neighborhood as they saw it -- which neighbors were nice, which ones were less so. The second time we spoke, he informed me that his wife was battling cancer and had been for a couple years. He said it almost with an eye-roll, seeming more annoyed than unsettled about all the doctors appointments. Whenever I asked how his wife was doing, Chuck would kinda grunt, shrug and generally be gruff about it. But you could tell they cared about each other. They poked fun at each other, but I got the impression it was how they showed affection. Their bickering was always with a wink. I remember his wife was getting into the car for a doctor's appointment while Chuck was chatting with me, and she said "Chuck, quit being useless and help me into the damn car." And Chuck laughed and said he'd talk to me later. Our third conversation, Chuck asked what me and my brother did. I explained I was a musician, and warned him I'm be converting my garage into a space to write and record. I assured him I was working on the interior to make sure it was pretty sound-proofed, but he just shrugged and said "Just aim all your speakers at our house. We don't give a damn about that stuff. And hell, I think it's pretty cool my new neighbor makes music."

I was away for a while last Summer, and when I came home from the airport, sometime around 10 pm, Chuck was standing in his driveway. He had a glass of what smelled like scotch in his hand. I got out to say hello, and was taken back by the look on his face. "My wife died last week," he said.

"I'm so sorry, Chuck," I said. "I can't even imagine ..." And I can't. To be with the same person for 40 years, then watch them die.

He looked over at me, his expression helpless and confused, and said, "She was my best friend." And then he started to cry.

I stood there, frozen. Grief is a hard thing to witness. We know our own -- it just kinda rips through you, with little regard for what it leaves behind -- but watching someone else's is crippling. And I didn't know him well enough to know how to respond. I had an urge to give him a hug, but couldn't decide if I'd be overstepping. So in the end I said, "Chuck, if you need anything at all ..."

But he just shook his head and said "It doesn't matter now." And then he wiped his eyes and walked back inside.

After that day, I didn't once see Chuck sober. I spoke to him at 3 in the afternoon and he was hardly coherent. Once I had to help him get into his house, because he was too drunk to fit the key into the keyhole. Another night, at 2am, he came over when he noticed that I was on the back porch. He informed me in slurred speech that he'd locked himself out of his house. I called pop-a-lock and waited with him until they got him back inside. I don't go to bars often, but the two times I went out to some I saw him at a local dive called Mango's. The first time he was just sitting in a corner staring into space. I said hello, and he seemed startled to see me. The second time he was passed out at the end of the bar.

I knew he was drinking himself to death. There wasn't much I could do. I tried to talk when I saw him, but he was less and less interested in conversation. And then for a few weeks, I didn't see him at all. Until the other night, when I came home and the fire trucks and the ambulance were in front of my house. I pulled up just as they were wheeling him away. I guessed he'd finally done it. Yesterday, his wife's former caretaker, who was helping pack up some of their former belongings and medical equipment, informed me I was right. He was at a 97% toxicity level when they found him, and his liver had failed. I thanked her for letting me know.

I'm not exactly sure why I'm writing this. I don't have anything profound to say. There's no real life lesson that I can discern, other than "Sometimes life is really tough." And I never even knew Chuck very well. But I liked him, and maybe that's enough.

I think this says enough anyway. Sometimes there isn't a hidden moral to the story or a profound quotation to use. Just the big train of life hitting you at full speed.

That's pretty amazing. Sometimes I think being a hermit would be quite cool, but not one who stole everyone's stuff. He was a very successful career criminal though.

On a separate note, I found this today. The Deering Zombie Killer. Deering make some awesome banjos, but this is just beyond cool.
http://www.deeringbanjos.com/goodtime-zombie-killer

Thanks, Craig and Thrice. I really do hope to write a book again at some point. I figure I'll know when the time is write. For now, I've got plenty on my plate.

So I hurt my back again the other day. I seem to do it every two years, so I guess it was just quota. There's nothing like being stuck on a couch for days to make you appreciate your health.

How did you hurt it?

There might be a crazy story to it this time, you never know.

Yep. Weights again. But this one was a series of events. I was in San Francisco recording for a week with a friend of mine who's a string player (he's playing Viola Da Gamba on this record), but because of the American Airlines system crash it took me 30 hours to get home. The line to get rebooked took 7 hours, and I had to sleep on the floor of the Miami airport (for a whole 2 hours). Both of those gave me some pretty bad cramps in my back. Then on Saturday, we were doing a show with our fake punk group Biowulf, and I was running late. So I pushed through my lifts way to fast, while still going heavy. Which is how I hurt myself every time. Always in the same old skateboard injury spot. I should know better, but I forget.

I think I just have to hurt it about every two years. It's my quota.

I suppose that's slightly crazier than usual because a viola da gamba was involved

Is listerine okay?

haha