This is exactly what I posted on Facebook on Thursday: “I see a lot of people talking about Hole’s “Live Through This” today on its 25th anniversary. But I really love this b-side [“Old Age”, a b-side on the “Violet” single.] Actually it’s my favorite Hole song that brings tears to my eyes.”
Holy shit I am really fucking inarticulate!
That last sentence should have read, “Actually it’s my favorite Hole song, and it always brings tears to by eyes.”
Moral of the story: I need to write more. Fuck. I’m sorry folks for being so fucking inarticulate. I’ll get my head out of my own ass soon. I hope.
Last weekend was a strange weekend for one reason: I was out of the house. I rented the Wow! room at the Standard Hotel in DTLA. I think part of it was to relive my birthday from 2011 when things were a lot sloppier thanks to some Fernet and a coworker having sex with a random on the couch.
Friday after work and getting settled in, I went to see Mr.Kitty over at Catch One for his album release party. His new album Ephemeral really touched me. A tribute to his friend who killed himself last year, it’s depressing and suicidal with dancey beats.
Mr. Kitty mid-jump.
It was great to see him perform, jumping around, moshing in the crowd, screaming into the mic and pressing buttons and keys. I wanted to cry and dance all at once.
Saturday was running around the city taking in everything. I decided to take the train to Hollywood to see Harmony Korine’s new film The Beach Bum at the Arclight which did not disappoint at all. Then it was off to Skylight Books where I bought too many books.
Saturday night was my little soiree where people came to the room armed with food and drinks. There was homemade chocolate chip cookies and carrot cake! Korean-style fried chicken! Pizza! Smoked salmon bites! Donut Friend! Black Balloons!
Balloons in my room after the soiree.
The thing that distinguishes this party from a 30-year old’s party is that everyone was gone early enough that I was in bed by 1 a.m. And I’m totally okay with that.
Sunday was more books and just lazing around. I checked out Monday morning and went straight to work. It was a strange weekend compared to my usual hiding from the world that I do. I know this weekend won’t compare.
For someone who doesn’t take the concept of aging very well, this one was a doozy. I’ve been dreading this ever since I was throwing up from food poisoning the day after my 30th birthday.
My 30s were a roller coaster of unpredictability, regret, depression, death, loneliness and resignation. I abruptly quit one job to go into another that I was mediocre (at best) at, watched my grandmother die slowly over the course of several years, being flung back into the real world not knowing if I had coping skills to operate within its barbaric structures. It was a decade of poverty while being yelled at consistently for not having any money. I thought about ending these twice while things almost did (unwillingly) end for me this past year.
What really got me in this milestone birthday was the regret of a pretty wasted decade.
To be honest, I don’t really know where I expected to be at this point in life. I guess I expected to feel more at ease in life instead of this quivering mess of depression and anxiety who’s barely keeping it together and by Friday is done with the world.
Now that 40 has hit, I’m remarkably okay with it. I’m not thrilled by it by any means, but I guess it’s not so bad. Mentally I still feel like I’m in my 20s, but my body makes sure to let me know I am most definitely 40. Everything is bit achy. Instead of being able to party into the wee hours, by 1 am I looking to hibernate. And now the first thought that goes through my head when thinking about doing the drugs I did in my 20s is, “Will it adversely affect the Metformin and Carvedilol,” instead of, “Sure, the more the merrier!”
But that’s okay. Now I’m determined to travel the world more while still trying to be young mentally. I guess it could be worse: I could be normal.
Heart failure. Diabetes. High blood pressure. I really should have died this year. I always thought I would be dead by the time I reached 40. I guess I have three more months before I do hit 40, so there is still time for the prophecy to be fulfilled.
Despite this brush with death, I can’t say 2018 completely sucked. This was the year I started to travel earnestly. From a trip to Vegas in January, my first time in Berlin in March, to a New Mexico road trip, another visit to Berlin with a day in Prague, I was really out and about the world this year.
Astronomical Clock in PragueA pro-gun control protest at Brandenburg Gate in BerlinRoute 666 sign in Gallup, NM
Here are the 15 artists I listened to most this year:
Nine Inch Nails
Depeche Mode
Ministry
Mr. Kitty
PJ Harvey
Skinny Puppy
Ladytron
Front Line Assembly
Boy Harsher
Zola Jesus
Nirvana
KMFDM
Sonic Youth
Drab Majesty
Siouxsie and the Banshees
As awful as the news has been, I guess things haven’t been all that horrible. Well except for most of my blog “disappearing.” Or the whole almost dying bit.
Taken at the La Cienega/Jefferson parking lot off the Expo Line.
I hate being back here in the states. Absolutely nothing feels right.
I couldn’t get the feeling that I was escaping the US by being there on vacation. Everything has gotten so scary, the little reprieve of being in Berlin and Prague was just what the doctor ordered.
My first night in Berlin I went out to Woof Berlin just to find some happiness. At the bar I met Henrick who wondered how I could stand living in the States. He said as a form of therapy he was going to kiss me. I’m never one to turn down a kiss, therapeutic or not.
As his tongue entered I felt with it the spirit of European freedom allowing me to feel spiritually unclogged for the first time in a long time. I closed my eyes and took in all of him, feeling every hair on his arms as they carressed me, fishing down my pants to feel my cock, the touch of liberation.
That liberation was short lived. Now I’m back in the fear, the fight to get any little bit of sanity in my life, of trying to tune everything out but being force-fed everything bit of non-news. I feel absolutely swallowed whole by it. I want to make it stop, but it doesn’t go away.
Before seeing Diamanda Galás last week, I was trying to find ways to describe her. Some adjectives and nouns I used: avant-garde, scary, goth, blues, shrieking, banshee, wailing, mournful, strange. Nothing I said I felt conveyed adequately how Galás affects me. I mean, how do you describe this:
I didn’t convert anyone, but I didn’t really give a shit. I finally got to see her perform live, and that’s really all I care about. At the Palace Theater in DTLA, I sat staring at her Steinway waiting for her to come out. The lights come down, we all cheer in anticipation, and nothing. She waiting five minutes before finally emerging from stage left. What followed was 90 minutes of the most enthralling, rapturous, mournful and moving performances I have ever witnessed.
From her take on “La llorona” to the Supremes “My World Is Empty Without You” to “O Death” to “Pardon Me I’ve Got Someone to Kill” to an untitled Hank Williams song, her voice took me on an emotional journey that when she ended the night with “Let My People Go” I was a tearful mess. The eight legs of the devil were crawling up my spine, and as the lights went back up in the theater I couldn’t move.
All of us in the theater felt the same way as we gave her a standing ovation, not wanting to leave, wanting more and more as we realized that we had all survived the excesses of our youth. We had all had our fair share of mourning, and being the “different” people, the outsiders, this is how we commiserate.
This was the most moved I’ve ever been at a concert, and I’ll never forget it.
