Innuendo. In your endo.

For me, I am the loneliest on Sunday mornings. Saturday and Sunday mornings, on the Saturdays when I don't work.

During the week, everything is usually rolling so quickly. There just isn't much time to think about it. But on Sunday mornings, I've got time. And it's pretty much all I think about for the first two hours that I am awake. I wake up and I immediately start thinking selfish thoughts. Among them, "I am almost twenty-six years old. I should've figured this out by now. I shouldn't be dealing with this anymore." Fucking Idiotic.

"Oh man. Are those wheels ORANGE? That's stupid."

Some people never change. Other people change every two years. The latter- they like to try new things? They like to "mix it up"? Nope. They don't know who they are, and probably never will. It'll haunt them for the entirety of their lives, like it does me. I hope.

I wake up on the floor.

I walk out of your front door. 

Set my mind on Washington

And how it used to be the place to score.

But those aren't even drugs anymore.

"...and the Jordan River flows on, evermore."

Can't wait for your graduation party, little cuz. Gonna be fun.

I have a beer or ten and then I start talking about things that I shouldn't. Rebecca, Steven- your pool party was, sincerely, SO FUCKING FUN! But- to any and all that I may have offended- I apologize. One day I will learn to keep my mouth shut about the things that a person should keep there mouth shut about. 

No I won't. But I am sorry, just the same.

Both of them. Both of those activities- I do them by myself now. They are still very enjoyable, and infinitely valuable as activities for release. But now they are just for me. It's not the same, and it never will be. It is what it is. Besides, those two or three times a year when I do get to do them with friends- God, are those amazing times. Cherished all the more for their rarity and fleeting nature.

Used to be if I wanted to hear a song about Bakersfield, I only had one guy to turn to. Now, I've got two.

"...you hear this band and without noticing it, your hand ends up in your pants." Not my words. Wish they were.

The Deep. Not bad, not good. But the Irishman who pilots The Orca in Jaws- the shark hunter- he is in this movie, and I really enjoy his acting.

In Jaws, he gets eaten. The shark throws itself upon the stern of The Orca, and the boat slants heavily as it fills with water. The Irishman slips and, as a result of the slanting deck, slides right into the mouth of the waiting shark. He is bitten directly in the midsection, and so powerfully that his mouth instantaneously fills with blood. All of the blood that refuses to be contained by his mouth is spurted out of it, everywhere. It is a violent death. I am starting to think that every death should be. When a person goes, they should go fighting.

New frame. Trans- orange. Trans Am. Goddamn. 

This is as excited as I've been about a new build in a long time. Can't wait for the day when I wake up and care enough to try and put it together. Should be this week, but of course, no promises. I am one of the biggest flakes on planet Earth.

Nervous Breakdown

I was a hippie. I was a burnout. I was a dropout. I was out of my head. I was a surfer. I had a skateboard. I was so heavy, man. I lived on the strand. I was so wasted.

Oh, Snap.

This is what setting five hundred dollars on fire looks like. Shit.

Gotta Catch 'Em All.

So what happened?!

Dude, she touched my charmander.

 Damn! So...did you squirtle?

 Yup. On her bulbasaurs. It was pretty sweet.

Nice, man.

Pikachu!.  

Bless you.

Thanks, dude.

Big Legal Mess

No doubt, no doubt. 'Specially when the guitar is all, duh duh dum. Duh dee dee da duuuummm.

I don't look like I used to. Can't walk like I used to. Can't love like I used to. Now things have changed- and I done got old. I can't do the things I used to do- I'm an old man.

My Post To Lean On

A friend told me that in order to really, really enjoy Dinosaur jr., you "have to have a penis". So I'm in the clear. Just barely.

Jealous Creatures. Stoke-in-Motion.

Landon's a bright dude. With some of the brightest blood I've ever seen. Tire pump justice.

Cruisin' World. Braking for cops. But. Just. Fucking. Barely.

The mini at Thrasher's Texas Death Match. Too many pros; fanning-out for an extended period of time is one of my favorite activities. Sly even worked up the courage to walk up to David Gonzalez and give him his propers. Dude was Skater of the Year!

 Hyped. To-the-max.

Did I feel like a perve, snapping this photo? Absolutely. But I digress...

Everyone was staring. Many were photo-ing. BUT- Sylvester was the only guy brassy enough to call her out on it. And it went a little something like this:

Sly: So, uh...you knew what you were doing when you left the house today, right? I mean,  must have been a draft...

The woman: I didn't know they were gonna be that short! I swear!

Sly: Right, right...

That's why Sylvester's the king, and the rest of us are schmucks. And she is...  I dunno. 

Landon, respecting his heritage. Later that same day, we went for burgers at an old joint. Got our food, walked out back to the beer garden and, unbeknownst to us, right into the only geriatric St. Patty's Day celebration in Austin. Crepe paper, banners, ancient instruments, ancient people...everything. One of the old ladies saw none of us were wearing green, and threatened, in the most light-hearted and grandmotherly way possible, to pinch us. 

"My last name is O'Brien," Landon whispered. "I don't gotta wear shit."

New face. Think I'm gonna hold off on washing that shoulder for a while. Sylvester's jazzed too, obviously.


 

Emily and Dave. Rad individuals. Landon always did have good taste.

Pretty whack. But we waited a while for it, so I felt compelled. They were on stage, they're performing- but the pic still felt a little pervy. Not as much as earlier, but still. Catholic guilt. Obviously not enough. Oh well.

This is what precociousness looks like. Precociousness, and wonderment.

  

Ladies and fucking gentlemen, this is what it's all about. All of it.

In this photo, which a friend took and which I intend to frame and mount beside my toilet, I embrace, WITHOUT QUESTION, the greatest mosher who ever lived. 

Didn't get his name. Doesn't matter- might even be better that way. What this dude did during the Black Breath set, well... it's the stuff of legend. That I was fit to bear witness- karma be praised.

He knew every note. He knew every lyric. He showed me moves theretofore nonexistent. He made at least seventy different facial expressions per minute, and in that same time frame shattered at least as many commonly held preconceptions about dudes who listen to heavy music.

He was a monolith. Raw fucking power! But he was gentle. He was in-your-face! But he was respectful. He literally commanded the pit, ensuring everyone had an incredible, but blood-free, time. He wore cut-off jeans, a Hawaiian shirt (that, he lamented, exited the fray with a few less buttons) and the mutton-chops of a seriously bad motherf***er. His presence, and actions, were a show-within-a-show. Watching this dude do his thing was seriously one of the most life-affirming experiences of my short existence upon this planet. 

Thanks, dude. For showing me how to live.