It's A Match!: "Thank you Brady..."

Begin Part 3.

“I tell you this, because I think as an artist you’ll understand...” 

–Christopher Walken, “Annie Hall”

The moonlight had struck my face and the curtain over my third-eye had been lifted. I was now walking down Martin Luther King Boulevard with a ghost from my past. My mind was now no longer shouting names, comparing warm laughs or attempting to smooth out this blanket in the cold; it was all here, it was all in her face. I can’t recall if she didn’t stop talking or if I was loosing my cool, but there she was – my ex-fiancé, beautiful in the clumsiest of ways. “...And this bandana around my right boot”, Claire kicked up her foot and firmly pointed. As her right foot elevated past her knee, she lost her balance and let out an “Oop!” She grabbed my shoulder and then after a few heavy balancing stomps she steadied herself and grinned. Staring in my eyes she giggled, “Uh, umm it’s for a gang back in West Palm Beach, but nothing serious.” She paused, cleared her throat, “just for a group of people that love each other.” I didn’t have anything appropriate to say, I mean... how does one respond to the notion of being in a gang that’s “just for fun”. My heart was racing. All my mental energy was being wasted thinking of songs and moments that I had with my ex. My mouth could only occupy a few words at a time, such as: Oh, Yeah, Really and Uhh Huh. Like a little girl her thoughts were visibly electric, sharply jumping around her mind looking for an exit. The thoughts would eventually escape and manifest their personality via her hand gestures.  “Oh and here’s the shirt I designed...” Claire said pointing at her phone. “It’s called ‘Stoner Simpson’. Do you get it?” Is this okay? Should I be thinking that she is the cutest girl I’ve talked to in months or am I losing my touch?

We continued to walk towards our destination; the streetlights were getting thinner with each passing block. I needed a drink. I needed to refresh my mind. Like a game of pong my thoughts tossed between brittle ideas, “well she’s not your ex, right? There were reasons why you loved that girl. This one’s different, obviously, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Did Conner Oburst ever write anything on this? What about Elliott Smith? Maybe if I listen to Frightened Rabbit one more time I’ll be able to center my self...” My mind continued this barrage of thoughts until we entered the alleyway where the bar was quaintly located; in the back, behind a black steel door that looked like it needed a sliding peephole.

The Bitter Alibi normally occupied 10 to 15 people tops but tonight was different, tonight obviously had to be different. The chipped-brick lined the alleyway and echoed it’s vast amount of inhabitants. There were jeers, stories, the scraping of glass on pavement and varieties of laughter scratching my eardrums as we passed under a thin canopy of Christmas lights. Even though the walk to the steel door was only 20 feet, I looked back more times than necessary; as if I was Lots wife, afraid she'd dissolve into salt and spread like ashes amongst the crowd. Each time I looked back she gave me a reassured but privet smile and then went back to observing her feet as she followed. I grabbed the handle to the door and yanked it open. It was packed, from front to back and on either side with burnouts, college frat groupies and sneering locals. Standing room only in this burrowed tavern. As we entered the bar itself, the wooden room was filled with ten times over the reflection of what was outside. We approached the counter.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked her. She glanced around the room, pivoting from eye contact to scouting out exits. 

Typical girl answer in 3...2...1...

“I don’t know.”

“You like beer, right?”

“I love beer” Claire said dizzily.

“Awesome, well would you like a PBR, Fat Tire, Red Stripe, Rolling Rock....”

As I listed the beers I could see her mind working. She was getting her bearings and scooted closer to my side. If she were a kid I would have expected her to grab my belt loop. We inched closer to the countertop. The counter was up to my chest, and if you peered over you could see one of the bartenders trying to prepare at least ten sandwiches in a frenzy of confusion and anxiety. Claire tugged on my arm, “I’ll have a Fat Tire.” There was no wrong answer here, well except for Red Stripe. I didn’t know how to reassure her that her choice of beer wasn't going to be an issue. Claire then pulled out her wallet and it was all white with the Imperial logo on it from Star Wars. What a cutie.

I hastily held out my hand, “Oh no, I got you.”

Claire grinned, “Really?”

I placed my arm around her shoulder, “Of course.”

Like Frank Underwood from House of Cards I double tapped the counter and yelled, “Jason! I need my usual and a Fat Tire for the lady.”

Jason popped up from behind the counter, “You got it man.” Jason was a younger looking guy. He was clean cut, and had a neat dirty blond poof that bobbed on top of his head like a wad of tissue paper. His hands, still a little messy from the sandwich grease, slid open the cooler, snagged our beers (PBR for me, duh), popped the tabs and handed them over the counter. Jason gave me a little wink and nodded in Claire’s direction.  I wouldn't call myself a ladies man, per say, but every time I’ve been in Bitter Alibi it’s been with a different girl. I can only assume that Jason believes me to be a Mac Daddy, and I'll let him continue to think that.

She held her beer like a juice box. I leaned in close and shouted, because that’s what you do, “Would you like to go back outside?” Claire nodded as she took a sip of her beer. I pivoted and opened the door for her and lead us out back into the alleyway. When we were in the alleyway I ran into yet another person I know, my buddy Zach. Zach is generally an exciting human to be around. Everything is fantastic and new. We can laugh about as much as we can talk about, and for Zach and I, we can talk about the moon. We stood in the corner underneath porch by the black metal door. Smoke plumbed the air and not one shit was given. For a moment I forgot that Claire was there. Zach asked me what I have been doing with my time lately. As I was explaining to him about the job hunt I felt a jab in my ribs. Claire nudged me with her elbow, “Did Brady also mention that he has met his soul mate?” she said grinning at Zach. Zach’s eyes echoed with excitement, “Oh my, oh no, no he hasn’t. How long have you two been together?” I quickly replied with, “Oh you know, for a good... long while.” And Claire laughed and inched in closer to me.

 Zach and I talked about old times, including when we were in a fraternity together, to which Claire sharply said, “Oh! A frat boy, good to know what I’m getting myself into.” Zach shook his hands in the air, “Oh, it’s nothing like that. Trust me. It was the most musically nerdy fraternity you’ll experience. Has nothing to do with Pucca Shells.”         

      

As the three of us chatted Caitlin and Ashley showed up. Like mermaids in sea of broken sailors they dodged prying eyes and “hey girls”. They made their introductions, shook hands like gentlemen, smiled like long distance relatives and retreated to the inside of the bar to grab some beers. As we waited for them to return Claire started to shuffle her feet.

            “Are you feeling okay?”

            She brushed her hair from her face as if they were tentacles of anxiety, “Yeah, I'm fine” then let out a small sigh, “I just get a little claustrophobic.”         

  

“Why don't we sit down on this bench, would that be better for you?”

            “I'll do what you want.”

            “Then let’s sit on the bench.”

            We plopped down on the green bench in the alleyway that had just been abandoned a couple of college girls. When we sat down we started talking about her life to which immediately led into her asking me, “would you like to see a picture of my ex?” How could I say no to that? So I just nodded my head. Claire took out her phone, “Okay, here he is.” This dude looked straight up like he was juggalo. There were facial tattoos all over this unkempt rats nest of a boy. I immediately felt two distinct feelings. One, I am so much better than this guy and second, and what does this say about me? If she is coming from a member the dark family to wanting to spend time with me does that mean that I share similar qualities with this dude? I surely hope not.  Caitlin and Ashley came back outside and propped themselves up against the adjacent wall. We continued to drink, discuss what we were all “good” at. I'm assuming, in hopes to create some common ground, Ashley and Caitlin started talk about shopping, you know, like you do.

“Where do you like to go shopping Claire?” Ashley asked in her very sweet and innocent voice. Claire’s eyes lit up,  “Oh! Oh I love Target”. Caitlin nodded her head in agreement and also acknowledged that she as well loved Target. “Oh, no. You don't love Target as much as I love Target.” It was at this moment that Claire decided to take out her badass Star Wars wallet again. When she took it out I looked at Caitlin and mouthed, “Yeah, she’s awesome”, eyeing her now exposed nerdiness. Caitlin just gave me the “nod” and a thumbs up close to the chest, but then her brow began to furl. I turned to my right to see that Claire had taken out her Target card and was flicking it with the tip of her tongue like a snake. She was licking her Target card. 

I took a giant swig of my beer, “Yep, you certainly do love Target” hoping by stating the obvious I would break the awkwardness of her now molested credit card.

“Hey! I want to get a picture of us together,” Claire said handing her phone to Caitlin. 

“Could you take a picture of us?”

“Um, yeah sure. I'd love to.” Caitlin said rather reluctantly.

As Caitlin positioned the camera I felt Claire inching closer to me. She got so close I could feel her breath on my face and her eyelashes flickering. What was she doing? I couldn't turn to look at her either; it would be like trying to back a car out of a compact spot. I would have scraped her cheek with my own. Caitlin, being the keen observer that she is said nothing about it, but instead started the count down. “Are you guys, ready? Three...Two...One...” And on the count of three Claire opened her mouth. From the bottom of my jaw line to right below my glasses her pierced tongue slithered up my face. Caitlin’s face was horrified. Shai Hulud had broken ground and revealed it’s God-like wonder. This girl had just straight up tasted me. And without any thrill in her voice Caitlin said, “And there it is...”  Claire clapped her hands and squealed, “Did you get it?!” Eyes bulging, Caitlin passed Claire’s phone back to her as if she was feeding an unfamiliar dog.

“Oh, it looks great! Except it looks like a I have a bald spot.”

Shortly afterwards the licking Caitlin and Ashley graciously bowed out, leaving Claire and I to our own devices. She wanted to go somewhere where it wasn't as packed, so I elected for us to go to the Pickle Barrel, where we had originally planned on meeting. It was the typical crowd there. Crust punk kids, homeless men treasure hunting out front and then me. We sat down and ordered our drinks and my mind went blank. I mean she had already licked my face, shown me a photo of her ex and told my best buddy Zach that we were soul mates. So what else is there to cover? I pointed at her arm, “So how many tattoos do you have?”

            She brushed her hair back and folded her arms out on the table and said, “Hmmm I have about 26 tattoos. I started getting work done when I was 17 and just never really stopped.” And like typical tattoo stories she grazed over some of her more unique ones, such as to the initials of one of her exes to whom she dated when she was pregnant. The way Claire talked about "her" was awkward, but she summed it up by saying, “oh, it was just a phase.”

            I’ll go ahead and be gracious and tell you that we talked for a long time. She shared with me why she had relocated from Florida to Georgia. We talked about what she was looking for in a partner and also about her aspirations for being a plastic surgeon. “I want to give girls boobies,” she’d say. “What a noble pursuit...” was my response to that. Either way, I feel like I've taken much of your time describing to you how unique Claire is, and I tried to make that point obvious. My reasoning for all of this is that even within the weirdest and most peculiar of people there are and can be the sweetest of moments. The internet dating game forces us to judge and assign value to people much faster than we do in “the real world.” If I would have been privy to several pieces of information about Claire before this date started I probably would have stayed at home playing Skyrim, but as bizarre as she was, she opened my eyes to what I've hid in my heart for a long time.

We started telling each other horrible pickup lines and stories about strange people that we've met. She'd listen deeply and I would find my self delighting in her desire to experience new things, people and her need to take life by the horns. At one point, during this particular part of the evening I told her a rather horrible pickup line, which in turn had also over exposed my supreme geekdom. I’m sorry to parents and those over the age of 48 in advance, but I compared her vagina to the Death Star from Star Wars: A New Hope. You know, like thermal exhaust ports, proton torpedoes and gunning down the trench.

After the punch line, she giggled with her whole body, but not after trying to fight it off first of course. I could see it in her stare, twisted into a mocking gaze. (Oh god, I hope somebody’s home... I’m trying to not to try too hard here!). Then Claire broke, it started with her lips as they tightened and the light shimmered off of the microscopic tremble. The quiver then started its wobble to the underside of her eyes. The longer she fought the more I began to understand, I'm hilarious. My deer-in-the-headlights eye sockets transferred me a grin like a dollar being passed under the table. My jaw was no longer propped open like P. Diddys, questioning if I had done something stupid. Upon seeing, what I'd call my “shit-eating-grin”, Claire’s hands slowly cupped her face, and her tiny brown eyes were squinting at me through the cracks. I could actively see that she was refusing to give me any credence or leeway to my retardation. Her will was strong but I could see it burn inside of her. I am all too familiar with this stage of cachinnation, a.k.a. girls fighting the moment, but not physical fighting me – just to make that clear. Once her hands had firmly curtained her mouth she stopped resisting and she let out a laugh as sweet and still as the rest of her voice. My heart was instantly inoculated. Her eyes lit up and they even shined under her eyelids as she closed them. Her hands dropped on to the table, face turned to the ceiling and projected the sonic nature of her laugh; laughter bounced off of the hanging barrel chandeliers. 

An orange light, smoked in tar and low in wattage, slumped out of these barreled wooden chandeliers and bathed the entire room. A linked chain connected this barrel to the over lacquered ceiling, mercilessly rigid and stiff like a streetlight hanging upside down blowing in the wind. Its dimness made my face burn and smothered us, privately, in a smoggy silhouette. Her face looked like it was burning too. My favorite moment of the night was creeping up on me like a tortoise hauling a load of fine white Columbian powder. It was talking to me like the wisdom in the etchings and carving on our table. These poets, from bar visits past wrote:  “Fuck what you know...” or “Rudy, die tryin’...” or “even a motha fucka can be a soft fucka...” alongside with the prototypical “Steven hearts Ally.” As she gathered her self I thought, I could be a ‘motha fucka’, but that soft and sweet motha fucka. I don't know what that entirely means; perhaps I'd be that motha fucka that steals your parking space. I'm sure that doesn't entirely constitute an ass beating, but maybe a hushed, under the breath snarl. Each engraving was timeless, now black and charred down in the wood; ready for you to read and sweetly feel with your fingernails as you sit next a pretty girl. Claire lowered her head, had smiles for leftovers as she turned to look at me.

“Are you back now?” I inquired.

“Yes, Yes I’m back...” She reached into her purse, digging through it like she didn't know what she was quite searching for yet, but then it dawned on her, her smokes were already on the table. She reached across, opened the pack up and slid a single Marlboro between her lips, catching my gaze from the corner of her eye. I was ready again, like I was before with my little blue lighter. She looked at me differently, it was weird but it was also... sexy. Her pupils dilated like a leaf wrapped around a stone. I struck the wheel, the flint grinded and it sparked as the flame shot up. Her pupils receded like a rabbit into the grass and she inhaled deeply.

Claire leaned back into her chair, as Audrey Hepburn would have, pivoting her head so her black hair swooped around her shoulder, crossing her legs and folded one arm under the other to support her hand as she took her first drag. Still displaying symptoms of a face wrought with laughter she hummed with a dim temperament,

“Thank you Brady”

“Claire...” I said, letting the a few syllables fade like the smoke from her cigarette.

“Yes?”

“I always,

                                    ...Light my bitches cigarette.”

Her face softened, she turned to me and held her palm close to her face, smoke blanketing our line of sight. “You, you're just cute you know that?”

            I had no time to respond, no time to be humble and politely repudiate my dainty wit. No time to even think. She kissed me.

            She leaned in close, and placed her palm under my chin; her fingers unfurled around my jaw. Like Magneto picking up change, or as to an asteroid being sucked into the planets atmosphere, or like the Millennium Falcon getting caught in the Death Star's tractor beam, or even light a 14 year old boy seeing tits for the first time... I was powerless, speechless and lost in the silence of the moment. When her lips parted from my body a trail of smoke followed, like the smell from a pie on the windowsill.

            She leaned back in her chair and smirked, a tender wicked smirk; the kind of smirk that we love to hate. I understood immediately what had just happened. The acknowledgement of yes, yes you have won. You have my attention, you have my voice tucked in the pocket of your eyes and I fold because every card you're about to draw in going to be an ace in the hole. I acknowledge that if I woke up now, this would be a most believable dream.

            Claire then stood up and leaned in once more. This time she bent over, examining me like a kindergarten teacher to her pupil. Our eyes locked like traffic lights. Were we going to kiss again? I mean if we were, I'm okay with that. Two thumbs ups, five stars, ready for duty, sir! Should I wait, or is it my turn to go 90 and she goes 10. That’s what Will Smith told me in Hitch. I could smell her perfume over the smoke and hear her think as she peered into my eyes. Then she curtsied and whispered...“I’m going to go the bathroom.”

“...k”

            The night continued on. We drank, we laughed and we kissed some more, a lot more. Claire went on about her tattoos, their stories and what she wants next in life. She talked about her daughter, and with a passion. She pulled out her phone and had me listen to videos of her little girl laughing, talking and playing games. She talked about her hair, her first steps, her little nose and most of all how much she loved her. If you ever want to measure the temperature of another’s heart, allow them to talk about those closest to them. They shall paint you the most accurate version of their heart to date, but be careful, because true love for another is the most attractive thing in the world. I kept asking myself, "Was this what it would be like? Would it be like this? Would we have been happy together? Would we have been a good family?" My mind was jogging between the present attraction before me and what had ended six years ago. 

            We walked back to her car holding hands. Then we sat, in her car, in a parking garage alone.

            I was once asked by a particular girl, a long time ago, “What are six things you couldn’t do without.” I remember this clearly. There was a fire pit, empty glass bottles and folk music in the background. When this girl asked me that question, the fire crackled and the wind around us shook the remaining leaves off the trees. The first thing I said to her was “Winter...” Winter, a time for us to keep warm and tuck-in our feelings while the world around us goes to sleep with its hand our body. As I sat in the car with Claire I remembered this moment. She stared at me with a gaze as sturdy as lumber, and with a voice that cracked like that winter fire she asked me, “Hey... would you like some gum?” I let out a soft laugh, “Of course. I'd love some gum.” She pulled out a thin piece and placed it in my palm. We sat there chewing for a moment, crackling like fire with deep sighs. I gazed out her window listening to the moment and then felt her hand as she rested it on my thigh. Claire’s gaze was stern and steady. My memory eternal echoed, What’s the second thing you could never do without... Claire rested her head on my shoulder; a memory familiar. My fingers became caught up in her hair, and for a moment our lips fell asleep upon each other's body.The candle in the dark of my mind whispered my response. A plea that was before the drugs, before the broken portraits and before I or my ex had even tasted the isolated dirt of a bathroom floor. The second thing I could never do without is, “...you.”

Fadeout:

We went down to New Orleans one weekend in the spring.
Looked hard for what we'd lost.
It was painful to admit it but we couldn't find a thing.
- The Mountain Goats

"Prolegomenon" As the Boss would say...

 "Prolegomenon" As the Boss would say...

 “Come up for the rising.

Come on up for the rising, lay your hands in mine”.

Like all good Americana music, as to when Bruce Springsteen croons, a spirit is summoned. This spirit is better known as “memory”.The spirit of memory has a very tricky handshake as well. It's no Loki, but it might as well be just as blind as Lady Justice. I do not believe that I've ever listened to a song by Bruce or anything from the Americana genre and not have been immediately taken back to a distance place, firm and/or loose handshake. For me, personally, that’s also how I’ve felt about my writing. I can’t talk to you guys about baseball, GTA 5 (hookers) or how Mother’s should raise sons, but I can write about music, how it takes me back and hopefully you as well.


Even though the chorus section of the song "The Rising"  is the most “blast” worthy, as in “crank it to eleven Bruce!”, it’s not the part that hits home for me. Home is where the heart is, I am homeward bound and the Boss knows that I have kept track of everywhere I have been. At the very beginning he sings,

“Lost track of how far I've gone

How far I've gone, how high I've climbed…”

I remember when I was in Scotland and I hiked to the top of Arthur's Seat, the highest point in the city of Edinburgh. Like a retard, I didn’t dress the part for hiking… I had converse, some tight/skinny jeans and I even went shopping at the record store before hand. So like some portly kid, toting a shopping bag that invited himself on the adventure at the last second, I scrambled up the mountain. I took several photographic opportunities, or as the angel on my shoulder might say “a very sinful, angry but yet protectively mumbled rant”. When I got to the top, the wind touched my face with a cool smile and the city below was quietly humbled. I had totally forgotten about the struggle I had just experienced. I just stood there holding my bag of records taking in the beauty of nature. Life is like that sometimes. Everything from here has been a journey. From discussions of how Mum could be the “made for adult ears” version of Death Cab For Cutie or to how the song Night Moves still may be the most perfect jam to belt at the top your lungs while facing an uncertain dusk, top down and cold soda in hand; I’ve come a long way, and hopefully you have too. So here is your informal invite to start the ending of two series that are close to my heart, Keeping Track of History and You Already Know How I Feel: The 5 Songs We Use Not to Talk. The double feature is coming and I hope you're ready.

You maybe wondering why I am ending KToH, well that's just a surprise for you later down the road, but you can expect them to make a comeback with some different "clothes" next year. As for The 5 Songs... that one is kind of obvious, but hey, you still have two left after this one is done spinning.

As I was writing the other day (which was a Sunday in case you were curious) I couldn’t help but feel as though these two stories belonged together. Over my many years of "womanizing", (if you dare to even call it that -- I'm such a sweetheart) I don't think I've ever experienced more infatuation and stress in such a short amount of time than during the summer of 2012. There are a couple of things that you should know about the "2012 Effler" though. I had just returned from my study abroad in England and my beard was getting larger than my ego; all the beard wanted to do was make-out and write “glitorious” pop-music. I wouldn’t say that I deserved the lovey-dovey heart palpitations or that post-crack-fix stress twitch that this girl caused, but I could be guilted into thinking I needed both. I don't think this is the appropriate use of the term "hot flashes" but it might as well be the male equivalent. Our "hot flashes" could be defined as the relentless weakness to both strangle and in the same beat daintily adorn with silk-baby-bottom-soft rose petals our current beloved. These hot flashes are also how I feel about Robin, the boy wonder. I never understood how Batman dealt with "them", but for me “they” always caused both intense frustration and merriment.

Either way, there are only two types of girls that could cause such a brouhaha for me: Any girl cos-playing* as Princess Leia and this swank sexy Russian by the name of Gitte Kendel. Now to avoid connections, such as an angry phone call and/or letter-bomb, I changed the names for the consideration of others, well… just Gitte's. But you guys seem like a smart enough crowd to know that Gitte is Bavarian name, which suits her because her hair swung like a heavy obsidian axe while her matching eyes would have brought any retired jewel thief back to their shadowy feet. Gittie was a babe, she knew it, she owned it, I was snared and now she is part five of KToH: The Legend of Iron Curtain. Gitte is also how I stumbled upon number three for the The 5 Songs… series: the Karaoke. The Karaoke happens in the middle of the story, and I'm most positive that everyone can yoke my experience to when we've felt young and foolish. So from hot flashes, hopeful glitter ambitions, robin the boy wonder and one sexy Russian, this is really a summer's tale with a more awkward John Travolta. It's basic, guy stares at girl, girl ignores guy and by some freak accident, sparks fly. But this summer loving has a totally different sing along, it's all about flaws.

So later this week expect a rather large update. Your homework assignment is to re-read posts, tell me what you liked, what you didn't like and also send me some of your moments. I'm also playing with the idea of how I'm going to write this piece, so don't be bashful. I'm about to start responding to fan-mail/"dude this is my jam letters", so get involved.

*Cosplaying: short for "costume play", is an activity in which participants wear costumes and accessories to represent a specific character or idea from a work of fiction.

5 Songs We Use Not to Talk. Pt. 2

#2 The Fragmented Sentence.

Built To Spill // You Are

"Everybody knows...

Everybody knows...

That you..."

It was early September of 2011, during my last full semester at Lee University, when the trees had just begun to malt -- shearing colors of gold and orange. The wind was perfect, as if the breeze was a tiny little boy who had happily gotten lost in an open air super market, dashing from side to side clustering my hair. It was perfect. I was happy, I was content and I was looking forward to the future. I wasn't day dreaming like any normal 23 year old dude at the time. Instead of thinking of ways to pull pranks on my friends, what kind of beer I wanted that evening or if it's to early to call my girlfriend to make out -- rather I was thinking about a career, my upcoming semester in England and if Target had any gnarly sweaters on sale. (or pea-coats! I love pea-coats!) But then my phone rang, it was father on the other line. He sounded pensive and serious, but this wasn't far from the norm so I said "Hey/What's Up" and he responded with "Poppy died...".

I attacked the phone receiver with a battalion of untrained soldiers equipped with the standard edition rifle tears. These are my tears, there are many like them, but these are mine. Each sentence was more whimpered than the last. My eyes had contracted a fever, and it wouldn't go away. That day, like my grandfather, I couldn't leave the same way I came. I needed my car and roads I had never seen before. My tongue was riding as fast at it could on the phone, but when silence is your best friend... it's not very fast at all. I don't know how many phrases I belted out on the phone, there are so many that one seems to use when dealing with death that it get's annoying fast. So I'm sure you might be able to relate to my list, contracted like a disease:

• How did it happen?
• But why? 
• I just saw him!
• I don't fucking believe...
• Is Mom alright!?
• I'm coming home right now.
• ...shit 
• What should I do?
• I... I ... Are you okay?

After I hung up the phone I thought about running, just running. To my car, I don't know, perhaps. Any direction will do. Motion, it seemed like a good idea, a much better idea than standing in the middle of a christian campus swearing like a sailor and craving a cigarette. If I just ran to my car, maybe I could... maybe I could... I don't know but maybe I could just fucking... do something, but what's the point, he's dead and it's not like we had a dinner reservation.
So I just walked.
I popped in my head phones and started slowly. My feet felt like fat slippers soaked in kerosine as I tromped to my vehicle. All the trees seemed so repugnant as if it's not a big deal to have an arm full of dead droppings. The hot sorority girls laughing on the corner looked fatter and I could feel the lack of depth permeate from their skulls, as if they were empty boxes of soggy light. God that walk sucked. It wasn't until I got into my car that it really hit me, I need to call my girlfriend.

She picked up the phone

"Hey! What's up?"

"My grandfather just died..."

"The one out in California?"

"Yeah... Poppy."

"Are you gonna be okay? Do you need to see me?"

"No, no... I'll be okay. I just needed to hear your voice..."

The conversation didn't last much longer than that because unlike my feet, my tongue couldn't put one foot in-front of the other. It was stuck in a suffocating pattern dryness, sealing it's self to the roof of my mouth.When I got to my parents house later that day it didn't get any better. I had no words, just... just a mouth full of pythons and a fist that needed to placed properly in a door. I kept on trying to comfort my Mother, but I couldn't say anything good. The next day passed and the funeral arrangements where being made. The family decided that my mother and my sisters would fly out to California to be at the small family gathering where they would spread his ashes in my grandmothers garden. The night I found out I wasn't going I cried like a child who had seen his blood for the first time. As We Were Promised Jetpacks would say, it was a far cry from all that was dead inside. I couldn't go because I had "exams", so I had to write a letter to give to my grandmother. My condolence letter. My hated for school spiked significantly that day.

My girlfriend at the time, who was much younger than me, tried her best at comforting me but it just wasn't working. She was lost in the torrent of choice-less words and my hot-n-cold comfort zone. I had no way of communicating. It was like I was deaf and trying to tell her that I was having a heart attack, it was useless. After the deluge of "I'm sorrys" and "is there anything I can do" I left her place. I went home to write that letter.

I dug through my iPod while it was on shuffle, pecking the skip button and getting pissed after every track. Sometimes I think I torture my self for no good reason and love it.
I would scream at it,
"No. I don't want to listen to Damien Rice right now you twat!"
"What! No! Frighten Rabbit and Copeland are OUT of the question!"
I was secretly hoping it would jump to Guernica by Brand New because I wasn't going to pick it my self. That song always upset me, and I wanted to be the distorted hum of one sad and lonely alcoholic. And if the fate of the shuffle wouldn't pick Brand New then my second wish was that it would land on Pedro The Lion's "Suspect Fled The Scene". I just knew from the the bottom of my heart that if I picked those songs on my own that I'd be inflicting a ridiculous amount of pain on my heart, so I was hoping fate would do it for me. When your as sad as wordless poet, you don't argue fates cruel and provocative hug, you just accept it with a pinch of poison. But then shuffle did it again, it saved my soul. It landed on the one song that I usually associate with the moment when the prettiest girl smile, the whole "cat's got my tongue" thing, where she's just to beautiful to look at. The sliver rectangular angel started to play "You Are" by Built To Spill.

 The fragmented sentence, an iota of tangibility, the mouthful of crumbs that came dribbling out of my face and my figures began to scoop them up like puzzle pieces. I played the song over and over and over and over and over and over. I sent it to my friends, my girlfriend and anyone that would listen. I felt like a seventh grader trying to tell his parents that he got shoved in a locker at school yesterday. I wanted to shout the guitar patterns, break windows to the drum beats and steep in the memory of my grandfather while the guitar solo painted every memory I had with him. This hot sense of odd pleasure drove me to room for hours.

There are only five words in the entire song. "Everybody/knows/that/you/are" but the way it is sang invokes an irresistible amount of feelings. Doug Martsch, the lead singer goes in rounds as if he knows, this is all he's got and this is all he can say and it's the only way he can tell you, so it's odd, but it's perfect.

It's perfect.   

And it was perfect.

Here's a small portion of the letter that I wrote: "...throughout my childhood Poppy played a key roll in my developing years. I couldn't think of a memory that encompassed what he truly meant to me. Poppy was much more than a memory to me. He was a legacy of ideals. Ideals that started me down the pathe of being an artist, an artist that encapsulates mystery in truth and love through nobility. Poppy was an artist and now so am I. He gave me the inspiration to play each key with fervor and integrity. Each string to be strummed with an intimate passion and an ear to always listen closely to my heart... Poppys brush strokes have painted the most beautiful foreground and now it is my duty as his grandson to take up the brush and make something beautiful for the world to see and for the world to feel..."

The fragmented sentence is one of the most powerful songs we can express to an individual. It's the moment when words aren't enough, we've lost the ability to even define our selves and the situation, so we let our most powerful form of express take control -- for me, the music. As a young man I find my self in phases in my life where I am left with nothing but the music, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Whether it's the death of a close relative, the lowness from exiting a relationship or the metaphorical Triton in the road, because let's be real, these days it's no longer a fork, and we are left with invisible character defining art. In these phases our internal soul cries out to others in ways that we can not express. We might even feel guilty or angry because there's an unfulfilled tension that is created deep within our psyche, but there's a way out. Don't say it, just play it.

Now when ever I hear this song I think of two things. The first is that sometimes in life the best way to tell someone that you love them is through art. The second thing is this: your art will inspire, cultivate and move people in ways that you never knew and perhaps will never know. I never told my grandfather that I started playing music because of him. I never told my grandfather that he taught me to look for beauty in all things. But I told him I loved him and I'm sure that rolls over into heaven. 

What's your fragmented sentence?

 

5 Songs We Use Not to Talk. Pt. 1.

#1 The Daywalker

Shout Out Louds // Very Loud.

“But I wanna change, change the way we always have

And to make different plans and try not to make this sad…”

As I teetered into my room, cane in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, I turned on the light and just stood there for a moment. Whether if it was due to the medication or just because I naturally stop to dwell, I froze and non-verbally judged my room. There were pants, socks, cards, candy wrappers, record sleeves and just random shit… everywhere. It’s one thing to lose your zen in a place that is your own, but it’s another to lose it when you are forced to move back into your parents’ house. Yeah, this was my old room and I moved back there due to medical reasons.

The last time I lived there was about a year ago when I was in transition from one apartment to another. These transitions happened only a few times because once I was 18 I out like a candle. I never tried to stay longer than I had to either, their place just wasn’t where I wanted to be. Being at my parents was always an internal struggle, so whenever I vacated, I did it in a hurry and always left much behind. Transitions, they’re not my favorite card in the deck that life seems to give me often.

"My room’s a fucking mess…" I thought to myself.
I sighed and decided that something must be done. You ever get that wild hair up your ass, the one that says, "Gosh I should clean?” well I did. And the thing is, I rarely clean my room! It always self-implodes hours later, so I preemptively came up with a strike plan; I had to make another mess before I could start cleaning! My mind needed retrospective destruction, so I opened my closest and began to dig through one of the old boxes that I had left in there years ago.

I didn’t exactly know what I was searching for, but I knew there was something in this box that would satisfy. After digging through old hats, Star Wars posters and “How to Learn Japanese” cassette tapes I found it, my old CD wallet, a.k.a. the bible. Back in its heyday the wallet was bursting at the seams. CDs were double stacked on each-other, crammed into those clear cd slips and album art inserts cushioned the back like a stack of pillows. The variety ranged from the Japanese punk boy-bands like Mongol 500 and the Garlic Boys to deep and classic cuts like Johnny Cash’s vault collection and Live’s “Throwing Cooper”. But then I saw them, The Shout Out Louds. Enter the Daywalker…

When I listened to love songs back in 8th grade I was defined by butt-rock, such as Course of Natures “Supercalla”, America Hi-Fi’s “Flavor of the Week”, and even “Hero” from the Spider-Man soundtrack, written by Chad… Kroeger… (Oh, did I ever get saved). I was your “A-typical” 14 year old, with his mind pockmarked by my female colleague’s newest addition, breasts. And I thought breasts loved butt-rock, so my song with my first girlfriend was “Caught in the Sun” by Course of Nature… She broke up with me the day I got out of the hospital, so perhaps that wasn’t the wisest choice. But all that changed when I started to listen to bands like The Shout Louds, Wolf Parade and Green Day (RIP). My perspective on love songs changed, my relationships lasted longer and breasts became more metaphorical foreplay than attack and defend. Love songs, they don’t have to sound like… complete and utter butt-hurt-bull-shit. 

Derp...

I squatted on the floor and shoved the CD into my record player like it was a parrot and begged it to talkback. It came to life, but before it even had the chance to blink or even play the first song I mashed the next button to my favorite track, track two, “Very Loud”. As soon as the rolling drums hit, that’s when it happened, the sweet beast herself, nostalgia. In a constant hum of musical rubble and re-enhanced oblivion I remembered I wasn’t alone.

The static in the air shrank and I heard my friend Amy stir who had been sitting on my bed the whole time. She had been over to help me organize my room, rearrange it, beautify it, etc, but I was lost. As soon as I stepped into the unintentional need for reconnection I unknowingly brought her along with me. Like the good Dr., Amy had unknowingly stepped into my Tardis and was now experiencing a time shift that she couldn’t see or understand, teenage Me.

I tried to explain to her how I moved up and down the genre ladder like a drunk fireman. How the paradigm shift in music was like moving from dove soup to juicy couture and then back. The change affected my relationships, my driving, smoking, etc… but the fragmented rambling, it felt useless. So I just let the song play, over and over again. As it played I could feel her understand what I was trying to say and little by little my secret world, and she was day walking*, just like me. To use the daywalker is to slip into a world that is outside of our time but yet to still common in the present. We are listening to a jogging dream, a bookmark for a reserved seat in a museum, we are vampirically feeding during our nap time, we are not talking. But, just because we are using this song to “not talk” does not mean we are not communicating, in fact for some it may be the most significant moment of that day, week or month. The transformative language of this type of song will happen in movements, just as it did for me. At first I became lost and unaware of my surroundings. I discovered, relapsed into memory and then followed it to wherever it lead me. I honestly could have had this moment with other songs, and that doesn’t make the Shout Out Louds any less significant, but I had it with them and it was destiny. 

So what’s your daywalker? What song do you use not to talk about the past, but to feel it, experience and share it?

“But I wanna smell, smell the way you do

And to wear those clothes, the clothes your friends do

But I always choose another way

So this is why this love can't stay…”

- Shout Out Louds // Very Loud.

Sonic-naut

She's Out There // Honeybus.

Talking about productivity on the internet can be dangerous.
How dangerous? Well, I tell you this because as an artist I think you'll understand...
Cat photos are everywhere and they are the captains of time consumption and productivity.
But I'm going to try and tackle it in the only way I know how; musically! Productivity, what exactly is that? Let's start with an example of what it does not look like.There are some days where I barely get out of bed mentally but my body tends to wonder the apartment floor like some lost soul. I either get stuck to my computer watching cat gifs, or I'm glued to my TV because I am on my latest fix of How I Met Your Mother. But if I'm feeling really lethargic I revitalized my X-box  or Nintendo and I put in an unhealthy amount of hours working my way to becoming the next Sith Lord, Dragon King or Pokè-master. It's safe to say that I am barely productive when these days occur, or at least what I'd like to call "productive". 


The dictionary says:

the quality, state, or fact of being able to generate, create, enhance, or bring forth goods and services.

So lets go with the "bringing forth of goods" section of that definition. Therefore, I want to be "sonically productive". To go forth within this techno world as a crusader. I want to discover new worlds, cultures, languages and bring them back for your listening pleasure. When I am being sonically productive I know that I haven't wasted a moment finding out what the hell is out there, and I find my life to be more enjoyable when I am sonically productive. I love it when I find new music that revolutionizes what my ears have been used too.
I am a hunter and gatherer.
I am man, hear me double click!
I peck around till i find little gems, like free bandcamp.com downloads My most recent and proud discovery :) Damn Robot!
<---
I have gathered a couple of sites for you to use, just as I do. So be ready to dive right in.
"Yoo-Hoo shit head!"
:) Happy hunting
<---


1) TasteKid
When you first stumble on this website it will look like a normal search engine, but its not. This site is built kind of like pandora but no audio player. Another exception is that it recommends music, movies, book, television etc... You type in your favorite band, movie, what ever it is and it gives a list of similar bands, movies that you'd be interested in. In the image below I typed in Neutral Milk Hotel into the search bar just for an example.


Granted... I don't think I would have placed Panda Bear or The Antlers in the similar category of like styles... but hey at least its suggesting good stuff!
This is really helpful if you are really trying to zero-in on a musical style or genre. You may have to be careful though, when using this for making mixes, because not every band belongs there. But the cool thing is that you can save your "likes", "dislikes" and "Mehs" on to a profile. Once you save it, that artist or movie no longer pops in the que.

Here is a screen shot of a part of my profile.

I hope you sign up and enjoy collecting as I have done. It's totally worth it.

2) Chart Attack

This is a website that I am still getting used to, but it is full of amazing indie and undiscovered music. You can stream full albums and they also have a sub-group called MP3 round up. It delivers a ton of videos that you'd have to hunt for otherwise on Vimeo or Youtube. They have interviews, artist of the month watch live concerts, like when Bon Iver and Radiohead preformed at Austin City Limits.

What initially attracted me to their website was an article on the "best" time wasting online music creators/generators to which you can find HERE. I definitely recommend Chart Attack when you feel that righteous vibe and need to water that buzz before you get all harsh, dude.

3) Sputnik Music

I absolutely love this review site. It's a lot like punknews.org or pastepunk but associates it's self with more genres. They have 7 different sections: Metal, Punk, Alt/Indie, Rock, Hip-Hop, Pop and Other. Their contributing writers are a lot better than the "hit or miss" that you might find looking else-wear. Sputnik Music also allows their users to write reviews as well, and whats exciting about that is a message board begins to percolate, brewing a decent discussion. Their user reviews also review albums of the past, which is awesome! They have discussion boards, sound-offs and you are able to keep track of reviews that you have liked and disliked. Forward thinking users unite!!!

I usualy hit up this site about twice a day, just to see what's come out that I have missed. So far, I am more glad that I have, than I haven't. Take some time to read their reviews and you won't regret it.
Ever imagine how Taking Back Sunday's - Tell All Your Friends or Pink Floyd's - Darkside of the Moon would be received today?
Well now is your chance.

4) Brain on Fire

Do you love free downloads? I would hope so. Brain on Fire is a Blogspot based site that endorses new music and provides links to Bandcamp.com. Most of these bands will allow you to download their music for free or you can donate how ever much you would like. It's rather simple... You see band, you read "like" bands, track listing, can listen to them right there on the spot or go to their bandcamp site.

Above is a screen shot of Damn Robot!'s little piece, but the most important part for me was the highlighted DOWNLOAD link. I have found many bands to be appealing, ranging from prog-post rock to metal. Now be warned, you might like everything, so use your excellent judgement based on album art...
Last but not the least.

5) 8tracks

The human imagination is an amazing machine of emotion and ingenuity. A girl, dark and beautiful once said to me:
"Brady, mix cd's are you love language, aren't they?". I responded with the most proud and blushed face I could muster and said, "It's how I tell you i love you with out saying I love you. It's how I cry in front of you, it's how I laugh with you, it's how I talk to you... with out even saying a word. Mix cd's are a gateway into our soul."
At 8tracks anyone can make a mix and post it and I love it.
There are tens of thousands of mixes for you to sort through. You'll never get through them all, its impossible... that's why you should listen to mine! (ha... but no please?)

With 8tracks you can create a profile. Once you have done that you can like mixes or just individual tracks. Your profile keeps track of your activity and provides you with a direct youtube link to the songs. You can also follow particular individuals and be notified once they post a new mix. This is a great way to get into the heads of the people around you and also friends of yours.


So now that I have told you some of my secrets, it's time to implement them. Go forth and discover music. Let me know what you find, what you like, what you hate, but most of all tell me that you have been productive. My little sonic-naut :)



My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed because I am going through chemo treatments. I was diagnosed with Multiple Meyloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). Anything you give is awesome. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.