Tuesday, April 5, 2022
Friday, January 22, 2021
I have a few.
It’s sometime before 5 am this morning and I just woke up from some pandemic stress dreams. In one I was working in my old shop and everything was pretty boring and fun and normal until I realized that 2021 was worse for Coronavirus infections and death than when I stopped working. I woke up immediately and just felt that.
Then, much later in the sleeping, I had a really lovely dream where I was at a party and somehow a girl I dated a long time ago for a fairly short time was in the car and then back at the house party with me. I watched her getting hit on and we talked. I didn’t want to run off with her, but I wanted peace. I don’t much like the idea of closure, I don’t think it ever shows up for anyone in a meaningful way. I like letting go: which I have. I was surprised to see her in a dream. I don’t think of her anymore except to sometimes see her on facebook and think that she looks great and seems to be a wonderful mom.
What I wanted in this dream and what I seem to want in life is to let go of guilt from a breakup or a relationship. I want to be able to see the person and enjoy what I did about them in the beginning and to get to know who they became without any of the land mines of having once tried to love. I want my history to fit into my current life in a way that makes sense and doesn’t bear anger or an unmanageable amount of ambiguity.
That’s probably unlikely, too, we seem to carry a lot of our pasts around with us in some unresolved and mostly unpleasant ways. At least I do.
I regret songs I have written. The song “Julia” comes to mind for me, because I was trying so hard to be so scathing and wise and it’s just petty and preachy in hindsight. I learned later, I think, how to write a break-up song, but this is so embarrassingly first-person accusative. You can write first-person redemptive if you try. I think I know how to, now.
It was Julia in the dream and she deserves better. She deserves her name changed or my own culpability named.
I think I thought as a 20 year old that you could carve a person wholesale out of whatever forge of feelings I had. None of that song has anything to do with her, it had everything to do with me – and I’m just now honest enough to say that. I feel embarrassed that I didn’t hate this song until this dream. I created a person in my head (in a dream last night) to heal the thing inside me where I held a person I had entirely made up inside the amber of a song.
It was how I knew how to heal, then. I know better, now.
I wrote a lot of bad songs. I wrote a lot where I was just wrong.
I’ve been struggling to write these days and to finish what I start. The next few things I post here you can skip if you don’t much care about KT as a songwriter, because I feel like I have some reckoning to do. Maybe I need to get all of these old, dead songs in to houses I can live with before I go build new ones
Thursday, March 26, 2020
I don't want to be a ghost.
And yet, in a way, I am. I'm not saying anything new in song. For almost 5 years I've had a lot of anxiety that makes returning phone calls pretty stressful and leaving the house out of the question at times.
So I sit in these rooms with other ghosts and I render the people I used to know as ghosts, too. I neuter them. I remain in control of an uncontrollable mess of a life.
This is not to say my life is a mess. It's actually fairly tame. This is to say that life is a mess.
Once upon a time I loved a mess. Joe and I created them for giggles:
One morning - it must have been a Saturday - we started drinking early. Early is a subjective thing, but before noon was typically pretty young in the day to get started for us. Chad was with us. We started at the Brown Pub in Hinckley - which is unfortunate because I kinda hate the Brown Pub. That's not this story, though.
I guess we met for an early lunch and shot the shit and drank whatever the local drink was (Miller Lite) and maybe caught a pretty decent buzz. I don't think we were planning on making a day of it. I had plans that night with my friend Carrie. We had a Saturday off and I wasn't gonna waste it.
I know what they say about plans and how making them is making God laugh, but I'm here to say: Not making a plan might be twice as dangerous.
We had no plans and a few beers in our bellies. So there we are - Chad and Joe and Me and we're heading back to Sandwich and probably some other bar. Along Granart Rd. there was a farm and Joe decided he wanted to take some pictures of a guy who was out on the road with a burn pile.
Chad would have none of this fuckery. He stayed in the car. Chad had long been the wisest of us.
But Joe and I headed out and told the man at the burn pile that we were photographers for Life Magazine and were taking some pictures of Midwestern life and how we were struck by the whole Americana of him and his burn pile. In our defense, it was some pretty striking Americana.
The guy completely agrees and we take this shitty camera Joe has and is passing as a professional camera and wander around taking some pictures. Some posed. Some trying to look more natural. Some sort of arty, from the ground, the sun rendering everything silhouette. We all felt a little beautiful.
And maybe a little drunk. So this guy says that the real story was up at the farm house. He wants to show us his chicken coop and his miniature horses.
The hell with Chad, he can wait.
We headed up to the house with him. We went to the chicken coop. He told us which one was his favorite. They all looked pretty much the same to us.
Then we saw the miniature horses. He told us about the one with one eye. Apparently the other eye just "fell out" when he was born. Crazy.
I wish I was kidding, but I swear to you this is not just the Miller Lite saying this: At some point a vintage (convertible!) Eldorado Cadillac with (I swear) steer horns where the hood ornament used to live pulled in the dirt drive and some cowboy and his dog climbed out. I remind you - this is Northern Illinois. I wish I could remember his name and I bet Joe would.
Nameless man was friendly as all hell after our fictional profession and employer were relayed. I believe he asked if we wanted to get a few shots of his dog who was a trained killer. "What? You don't believe it? Watch this . . . Sit, boy . . . now stay . . ." And then he screamed "JUMP 'EM UP!!! JUMP 'EM UP!!"
And the dog growled and attacked . . . the owner.
We sure didn't know what was what, but we agreed that of course Life Magazine would want pictures of that and I spotted for lighting or whatever it was I was saying my job was and Joe snagged a few more pictures. At some point and it must have been an hour or better we remembered Chad and excused ourselves back to Joe's Jeep.
The Jeep is a whole other story.
We got back in and had to tell Chad the whole story. Chad musta been sick of sitting and so we headed back for a little wine at the Winckler's.
I recall I had made plans with my friend Carrie that evening. We were supposed to go to her friend Lisa's housewarming or something at a lovely upper apartment on the North Side of Chicago. I don't think Carrie had invited Joe and Chad, but I felt fairly empowered so I did. After wine we had to pick up Carrie.
Back to Aurora.
We get to Carrie's house and her parents were having some sort of dinner party. Seems like it was casual, just like another couple over for dinner. Her dad offered drinks and it would have been ungrateful - if not rude - to decline.
So whiskey was had.
And we loaded up the Jeep to make the hour and a half into the city and then up to Logan's Square. This was a crucial hour or so. I don't know that it would have sobered us up much, but it did kinda reset the pacing of the evening. We most likely needed some reset.
The drive was a gas. Laughing and shit. Everything you'd hope out of a drunken car ride in to a major metropolitan center. If it makes you feel better we can say Carrie drove. She may have. I can’t remember.
We arrived in the Big City and aimed ourselves at the newly gentrified North Side Neighborhood. We found Lisa’s place and found a party in process. It was lovely, fine folks and progressive beer. We could have partaken in fine and erudite conversation had we been so inclined, such was the nature of the party. Artists and up-and coming artists and social justice workers and everything I might just appreciate would I to arrive today. What a swell party it was.
We didn’t partake in such lofty discourse. Joe and I decried the nature of living in a city and extolled the benefits of living “smack dab in a cornfield.” We offended, and entertained and were generally the belles of the ball. Folks listened to us and laughed. We made friends and gently insulted them, but somehow charmed them. Chad looked a little green. I was on my way.
At some point, Joe and I decided that we were just not fancy enough to continue to get loaded on whatever brown ale was provided in this place. We asked if there was a liquor store in the neighborhood. No one seemed to know, but Joe and I believed that human nature demanded a liquor store to be prominently placed in any locale from small town to big city, so we set out in search of cheap, watery, light beer.
And we did find their delicacy. We had to wander through some frightening parts of the bario in order to find it, but we did. We were generous folk, too. We bought three cases. And we made new friends back at the party. Seems there were some other connoisseurs of watery beer and we shared.
And a good time was had, though at this point things get fuzzy for me. I’m not sure what time of the evening this would have been, but we had to have been over ten hours into some committed drinking at this point. I recall Chad sitting next to Carrie on a couch and I asked a question. He answered by hurrying out onto the second floor porch and getting rid of some of his beer. I recall needing a nap and taking the hostess’ bed. I recall her joining me at some point. I assure you I was in no condition to threaten a boyfriend, but I do recall said boyfriend finding us spooning and I lightly recall a row surrounding that.
I recall waking up at some point in the morning and finding Joe sitting on the keg and passing the tapper back and forth to some latecomer. They were the only two standing and Joe had just hit stride. They split the last of the keg, the Miller Lite a memory.
I am certain Carrie drove home because Joe lapsed in to a coma. The kicker? Joe's camera didn't have any film in it all day.
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
We drank an awful lot, but we weren't really about chasing girls. I would imagine a few came along and such, but for the level of debauch we espoused it was a surprisingly wholesome affair. There were parties and after bars, but mostly with friends. There was some skinny dipping and all, but really it wasn't like that.
When I look back on all of it I think we really liked making music and being a community. We went to NYC once and brought our own crowd. Actually Jersey. It was sort of an armpit, but fun. Fun as fuck, actually because we had a ton of friends and laughs and too much to drink and I honestly think we weren't trying to fuck everyone.
I'm ashamed of plenty of the things I've done, but I'm proud of that.
I'm not saying there wasn't any sex, I'm saying it wasn't what got us up in the morning. I think all of us with our guitars and our drums and shit have big gaping holes in us somewhere. I imagine that's probably more true than not whether you play an instrument or do social work or teach kids to read.
We have holes in us. Every one I've ever met. We all have these seemingly bottomless maws and we want to somehow displace all of that emptiness with somethingness. Anythingness, really. Other people. Drugs. Drinks. Screwing to tell us we're wantable or lovable. A case of beer a night four nights a week for ten years to shut up the voices in our heads that keep us empty.
Sure. We did some of that. But a lot of the time we just hung out and told stories and laughed with each other and the folks we met.
I hope we haven't forgotten how to do that because those times - just being, just laughing, just sharing company - are some of the few times when I wasn't so goddam lonely.
I'm not sure I remember. I sometimes think I'm still all appetite and I'm clueless how to fill myself.
Take me back.
I'm not about to get as nostalgic as I tend toward, but the Heartland Cafe was a huge part of Chicago and the cultural center of Roger's Park for more than 40 years. I knew they closed at the end of 2018, but I just got word they were razed and something new will take the place of the old building.
And so it goes.
Saturday, September 15, 2018
Both Ford Econolines. The first was a gray cargo van with no seats behind the cab. I loved that one best. It only stranded us twice that I know of. Inside the van I had put up 3 inch masking tape and written on it
"I tell you I would rather be a swineherd, understood by the swine, than a poet misunderstood by men."
It's Kierkegaard quote. It's pretentious. It's how I still feel most of the time.
The second Van was a lovely white thing with netting and three rows of seats and the Triton engine in it. I never bonded with it.
The Van deserves several more posts.
I don't think Chad started 5YJ, but I don't know that I can say he didn't. It was Pat and Chad and I in a room. So If I started it or if Pat started it, Chad did, too. I always think of it as being Pat. He and I played together and then he got Chad involved, but really, none of it existed until we three actually played together.
And I can't romanticize that. I can't make some quote like you'd read in a music biography about how it was magical or anything like that. I'd played with less than 7 drummers at that point. I was 17 years old. I'd written a half a dozen songs and been in a few high school bands. There was barely hair on my nuts and I just didn't know a damn thing. What the fuck did I know about Magic?
So I can't claim magic. I'm pretty sure we weren't even all that good at first. We screwed around for a bit then I went to Minnesota for a year and then Pat did the year after. We tried. We gigged a little. We recorded a sort of an EP in a guy's garage. We sat by the pool. We drank some cheap beer. We played pool. We weren't a band like we became, but we became friends.
Man. Right about now I'm seriously jealous of Bob Mould's brevity. The other thing is that I seem to keep walking a whole fucking lot but somehow moving farther and farther away from what I'm trying to say.
What I mean to say I should say simply:
I have probably spent more time with Chad than anyone in the world besides my wife and kids. For over ten years we drove around, played music and hung out together. We worked together and ate together and drank a lot together. For very short stints we lived together. He didn't always tell me he was pissed at me, but I always knew. He may have told me 4 or 5 times that he cared for me or was proud of me or liked what I brought to his life. I doubt I told him ever.
Once I broke up with a girl and Woodsy came to me and said he would like to date her. I said I was fine with that. I was fine with it, but Chad saw that as a challenge to loyalty. He was done with Woodsy. I think that meant love to Chad. I understood that then, but it's fuzzier now for me. Woodsy married that girl. They're still married. My step-daughter plays their daughter in Volleyball a few times a season.
Chad was the only full time member of 5YJ. Pat and I held down restaurant jobs. Jay was a Teacher. Still is. I have no idea what Todd did all day. At the time Matt and RD worked with Vern mowing while RD started a real estate business.
Chad was a drummer.
There has been resentments over that, but all I care to say is that when I made the fiduciary discovery that you can borrow money to buy a car but not to fix one and ended up broke and ca-rless over a simple repair I just couldn't afford to fix . . . Chad just handed me the money to buy a truck. Once when Matt played a gig in incredible pain from a toothache Chad handed him a handful of cash and told him to get it fixed. He made sure the Van was gassed, the gigs were booked, accommodations were made, gear was fixed, amps were bought. He carried the risk and when things were tight he financed it. I'm not mad. I could not have made it work. I don't think anyone else would have been able to care so much.
In movies there's always the character who serves as conscience and the heart of the story. Chad wasn't that. To be honest - we didn't have that. There was no angel on anyone's shoulder.
But Chad was the glue.
He was calm. He was adult. He represented us professionally and I'm fairly certain that with perhaps the sort of slight oversights & missteps that can be expected in any job he represented us competently and with dignity. I always received my K-1 and he always insured we showed a loss. Chad did everything we didn't want to do so that we could show up and just be musicians. And we hated him for it.
No good deed goes unpunished.
But, while we may not have had a conscience, Chad would stop me and tell me I was fucking up when no one else would. I'd pick songs and he'd push back. When I was an asshole he told me. When I was dating everyone who let me he was the one who let me know I wasn't treating them well. He has a moral center. It was rigid and rugged. We resented him for that, too. Yes, sometimes he was wrong, sometimes that compass was off, but that's true for everyone, yes? And the problem is that if you speak up you put a target on yourself.
I guess what I'm trying to get at is that I can't possibly approach what Chad is to me. The miles in the van; hours on a fishing boat; days in the pool; the time between shows just talking; planning; practicing; partying. It's a lot more time than most people ever get with a platonic friend and we had 14 years together. Very few friendships ever get tested by so much time.
After all that time all I can say is that I'm grateful and I love him. No love the length of ours can live without caveat: It's super tempting - probably for both of us - to do a full accounting and carefully number all of the debits. I think we do that as a proof. To show that we have looked at each other and really seen the other. Chad and I have seen each other happy and heartbroken, irrationally angry, desperate, triumphant, drunk, crabby, funny, hung-over, freshly in love and gutted by life. We've seen each other win and we've seen each other fuck everything up. We know the shitty things we've said, sometimes to each other. We know the careless ways we've loved and the thoughtless things we've done to other people. We've watched each other carefully build something we knew would fail and we've watched each other throw it down the shitter.
No matter what I've seen and no matter what we've said: I love you, Chad.