Someone asks: “who are these people?”
Rob was a friend I met in high school. I briefly wrote about him in the post titled “Diseased”. He was chronically absent back in our school days because he was touring with his metal band but he still graduated and we remained friends into adulthood, drawn together by the common bond of being music nerds and picking up girls. He and I used to party, exchange pills, and play guitar together. Our best time were spent sitting on his back patio smoking cigarettes and talking for hours. Intimacy is hard to come by. I was one of his few friends who wasn’t a complete idiot. Such is the nature of being in the music/drug scene. The pussy situation is one hundred times easier if you’re doing live performances. A fact as old as time I’m sure.
But the drug thing always worried me. I remember when he told me he shot up heroin for the first time with this one faggot photographer we knew. He kept insisting he’d never do it again and talking shit about the hard stuff and how it was a distraction and how he didn’t want to end up a tweaker like his dad apparently was when he was younger. I’m not sure he did meth but I’m going to assume he did. Photofag got sent off to some farm where he got sober and must’ve joined some cult of sobriety because that’s all he ever talked about after he came back. But Rob disappeared suddenly. Living with some girls in a shitty ghetto. His phone stopped working. I looked for him but nobody seemed to know where the fuck he was – nobody. An old friend of mine said he saw him sleeping in a car with some black kid. It bothered me endlessly but what could I do? He had my acoustic guitar and I know he pawned it for drug money since he pawned his three-thousand dollar Iguanaburst Les Paul. I didn’t care. I just wanted my friend back.
Much to my surprise, he turned up after over a year of nomadic car living and drug abuse. He moved upstate with his mom and got sober. I heard this and planned to visit him.
I was outside the cafe (where I currently sit writing this) in my beaten-to-hell Toyota Camry when I got a text from our mutual guitar mentor that said:
I responded “I haven’t heard from him, I think he’s avoiding me because he stole a guitar from me.”
Text came back “He’s no longer with us. I’m sorry.”
I had missed the funeral but made it to a friends’ gathering that night. Some of them were trying to convince themselves that it was an accident. Nobody mentioned the twenty-seven club. I played the audio file posted on this blog over the garage stereo. It’s tainted by sadness now.
I started dating a girl who lives two apartments down from me. This is a mistake if you didn’t guess that already. She’s a petite blonde who is sexy but modest. She goes to church on Sundays. I dated her for two years and never fell in love with her. This is why we broke up last week. I was honest that I didn’t love her. I feel guilty about it.
But she’s boring and neurotic. Holy shit, can we just go somewhere without you complaining the whole time? You put up with my hyper sexuality and racism, but you can’t handle the fact that I like to stay up late and sleep in. You can never decide on what you want to watch on TV on the rare occasions I put that shit-box on. Fine. We’re watching Jason and The Argonauts then. No sense of adventure; mentally or physically. Her mind locked in the status quo, mine looking to the eternal Forms. You’re a good girl. You’re every incel’s dream girl but you have no discernible inner life. “What are you thinking about?” every women asks every man at some point hoping the answer is their future together. I was thinking about the Zapruder Film. What would’ve happened if JFK crushed the deep state and didn’t commit to Vietnam. If LA Sierra PE became the national standard and I didn’t have to date bland women just because they’re thin. So we broke up and it’s for the best because I never let myself be intimate with her. I also banged a whole score of other women during the early days of our relationship. What’s wrong with me?
A girl I hang out with has me writing album reviews for a Portland based online music publication. I call it a blog. I can’t do it. “It’d be nice to have a musician contribute to the site.” No it wouldn’t be. The thing about Robert Christgau and Lester Bangs is they know precisely nothing about music. This is why Christgau writes about personalities and Bangs about lyrics (like a retard). You cannot write about music and I cannot imagine anyone wanting to read about it. You want to read about Keith Moon driving a limo into a pool, not about why a song is good or not. Music is supposed to be listened to, not talked about. How do you convey that little brraaaZING sound in Beck’s gamma ray really makes the whole thing work? Do a whole review in onomatopoeia?
Words are another thing. Words are supposed to be concrete and honest. They can be beautiful like T.S. Elliot but honestly, nobody cares anymore. Even English majors don’t read anymore.