So I decided to not go to the Tossers show at the Metro tonight; of course I’m regretting this decision, but you know I’d be standing on the el platform, huddled under the heat lamps, which actually just provide an illusion of warmth, which is enough to convince to keep going on, fucking sad as hell as that is, thinking something like, I could be at home drinking a nice whiskey on the rocks while reading Keith Richards’ memoirs. Part of me is saying, that shit is lame, you could be out there at the Metro, where you’ve spent some of the happiest moments of your life, drinking cheap whiskey and dancing around like a drunken lemur. It’s just part of the 4 noble truths, life is suffering.
Now I’m not saying I’d be in complete and utter misery, I’m not having a bad time now, and I doubt I’d have a bad time going to the show, just that one is never satisfied, or “the grass is always greener on the other side.” If my cursory studies on buddhism have taught me anything is that this is one of the most universal conditions of being alive even if one hasn’t even heard of buddhism at all. I think the closest interpretation is something like, “everything is temporary,” happiness and misery and everything else. Just think about how someone might complain about the cold, but come august, icicles and snowflakes are all they pray for. When I’m feeling pessimistic I say, You can’t win. Nowadays I’m trying to stay positive and say that it’s all just part of the sheer giddy thrill of it all. You know, you go out and it’s so cold out that it hurts to breath, and I say, “It’s horrible out, it’s fantastic, great.”
Okay, I could’ve gone to the show and behaved reasonably and gotten home by 1 am, maybe. But the march Tossers show is not a place or time to behave reasonably. Last year I went and I didn’t lose or break (like my phone, keys, glasses)! I was amazed and I spent a hell of a night with a good friend fucking right! But I’ve been kicked out of that show on 2 non consecutive years, ugh escorted out the Metro, what a shame. I know myself well enough that if I had gone I would’ve partied hard. I’d be like, who wants shots? Don’t make me drink alone because I will. Ha ha ha Or like, hey what’s up, what’s your name? Oh yeah? Cool, cool. Hey let’s have a shot, my treat. Which sounds incredibly appealing to me right now, but future me, would be totally and utterly miserable at work tomorrow, and I’m already not a fan of my job to begin with, why add to my torment? The only consolation would be that I had brought this upon myself.
I picked up Keith Richards Life yesterday at a thrift store and I’m already on page 319. It’s not like I’m a huge fan of the Stones, but I am doomed to forever enjoy “classic rock,” plus I love stories about rock and roll and all of the sex, drugs, and mayhem that comes with the territory. It helps that K.R. is cool. He’s so cool that I consider him the spiritual uncle to all the rockers born after him. Johnny Thunders wanted to be Keith Richards. Life is full of hilarious and fucked up stories, but one of the most interesting aspects of the book is Keith’s ruminations and behind the scenes on music and music making, utterly fascinating stuff. It’s just packed with stuff like this:
“What is it that makes you want to write songs? In a way you want to stretch yourself into other people’s hearts. You want to plant yourself there, or at least get a resonance, where other people become a bigger instrument that the one you’re playing. It becomes almost an obsession to touch other people. To write a song that is remembered and taken to heart is a connection, a touch of bases. A thread that runs through all of us. A stab to the heart. Sometimes I think songwriting is about tightening the heartstrings as much as possible without bringing on a heart attack.”
That’s fucking cool! I also heard of this messed up song, I’m Going to Murder my Baby by Pat Hare. Brutal.