5 Failed Attempts at Posting and the Mess That They Have Left.

For a while I wanted to be a fisherman. I read somewhere that the Alaskan fisherman only had to work for three months out of the year and were paid sixty thousand dollars for their troubles. Shit, that was rich people money to me. My mother never made more than 24k a year, and those were days of comfort. This was almost three times that, and only a fourth of the work. It surprised me that more people didn’t do it. I didn’t care about the all red flags; the ferocious storms, the all fish diet, the potential fate that waited on the seas. I just knew it was a full time job and that, from the criteria I gathered of the position, I was definitely qualified for it.

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The idea to become a DJ came to me in one great rush on a warm Wednesday night in the summer of 1995. I was at the inaugural celebration of a party called Chemistry that ultimately would last the remainder of the season and then die, along with the rest of San Francisco’s rave scene, at a warehouse in the mission district some months later. I had been up for two nights on trailer trash crank and had not one hour earlier chased two hits of Felix the Cat acid tabs with my third tallboy of Budweiser. Don’t get the wrong impression though, this wasn’t a decision that only held up as long as the chemicals lasted, only to slowly fade away like so many other sensations do while high. This was a genuine moment of clarity. An authentic epiphany of the sort that makes you run up to each of your friends and grip their shoulders and shake them to attention and declare that you have seen the light and everything makes sense to you now. The clouds of doubt had parted; I was suddenly man with purpose. That is exactly what I finally felt that night: purpose. Right there in the middle of a dance floor, with acid and alcohol and adventure surging through me, with weed and more alcohol and exhaustion to be the nights demise, I realized what I was going to do with my life: I was going to be a DJ.

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There is a post-it stuck on my wall and on it I have written: I think I find comfort in my past haunting me, but she has no past at all. I wrote it about 3 years ago but cant really remember so cant be sure. It’s in plain view, but no one has ever asked me what it means, and I’d be hard pressed to answer anyway. Not because I don’t know, but because if I could untangle that thought into anything longer than two sentences, I would have done so when I wrote it.

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Someone posted an unsolicited compliment about my blog recently. A guy named Scotty Quest from Springfield, Illinois. He said he liked my writing. Thanks Scotty. Unfortunately, the word hasn’t been kind to me as of late. One week I’m filled with lyric and the next I’m a fog of nonsense. Sometimes I just can’t get anything out, not with words anyhow. So I’ve gotten back on the decks and I’m trying to find a space in music that can easily be slipped into. Maybe there is a rhythm that I can discover, a sound that can define these times, something to unlock the nature of my age and the innocence of all our trials. Either way, it hasn’t been happening with ye ol metaphorical paper and ink. But keep checking back. I’ll regal you with more tales of adventure yet.

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Bah. I need some weed