Archive for August, 2012

Celebration, Bitches.

Posted in Uncategorized on August 24, 2012 by oldmandub


What a week. The band hasn’t practiced together for real since we were preparing for the album that we recorded back in February. Since then Eric has pretty much been living on the road with Huntress in order to keep himself from having to float around different girls’ beds in L.A., which he’s quite good at. My plan was to stay focused on things I wanted to accomplish: Writing, my own music, guitar in general, getting in shape. I was on the right track until i got arrested. That was followed by a backside face plant of depression where all I did was eat, watch TV, and drink. No guitar, no running. Just being a piece of shit. Then I met a nice girl and we started getting a bit serious and so of course I pushed her away. I think that’s because being with a girl makes me depressed and I was trying to climb out of my slump. I was determined to get into shape for tour. Eating cheeseburgers and smoking weed and pounding screwdrivers in bed every night watching movies wasn’t going to work.

So this week the band was back to practicing. Monday was shitty so I stayed in at night to practice on my own, but ended up just eating late with my dad and then going to sleep around midnight.

Next day’s practice wasn’t much better so I brought my pedal board home to work on hitting them correctly. That’s how fucking out of proper band practice I am. So i spent like 30 minutes doing that and made the decision I was going to go out to a heavy metal bar and try to have fun. I had talked to my lawyer that day and he reminded me that I fucked my life over and I didn’t want to dwell on it. I had $0 in my account so I got drunk at home negating the need to buy drinks at the bar. As soon as I got to the bar I bought a giant glass of Maker’s. Then another. Then a few more because a girl I like showed up. My brain was getting wet and sloppy so my best game was spending money to get her drunk, too. I thought I was going to score, and by score I mean something retarded and unmasculine like making out, but she went home with some pussy skinny dude with short hair. Then I remembered my talk with my lawyer and all that that means for my future and I wanted to kill myself. I was quite sure I would the next day. Luckily my hangover was so bad all I could manage was the strength to wish I was dead and not the energy to go through with it.

The next day was the most terrible practice thanks to my shakes and lingering anxiety. It didn’t help when my dad texted me to say he’s tired of giving me money and that I can just use my credit card from now on. That reminded me of the debt I’m in and my lack of potential income any time soon. Like a dark rainbow colliding into a big bucket of puke and shit where the gold is supposed to be, that lead to more thoughts of my legal problems. So when I got home I practiced my ass off and went to sleep early.

Practice today was a lot better. Clearly the best of the week. Still a few issues I can’t believe I’m still struggling with. Didn’t I practice for a at least a few hours everyday, metronome, standing up, new scales, techniques, fucking everything I’m supposed to do? I think I did. Did my week in Carmel really set me back that bad? I knew that was going to be a disaster. Worst possible time to do nothing but eat artisan cheeses in the hot tub.

Tonight isĀ  a radio interview at KXLU. I’ll get properly lubed and ready for that on Monster Rehab and vodka. Tomorrow is the show. Been waiting something like 6 months for it. That’s the longest I’ve waited for anything that isn’t something banal like graduating high school. The anticipation for something this concrete and date specific, as opposed to say, losing my virginity which took about 18 years longer than this, is unprecedented. Interviews, photos, friends, family, well-wishers, the record label, who knows who else. It’s a lot of pressure to be awesome especially considering the record has gotten almost an obscene amount of good press and so have we. Expectations must be met. Anything short of perfection will be battered with boos and insults until my throat is sore. Gotta look good, gotta play well, gotta move right. It’s going to take some serious act of god shit to forget all that, fasten my seat belt, and enjoy myself for 30 minutes, ignoring all the trouble that lay ahead of me. At least I probably won’t have to pay for any of my own alcohol, it being a celebration for the band I’m in and all.