Scenes from a Memory
January
"How long have you and I been doing this dance?" I ask the faint traces of that familiar smirk starting to form at the corners of my mouth. It's the first recording day of the new year and in a whirlwind turnaround we've just recorded an interview with Jason Latour, an Eisner winner I had been jonesing to get on the show for years. Despite this unshakeable feeling that 2017 will be darker and meaner than everything that came before, I'm feeling smug as I move my fingers absent-mindedly over the cup of coffee in front of me, trying to restore feeling robbed by the January cold and soothe my fingertips after about an hour of having them press firmly on the coiled metal strings of a guitar; a typical jam session to get all that musical energy out of my system and create the illusion of professionalism for an interview that at times ran both seriously personal and funny as hell.
Jake leans forward over his own coffee; Chris is unable to join owing to having to work the bar right after recording. He knows I know the answer to my own question, just a bit of introspective posturing; having lived with me for over two years until recently, this is business as usual for him.
"Be five years this May." he nods. He looks up into my eyes and asks the type of question he knows I have no real answer to, a question that actually matters: "How do you think this year is all going to go? Do you have any resolutions?"
I give a slightly pained smile at the resolution question; an obligatory and benign follow-up to a concern for the future on most's mind. My mind races through that one first: Deleting all the dating apps off my phone? Actually get serious about exercising again? Travel more?
"Stay curious." I shrug. "And never give up no matter how hard the fight gets. And it will get hard."
Jake purses his lips a bit; for all it's bravado, he knows it's a cop-out. He also silently notices I didn't really answer the question he actually gives a shit about. And he is also aware it's because I have no fucking clue myself. After taking that moment, he raises his mug to toast.
"Well, here's to surviving. Hopefully we'll be doing this again in 2018." he smiles, paraphrasing a fictional annual tradition between Commissioner Gordon and a certain Caped Crusader.
I raise my mug in return with a wink. "Hopefully."
Jake leans forward over his own coffee; Chris is unable to join owing to having to work the bar right after recording. He knows I know the answer to my own question, just a bit of introspective posturing; having lived with me for over two years until recently, this is business as usual for him.
"Be five years this May." he nods. He looks up into my eyes and asks the type of question he knows I have no real answer to, a question that actually matters: "How do you think this year is all going to go? Do you have any resolutions?"
I give a slightly pained smile at the resolution question; an obligatory and benign follow-up to a concern for the future on most's mind. My mind races through that one first: Deleting all the dating apps off my phone? Actually get serious about exercising again? Travel more?
"Stay curious." I shrug. "And never give up no matter how hard the fight gets. And it will get hard."
Jake purses his lips a bit; for all it's bravado, he knows it's a cop-out. He also silently notices I didn't really answer the question he actually gives a shit about. And he is also aware it's because I have no fucking clue myself. After taking that moment, he raises his mug to toast.
"Well, here's to surviving. Hopefully we'll be doing this again in 2018." he smiles, paraphrasing a fictional annual tradition between Commissioner Gordon and a certain Caped Crusader.
I raise my mug in return with a wink. "Hopefully."
 |
| Bros to the close. |
February
The 9:30 Club is taking it's sweet time to fill up this unseasonably warm February night. To be fair, it is a Monday and I had come straight after work passing time at the adjacent Satellite Room knocking back cheap whiskey and watching the TV behind the bar until the doors opened. Smokey and the Bandit was on. No commercials.
After a couple rounds, we get the all clear that 9:30 is open for business and saunter into what is perhaps DC's most iconic venue. Growing up, the 9:30 Club was always the venue that my mom was the most reticent to let me go to: Deeper in the heart of DC, in a rougher part of town right there on V Street, that attracted bands that still had that element of danger that really goes hand in hand with effective rock and roll. This concern never really stopped me of course and it quickly became my personal favorite venue over the course of high school all starting with a double bill concert fronted by Taking Back Sunday and Saves the Day.
Tonight's crowd much different from the last time I was here; an 80s dance party at the beginning of the month (Though I'm still wearing that familiar flannel shirt in an unconscious effort to cosplay Dave Grohl). It's the penultimate night of February, some people are coming in still wearing winter coats but they're quickly discarded. I mount the stairs and take up my usual spot overlooking stage right.
I'm waiting for a friend of mine named Eric who had bought the tickets for this show months previously when the show had first been announced. Since then, he's kind of fallen on harder times both personally and professionally and while he's certainly debriefed me in full detail on both, I still absolutely feel for the guy. I spot him walk in and call out; the club still filling up, he hears my baritone voice over the low din and spots me leaning over the railing.
He shakes my hand in his near matching flannel shirt.
"Buy you a drink?" I motion to the back bar which, in a rare sight, is still not packed.
"You don't have to do that, man." Eric generously replies.
"Of course not. But I want to." I smile and lead him to the back where we get a couple of whiskey and cokes before returning to the railing. I had missed an inauguration consolation party he had thrown several weeks ago and regales how the festivities went in my absence and let him vent as I silently sip my drink watching the road crew set up the stage below.
After a couple rounds, we get the all clear that 9:30 is open for business and saunter into what is perhaps DC's most iconic venue. Growing up, the 9:30 Club was always the venue that my mom was the most reticent to let me go to: Deeper in the heart of DC, in a rougher part of town right there on V Street, that attracted bands that still had that element of danger that really goes hand in hand with effective rock and roll. This concern never really stopped me of course and it quickly became my personal favorite venue over the course of high school all starting with a double bill concert fronted by Taking Back Sunday and Saves the Day.
Tonight's crowd much different from the last time I was here; an 80s dance party at the beginning of the month (Though I'm still wearing that familiar flannel shirt in an unconscious effort to cosplay Dave Grohl). It's the penultimate night of February, some people are coming in still wearing winter coats but they're quickly discarded. I mount the stairs and take up my usual spot overlooking stage right.
I'm waiting for a friend of mine named Eric who had bought the tickets for this show months previously when the show had first been announced. Since then, he's kind of fallen on harder times both personally and professionally and while he's certainly debriefed me in full detail on both, I still absolutely feel for the guy. I spot him walk in and call out; the club still filling up, he hears my baritone voice over the low din and spots me leaning over the railing.
He shakes my hand in his near matching flannel shirt.
"Buy you a drink?" I motion to the back bar which, in a rare sight, is still not packed.
"You don't have to do that, man." Eric generously replies.
"Of course not. But I want to." I smile and lead him to the back where we get a couple of whiskey and cokes before returning to the railing. I had missed an inauguration consolation party he had thrown several weeks ago and regales how the festivities went in my absence and let him vent as I silently sip my drink watching the road crew set up the stage below.
Tonight we're watching Japandroids who put out their second full-length album, Near to the Wild Heart of Life, the previous month. It will go down as my favorite album of the entire year.
The opener is Craig Finn, an indie rocking singer-songwriter based out of New York. After his Springsteen-esque set, the headlining Canadian duo take the stage with their fast-as-you-can electric guitar-driven rock. Immediately whatever cares Eric and I have that night dissipate in a torrent of cascading drum fills, sing-a-long vocal harmonies, and overdriven riffs; it's the kind of music that captures that reckless abandon of youth, the feeling you get when you almost get caught breaking into a pool after hours running down the neighborhood streets laughing your ass off because you feel so alive.
 |
| A two-piece. The beauty is in the simplicity. |
"This has always been my church." I laugh as my eyes light up and my smile extends as far as it can go. "And the gospel has always been rock and roll."
March
The warm Texan sun beats down my new black, felt fedora as I walk down South Congress towards downtown Austin. It's the first real time I've had by myself this entire trip to SXSW as I've spent most of the long weekend cooped up in a home studio out in San Marcos overseeing some recording as a bit of a consultant; apparently I have a decent ear for melody and rhythm and it's the third time I've taken this kind of gig. Granted, the last time was in the heart of Atlanta and I got to actually explore the city.
While I've certainly gotten along with clients and had the chance to do a bar crawl in Austin with them last night and jammed to near dawn back at the studio but I'm glad to have this quiet time to myself. It's a bright Sunday morning and, like most major American metropolises, brunch is a way of life in Austin with all the trendy restaurants and cafes along the street packed. I'm supposed to meet my friend Kelsey but she's running late (which is fine; my flight has been pushed by three hours while it's icing in DC) and, after burning about an hour in a vintage bookstore, I'm getting hungry.
I spot a southwestern cafe that has a cool 1950s aesthetic which is similarly full but I spot some open spots on the bar. Apart from some late night Whataburger, I haven't really sampled the local cuisine and this would be the time to do it. I park my bag and myself get some mesquite pulled pork tacos with refried beans and a coffee. The lady behind the bar motions to the hat I've placed on the bar.
"Pick that up here?" she smiles as I cram about half a taco in my maw. I instinctively cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head as I force it down.
"Nah, I picked it up in Denver." I muse wistfully thinking back on standing in line in the middle of a convenience store in the Mile High City, wearing the newly acquired hat and weathered leather jacket while trying to get some coconut water like some hipster ass.
"Do you like it?" she asks, hints of genuine curiosity in her voice.
"I like it a lot." I nod. "I like driving the back country roads that seem to stretch forever. A sky mirroring bluebonnet that shines so blue it hurts your eyes just to stare at it. There's something just comfortable about here."
"I meant here at the bar." she smirks "Most people don't do brunch alone."
"Right." I blush a bit sheepishly. "Well, the worst kind of loneliness is to be not comfortable with yourself...that's Mark Twain; I'm not that smart."
As if on cue, my phone lights up with a text from Kelsey and I'm spared further embarrassment as I settle up my tab and go back out on the street and resume that slow march towards the Austin Capitol shining in the sun in the distance, the Korean-Irish sound guy playing at being cowboy for a weekend in the City of the Violet Crown.
While I've certainly gotten along with clients and had the chance to do a bar crawl in Austin with them last night and jammed to near dawn back at the studio but I'm glad to have this quiet time to myself. It's a bright Sunday morning and, like most major American metropolises, brunch is a way of life in Austin with all the trendy restaurants and cafes along the street packed. I'm supposed to meet my friend Kelsey but she's running late (which is fine; my flight has been pushed by three hours while it's icing in DC) and, after burning about an hour in a vintage bookstore, I'm getting hungry.
I spot a southwestern cafe that has a cool 1950s aesthetic which is similarly full but I spot some open spots on the bar. Apart from some late night Whataburger, I haven't really sampled the local cuisine and this would be the time to do it. I park my bag and myself get some mesquite pulled pork tacos with refried beans and a coffee. The lady behind the bar motions to the hat I've placed on the bar.
"Pick that up here?" she smiles as I cram about half a taco in my maw. I instinctively cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head as I force it down.
"Nah, I picked it up in Denver." I muse wistfully thinking back on standing in line in the middle of a convenience store in the Mile High City, wearing the newly acquired hat and weathered leather jacket while trying to get some coconut water like some hipster ass.
"Do you like it?" she asks, hints of genuine curiosity in her voice.
"I like it a lot." I nod. "I like driving the back country roads that seem to stretch forever. A sky mirroring bluebonnet that shines so blue it hurts your eyes just to stare at it. There's something just comfortable about here."
 |
| Just outside the studio. |
"Right." I blush a bit sheepishly. "Well, the worst kind of loneliness is to be not comfortable with yourself...that's Mark Twain; I'm not that smart."
As if on cue, my phone lights up with a text from Kelsey and I'm spared further embarrassment as I settle up my tab and go back out on the street and resume that slow march towards the Austin Capitol shining in the sun in the distance, the Korean-Irish sound guy playing at being cowboy for a weekend in the City of the Violet Crown.
April
"Let's duck in here for a bit." Luke motions to me as he leads Shelby and Dante into the National Gallery of Art. It’s rainy Saturday afternoon in the heart of DC and it’s the third time this year I’ve marched in protest of the new administration; today it’s for motherfucking science. Luke and his family are up from Fredericksburg for the demonstration with Dante riding his dad’s shoulders through the steady downpour. Even in the passenger position, Dante was getting restless so, after walking down Constitution, we make a detour into National Gallery of Art to escape the constant precipitation.
 |
| Dante and the dinosaur. |
The museum had always been my mother’s favorite of all the museums in the city so I’m able to give an impromptu tour of both wings, taking a moment to break from my own head as we take the tunnel in between wings of the Gallery. The underground connector always reminds me of a hallway from Empire Strikes Back and whenever I walk through it, it brings that childlike sense of wonder back with it.
As we exit the museum, the rain and the March has subsided somewhat.
“Got time for one more?” I smile gently as I motion to the Air & Space Museum. “It is a day for science, after all.”
Once we’re inside, I’m like a kid in a candy store talking about rockets, jets, and landers like I’ve never seen it all before; as I’m explaining things to Dante, it’s like I’m seeing it all with brand new eyes. Being Saturday, we run through some of the kids’ science experiments for the rest of the afternoon.
I’ve been invited to a couple parties that night but, in all the chaos of the day, this is all I’m really thinking about; the hope for the future, why we fight.
May
"Are you okay?" Dan asks as he observes me tenderly mount his wife's bicycle.
"Just promise me there's no bumps along the way, I don't want to come out of this trip half the man I used to be." I grimace as I begin to gingerly pedal towards him at the end of his driveway and we take off through the sleepy neighborhood.
I've known Dan since kindergarten and we came up through school, Boy Scouts, and summer swim teams but, truth be told, we didn't really become firm friends until the middle of high school, misfits that kind of found we lined up a lot more than we did in elementary school. He's lived in Charlotte since he finished college nearly a decade ago where he met Diane, who would go on to become his wife. They've been married for years now and are living that American dream: They bought a house, they have a dog. While I've certainly caught up with them since the wedding, this is actually the first time I've visited since they've been married. It's the only true vacation I take the entire year.
Diane is staying home this evening, tomorrow evening we'll attend a full on Harry Potter event at the Google Fiber building uptown. Tonight, Dan and I are biking to a barcade on the outskirts of the suburbs. The cool thing about Charlotte is that it's this hipster city that doesn't shy away from the fact that it's very much a Southern city but also embraces the more inherent quirkiness of younger generations a la Austin, Seattle, or Portland; a bohemian bastion in a sea of Dixie. Barcades, hip cafes, artisanal bakeries, and (my personal favorite) a boon of indie bookstores fill the city and cool social events happen all over town. Also, pedal bars full of young folks pedaling trolley cars through the streets while knocking back hard ones with Pitbull on blast. Never did that.
Anyway, Dan and I bike through the suburbs of Charlotte and wind up at the arcade, complete with a corner of the room decorated like a Stranger Things basement, various vintage consoles connected to the period-appropriate television set. We get a couple drinks, a fistful of quarters, and take to the various cabinets filling up the establishment.
"Are you okay?" Dan repeats as I set a record on BurgerTime navigating up and down ladders while eluding killer foodstuffs.
"I'm still standing." I grin. Dan has seen me go through everything over the years and he knows my bullshit. Probably better than I do. I maintain the grin but start to lose my lives in the game.
"Long year, man. Long year. I really needed this trip, Dan." I glance back at him as I enter my name into the machine to record my score. "Next round on me?" I smile again as I hold up a quarter.
Dan glances over at the Area 51 cabinet off to the side. "Been years since I beat Area 51." My smile gets wider and we walk over, two old buddies for one last ride against old pixels and cheap sound effects.
"Just promise me there's no bumps along the way, I don't want to come out of this trip half the man I used to be." I grimace as I begin to gingerly pedal towards him at the end of his driveway and we take off through the sleepy neighborhood.
 |
| Rides a little tight in the...well, you know. |
Diane is staying home this evening, tomorrow evening we'll attend a full on Harry Potter event at the Google Fiber building uptown. Tonight, Dan and I are biking to a barcade on the outskirts of the suburbs. The cool thing about Charlotte is that it's this hipster city that doesn't shy away from the fact that it's very much a Southern city but also embraces the more inherent quirkiness of younger generations a la Austin, Seattle, or Portland; a bohemian bastion in a sea of Dixie. Barcades, hip cafes, artisanal bakeries, and (my personal favorite) a boon of indie bookstores fill the city and cool social events happen all over town. Also, pedal bars full of young folks pedaling trolley cars through the streets while knocking back hard ones with Pitbull on blast. Never did that.
Anyway, Dan and I bike through the suburbs of Charlotte and wind up at the arcade, complete with a corner of the room decorated like a Stranger Things basement, various vintage consoles connected to the period-appropriate television set. We get a couple drinks, a fistful of quarters, and take to the various cabinets filling up the establishment.
"Are you okay?" Dan repeats as I set a record on BurgerTime navigating up and down ladders while eluding killer foodstuffs.
"I'm still standing." I grin. Dan has seen me go through everything over the years and he knows my bullshit. Probably better than I do. I maintain the grin but start to lose my lives in the game.
"Long year, man. Long year. I really needed this trip, Dan." I glance back at him as I enter my name into the machine to record my score. "Next round on me?" I smile again as I hold up a quarter.
Dan glances over at the Area 51 cabinet off to the side. "Been years since I beat Area 51." My smile gets wider and we walk over, two old buddies for one last ride against old pixels and cheap sound effects.
June
I shift uneasily in my seat as I grab a small plastic Crystal Lake bottle to soothe my voice after a night on the town with several writers and artists I've befriended from the podcast and working comic shows around the country. While it's the second time I've had some professional involvement with the DC comic show (imaginatively dubbed Awesome Con), this is the first time I've been invited as a panelist here for the hometown crowd. Being in a celebratory mood last night, I had led my visiting friends in an impromptu bar crawl around Gallery Place ending the night at an Irish pub smack dab in the middle of Chinatown where I sang along with a cover band until the odd hours of the night hitting everything from Green Day to The Rolling Stones.
I'm not so much hungover as I am with a busted voice which, as a panelist, is arguably worse. The panel is about diversity and representation in the comic industry, organized by Marvel writer Jeremy Whitley. As someone that interviews people regularly, I let the other panelists and Jeremy take point chiming in whenever there's something that really jumps out but I'm not looking to monopolize the mic. As the panel winds down, I spot my dad out in the audience; he's never seen me work a comic show before.
"I know we've been shitting on the comic industry and how it can and should do a lot better when it comes to representation...but let me say something positive that had an effect on me." I begin as I lean back into the mic. "Growing up, my family would watch Lois & Clark every Sunday night. And the fact that Superman on that show was half-Japanese and it didn't seem like a big deal at all was huge for me. The guy that made that possible is right there. That's my dad."
It happens to be Father's Day.
I'm not so much hungover as I am with a busted voice which, as a panelist, is arguably worse. The panel is about diversity and representation in the comic industry, organized by Marvel writer Jeremy Whitley. As someone that interviews people regularly, I let the other panelists and Jeremy take point chiming in whenever there's something that really jumps out but I'm not looking to monopolize the mic. As the panel winds down, I spot my dad out in the audience; he's never seen me work a comic show before.
 |
| Hometown crowd. |
It happens to be Father's Day.
July
"Order up!" The man behind the counter calls looking right at me because it's 9:30 on a Tuesday morning and I'm at a Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of San Diego; not exactly a lot of clientele at this time of the day. To Sombrero's credit, they open at 6:30 in the morning for the breakfast burrito crowd but, by now, all of them are already at work.
I'm not here for breakfast burritos. Every time I find myself in Southern California, I have to get some fish tacos. What led me to Sombrero out in Mount Carmel specifically instead of any number of Del Tacos that line the highways between Joshua Tree and San Diego is that one of my favorite bands in the whole wide world is blink-182 (I might've mentioned that on here in previous posts multiple times). During their peak years (At least for me back in high school), they recorded in a studio up the road in Escondido and would constantly eat at Sombrero in between sessions; this was more than me just sating my craving for fish tacos, it was a bit of a musical pilgrimage.
I sit down with my pair of fish tacos, steak quesadilla, and side of pico and recline gingerly behind the table. I've just spent the past long weekend out in the Yucca Valley just walking miles out into the desert everyday taking in the beauty of the landscape while facing that quiet that drives me up the wall head-on. It was cathartic but in that July heat, a couple times I stripped down just to jeans and that black cowboy hat, toes in California sand while the summer sun beat down on my bare back.
What I'm trying to say here is I got sunburned like a motherfucker.
After my full-bodied Sombrero's breakfast, I climb back into my rental car and wrap up that last little bit of driving back into downtown San Diego to meet up with the rest of the Image crew. I sheepishly pull back my borrowed Corolla back into the rental dealership at San Diego International. Pristine when I first took it out on the open road Saturday evening, the long drives and driving through unpaved dirt roads full of sand and tumbleweeds had taken a visible toll. Also, I totally ate a curb when I parked at a place in the town of Joshua Tree to get some pizza. Probably didn't do wonders for the paint job. As I grab my messenger bag, packed to the brim with a week's worth of clothes, in one hand and my cowboy hat in the other, I give the attendant the keys back and glance back from a safe distance as he stared at that front bumper. I might have walked a bit faster after that.
I take the escalator back into the airport and checked out the arrival listing; Jake would be the first one in town and he'd be landing within an hour. I sit by his baggage carousel, pull my hat over my eyes, and begin to doze off. I came to with a rumble from my phone; Jake texting me he was getting out of his terminal. I yawned and grabbed a quick cup of coffee which I drank quickly, scalding my tongue a little; small price for the need to wake back up. As I toss the emptied paper cup into a stray trashcan, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
"I see you've come back evil." Jake calls. I turn and shake hands with my old friend.
"Let's be real, man: I was always evil." I grin wickedly as we walk out of the airport into the city, the California sun shining through the palm trees lining the front of the concourse.
I'm not here for breakfast burritos. Every time I find myself in Southern California, I have to get some fish tacos. What led me to Sombrero out in Mount Carmel specifically instead of any number of Del Tacos that line the highways between Joshua Tree and San Diego is that one of my favorite bands in the whole wide world is blink-182 (I might've mentioned that on here in previous posts multiple times). During their peak years (At least for me back in high school), they recorded in a studio up the road in Escondido and would constantly eat at Sombrero in between sessions; this was more than me just sating my craving for fish tacos, it was a bit of a musical pilgrimage.
I sit down with my pair of fish tacos, steak quesadilla, and side of pico and recline gingerly behind the table. I've just spent the past long weekend out in the Yucca Valley just walking miles out into the desert everyday taking in the beauty of the landscape while facing that quiet that drives me up the wall head-on. It was cathartic but in that July heat, a couple times I stripped down just to jeans and that black cowboy hat, toes in California sand while the summer sun beat down on my bare back.
What I'm trying to say here is I got sunburned like a motherfucker.
After my full-bodied Sombrero's breakfast, I climb back into my rental car and wrap up that last little bit of driving back into downtown San Diego to meet up with the rest of the Image crew. I sheepishly pull back my borrowed Corolla back into the rental dealership at San Diego International. Pristine when I first took it out on the open road Saturday evening, the long drives and driving through unpaved dirt roads full of sand and tumbleweeds had taken a visible toll. Also, I totally ate a curb when I parked at a place in the town of Joshua Tree to get some pizza. Probably didn't do wonders for the paint job. As I grab my messenger bag, packed to the brim with a week's worth of clothes, in one hand and my cowboy hat in the other, I give the attendant the keys back and glance back from a safe distance as he stared at that front bumper. I might have walked a bit faster after that.
I take the escalator back into the airport and checked out the arrival listing; Jake would be the first one in town and he'd be landing within an hour. I sit by his baggage carousel, pull my hat over my eyes, and begin to doze off. I came to with a rumble from my phone; Jake texting me he was getting out of his terminal. I yawned and grabbed a quick cup of coffee which I drank quickly, scalding my tongue a little; small price for the need to wake back up. As I toss the emptied paper cup into a stray trashcan, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
"I see you've come back evil." Jake calls. I turn and shake hands with my old friend.
"Let's be real, man: I was always evil." I grin wickedly as we walk out of the airport into the city, the California sun shining through the palm trees lining the front of the concourse.
 |
| Going to California. |
August
When I have a lot to think about, I can't sleep; my mind just can't settle if there's something pressing going on mentally and that's what I need to relax for me to finally get drowsy. Sunlight shines through the windows of the AirBnB I'm splitting with Dan, Diane, my friend Brad, and his girlfriend Megan. What none of us except Brad knows is that he has an engagement ring stowed with him to pop the question to his longtime girlfriend. We're all at Whidbey Island for our friend Jay and Emily's wedding and are preparing for the Cajun-themed nuptials. It's that magic time right before dawn or, as I usually refer to it, a typical morning.
I walk downstairs tapping into that inherent ninja side as to not make the old wooden floorboards creak and wake anyone else up. I take a moment in the living room and look over the Scrabble still in disarray on the coffee table. I'm decent with words but fucking terrible at Scrabble with Brad roughly tripling my score. Nearby is a deck of tarot cards, I had idly done a reading between rounds of Scrabble much to the superstitious Brad's chagrin; it's not exactly Ouija, is it?
I quietly open a door and step out into the backyard and breathe the Pacific Northwestern air as I glance out over the Puget Sound. This is the third time I've been on the West Coast this year and the second time I've been in the Evergreen State. I'm trying to focus on what's keeping me awake this August in the early morning: I've got a birthday in a week that I've spread across multiple days because my friends are spread out and I want to make sure no one feels left out. The other side of that is I feel a little overextended. As much as a dumpster fire 2017 has felt at times, it was been running off the rails with entire months seemingly passing in the blink of an eye. Suddenly looking around and seeing it's in the last act of the year? That can be draining.
The sun begins to peek through the sunflowers in the communal garden; this is Washington, after all, so things are a bit more quirky and bohemian. There's a light mist in the air coming off the Sound and dew on the grass; going to be a hot day. Soon everyone will be up and moving around the island and the house so I walk back to the house. In a couple hours when the rest of the house is awake, I'll fry up some turkey bacon for everyone. I grin at the thought of it. My mother used to fry up bacon and eggs to wake us up when I was growing up. This morning I'll get the chance to pay it forward.
I walk downstairs tapping into that inherent ninja side as to not make the old wooden floorboards creak and wake anyone else up. I take a moment in the living room and look over the Scrabble still in disarray on the coffee table. I'm decent with words but fucking terrible at Scrabble with Brad roughly tripling my score. Nearby is a deck of tarot cards, I had idly done a reading between rounds of Scrabble much to the superstitious Brad's chagrin; it's not exactly Ouija, is it?
I quietly open a door and step out into the backyard and breathe the Pacific Northwestern air as I glance out over the Puget Sound. This is the third time I've been on the West Coast this year and the second time I've been in the Evergreen State. I'm trying to focus on what's keeping me awake this August in the early morning: I've got a birthday in a week that I've spread across multiple days because my friends are spread out and I want to make sure no one feels left out. The other side of that is I feel a little overextended. As much as a dumpster fire 2017 has felt at times, it was been running off the rails with entire months seemingly passing in the blink of an eye. Suddenly looking around and seeing it's in the last act of the year? That can be draining.
 |
| Pacific daydream. |
September
The September air is cool even though it's not quite autumn yet. It's Nicole's birthday and, after months of circling around the idea of getting the gang together for a karaoke night, she has taken the initiative to book the place. After pregaming at her and my old friend Alex's place we saunter over to the karaoke bar out in the H Street Corridor, giddy and tipsy all at once.
"I just want to sing Alone by Heart." our friend Trina declares, the tragic irony being that while in the middle of singing the song the private room reservation will run out and the sound will be cut out completely in mid-tune.
"Leaning towards Fleetwood Mac." Eric divulges; he's had a rough time of it lately and there's something about their 1977 record Rumours that just speaks to tumultuous relationships. Probably because the entire band was going through divorces and breakups of their own at the time.
"Sam, you're uncharacteristically quiet." Alex observes dryly.
"It's because he already has his whole set list worked out." Eric retorts.
I smirk. "You guys know me so well." They're both exactly right of course.
I like to lead off with Mr. Brightside by The Killers; instantly recognizable and a good vocal warmup that starts easy enough and ends on some sustained higher registers. If there's time, 80s songs are always good in a pinch and usually right in my vocal range. We carefully climb the stairs begin to settle in, it takes some time to figure out the audio setup but once we have it down, we launch right into a night of singalongs that gets the entire packed room dancing for Nicole's birthday.
"I just want to sing Alone by Heart." our friend Trina declares, the tragic irony being that while in the middle of singing the song the private room reservation will run out and the sound will be cut out completely in mid-tune.
"Leaning towards Fleetwood Mac." Eric divulges; he's had a rough time of it lately and there's something about their 1977 record Rumours that just speaks to tumultuous relationships. Probably because the entire band was going through divorces and breakups of their own at the time.
"Sam, you're uncharacteristically quiet." Alex observes dryly.
"It's because he already has his whole set list worked out." Eric retorts.
I smirk. "You guys know me so well." They're both exactly right of course.
I like to lead off with Mr. Brightside by The Killers; instantly recognizable and a good vocal warmup that starts easy enough and ends on some sustained higher registers. If there's time, 80s songs are always good in a pinch and usually right in my vocal range. We carefully climb the stairs begin to settle in, it takes some time to figure out the audio setup but once we have it down, we launch right into a night of singalongs that gets the entire packed room dancing for Nicole's birthday.
 |
| In between days. |
October
"Let's get the fuck out of here." Donny murmurs to me as the music volume increases to a deafening hum and the doors to the club are opened to the general public. The Skybound Entertainment party at this year's New York Comic Con is winding down with The Walking Dead publisher renting out a trendy bar in Chelsea for several hours. I chuckle to myself over the name of the Manhattan neighborhood and think of someone waiting for me back home as I put my jacket back on. After an open bar of top shelf drinks, I'm not as quick on my feet but follow Donny back into streets, the sun long having since gone down.
Donny is there with his buddy Matt and his recent fiancee who have just gotten engaged while on this year's annual Manhattan odyssey. Matt works as an artist for guitar gear manufacturers in his native Midwest but recently has been drawing the Punisher for Marvel for the past several months, his first mainstream break in comics. Donny leans against the brick wall of the club in his usual black cattleman shirt, a clear nod to his Texas roots having recently relocated with his wife to Austin from his native Garland. Similar to his friend, Donny has had a banner year in comics with his love letter to West Texas in the critically acclaimed God Country, signing exclusive to Marvel with Doctor Strange and Thanos now under his care as a writer. On top of all that, Donny writes the wonderfully weird Redneck about vampires in Texas and commissioned a line of t-shirts emblazoned with "Texas Forever", one of which he gave me in San Diego where we had first met. After the tragic hurricane hitting Texas, Donny had donated a month of royalties from Redneck and the shirt towards relief efforts.
I really like Donny Cates.
This New York is actually the first time he's ever met his art team on Redneck, artist Lisandro Estherren is based out of Buenos Aires. They met over some ribs in Midtown and got along instantly. I take a picture of Donny with Lisandro and the rest of the Redneck team in an alley next to club and Lisandro calls it a night (And with an eight in the morning call time, I should too) but this is the last major comic show of the year and I always push myself as far as I can go. Donny calls a Lyft and we pile in along with Matt and his fiancee.
"You know a place still open this late near the hotels?" Donny asks and I nod.
"Beer Authority. 40th and 8th." I tell the driver.
"Actually, do you know a place that has good pizza? We haven't had any the entire weekend!" Matt laughs.
"Two Bros. 40th and 9th." I sigh.
After our quick pizza detour, we duck into Beer Authority, my favorite watering hole in Midtown. It's getting close to two in the morning and virtually no one is at the bar as we post up. As I sip my last drink of a long night, my mind focuses on the song playing bit-by-bit. Acoustic guitar with a low capo. Pronounced bass. Dry drum fills. It's Satellite by Guster.
"Old memories?" Donny asks noticing my introspective expression as I listen to the song.
"This song has been following me this year. Always at a crossroads. I kind of have to glance up and wonder what I'm supposed to do next." I put down my pint glass. "Don't worry about me, Donny, you'll just wear yourself out. Nothing serious."
As the slide guitars fade out, a bouncy keyboard-driven tune starts up. Both Donny and I glance up at the speakers over the bar and immediately share a laugh. It's Wild Wild West by Will Smith.
"I shit you not, man, the pep band played this song at my grad school graduation." I snort.
As Will Smith raps about plot details from his worst 90s movie, the four of us laugh in an empty bar in Midtown Manhattan at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, the Punisher artist, his blushing bride to be, Marvel's newest exclusive writer, and a columnist and podcaster from Washington, DC.
Donny is there with his buddy Matt and his recent fiancee who have just gotten engaged while on this year's annual Manhattan odyssey. Matt works as an artist for guitar gear manufacturers in his native Midwest but recently has been drawing the Punisher for Marvel for the past several months, his first mainstream break in comics. Donny leans against the brick wall of the club in his usual black cattleman shirt, a clear nod to his Texas roots having recently relocated with his wife to Austin from his native Garland. Similar to his friend, Donny has had a banner year in comics with his love letter to West Texas in the critically acclaimed God Country, signing exclusive to Marvel with Doctor Strange and Thanos now under his care as a writer. On top of all that, Donny writes the wonderfully weird Redneck about vampires in Texas and commissioned a line of t-shirts emblazoned with "Texas Forever", one of which he gave me in San Diego where we had first met. After the tragic hurricane hitting Texas, Donny had donated a month of royalties from Redneck and the shirt towards relief efforts.
I really like Donny Cates.
This New York is actually the first time he's ever met his art team on Redneck, artist Lisandro Estherren is based out of Buenos Aires. They met over some ribs in Midtown and got along instantly. I take a picture of Donny with Lisandro and the rest of the Redneck team in an alley next to club and Lisandro calls it a night (And with an eight in the morning call time, I should too) but this is the last major comic show of the year and I always push myself as far as I can go. Donny calls a Lyft and we pile in along with Matt and his fiancee.
 |
| Donny and Team Redneck. |
"Beer Authority. 40th and 8th." I tell the driver.
"Actually, do you know a place that has good pizza? We haven't had any the entire weekend!" Matt laughs.
"Two Bros. 40th and 9th." I sigh.
After our quick pizza detour, we duck into Beer Authority, my favorite watering hole in Midtown. It's getting close to two in the morning and virtually no one is at the bar as we post up. As I sip my last drink of a long night, my mind focuses on the song playing bit-by-bit. Acoustic guitar with a low capo. Pronounced bass. Dry drum fills. It's Satellite by Guster.
"Old memories?" Donny asks noticing my introspective expression as I listen to the song.
"This song has been following me this year. Always at a crossroads. I kind of have to glance up and wonder what I'm supposed to do next." I put down my pint glass. "Don't worry about me, Donny, you'll just wear yourself out. Nothing serious."
As the slide guitars fade out, a bouncy keyboard-driven tune starts up. Both Donny and I glance up at the speakers over the bar and immediately share a laugh. It's Wild Wild West by Will Smith.
"I shit you not, man, the pep band played this song at my grad school graduation." I snort.
As Will Smith raps about plot details from his worst 90s movie, the four of us laugh in an empty bar in Midtown Manhattan at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, the Punisher artist, his blushing bride to be, Marvel's newest exclusive writer, and a columnist and podcaster from Washington, DC.
November
A large papier-mache skull gleams out at me from a small alcove behind the bar. It's been a couple weeks since Halloween but the upstairs bar at DC9 still hasn't completely changed their decor; that's fine, I can get down with skeletons. For a couple months now, I've had tickets to see Alex Lahey play here; an Australian indie rocker that has just put out her debut full-length album that channels surf rock incorporating some Tegan and Sara-styled synths. I haven't been to DC9 at this point in about a year and a half but I always loved how intimate the venue is. And to see a talented up and comer like Lahey here is huge; she could (and should) be selling out places like the 9:30 Club and The Anthem.
The opening act is Dude York, a post-pop punk trio from Seattle. They tear through their set with the sort of kineticism and reckless abandon that I love. I stand a bit to the left of the stage but I notice people moving around behind me to my right, Australian people. Alex and her lead guitarist were watching their tour mates amused while sharing beers. I also noticed that a significant portion of the crowd was similarly Australian. I had no idea there were so many Australians in DC. I guess this is where they have the meetings.
Lahey takes the stage minutes after Dude York with her lead guitarist, bassist, and drummer; Alex herself plays rhythm guitar. They tear right into their lead single, Every Day's the Weekend, this raw track with warm, overdriven guitars playing fast as they can melodies. A couple nights previous, the band had made their television debut playing the song on Late Night with Seth Meyers and you could tell they were still blown away by all that.
"It was all a last minute thing!" Alex confessed after wrapping the song. The environment was definitely cozy and familiar; owing a lot to the intimacy of the venue, the effervescent nature of their music, and the easygoing stage banter as Alex engaged the crowd in between songs; Australians are cool as hell.
What really struck me this time around is that DC9 really reminds me of the places I'd hang out and play at in high school or college like a basement party complete with shag carpeting on the walls. The fact that Alex was playing the type of music I was super into at the time (and forever) with heartfelt lyrics really drove that connection home. As Alex launched into my favorite song on her album, Awkward Exchange, I sat back and felt like I was back at those small shows I grew up on as the venue shone a deep purple with the synths fueling the heartbreaker of a bridge to the track. This is why I love rock and roll all in sixty minutes in a packed upstairs bar.
 |
| Everyday is Halloween if you try hard enough. |
Lahey takes the stage minutes after Dude York with her lead guitarist, bassist, and drummer; Alex herself plays rhythm guitar. They tear right into their lead single, Every Day's the Weekend, this raw track with warm, overdriven guitars playing fast as they can melodies. A couple nights previous, the band had made their television debut playing the song on Late Night with Seth Meyers and you could tell they were still blown away by all that.
"It was all a last minute thing!" Alex confessed after wrapping the song. The environment was definitely cozy and familiar; owing a lot to the intimacy of the venue, the effervescent nature of their music, and the easygoing stage banter as Alex engaged the crowd in between songs; Australians are cool as hell.
What really struck me this time around is that DC9 really reminds me of the places I'd hang out and play at in high school or college like a basement party complete with shag carpeting on the walls. The fact that Alex was playing the type of music I was super into at the time (and forever) with heartfelt lyrics really drove that connection home. As Alex launched into my favorite song on her album, Awkward Exchange, I sat back and felt like I was back at those small shows I grew up on as the venue shone a deep purple with the synths fueling the heartbreaker of a bridge to the track. This is why I love rock and roll all in sixty minutes in a packed upstairs bar.
December
I walk into the home studio in Nathan’s parents’ home. He’s gone on to become a music producer out in Los Angeles and has helped me make some inroads in the industry myself; gigs consulting music that I’m indebted to him for.
As soon as I cross into the room, breathing that air, I’m seventeen again; younger, goofier, angrier, more impulsive all at once. I look the guitars on the wall up and down in wonder.
“This room…this is where I learned how to play in a band...this is where I learned everything about recording.” I exclaim excitedly.
“Me too, dude.” Nathan nods, the man that channeled it all into a career in the City of Angels. “Nice outfit by the way.”
I had played a holiday open mic right before and those three margaritas I had to calm my nerves are starting to wear off. I was also playing a country-western set and am dressed like a discount Johnny Cash; I ditch the black shirt as the party begins in earnest sticking to a red t-shirt. The crowd is largely old friends since high school back in town for the holidays; an annual reunion where the booze and rock and roll flow evenly.
After catching up over a bonfire and some games of pool, I walk back into the studio with a rotating audience as I work through a whole set list on my own, a bit selfishly for myself, as the party descends into a bit of drunken shenanigans.
The way my memory works is if I get enough stimulus, I kind of flashback to the context of a moment and time that stimulus is tied to. Bruce Lee once remarked that every move should be full of emotional content and music absolutely works the same way for me; every song tied to its own memory as bright and evergreen as the last.
I start with Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust and it makes me think of hearing the band for the first time in first grade with their bouncing rhythm section and singalong refrains. Smile Like You Mean It by The Killers makes me flashback to bars in grad school after getting through a week full of dry reading and research-heavy writing. Angela by The Lumineers makes me think of loves lost to circumstance and divergence.
“Can you do any Disney songs? Can you do something from Mulan?” asks my friend Karina. I’ve known her since I was thirteen and she has had a rough year herself.
“I think? Key of E, right?” I reply and idly begin strumming an open E. “Mulan your favorite?”
“Number one!” she smiles excitedly as she begins to record it on her phone.
I wince slightly and look to the floor: I only know the first verse but what the hell, let’s give her a show. As the party winds down around, I find myself back to playing in the room where it all started in earnest for me in a full circle moment in the final days of 2017.
