Long Lonely Drug

Rock and Roll.

The words are my wingman,

my friend,

my brother.

My affirmation of the present situation

always with a smile of stale beer and crooked teeth. I look at the inbox, the traffic, the fever and when I turn to myself I can mischievous grin rock and roll. The car is started the sunglasses are on the girl is in the passenger seat and

I hear rock and roll.

41 minutes.

That's the best weekend in the world, isn't it? It's the only thing that does the trick these days. There's no upper

or downer,

smoker or drinker, just a setlist and cymbals turned into lightning lava.

As long as the aud1ence has one person, 1t doesn't matter 1f they're alone or 1f they're wedged 1n w1th a hundred and fifty others.

And Saturday night was one for the record books:

I had a moderate fever, a bandaged hand, blistered fingers and a fiery throat. I was zombie tired from insomnia, sick from dinner and anxious as hell about the people staring up at me. I forgot my snare drum.

Frantic.

Manic!

I called my roommates and begged them to get into the cab I called moments before. "Tell the driver it's life or death." I promised to pay moments before realizing I was dead broke. Scrounging together fifty bucks from every person who knew my name was embarrassing and exhilarating.

(Fuckin shameful.)

And then, down the block, a black car racing the wrong way down the street...

.esrever ni

I ran to greet my drum and my roommates-turned-saviors. The show started and it ended. Sticks broke, strings bent and voices cracked and I just wanna say it, say the words, say it sayitsayitnowsayitohgodsaythewordsyessayitsayit

And now it's Monday. Monday is a state of mind not unlike "old man." A sunny Wednesday can be a Monday if a bird shits on your shoulder. My hand hurts more than it did last week, the pile of work at my desk had babies and

my watch is broken.

My bike is broken.

My girlfriend is gone.

The veggies have rotten.

Maggie is sick.

Peter's not gonna make it.

wait, too far, lost my concentration

oh yeah

The subway costs more and my meds are terrified of my anxiety. And yet for forty-one minutes on Saturday night, I was a God.

Say it out loud as you read it try it on don't be scared it won't bite but it might fuck your face

Rock

and

Roll.

And we're back!

That was certainly an interesting few weeks. Depression, anxiety, Efia, roommates, drinking, work, drums, falls, movies, wedding, sweat, composition, sleep, couches, Mets and post-it notes abound.

The transition from a high school life where the world made sense and the path was narrow onto an adult life where nothing seems real and the path is a desert.

Very few things have choices associated with them: I'm not going to quit my day job. I'm not going to leave my band. I will make my lunch at home most days. I think that perhaps college gave us all a preview of the lack of choices. Amidst being able to party all the time and go out every night and choose any major we wanted to, we never noticed that the dining hall closes, departments only offer certain classes every semester and friends come and go like October leaves.

And love hates choices. So you're not allowed to make any. In love, out of love. You don't get to watch all the movies you hoped to. You won't get to pick the restaurant. Most importantly, love will grind logic and reasoning into a fine paste to garnish your baked potato. Tastes good but it's not the steak. Reassurance! If you can't control it but can't escape it, then you don't have to worry about it.

Keep riding the ride. Life is a crazy parade. Four years, three months, eighteen days. "Efia, me yire, me do wo paa."

A quick note

Monday was the highest point of both my life and my career so far.  Since the two are magically held together with Music, the highs and lows of one always correspond to the other.  I want to talk all about it but haven't had the time to sit down and write it all out.  I will, however, give you two points:

First, last week was terrible (as you can see from reading my entries about breaking points and Victoria Asher).  This week was amazing, exclusively due to Music.  Next time I feel so down, I'll have to remember that as my beautiful sister Jen says, "Life is a crazy parade."

Second, I was asked last Saturday after stepping off the stage, if I enjoyed playing the drums.  Anyone who's ever seen me play knows the answer to this, or so I thought.  In any event, people match their instrument.  Most trombonists are intelligent, most french-horn players are unique and most trumpeters have a fantastic sense of humour.  If I had my way, I'd love to play a flute based on it's size compared to a drum set but I'm not a flutist, I'm a drummer.  The drums are my most direct connection to Music.  They are the building blocks for the bridge to Music as well as the shoes that let me dance with and mold Music.

To answer the question: yes, I enjoy playing the drums.  More importantly, they allow me to expand.  They help me excavate the energy of my surroundings and reshape it into whatever I choose.  There is no other instrument or method of communication that would allow me to express myself so fundamentally.  They are dynamic and beautiful and deeply rooted in human history.  But above all else, I love the drums because they chose me.