apologies are in order, or they would be if I WASN'T MOVING ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY... aka Greetings from North Carolina!

I know, I know. I've been gone for two (or is it three?) weeks and you've suddenly realized how indispensable I am to your life. I, for better or worse, realized how much I actually like doing this blog, or weekly ranting/venting, however you like to frame it. But, alas, life moves pretty fast sometimes and I needed to stop and smell the roses before they passed me by. Oh, and I was busy going through, throwing out, selling, donating, burning, packing up into boxes then packing into a 7'x7'x7' POD (sorry, Relocube. U-pack, baby!) and figuring out how the fuck to fit the rest of what I needed/couldn't fit into the POD, sorry, Relocube (which was significantly less than I anticipated as waaayyy more fits into a 7'x7'x7' space than one would think), into the back of my car, which, by the way, I had to very quickly find as my previous car was suddenly unavailable to me. So, that was one week. Well, two pretty much, I guess, if I'm being honest. Turns out I had a lot of shit and I needed to clean house. I was so used to moving every couple years, and therefore, purging every couple years that I never really accrued "things." I just had a couple guitars, an amp and my Horicon Marshmen embroidered (says "Brad Wik" on the side pocket) gym bag that I got for being on the fourth grade basketball team filled with all my clothes/notebooks/etc. That was usually it. I would media mail any books, CD's (remember those? I do, turns out even though I've lost about 200-300 over the years, I still have about 600 or so; and that's not counting the 500 or so I have left of my first two albums, which I will be working hard to sell now that I'm out of the fucking black hole of a music scene most people call "Portland, OR") and DVD's (remember those? I do, turns out I have approx 350 or so. God, did I like to waste my money, and living space, on physical media... Oh, and speaking of taking up living space, I still have 200-300 of my vinyl records to sell too, which are in nice, carpeted Odyssey DJ storage boxes and have become part of my furniture, like TV stand and side table, until I find 200-300 new fans who still enjoy vinyl) and that was that. Simple. After 8-9 years in Portland (blech), I accrued slightly more "stuff." PA equipment, more guitars, my aforementioned CD's/albums for sale, T-shirts, etc. It all adds up very quickly and my back has been more or less sore for about three weeks now. I did get a Bear Mattress with Celiant technology (look it up, it's science and Tom Brady likes it) which is helping but I could still use some recovery time. Luckily, there's a pile of boxes staring at me right now from my new Charlotte-based apartment which need putting away. Wait, that's not lucky. Fuck...

Anyways, buried the lede. I'M IN FUCKING CHARLOTTE, NC NOW! That's right folks, I've moved all the way across the country and I couldn't be happier. I've lost like five pounds, been sleeping better, drinking less, and generally just assuming a much more positive demeanor. In short, life is good. What a strange thing to say, but it's true. I haven't felt this way since I left New York City over nine years ago at this point. Yes, it's humid. Yes, it's not a huge metropolitan city like NYC, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle, or any of the cities I've lived in before but I love it already. The people here (so far) are wonderful and I've felt a renewed energy towards making music again. I've even taken on producing a couple podcasts for work. I saw lightning for the first time in years last night. My apartment has central heating and cooling! Everything I need is within 10 minutes in any direction. Everyone I meet isn't in a fucking band. Beer tastes better (they're not all fucking Xtreme IPA's out here!). Burgers can be had for $5. There's ample places to play music where the people actually kind of give a shit. Weird Al is playing here this week! With a symphony!

I haven't unpacked my record player, CD player or speakers yet (Project Debut Carbon for those keeping score at home), nor do I currently own a chair (I'm currently kneeling on the floor whilst writing this) so it's still a work in progress but things are happening! I wanted to give a quick update since I've been gone for so long (has it been two or three weeks? For real, I can't tell time anymore) and here it is. I'll be back later this week with another blog to get things back up to speed but I finally unpacked my computer and felt the need to jump on here.

Talk soon, 

(dictated but not read)

2019 so far, Catsperger's and missed opportunities... aka... maybe 2020 will be better...

It’s June. Somehow, it’s already fucking June. 2019 is almost half over… Fuck me.

I was hoping to release an album this year. A solo record. I finally have all the songs written. I originally wrote about 15-20 or so songs for it, scrapped half and moved some into another project, then wrote about 6-8 more songs in the past month or so as the theme/mood/sound of the album changed quite drastically. At least I’ll have a fuckload of B-sides for some unknown future project..

I was hoping to make another music video or two for that album. But the album doesn’t exist yet.

I was hoping to do a summer tour. But the album doesn’t exist yet and I’ve been too depressed/distracted/busy writing to book shows to promote my current album.

I was hoping to record another project I am working on that is so fucking different from anything I’ve ever done up until this point. I wanted that album to come out next spring. I wanted to parlay the solo album and move right into a project that is thematically similar but in lyrical content only. The music couldn’t be more worlds apart. But I still haven’t finished the solo record, so this is getting pushed back.

I was hoping to make headway on the book I’m writing. I wrote the first 12-15 pages a while back and I loved where it was going. I have a number of stories that I feel very strongly and passionate about. But, life is getting in the way and I have two records to make.

I was hoping to get in better shape and drink less. I am in (slightly) better shape but my depression and dreams have ruined the second part, which in turn makes the first much harder.

I was hoping I would be out of Portland, OR by now. But, I’m writing to you currently from the PacNorWest (which nobody but me calls it).

I was hoping to finally getting around to building another shelf or two (I built one from scratch three years ago that I love as I got to pick the wood, stain color, size and everything since I built the fucking thing). But, it’s hard to build things in a small apartment and even harder when you have to keep your cat away from the area you’re working in for a whole week. Cats hate that. Especially since cats have Catsperger’s and only want to do the thing you won’t let them do. Like last week, when I was cleaning out my music room closet. Normally, my cat can’t wait to run and jump into the closet as soon as she gets a chance, slip, fall or get herself trapped by climbing into something she can’t get back out of (because she’s clumsy as fuck) and then panic and claw at my guitar amps/guitar cases/band merch/etc. She makes a run for it every time I open the closet door, then pouts when I won’t let her in. But last week, when I was cleaning and the door was open all day and the stuff was strewn about the room, she couldn’t have cared less about getting in there. Catsperger’s. Takes one to know one…

I was hoping to be less of a pain in the ass to the people around me. But, can’t say that I have been much better.

I was hoping to see my friends more often. But, depression and lack of money is getting in the way.

I was hoping to blog more often. But, once a week is all I can manage right now, for a variety of reasons.

I was hoping I would be less depressed this year. But, there’s nothing I’ve done to change that.

I was hoping I would look back fondly on 2019. So far, my best hope is giving up and rooting for 2020…

(dictated but not read)

dreams... aka... the worst things ever

OK, so I just found out tonight is not Monday. So, apologies (not really, though) for being a day late. Fuckin holidays throwing me off. I spent all of what I now know was Monday being hungover and watching baseball. It was as good a way to waste a day as I can think of, so…

But the thing I alluded to last week, only to never finish my thought, was how fucked up dreams can be. Until a few years ago, I didn’t know how fucked up mine were. I thought mine were the same as everyone else’s. Why would anyone assume their thoughts and dreams are strange compared to those around them? It’s not like guys typically talk about dreams that aren’t related to sex. But guys are mostly idiots, so…

To give you a quick backstory, I’ve been a huge fan of the movie “Inception” since the day it came out. First, Leo. Yep, anything Leo is my jam. “The Beach,” anyone? But second was the mainstream notion that dreams within dreams are a thing. I’d never seen or heard of other people experiencing this. Obviously, it was a story plot point to help create a crazy world but I never heard anyone else discuss dreams within dreams before. I remember bringing it up once to a friend when I was younger and he said he maybe had one like that but that I was probably fucked up for dreaming like that. The parts of “Inception” that particularly struck me were that the dreams played off each other (meaning something affecting one dream could affect another) and that death was the jump from one level to another. “Inception” made me feel more normal, if only a bit, and I loved it for that. I’ve been afraid of total darkness since I was twelve due to the inability to distinguish dreams from reality. You might see why below. Dreams are inherently evil to begin with but living in them for longer than necessary is torture. Read on…

But, the main part of the backstory is that I’ve been experiencing this for as long as I can remember. My earliest dream memories are of dreams I still have today. I’ve been having some of these dreams, on and off, for almost twenty years. And the hard part is they never get easier. They never get less fucked up. They never fuck with me less than they did when I was just a boy. I hope that by writing this out, maybe some of you will feel less alone and less weird and less fucked up about the dreams you have. It’s all I ever wanted from music and hopefully this blog can help as well. It can’t help you at 3am when this shit is kicking off full steam, but when it becomes too much and you can’t bear to fall back sleep and you are watching “Rick and Morty” reruns to pass the night away, hopefully you’ll feel less alone.

So, to give you an idea of what I’m talking about after all that gibberish, here you go. Here’s a dream I’ve been having since I was like ten years old and here’s how I experience that dream throughout the night.

Let’s say I go to bed at 1:30am, a pretty common bedtime for me. I’ll play on my phone for twenty minutes, catching up on the days news, then put my phone down and fall asleep. The next thing I know, I’m staring at a building that’s been hit by what appears to be an earthquake. I’m in the lobby, looking towards a stairwell. There is rubble all around me. The ground is still shaking. I can hear pipes exploding off in the distance and I can feel the heat of nearby fires. I hear the screams of people trapped in the building. I’m not sure who, but the (nondescript and non-specific) girl that I love is trapped somewhere in the building. I hear her voice off in the distance. I run up the stairs and towards the sound of her voice. I can hear the people around me screaming for help but I’m determined to save “her” before anyone else. BUT, if I beeline straight for her, I will die. A beam will collapse and fall on my head or a pipe will explode injuring me or the floor will give out and I’ll plummet to my death or a fire will engulf me and I’ll burn to death. I MUST save as many people as I can before I get to “her.” So, I grab a couple people on the first floor and walk them out of the building. I head back in and go straight to the second floor. I find a family there and persuade them to follow me out. We make it out just before their apartment collapses and is engulfed in the flames. I move towards the third floor, where I think my love might be but there’s too much fire. I try to soldier through but am slowly, and painfully, burned to death. I feel the heat. I feel my flesh give up and turn black. It is slow. It is painful. I can’t wait for death but it comes at its own pace. Finally, I pass out from the pain and exhaustion. Only to find myself… Back in the lobby. Take two.

I race up to the third floor to save “her” first. The stairwell collapses on me and I’m granted a quick death. After which I find myself… Back in the lobby.

OK, so rushing to save her won’t work but what is the best way to save all these people? I try starting on the third floor but not with “her.” I usher an injured woman and her husband down to safety. I then make my way back to the second floor and… BAM… a beam falls and knocks me out. I awake paralyzed and slowly burning to death. I can do nothing but inhale the smoke and pray for death but the fire isn’t quite upon me yet. I watch a family (mother, father, son and daughter) struggle to evacuate and eventually give in to fear and death. I wish that I could die so I could wake up. Finally, I drift off to death and… I’m back in the fucking lobby.

Let’s start with the second floor this time. The family makes it out safely. I get the “easy ones” on the first floor out with no problem. Now, it’s time for the third floor. The injured woman and her husband are there, cowering as the building is collapsing all around them. I lead them to safety outside the building. As I race back up to the third floor for “her,” I am struck by a piece of exploding pipe and some ceiling tiles. The stairs underneath me start to give way due to the extensive fire damage and suddenly I’m falling. I break both legs, likely some ribs and probably my hip and lay there bleeding. The fire and smoke is closing in all around me. Finally, I pass out from inhalation and die slowly. It’s almost a relief. BUT… I’m back in the fucking lobby again…

This time I race to the third floor. Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and let it fall upon my head. I’m done with this shit. I want out of this dream. The fire drops the exposed 12”x12” wooden beams and I wait for it to crush my skull, twenty or so feet below. It obliges and I will myself out of the dream loop.

I awake in my room, in my bed. My cat is asleep against my leg and there is no light coming in through the window. I shake myself awake so I don’t fall back into the dream. I reach for my phone and check the time. It is… 6am. Wait, that doesn’t make sense. At 6am, the sun should be peeking it’s head through the shades but it’s pitch black outside and in the room. I get up to go piss. I pee and start to head back to bed. Suddenly, I realize this isn’t right. Something is wrong. I check my phone again and it’s 2:10am… I’m not actually awake at all. I’m immediately back in the fucking lobby. I’m still in the dream…

And this can go on all night. I know they say dreams only take seconds but I’ve often fell asleep, fell into a dream cycle and woke up (for real) the next morning. The weirdest thing about these dreams is their video game like quality. I never forget what happened in the previous take. I just die and start again. So I can use the knowledge and strategies I tried to further my gains. Each attempt gets farther and farther or saves more and more people. It’s weird that I’m aware of each failed attempt. It’s also terrible. Some nights I can’t fight and I try to give up and die. I opt for quicker, more painless deaths since my “normal deaths” are so fucked up. But these quick deaths rarely do anything other than restart the dream. And since half the dreams are of me running from people who are trying to slaughter me in horrendous ways, that’s not always a good thing. Sometimes the best thing you can do is prolong each dream/death as long as possible so you don’t feel as much pain. I often wake up with sore muscles (and once a broken foot, still don’t know how) from these type of dreams.

Luckily, I don’t have them every night. Sometimes I even have “normal” dreams. But more often than not, this is where my brains goes while I sleep. I try a lot of nights to drink until I won’t dream, aka until I pass out, to avoid a possible all night torture session.

Look, I could go on all night about this (and it would keep me from having to possibly face it tonight) but I’ll end it here. If you have dreams similar to this or similar in theme, either comment or CONTACT ME and I’ll be your soundboard or confidant (Golden Girls style) as I know what you’re going through.

Well, “Rick and Morty” is calling me, so I will bid you a fond adieu.

(dictated but not read)

what?... aka so tired. so fucking tired...

depression is a bitch. i'm so tired. i can't even write tonight. well, it's more than depression. it's also lack of sleep. sleep is essential to life but some people, like me, can't sleep because they are terrified of having horrific dreams. i don't feel like dying a dozen times tonight. just like i didn't feel like dying a dozen times last night so i didn't really sleep. chappelle's show reruns helped me through but i now cannot feel emotions or life so i just want to sleep desperately but will likely barely partake. next week, or possibly later this week, i will give you a more in depth... thing, i guess, i don't know the word, on depression, on insomnia and the like. but for tonight, i'm gonna drink til i pass out. it's not sleep but it'll do for now. i can't take another night of dreaming/nightmaring deaths for eight hours. i can't wake up to experience the same dream for an entire night. a dream in which i am chased and murdered, or tasked with saving dozens of people from murder. i just can't. i just can't. i don't have it in me. luckily, there is a new season of "nailed it" on netflix and the new pup album "morbid stuff" is fucking amazing. i'll do that for tonight, again. it's better than sleep. well, better than horrific nightmares that still don't allow me to sleep anyways. fuck that shit. seriously. whole foods sourdough fresh baked loaf is delicious. so is woodford reserve bourbon. so are "corner gas" reruns on amazon. so are "martin" reruns on bet. i'm tired. so tired...

(dictated but not read)

allergies and hearing problems... aka... Meniere's is a bitch...

If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. It’s been a rough go the last couple months, as evidenced by my previous post, and this week was no different. But, it did, at least, give me something new to focus on: my newfound allergies.

Around Tuesday or Wednesday last week, I was finishing up writing a song (about being depressed and drinking too much with girls; so, new topic… ha…) and trying to record a quick demo on my phone when my voice started to go out. I didn’t notice it at first but some of the quiet parts didn’t come out right and my voice was raspier than normal, which is pretty damn raspy. I thought maybe I had overdone it on the rehearsing/writing that night but, alas, that was not the case. I thought perhaps it was the “burger flight” I had earlier (real thing by the way. 3 sliders in your choice of flavors at a place called Chow in Eugene, OR), maybe too much salt and cheese (Lactaids are a godsend). That shit will get you phlegm-y right quick. But, alas, that was not the case. Maybe it was the lack of water and the lack of a lack of bourbon, Wild Turkey 101 at that. But, alas, that was not it either. Fuck…

No, it was my new friend allergies. I never had a single allergy (outside of a shellfish allergy which isn’t really an allergy, but more of an “eat it and shit your pants” kind of deal) until last year. I became lactose-intolerant, allergic to severe dust and pollen, and allergic to whiny, passive-aggressive hipster fucks. OK, that last one was a lifetime allergy too. Well, more like AIDS as they didn’t exist when I was kid. AIDS did, but not hipsters. You know what I mean…

And, of course, my allergies got so severe it made me sick. Not quite as bad as last year when I also fully developed my gestating Meniere’s disease, thank god. That was a two month nightmare followed by another six months of waiting for another nightmare, which would happen sporadically and without warning. Fun. Fuck, that band sucks, sorry. But it actually was grammatically correct there. Fuck Fun.(.) (Am I supposed to add another period since technically one period is just in their name? How does that work? Fuck them for making me think this shit.

For those of you who have never heard of, much less dealt with Meniere’s, you are lucky fucks. I’m sure everyone’s experience is slightly different but for me it usually started with a slightly clogged ear. It just annoyed the fuck out of you, but was more or less harmless. But over a few days, it gets worse. Suddenly, you can barely hear out of your (right, for me) ear. It’s very disorienting to not hear out of one side of your head. (It’s more disorienting to not hear out of both sides of your head, like if you had a severe double ear infection and both ear drums popped. True story, but not for today.) It fucks with your balance, vision and sense of well-being. Slowly, that clogged ear builds pressure. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, one time for almost two weeks. Then, suddenly, it’s gone. All the relief in the world as your hearing returns and your balance is starting to realign… when… never mind. Vertigo. Sometimes you just need to sit down for an hour or two, sometimes a day or two. Once they gave me sea-sick patches which temporarily took away my near-sightedness, which for someone who is near-sighted, is quite debilitating. I couldn’t see anything within one foot of my face. That was fun. That’s the other fun thing about this all. There is no medication to ease your pain. Nothing they can do to help you prevent these attacks. Low salt diet, less alcohol and caffeine. That’s what I got. They offered blood-pressure medication but since I have normal blood-pressure now, it made it drastically low which made me nauseous and dizzy, which I already was. But, sometimes, the vertigo got so bad all I could do was lay on the floor and try not to throw up as the room would spin wildly all around me. It’s like being really drunk but without all the fun before. The only thing that helped at all was some 1/2 CBD, 1/2 THC oil. It centered my body enough to relax a bit. It calmed my stomach so I could actually eat something and keep it down. It was a life-saver on more than one occasion. I shit on Oregon a lot, but this was one time it actually helped me.

Oh, and sidenote on medication: it doesn’t work the same for people with Asperger’s as it works for non-Asperger’s people. That’s right. So even any medication is a crapshoot. Half the time it doesn’t do anything for me other than make me sick, so that’s fun. Imagine being prescribed anti-nausea medication only to find out it actually makes you more nauseous. I’ve tried being open with doctors about having Asperger’s and how medications don’t react normally for me and they always say it doesn’t matter and for some reason I usually believe them. Usually because for me to actually go to a doctor, I have to be close to death or on my way. I stayed at home and slept it off when my intestines started to bleed out the last time. I don’t need morphine and two (very expensive) nights in a hospital. I can handle pain if it saves me money when there’s nothing they can do anyhow. But, I’ve officially sworn off doctors. Not once have they ever told me something I didn’t already know but they usually pick the wrong thing, then just prescribe pills that make me sick. So, then my ailment remains and I also feel sick from their stupid fucking pills. Thanks Doc!

But anyways, I guess what I’m saying is that even though I feel like shit, it could be much worse. I’m not out of the woods yet, so maybe it will get worse (who knows?), but I’m gonna take solace in the fact (and knock on wood) that it could be worse. Look, I’ve even forgotten, temporarily, as it were, how fucking depressed I was last week (see previous post). Not that that ever leaves me, but it was good to not have to think about anything other than trying to breathe without coughing, trying sleep without coughing and waking myself up and trying to not interact with a single human being since I lost my voice anyhow. Not interacting turned out to be the hardest one for some reason. Seems like people always know when you feel like shit and that’s when they need you for something…

But, looking back on the Meniere’s (which I still have but - knocks on wood - doesn’t affect me but maybe once in the past year), I think the scariest thing was not knowing whether I could play music again. For a while, it seemed like I would never have normal hearing again. But, I finally put together all those times over the years when suddenly I couldn’t find a note, hear myself and felt like I would fall over and pass out at any minute. I always assumed that was too much drink, too much drugs, too much exhaustion (which it may have been time to time) but it was likely the Meniere’s just poking it’s head out and testing the waters. But, when it was bad, it was bad. I honestly doubted I could ever play again. And I’ve played shows with the flu, bleeding intestines, a broken thumb, a broken foot, a fractured ankle and a broken nose. I’ve played shows high, drunk and everywhere in between. But with vertigo and severe hearing loss? I did it, but I always remembered those shows. They were fucking awful. Awful for me, not very good for the audience (although I’m told only one time was it noticeable to the crowd) and must have been weird as fuck for the band. They probably just assumed I had partied too hard before the show. Crazy thing is, those were usually the shows I was straight up til the show, probably because I didn’t feel good and sensed the impending doom. I remember throwing up in the green room bathroom (never a good place to even shit in, let alone bury your face in) after a show and blaming it on the Korean barbecue.

But, all that started up with some allergies last year (and a couple car accidents. Not my fault, rear-ended at a red light both times, swear to fucking god). Well, I guess it didn’t start there, but that’s when it went from once or twice a year issue to once or twice a week I feel OK issue. So, fuck allergies, but fuck Meniere’s twice…

(dictated but not read)

depression and... fuck it... aka... four ellipses in the title, good writing...

Finally home for a spell, I spent the week trying to re-spark my creativity which had waned over the last few months. Well, to be truthful, it has come in and out for the last few years. Making and releasing my last album “In My Youth, I’m Getting Old…” nearly killed me, with its myriad of issues, near-lawsuits, in-band fighting, just to name a few. It nearly broke my will to make another record. It didn’t, of course, and I’ve been working on two projects on and off for the past year or two. On and off because I can’t quite figure out what I want to do, how I want the songs to sound and feel like, how I will release them, EP’s vs. LP’s, and how I want to play shows and tour going forward. I’m making some big life changes very soon, which will help but ultimately I have felt like I’ve been floating in an abyss creatively the past year.

It’s not as if I haven’t been creating some amazing music or stopped writing altogether. Since my last album was released, I’ve probably penned about 20 songs. Not all of them are showstoppers, but I’m in love with at least half, probably like 12-15. I’ve recorded, re-recorded, re-mixed, and generally fucked with them until I hate them and then started over. Something was blocking me from wrapping them up. Something, indeed. It was me…

Depression is not something that is easy to quantify. I have it I’ve been told (not that I really needed telling). But the hard part is how it ebbs and flows, so suddenly and so drastically. Yesterday, I spent most of the day recording some amazing takes with some beautifully fucked up sounds that I lavishly spent hours playing around with. I couldn’t get enough of just hearing myself play and sing the new songs. It felt like it was FINALLY starting to come together into something coherent. The guitars were the perfect blend of overdriven, delayed and chorused, murky and flowing, distinctly wonderful and responsive to my every nuance and I felt as if I could bathe in them all day. And I did. It was magical. I was so inspired and so sure that my next (solo) album would be wonderful and be the first to reach a mass audience. There are so many people who could easily love not only the sounds but the stories. The album is a deep dive into my depression over the years and some of its consequences. The songs are insanely personal (somehow even more so than my last two albums which were all true stories as well) and I cannot wait to share them. I was so proud as I strummed and sang my heart out onto the (digital) tape.

It made me feel like I was back to the old me for a change. But the old me was in these songs, sad and struggling, unable to understand what and why this was happening. Why was everything seemingly conspiring against him and his happiness? Why can’t he accept the good things in his life and stop chasing the chaos? Why can’t he muster the strength, energy and courage to be the best version of himself and love himself in the process? Why does he continue to surround himself with people who don’t care and will leave at a moments notice? Why isn’t HE writing these songs instead of continuing to live them? Would writing these songs help him at all anyways? Didn’t seem to help me…

Those were the questions flowing through my brain as I listened to the playback. I started to fall back into him. I started to drink, a lot. I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day. I felt sick. I got light-headed. I lost the will to continue recording (my neighbors probably appreciated it, though). I hated music. I hated everything. I decided to get drunk, eat some pizza and watch “Get Him to the Greek,” my movie version of comfort food. So, that’s what I did for the next two hours. And after that, I decided, it was best to keep drinking until I passed out because if I couldn’t bear to sit alone in my thoughts for another minute. I turned back into HIM. I knew it was happening but couldn’t pull myself out. I sort of didn’t want to. I wrote three new songs just this week. Maybe HE knows what he’s doing. Maybe that’s just the process. Maybe I need HIM. I wish I didn’t think that was true…

I was grateful the Brewers game went long (18 innings) so I could continue to waste what was once a super productive day. I reorganized some of my record storage boxes as I watched the game drift into the night. I then convinced myself to stop feeling sorry for myself, go to bed, sleep it off and I would record again today. I left everything set up and it was all ready to rock n’ roll. I got up this morning, groggy and a little hungover, but mostly alright after a couple cups of coffee. I turned everything on and strummed a few chords. I was going to start with the last song I tried playing yesterday but couldn’t quite get right. I got about halfway through when I realized I wasn’t really giving it any energy. It felt slow and sad, but not in the right way. Another song maybe. I re-tuned my guitar and found myself halfway through another shit take. Suddenly, I started to sweat. I felt light-headed. I didn’t want to do this anymore. HE didn’t want me to do this anymore. HIS stories needed to stay untold for another day. HE won, again…

When I broke for lunch (some leftover pizza and a beer), I felt better. “Pack this shit up and watch TV for the rest of the day,” I said to myself. The Brewers were on, playoff basketball was on later. Perfect way to waste a Sunday afternoon. So that’s what I did. All I wanted to do was get back in the studio (read: second bedroom) and continue to make beautiful sounds that made me feel so magical, like a musical wizard, for hours yesterday. But I couldn’t. HE wouldn’t let me so I spent the next hour convincing myself I didn’t want to anyways. I wasted a perfectly good Saturday night and Sunday on being depressed. What a weekend…

When I said earlier that I had been tinkering on and off with music for the past couple years, this is what I meant. This is what happens. I don’t know if the songs put me in a terrible place because of the lyrical content or because Portland, OR has burned my will to be an artist to the ground, pissed on the ashes and then dropped a fucking bomb on those piss-ashes. These songs are about my time in Portland. Maybe Portland is trying to keep these songs away. Who knows…

Writing those words just now, maybe that’s it. Maybe the songs reminded me of how shitty it is to be in Portland and then I got sad that I’m still here. That happens a lot. I get angry and sad at the same time. It’s a weird, shitty cocktail of awfulness. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say “Keep Portland Weird,” as in “keep making people who live there feel a weird sense of dread every day.” Something I’m a big believer in is energy. Like all things have energies, even cities. But Portland actually has a vacuum of energy. Everything in nature needs balance so the energy of its’ inhabitants flows towards it and away from them. That’s why everyone whose been here for more than a few years hate life. Every person I meet who is still bursting with energy is new to town. It’s one of the easiest ways to spot a recent transplant. They still care about life and stand out like a sore thumb. Maybe I’m just jaded…

If any of you have days like this, I feel for you. It sucks. It’s hard. It’s a fight, daily. But know that you’re not alone and, at least one person, me, is right there with you. They may not mean much to you but I know just knowing that has helped me feel more human. And know I have some music coming that may help you feel less alone and that other people understand your pain as well and you’re going to be alright. I just don’t know when I’ll be able to finish it yet…

(dictated but not read)

Taxes, Music Videos and Albums... aka the highs and lows of music

Now that it’s everyone’s favorite time of the year, tax time, I’ve been reflecting on what I spent my money on to further my music career in 2018. 2018 was a strange year. So was 2017… But that’s another story. 2018 was the year I made not one but two MUSIC VIDEOS, which is by far my best memory of 2018. If I could make a music video for every song I write, I would. But alas, they’re also quite expensive (even with our director taking on the duties, ha!, I said “doody,” of production, casting, editing, and lighting supervisor/camera work on “Luckey.” Kevin Pietila is an amazing man) and require an immense amount of pre-production, scheduling and luck (who thought it would rain in July?). I’m not sure I’m the best actor (though, I did do a pretty good zombie, I must say…) but I know I had a blast throughout both shoots. It’s been the most fun I think I’ve had making something in years…

Albums are stressful. They’re not fun to make (at least in my experience) as they are so personal, require so much energy, thought, time (in rehearsals leading up to, actual recording time, mixing, stressing about the mixes until your ears fall off and you’ve picked apart everything only to realize you should trust your mixing engineer more since he’s good at this and I have Meniere’s Disease and don’t always hear things accurately, stressing about which songs to put on vs. leave off, stressing about the order of the tracklist, the album art, the weight of the vinyl for pressing and pretty much everything else…) and, again, money. No album has truly sounded 100% like I had hoped going in. Though I believe that to be an unachievable goal. Each one has “felt” the way I intended but nothing can ever be perfect, even when the goal is imperfection like on “In My Youth, I’m Getting Old…”

I’m doing something no musician should ever do. It’s bound to drive you insane, which has started I confess. It’s a bonafide way to make you hate yourself, question everything you do and take way too long… But, I’m writing, recording, producing, mixing and art directing my next couple albums. I want to control everything start to finish (except mastering because I’d be wasting my time and energy since Ed Brooks can make my music sound eons, I know, a measure of time, not quality, but still, eons better than I could ever even dream of) and finally make something exactly how I want to. I’ve started and stopped recording the songs three times now, each time restarting with some new songs and new sounds. I think I finally have the group of songs and the sounds where I want them and am ready to do it for a fourth and final time. It’ll be a record for those who suffer from depression, loneliness, have Asperger’s or some combination of those three. No, you don’t have to experience those things (and I hope you don’t, except Asperger’s as there are some pretty great upsides since I’m not too far out on the spectrum) to understand and love the record. There are beautiful songs, stories and soundscapes to take in as well. There are also ugly songs, stories and soundscapes to absorb. It’s the first of three self-recorded/produced/mixed albums I have planned, including a project I’ve wanted to do since I was 18, which by the demos has been described as fun-but-depressing-folk-space-pop…

Anyhow, I’m in Phoenix enjoying some time with amazing friends so why the fuck am I still blathering on??

(dictated but not read)

Songs of the month... aka Women are fucking awesome; and so is bourbon...

As I sit here, trying to decide if I like Buffalo Trace bourbon and where it might fit in my family of bourbons (topped by Blanton’s, Buffalo Trace’s older, rye-ier brother), I realize that I cannot stop watching “Corner Gas;” that quirky, Canadian “Friends”-like show, except all the characters kind of hate-love each other. Brent’s mom is easily the worst character in the show, making her husband, Oscar, seem palatable by nature. Besides Brent, the main character, my favorite character is Hank, the dumb sidekick. He rarely is mean, cruel, sarcastic, vengeful, plotting or any of the other adjectives that describe literally everyone else. Anyways, maybe I do like Buffalo Trace as didn’t I already recommend “Corner Gas” on Amazon Prime? And when you’re finished with its 6 season, watch “Spaced.” My god, what an amazing show from the guys who did “Shaun of the Dead” (watch for some callbacks in “Shaun”), one of my favorite movies and my personal inspiration for my zombie character in the music video for “Let’s Go Out Tonight” along with “Thriller,” obviously. Wait, what am I talking about?



The past few weeks have been very trying for ‘ol Bradley Wik. I’m not sure what the root cause is but I’m sure it’s some degree of being back home in Portland, OR more the past month or the lack of motivation I’ve had to write/record new shit. It’s hard to describe what depression feels like but I’d say it feels sort of like be hungover everyday, with slightly less headaches. The malaise, the feeling of worthlessness, the stomach aches, the self-critique of being a lazy piece of shit, the counting down of hours until you can effectively put on your PJ’s, grab a glass of bourbon, lay in bed and watch reruns of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” until midnight then switching to BET for reruns of “Martin” until you pass out from exhaustion/booze. I always wonder how much should be attributed to the Asperger’s, how much to just plain ‘ol depression or how much to the lack of sleep/booze (Kanye advocated for the latter) over the years. Sound fun, right?



In good news, as I mentioned previously, I have my typewriter back in working order. It’s a Royal Quiet De Luxe (in case you give a shit about such things). It gives me such joy to peck away as I work through my backlog of songs that aren’t typed out yet. It’s been amazing to go back and read some of the lyrics from my folk songs. They’re equally entertaining and ridiculous and semi-autobiographical, somehow. I posted some a couple weeks ago, check it out HERE. I love to sit with a glass of bourbon (and sometimes a cigarette) and clack those keys. It’s a weirdly satisfying experience and a fun way to wallow in nostalgia.



Excuse the shitty quality (it’s not mine) but I couldn’t find a better clip of ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS EVER ON FAMILY GUY.



As far as music goes this week, I’ve been combing back through old Spotify playlists and here are the highlights:



“No Country” - The Jezabels



I’m not sure what to say other than this song get’s me misty eyed every time I put it on. The guitar flourishes sound like something I would write 99 times out of 100. I love trills and repeating lines. God bless Asperger’s, it makes music like math; which I also love.



“Antabus” - Makthaverskan



I think I spelled that right, jesus. Pure fun, and sadness. Incredible. “Fuck You. Fuck You.”



“We are what you say” - Dead Sara



Jesus fuck, what a fucking tune. Got to see Dead Sara not too long ago and motherfucker what a show. Incredible. I was fucking entertained from minute one until the high fives as she ran through the crowd at the end. Just fuck yeah.



“Cost of the Cold” - Joan Shelley



Fuck me sideways. Few people can pull off what Joan does on this song. I feel like I’m living in a different world while I listen to this. That’s the biggest compliment I can give. If a song can create an entire world where I can reside, without connection to my own reality for four minutes and not even realize that I’ve left. I hate coming back…



“Teeth” - Lisa Hannigan



There was a time (maybe I still do now upon revisiting) in which I led the coalition of those who found Lisa Hannigan to be the most attractive woman on the planet due to her combination of talent and beauty. This is such a Damien Rice-like tune that I can’t help but weep when I listen to it. I could listen to Lisa sing all day, every day; and look at her much the same. There’s a delicate pain and reactive anger in this tune I can’t get enough of. Not sure why I like that kind of thing, but boy, do I.



“Irene” - Courtney Marie Andrews



This song once saved my life. True story. I was driving back to Portland, OR from Boise, ID after a show and got caught in a snowstorm just outside Baker City, OR. I-84 went straight from drive-able to a fucking shitshow. I was sliding all over the road and could barely see. Of course, I didn’t have chains (growing up in WI, the city/state actually takes care of the roads and salts/clears the fucking roads). I was trapped between a couple semi-trucks so I could slow down or speed up too much as we weaved through the mountainous region, complete with various cliffs (remember: I will die by driving over a cliff. I’ve dreamt it so many times I know it to be true. It is my worst fear, but also a reality; but not on this day) and treacherous curves. Right before I got to this stretch of highway (which lasted about 100 miles and nearly 6 hours) I had set my Spotify to repeat on this song. Once I hit the rough patch, every time I reached to change the song, my car would swerve or I’d lose traction to remind me to fucking leave it be. I decided I would not go off the cliff or get run over by the semi-trucks who seemed intent on driving much faster than me but with far less control by focusing on this song and this song only until I was back into safety. Courtney Marie Andrews, without this song, I probably would’ve freaked out or made a driving mistake which could have led to my demise. Thank you.



“Ultrafluorescent” - Oshwa



Either I’m drunk or Squarespace’s spellcheck is fucking awful. It keeps flagging words I spell right motherfucker. I don’t get it.. But regardless, I can’t figure out why I like this song so much. I just do. I just do.



“Breakfast of Champions” - Rainer Maria



For those under 30, this is what the music of our teenage years sounded like. Perfectly beautiful, rough, melodic, angry, sad, hopeful and named after Kurt Vonnegut Jr. books. Brilliant. And one of the few bands from Wisconsin that kicked fucking ass. They were perfect for a moment and a place. And that moment is me and that place is wherever the fuck I am.



Just noticed every song is sung and/or written by women. Seems like I have a preference for my vocal presentations, songs and musical sensibilities. Anyone who thinks women don’t kick as much ass as (or more than) men can go fuck themselves. Just listen to these tunes and tell me different. Some of the best shit I’ve heard in the past couple years. I love it and I hope you enjoy these tunes. I don’t actually. I couldn’t care less, actually. God bless Asperger’s. God Bless Me. I think I’ve had enough pours to officially like Buffalo Trace bourbon by now. God Bless America.



(dictated but not read)

rainer maria look now look again.jpg

I'm playing a video release show in Portland, OR on Friday 11.9... aka everything sucks, unless it doesn't...

There are good days, and there are bad days. Sometimes, both in one day.  I started out having a good day but it has quickly turned into the opposite.  There's not even some event or something that happened that made it so; it just went shitty.  Maybe I was thinking about how Scott Hutchison killed himself and how inevitable that seemed.  Maybe I was thinking about Trump and all the bullshit (too many things to list) that goes along with that.  Maybe I was wondering why things were going well in my music career and tried to self-sabotage.  Who knows...  But, what I do know is that I try and remember the things I am grateful for in these moments.  There are innumerable things I can be happy about and I'm trying my damnedest these days to keep them in mind.


Take, for instance, the fact that I have a second music video (our first off "In My Youth, I'm Getting Old..." can be viewed HERE) coming out on Halloween.  It's for "Let's Go Out Tonight" and the video is, well, I won't give it away, but it's related to the ghoulish holiday.  That's pretty fucking awesome.


I've gotten lots of love and support for these videos; again, which is awesome.


I'm playing a video release show (my first show in a couple months) at the Lake Theater in Lake Oswego, OR on Friday 11/9 at 8pm. 

 

The director will be there to talk about the videos and we will be playing the videos on the big screen for all in attendance; and for all those not in attendance, though they won't be able to see them since they're not fucking there...


I just started doing side work as a podcast producer and editor, and just started recording a podcast myself about my latest album and what goes into, from a songwriting and just fucking life standpoint, making an album.


I'm beginning work on my next album, which will be a solo endeavor the likes of which has never been heard.  This is the most honest and personal album I've ever written (which is amazing in and of itself as all my songs are true stories. It’s easier than trying to make shit up) as it includes many stories about my depression, alcoholism, having Asperger's, suicidal thoughts (which I struggle with every day), fucking "Inception" style dreams, and other things which I struggle with constantly.  The goal of this album is to help those who feel these things daily, but also feel alone in their struggles.  Your struggles are not singular, and trust me, I get it.  I hope these songs help normalize and make you feel better about said struggles.


So many good things and I still can hardly function.  Sometimes, just the weight of life is too much.  I try and stay positive in these moments and remember that my original goal was just to help one person with my music in the way that music helped me.  I've accomplished that many times over but it's addicting.  I just keep thinking of all the people who don't know who I am who could benefit from feeling less alone in the world.  Asperger's took my ability to feel "normal" but that's OK.  I wasn't meant to.  I was meant to help others understand themselves in a way they haven't before.  Even the fucked up are "normal" to the other members of the "fucked up” party.  You are not alone.  I once stabbed myself in the arm because I didn't think I was real.  I get it.  I still feel like that sometimes, but have found healthier ways to explore that.


Music is magic.  But it’s also a struggle. It's given me everything in my life, good and bad.  But, I don't begrudge it either way.  It is what it is.  As Vonnegut would say, "so it goes."  Whether you make music or support and enjoy it, you are part of the brotherhood and sisterhood of music.  We are all in this together and we are all fucked up in the best and worst ways.  We are here for each other in a way that a lot of people don't understand.  When we need a hand or a friend, we know where to go.  Music hasn't "fixed" me and it won't.  But, it's given me a sense of being and a place where I can feel less alone.  That's all I ever wanted from it and that's all I can ask for.  It's not a god, but it isn't far off.  Thank you, music, for all you've done for me.  I hope I can do the same with my music for at least a few of you out there...


(dictated but not read)

Fuck Columbus, Fuck Portland, Fuck Depression... aka cutting and scars...

I just finished a new song.  It's ridiculous to talk about it since it won't be released for another year, but I love this song so much.  It's a song about cutting, which, unfortunately, I know a little bit about.  Now, to be sure, I've known people who've had extensive issues with cutting.  I dated a girl with more scars than I could count.  We talked about it at length.  She dealt with more than I could bear.  My experience with it is not on the same level and I'm not trying to compare but I can relate, in a different sort of way.  The reasons behind a person being in the mindset to do such a thing are varied.  I do not pretend to understand all, or even any, beyond my own.  And, I realize my reasons were not very common.  They were an outlier and therefore I'm not trying to compare my experience to others.  As I've mentioned, I've intimately known more than a couple people who have struggled with far worse issues.  I'm merely trying to say that I understand this issue more than most.  I've both internally and externally dealt with it.  I wish I hadn't (no one should) but the seed has been sown.   I can't undo my four scars, and I don't particularly care to.  I hold on to them to remind myself of what I can become.  It's not pleasant but it's not meant to be.  I relish the reminders of harder times.  They make me strive for the good times, regardless of how few and far between they are.  I try to keep the memories strong to keep myself on the right path.  Someday, I might tell the whole story, which is long and boring, at least to me, but for now I'll keep it simple:  I struggled with creating a dissociative disorder for myself.  I didn't think I was real.  Or, I didn't think the world around me was real.  I vacillated between those two realities; no doubt influenced by the intake of pain killers, Xanax and copious amounts of alcohol.  Also, the amount of self-hate and depression.  Moving to Portland was the single most tragic thing that ever happened to me, which, I know sounds ridiculous but it's true.  I was immediately depressed upon arriving but tried to associated those feelings with leaving New York City.  No city was ever going to live up to NYC, so I was just experiencing a normal drop off.  Not so.  I knew more than I could realize.  Sure, I started a band, made some albums, some music videos, enjoyed minor success and met my wife here, but the toll it's taken on me is irreparable.  I'll never be the same.  Frankly, I'm surprised my insides have only given out once with the amount of shit I've ingested to try and get by or enjoy myself or life.  Life hasn't been very enjoyable aside from getting married.  I've loved getting married but part of the reason is that I finally get to leave.  You see, my wife didn't feel comfortable moving with me before marriage, which is understandable given how shitty and undependable I can be.  But, Portland is the city in which I tried to murder myself, cut myself to establish the fact that I am a real being and thought about death multiple times per day.  It's not a place I will look back upon fondly.  I tried to kill myself once in Seattle too, but have nothing but good things to say about Seattle.  That is not the case for Portland.  If Portland were destroyed by a nuclear bomb, I would not only be OK, I would rejoice.  I have Asperger's so I don't really care about any of the people I don't know that would have died, and selfishly would love to see this place burned to the ground.  Good things may have happened as a result of this place, but the damage it's done to me and my well-being will never be rectified.  I will live with the literal and figurative scars forever.  I don't expect to outrun them.  I don't expect to get over them.  I don't expect to live happily alongside them, though I'm trying; especially now that I'm married.  Marriage for me was almost as much about self-preservation as it was about love.  I needed something to unselfishly live for.  Which is selfish as fuck, I suppose, saying it out loud.  My wife is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I felt guilty marrying her knowing full well I might kill myself.  I probably won't anymore, as she's unbearably wonderful and amazing and brilliant and beautiful, but I can't guarantee I won't.  I might do it by mistake.  There's only so much a liver can take, and all the drugs, alcohol and pills haven't helped.  Despite a massive cutback, the damage may have been done.  Although I feel like I might live forever given my not-give-a-fuck attitude, but maybe I'm wrong.  I haven't been wrong hardly ever, but it's possible I guess.  I hope Kanye is doing alright... I know he's taken a lot of shit for his SNL comments (which weren't aired, so he was right, black people do have to keep their thoughts to themselves...) which are semi-justified but not wholly.  He's not completely wrong on anything, he just didn't articulate his thoughts in a way that non-Kanye people would understand.  I get it...


Oh yeah, and happy Columbus/murdering, raping and enslaving indigenous people day.  Maybe that's why I'm so down tonight...  Fuck that Italian asshole.


(dictated but not read)

We used to be so full of hope, but it only weighed us down... aka well, that actually says it all...

Sitting here, in a hotel in downtown Minneapolis (I won't say which one but two trees are involved), I can't help but feel overwhelmed by the blessings I've been given in my life.  Here is a smart-assed, half-white, half-Native American, poor, depressed, borderline-alcoholic kid with Asperger's from Horicon, WI, population 3000, who was born with craniosynostosis, who has recorded and released two albums and played shows/traveled to every corner of this great country (current President and potential SCOTUS nominee, notwithstanding relative to the "great" part... Don't get me started... Thank you for not getting me started), and has now seen France as well, who has somehow married a beautiful, hard-working and brilliant woman, and is the proud owner of a cat.  Who would have guessed?  I'm probably not even halfway done and it's already been a BEAUTIFUL RIDE.  At 16, I honestly thought there was a good chance I'd work at the factory making Harley Davidson parts for the next 30 years like some of the guys there.  It was good work.  Those were tough, long days but the work was mostly mindless.  I got to dream about things like the Packers winning multiple Super Bowls with Brett Favre and then Aaron Rodgers, about the Brewers somehow besting the Cardinals and finally winning a World Series, about HOW BEAUTIFUL AND TALENTED CHARLIZE THERON IS, about where we were going to get drunk on Saturday night; all the good things in life...


But, then I decided to pursue my one true love:  music.  And things got much more complicated.  I wish I wanted to be something more practical like, say, an accountant.  For that, you go to college, then take CPA classes, pass some certifications/tests and BOOM, you're an accountant.  Or, say, a welder.  Again, you go take classes, pass some certifications/tests and BOOM, you're a welder.  But there aren't any classes to become a successful musician.  There's no established plan or path to follow.  Everything you do is based on your gut and the hope that you're not wasting your time/money/energy/soul/youth/etc.  Every decision feels like the exact right thing and the exact wrong thing.  Every musical choice, every email or phone call, every show, every setlist, every recording, every t-shirt design, every press photo, every promoter you hire and even every blogpost.  It's all the best and the worst thing.  It's all worthwhile and a complete waste of time.  


So many people say the same thing when they find out I'm a musician (someday, I'll be famous enough to where they won't have to ask...):  "my (insert:  cousin, nephew, niece, brother, sister, best friend, neighbor) is a musician too."  And when they find my albums on iTunes or Spotify, it's:  "my (insert:  cousin, nephew, niece, brother, sister, best friend, neighbor) has an album too.  Isn't it great how easy it is to make one these days?  I've heard it's really cheap and easy to make an album now.  How much did your's cost?"  The answer is always shocking...


"All in?  $25-30K.  Which doesn't cover all the costs probably but that's a good ballpark, I guess."


"..."


My musician friends and I talk about this topic incessantly.  Why do we do this to ourselves?  Why do we put all of our time/money/energy/soul into something that will maybe break even or possibly lose money?  Because of the single strongest human motivator, and the single worst thing ever (see, that damn theme again.  Maybe it's just my "I GO TO EXTREMES" Asperger brain, but seems like this is just the fucking deal):  hope.


I have a line in a new, unreleased as of yet, song:  "We used to be so full of hope, but it only weighed us down..."


Hope is strong enough to make us do anything, against, or maybe because of, our better judgement.  It's the most powerful thing a person can have.  It can also be the most destructive.  I've nearly died twice because of it and the terrible hurt it can bring.  But, I'm also still alive because of it.  My life has a (thoroughly destructive) purpose because of it. It's why I can get through all the meaningless bullshit everyday and still have the wonderful night when I pick up a guitar.  It's why more nights than I should admit I drink myself to sleep trying to numb the hurt of all my broken and failed hopes.  But it's also why I get up and do it all again each day.  Some nights I wish I would lose all hope so I could get on with my life, but what kind of life would that be?  What would it look like?  What would I do?  Watch baseball and drink beer all day?  Would be fun for a while, but what about after that?  Sure, the Brewers are in the NLDS and the Cardinals can't knock us out this time, but even the World Series only takes you through October.  Then what?


Seems like a terrible cycle.  Hope leads to excitement, which leads to disappointment, which leads to sadness, which leads back to hope.  What's a boy to do?  Sometimes it all comes together, like in the song "Lookin' at Luckey" and my new music video:


But sometimes it doesn't.  Sometimes it goes horribly wrong.  Then what?  Hope.  It'll probably lead to sadness, again, but what if it doesn't?  What if this time is the one where everything goes right?  What if the right song hits the right ears and the right things happen?  Maybe, it could...  And that's the poison...


(Sorry, it's too late to proof read this.  Accept it as is...)

Belated posts and apologies... aka I'm an asshole but I'm back...

Fuck.  I'm sorry.  Goddamn two weeks in a row...  What an asshole.  Well, yeah and you knew that coming in here.  So, it's kind of your own fault.  I was doing so well but it's hard to write on a plane when you're tired as fuck and as soon as they announce there is no wi-fi you use that as an excuse to just fall asleep.  Which, I realize now doesn't make any sense but that's the beauty of Asperger's:  when something doesn't go according to plan it ruins everything, and thusly, I missed a week.  Side note though, it's weird that wi-fi on plane in only an invention of the past few years but now I was pissed when I didn't have it because it (not really) screwed up my writing of a blog then watching "CHIPS" as I flew through the skies like our ancestors could only dream of.  Jokes on the them, I watched "CHIPS" on my flight home, muthafuckers!  It wasn't worth it...  I goddamn love Dax Shepard, especially in "Employee of the Month."  I know, fucking Dane Cook, right?  But, that movie does ring true for anyone who ever worked big box retail, myself included.  I didn't have Andy Dick for spot comic relief but we did alright in the humor department.  Always thought that would be a great comedy show until I saw "Superstore."  But, I guess that just means that I need to kick my story into high gear.  Maybe it's time to fuck off this music thing and get to writing...  Maybe not yet.  But soon, maybe.  But, probably not.  But, Netflix is buying up fucking everything.  But, I'm still too young for that.  Or am I?

 

Anyways, I had to re-up(load) my video to youtube so I'd appreciate it if you CLICK ON THIS OR THE BELOW LINK to watch and make sure this comes up before the old/taken down version on google.

 

 

Editor's note:  Since I failed in my task of writing this every Monday, this next paragraph is old.  Thoughts from the Super Bowl...

 

Congratulations to THE "FINE" PEOPLE OF PHILADELPHIA on their Super Bowl win.  Fucking Nick Foles...  That muthafucker just made himself a lot of money, Joe Flacco-style.  All it takes is one great playoff run and BOOM some team will regret paying you for years to come...  But, he goddamn earned it.  I honestly thought the Patriots would win until their was :00 left on the clock.  I thought Doug Pederson made some terrific, and ballsy, calls during the game (going for it on fourth down multiple times, including on the one-yard line) and also made some horrific decisions I was convinced would come back to bite him in the ass (the two failed two-point conversion attempts).  I was so pissed Collinworth and Michaels weren't making a bigger deal out of the the lost two points which allowed the Patriots to have a chance at the end to tie it with a TD and a two-point conversion, just like last year.  I have no clue why they were points-chasing and fell into the two-point death spiral which was completely unnecessary with so much time left in the game.  I know Pederson loves to be aggressive and it, somehow, didn't come back to bite them in the ass but I really thought it would.  Either way, lackluster performance by both defenses and Justin Timberlake.  JT did... fine.  It was good and he had a cool stage setup but without bringing Janet Jackson back out which would have been his "holy shit" moment, the whole performance was good but not memorable.  He had a chance to go down in history by bringing Janet back to reference the moment that changed live broadcast TV forever and he played it safe.  Congrats on being the performance I'll forget in the near future just like...  well, all the performances in recent history not including BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CROTCH SLIDING AND SLAMMING HIS DICK INTO AMERICA IN HD and, I don't know, maybe U2's performance way the fuck back in 2002.  Get it together NFL and Pepsi and get some good shit for us again... Boo...

 

OK, old shit over.

 

Holy shit, "The End of the Fucking World."  That's it.  What a show.  Show recommended and show loved.  Touche Netflix.  You've done it again.

 

It contains some of the most fucked up moments apart from THESE ON BOJACK when BoJack confronts a friend who's dying and almost sleeps with the underage daughter of a former crush.  Man, is there anything on TV better than BoJack?  The answer is no.  BoJack is the greatest show since Arrested Development and we'd probably be saying "since Seinfeld" if not for BUSTY'S "HEY HERMANO."  Sure, THIS RICK AND MORTY MUMFORD AND SONS JOKE COMES CLOSE but doesn't quite reach the heights (or depths) of Mr. Horseman.  So it goes...

 

If you couldn't tell, it's been a fucked up week.  Things have been good but that doesn't really mean much to someone suffering from Asperger's and depression who probably drinks too much and LOVES TINY RICK AND ALSO LISTENS TO TOO MUCH ELLIOTT SMITH.  Bonus points for Rick and Morty.  I may be "getting too old for this ship" but I still enjoy a solid funny/depressing reference, especially one referencing suicide.  Whoa, that shit's dark.  Sorry, y'all.  But, wait til you GET INTO THIS INTERVIEW WHICH I'VE BECOME OBSESSED WITH.  It's been eye-opening and comforting.  The openness during this interview is mind-blowing.  Music is not for the well-adjusted...

 

I apologize for not being present during these past couple weeks, but it's been harder for me than you, so fuck off.  Anyhow, I'm hungry and tired...  I know after two weeks you were looking for something grandiose and exciting but this is what you get. So, goodnight, y'all...