Emo is shit. You want emotion? Listen to real fuckin' country.

Current Music: The Flying Burrito Brothers - Hot Burrito #2

My Old Man

One of the greatest fears I have is that some day, I will turn into my father. Yep, I’m going to be that cranky old bastard Randy Brewer one day, and it scares the crap out of me. Here’s why: Randy Brewer is a son of a bitch.

All of the events that I remember the most from growing up involve me and my dad. Sometimes they were good ones—happy times, right? I mean, I am the way I am because of my dad—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But there are times when I wish it did. I wish it fell into the next yard, or the next town. Because for every good time I had with my dad, there were five bad ones—awful ones.

I was a snotty little punk when I was younger. Any dad would hate me. I was whiney, I was mouthy—I was that stereotypical teen that knew it all. And one time I had gotten into a war of words with my mom, over what I don’t remember. It’s not important anyway. What is important is that my dad was always the judge and the jury presiding over us. And his judgment, on this particular day, after I called my mom a bitch—a comment which I couldn’t even believe came out of my mouth that day—was that I needed a good smacking. So I got one in the side of the head, and my ears rang and bled for days.

Listening to the music of my dad’s right hand was a special occasion that day. But it wasn’t the first occasion. The earliest time I remember was when I was four. My brother and I were home one night with my dad—mom was at work. We were bored. Now, I don’t know how normal kids are when they’re four, but I had this fascination with toilets. I mean, the streaming, the swirling, the gargling noise at the end—it was one sophisticated machine. Well, this particular night, someone had plugged the toilet, and I went to flush it and watch that beast in action. But there was no action—my world was turned upside down. What the hell is wrong with this thing? So I flushed it again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Why are my feet wet? Because I flushed the toilet so many times that it was flooding our bathroom, seeping into the cracks of the tile, poop washing ashore on the carpet. My brother and I freaked, and ran to our bedroom, slid under our beds, and waited. And then it came. “What the hell did you two do? Are you stupid or something?” Yes, Dad, we are stupid. You repeatedly tell us that we’re “as worthless as tits on a boar.” What did you expect? Well, what we expected when we slid under our beds came. Except the old man couldn’t reach me. I was smaller than my brother, and was way back in the corner. So my dad got a hold of my brother by the arm, drug him out from under the bed, and oh, sweet deliverance came.

My dad had a heart attack five years ago and he nearly scared me into cardiac arrest as well. You would think I’d be happy if the old fart keeled over, but I was terrified because despite all of the crap that happened, my old man still was a great dad in other ways. Like the times when he and my mom fought and he wanted to leave her but stayed for his kids. Or all the times he took me hunting and fishing and played sports with my brother and me. Or the time he saved my life when I was one and nearly choked to death. I never thanked him for any of that.

I can’t thank him for the times when he saved me from myself—when he rushed me to the ER because I O-Ded on vicodin; or the time when he drove two hours to pick me up from a Willie Nelson concert after I had too many shrooms and had a panic attack. I can’t thank him for the birds and the bees talk—“Just keep your dick in your pants”—I don’t have kids yet, Dad. But I can’t thank him for any of it, even when he almost died, because all the bad times overshadow it.

That’s why I’m terrified of turning into my old man. I don’t want my kids to be overwhelmed by my maladjustment to fatherhood. I want them to be able to say “thanks dad,” and “I love you, dad.” If only I could just select the parts of my dad that I want to bring to the table. Because, truth be told, I don’t think I could have made it this far on my own, but that’s something that my dad will never know.

Current Music: Elvis Presley - That's All Right

Well past 3 A-M
Sleep is hard to find these days.
And on a night like this
When all has turned to cold
I've been searching for so long.
All I want to do is grow old
With you.
I've stumbled around the block;
Nothing's ever made me stop
Nothing has caught my eye
Until now:
I've never been much for window shopping
But I saw you looking out and I saw me standing there by your side.

Current Music: Johnny Cash - It Ain't Me Babe

Or so he says.

Ryan Adams once said of his band Whiskeytown that “We were supposed to be the alternative country Nirvana. I guess I was supposed to hang myself with a banjo string.” Yet, here we are, twelve years later, and Ryan “Kurt Cobain” Adams is still alive and kickin’, writing more great tunes in a decade than most writers produce in a lifetime. And most surprising of all is the fact that almost all of them have been acclaimed by critics. I mean, Ryan was the “new Dylan” long before that brat Bright Eyes was the “new New Dylan.”

That being said, Ryan Adams doesn’t sell records. Universal Music is probably cutting him from the roster as we speak, but hell, who else really cares? Ryan doesn’t. Most bands release an album every three years, and then they just tank anyway. In 2005 alone, Ryan released three albums, in three different genres, each one praised, each a commercial flop. So what keeps him ticking? The fans? Hardly. At a concert in 2003, one fan shouted for Ryan to play a Bryan Adams tune—“Summer of 69”—you know it, don’t lie. Anyway, Ryan took 25 bucks from his wallet, threw it at the fan, ordered the lights turned on, and threw the guy out of the place. So, as far as I know, there’s no Ryan Adams fan outreach program in the works.

So, Ryan doesn’t care about the money, and he doesn’t care about the fans. He does it for critical appraise then, right? Well...there was a review of either a live show or an album a few years ago, I don’t really remember which. At any rate, the reviewer—some Chicago indie music dick—just ripped into Adams, just blasted him. At the time, Adams was nursing a broken wrist, and had nothing better to do than read reviews. He comes across this one and calls the reviewer up on the phone, and leaves a message on the dude’s answering machine. Pretty soon, the infamous Ryan Adams answering machine message is floating online, with Adams at his most graceful—swearing like a mechanic at a critic.

It’s pretty difficult to maintain a healthy relationship with critics when you’ve made rock, punk, mope rock, Americana, and tear-in-my-beer country albums, all in the last three years. There’s too much diversity for the critics. It hurts their brains. That’s not the “new Dylan.” But hell, Dylan wasn’t Dylan anymore when he flipped the switches in “Royal Albert Hall” back in ’66. No, when Dylan went electric he was Judas. The biggest difference here is that people didn’t stop paying attention to that new Dylan when he was in his prime. Blonde on Blonde is still household name. But Cold Roses, Jacksonville City Nights, and 29...who’s heard of those? No one outside of the alternative country faithful. And it’s just a shame.

It’s possible that Ryan Adams will always be known as a guy who couldn’t live up to the label. Or maybe, to keep the Dylan analogy rolling, he’s in his post-Judas reclusion, releasing oodles of great music and not caring what anyone thinks about it. Of course, that means that any time now, he’s due for his Blood on the Tracks. But I’m not going to hold my breath. There’s a song on Ryan’s latest album called “Strawberry Wine,” where he asks “Can you still have any famous last words if you’re somebody nobody knows?” Someday, he’s bound to find out.

Current Music: Bob Dylan - Tombstone Blues

Umm...hot.

Parked on a bench in the courtyard,
My shadow is cast over the wildlife as it slowly withers away.
Autumn kills a part of us all
And it falls to the ground,
Only to be crushed or brushed away by something else
As heavy as the world within ours, or as gentle as the breeze.
It doesn't matter;
It never mattered.
In the end we are all alone,
Waiting to be carried away by the big nothing.

Late at night
I am free
To scour the valleys of my mind.
Some nights my mind indeed
Is quite a find.
Sulking between hills of confusion
And chaos
Next to the river of indecision
That flows through us all
We reunite
Only to separate once more
At Daylight.

I saw a man on the sidewalk
He asked me for some change
I said I think I could use a little too
Been staring at the these walls so long
I have no idea what's going on
And my mind's cluttered with dreams of little use

The train left the depot
On a gloomy Sunday afternoon
Filled with deamons of runaways
I packed up my bags
Said it's all for the best
But what's best for me is hard to tell these days

There's a bottle on the table
And a glass that's half full
But my body's just completely empty
If there's an ounce of my soul
I haven't washed away
It'll be crushed when they come to get me

a long stretch
just an open road
guided by a few dying bulbs
it's no mystery
i know exactly where it leads
but my feet are made of stone
and i'm better off alone
than in humiliation
it's just a fascination
with infatuation
that's all (a lie)
an automated statement
but at least i'll make it through the day
you know what they say:
if you lie to yourself long enough
eventually you'll believe it

The view is fogged over
As the hands are at the throat
And I'm waiting outside
Of myself
And this god forsaken ghost town we once shared.
Now it's just me
And the silhouttes
In the night.
They make me feel empty;
But I've been empty for awhile now.
Running on fumes of dreams of city lights
And streets of sirens, gunshots, and smog-filled skies.
The apple swallowed me whole.