It’s been a year plus since I’ve sat here, and it reminds me of how an old jar of pennies smells like blood.
I’ve performed at least if not over 110 punk shows in the last 15 months. I’ve learned how to gear up for on and off stage in about 3 minutes. I can juggle standing in leg braces, playing guitar, singing and wrangling a pint glass of beer to my face with 90% success (so far). I’ve ridden hundreds of miles if not thousands, in a tour van next to a 6 x 3 foot window constructed entirely of shattered glass, cardboard and grey duct tape. I’ve vomited several times in my lap after shows, I’ve also vomited out said van door in an uncontrollable bellowing spill of how “this is what punk rock is, about, and should always be”.
I’ve had copious amounts of alcohol thrown at me, on me, and all over my equipment. I’ve played with numerous acts that if told I’d have gotten to share the stage with 15 years ago, I’d say you were bat shit crazy. I’ve been felt on by women after shows that I knew I’d never see again. I’ve falling in an out of lust more times than surgeries I’ve had – and in relation to, directly or indirectly, I have fallen drunk off the curb into the street at 2:30am on a cold New Years eve in South Texas. I’ve drunk more shots of poor whiskey on stage than that were good for me. I have taken photos with fans in places and wondered “why in the hell are they taking a selfie with me, I smell like ass”. I’ve played arenas. I’ve played house parties. I’ve played on a floor of a bar that slung more meth than Walter White. I’ve been offered every illicit substance on the planet in a bathroom complete with a half-inch of standing water, or piss or a mixture of both. I’ve slept in places, on things that 45-year-old bones shouldn’t be sleeping on.
I’ve been mad at my band mates. I have also known they are the maddest thing for me. I’ve almost collapsed from stage heat, lights, physical exhaustion and a combination of alcohol poisoning. I’ve played sick with the shits, hung over with the shits, with mexican food shits and probably other shits just related to damage to my body over the years. I’ve learned how to find that energy to play one more song when you knew your set was done two songs ago. I’ve gotten to experience the feeling of one person coming up to the stage and saying “man that was great!”, and knowing that even though you weren’t getting paid enough that night, it was well enough now to have gotten to play.
I’m lucky. I’m beat up. I have dreams of kissing old girlfriends at times. I miss a lot of things. I have to scream because it’s all I have. This is probably only half of what I thought to write about. Probably the other half I forgot, or drank, or drowned out, or drowned in.
I think it’s too much for some. And a lot won’t get it. And a lot may get it years after it’s all done. And I guess at that time, then it will be enough.