Tag Archives: memories

I hate 9/11.

No, really, I do. Oh, not for all those other reasons. I mean, I get why people are still angry and the remembrances thing. I don’t get the blatant racism cloaked in patriotism thing, but the other stuff, that i get.
But, back to me. All me, all the time. I mean, come on, there’s a certain element of narcissism to doing a blog. A little self importance even.
But enough with the avoidance, the digressions.
I hate 9/11 because it stole my mom’s fucking thunder.
On Labor Day 2001, one week before the shitstorm that socially, politically and literally altered America’s landscape indefinitely, my mom died. She was an amazing and caring and loving and hardworking and, well, to be honest, incredibly sarcastic woman. She was allowed about one week of remembrance before chicken little’s sky came-a-fallin’ and people had other shit to worry about.
That is why I hate 9/11.
Bullshit politics, asshole religion and retarded ideology pushed my mom’s death to the back burner.
It also doesn’t help that every year’s hoopla surrounding the impending date brings to mind my own loss. How my own life’s course took a crazy swing. How much has changed in regards to lifestyle and outlook and future.
September of 2001.
Super shitty.
Of course, I haven’t devoted trillions of dollars and countless deaths to a war in her name. So I guess I got that going for me.

My mom around 18-20? Probably high as shit.


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all the time in the world

Sometimes a certain object holds an almost totemic power over memory. Memories fuzzy and vague symbolized only by a single object and the feelings evoked. Memories of emotion. I got a new watch in the mail today. A cheap Timex Camper. A classic watch. The nylon strap. Hard plastic case. Glow in the dark hands. Basic, simple, timeless.
I remember my father wearing this watch. I remember hikes and mountain trails. Canoe trips and bicycle rides. Father/son adventures. Days stretched out ahead of you like endless horizons. All the time in the world. Campfire hatchets and LL Bean rubber bottom boots. Torn Levi’s and Woolrich shirts. All the material things that make up an image of a man who could do no wrong and knew all the right answers and the words to all the good songs.
My father’s old Timex Camper. It sat on his wrist everywhere we went. It was the watch he’d put on my wrist for me when he’d let me run off alone but wanted me to find my way back again in time for food over the fire. That same too big band slipping and sliding over the skinny arms of a scrawny scrambling kid.
Even now after all the years between and the realizations of fallibility and humanity in the myth of a man,
Even now after the years of drinking and the fights and the lost moments mired in regrets and anger,
Even now I think of those times wearing his watch…
of finding my way back to the warmth of the fire and the beans and bread by my father’s side.
I love him like a son should.
My dad came to visit recently and immediately went in to emergency room with chest pains. This follows years of heart attacks and bad lungs and knee surgeries and bad diets and cigarettes and poor diet and too much booze and is really just one more weak link in his chain of failing health.
I know what it all means.
The inevitability.
Today I got my new watch in the mail.
A $20 Timex Camper.
All the time in the world stretched out across it’s face.

Anyone else wishing they had more time?

Timex Camper.


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Those days! Those f***king days!

“I know now you never cared about
those days, those fucking days
i know now you never understood
those days will always stay with me
and i, well i wait
maybe its just not coming back
but five years down the line
you won’t see me ashamed”
-Chain of Strength

It’s that time of summer where hot days don’t cool off into the night and sometimes it’s nice to just go for a drive. To have the windows down. To turn the radio up. To sing along like I used to. The same kind of nights where six deep in an old beater car we’d be dirty and sweaty and still so stoked on the show that we’d be doing sing-alongs at the top of our lungs the whole ride home. Stupid kids doing stage dives from front seat to back. Immortal and fully alive. Idealistic and enthusiastic. Nights full of shitty late night food and aimless pool-hopping. Nights where it was not unheard of for thirty deep to meet up at a swimming hole at 2AM.
Along with the fun, I actually believed in things. In a lifestyle. In change. In principles. In Straightedge.
A whole bunch of years later, I still do. I have no doubt my life would have tumbled into an abyss if at thirteen I hadn’t started listening to Gorilla Biscuits, Youth of Today, Judge, Lifetime, Bold, etc, and decided that straightedge was for me. Two decades later I still don’t question it. I no longer X my hands and have never gotten a huge XXX tattoo, but I still live and feel the same way I did then. And even now, I can’t watch videos of old shows without that lump in my chest and the urge to raise a fist in the air and point my finger at the stage and scream along at the top of my lungs. Goddamit, stagedives DID make me feel more alive!
I remember how people on the outside would comment on the perceived violence of a stage full of kids pig-piling and screaming. How they always failed to notice the arms around each others shoulders, the smiling screaming faces, the compassion of a crowd willing to protect and police their own. The love and the camaraderie.
The word was scenester. And yeah, we were. We shared beliefs. We shared ideals. We shared the music. We shared those hot sweaty summer nights and words echoing up into rafters.
We were quite a fucking scene indeed…

Long live chugga-chugga and the break down.

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