Monthly Archives: February 2015

Extinguishing a Wildfire

“Rory” came into my life like a wildfire. It was at a time when I was really craving someone who didn’t have walls, and that boy dropped in and not only was unbound, but even tore down some of my walls. Rory is a boy from home who I have had a crush on since I saw him break out into serious dance moves while snapping his fingers and singing a Jay Z song in the middle of a public restaurant. Tonight wasn’t like that though. Tonight he held my hand, looked me in the eye and bashfully shook his head, “yes.”

I knew what this meant. He prefaced it with, “I need to talk to you about something,” and with just that, there was enough clues to guess what he was about to tell me due to process of elimination.

I haven’t seen this boy in a few months because I have been on the road with work. We got pretty close pretty fast last time I was home, but it was one of those situations which I often discuss, where we had to take a deep breath, pretend to be okay, and accept the fact that this was only going to be temporary because I was leaving soon. I have gotten really good at doing that, but I’m not going to lie… it really sucked having to do that with Rory. He had somehow found his way into my bloodstream.

I am fascinated with the notion of finding a word for everyone. A single word that best sums up a person. When and if you can figure out someone’s word, everything about them kind of falls into place and makes more sense. The thing that I most admire about Rory, and what I think that his word may be, is that he is unafraid. I’m sure that he has his fears, but he is truly comfortable with himself, and I think that is very rare. In a generation that is utterly controlled by the fear of ourselves and or inability to come out from behind the curtain and fucking live, Rory is not one of those people. He is not scared of the world. Rory laughs and dances when he wants and makes a fool out of himself and admits when he farts and admits when he’s sad and admits when he doesn’t know the capital of Texas and fucking looks at you when he wants you and runs and sweats and bleeds and tries. He is one of the few people who I wish the whole world could know.

It wold be easier if I could call the night a date, but it wasn’t a date because that’s not really our style. So I guess the simplest way to put it is that Rory came over to hang out one night several months ago and it turned into one of the greatest “hang out’s” I’ve had as an adult. One that all others will forever be compared to.

We started playing music really loud. We were taking turns listening to each others selection, and I’m use to most people just taking over in those situations, and you end up only listening to their choices. Not with Rory. He was equally as enthusiastic about the music I was sharing as he was about his. By the way, he’s a musician. Of fucking course.

We went onto the porch and he opened up about his home life and his hopes and his shady past and it turned into the type of conversation I had been craving for a long time.  It was completely unguarded. The boys in my life at that point seemed to all be the type that purposely don’t talk about anything real. They had walls.  For example, one guy I had been seeing sort of off and on for a year and a half, I would say that we were just as close after a year and a half as we were in the first month of meeting. We never progressed. I’m all for discussing existentialism and politics and watching documentaries and going to comedy shows, but sometimes you have to throw in some true grit for a relationship of any type to progress. In a way, I felt closer to Rory in one week than I did the guy I had been seeing for over a year because Rory’s not scared, and told me things that were real.

We then made up a secret handshake, played a card game and threw jellybeans into each others mouth. After that, it was really late, but I wanted to show him something, so I said, “Are you tired or….?” and he looked at me and said, “I’m down to do anything with you.”

We were having such a perfect time so neither of us wanted it to end. I was barefoot, and we walked to the pier, collecting rocks along the way. We were like two little kids, trying to find the best rock. It was the time of year when you can see the bioluminescence in the water if you create a wake and I wanted to show him. I figured he would appreciate it but that’s an understatement, you should have seen his face when we threw the first rock in. He got so excited, that raw enthusiasm that you only see in children. There’s that line from Knocked Up, when Paul Rudd is looking at his kids playing with the bubbles and he says, “I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.” Well, I wish that I got as excited about anything the way that Rory got excited about those damn bioluminescence. It was so refreshing to see.

Of course, just to add the perfection, it was a big, orange, low hanging moon that night. So Rory and I threw rocks into the sparkling water under the glow of the moonlight until there were no more rocks to throw. On the walk back, I was a few paces in front of him, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me into him. At first I thought he was going to kiss me, but that’s too predictable for Rory. Instead, he started dancing with me in the middle of the road.

Now back at the house and blasting my test song. I call it my test song because it’s the song that I use to test speakers with. I know exactly what “Comfortable Liar” by Chevelle should sound like, and it has fairly dynamic tones and this kind of hidden thunderous quality  making it good for sound checking. It also makes it perfect for laying on the floor in the middle of the music room with a beautiful boy next to you and pounding your fists onto the hard wood floor to the beat of the song. Rory and I just wailed our fists onto the ground for the entire song.  It may not sound like much, but if you try to imagine laying on your stomach, next to a person you have a crush on, and allowing the music to fully take you over while you bang on the floor with all of your might to the beat… you really do need to be unafraid to be able to do that.  Rory brings out the spark in everyone.

We had another really great night a few days after that, which included dive bar pool, Budweiser, Eminem on the jukebox and a big black woman named Sweet Melissa.  Then I left town. It has been about five months since then, and I have done three tours in that time, putting me on the road for almost all of those five months. And so it goes. Now I’m sitting at the corner of a bar as Rory tells me that he needs to talk to me about something. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew that he was about to tell me that he got a girl pregnant. He grabbed my hand, and I could see that he was having a hard time saying it, so I just smiled and told him that I was pretty sure that I knew what he was going to say, to which he just looked me in the eye, smiled back and bashfully shook his head yes.  And now I guess it’s time to put out this wildfire.

So here we are, and here’s to change, and here is a playlist for the boy who is unafraid.

http://8tracks.com/goldenlullaby/for-the-boy-who-is-not-afraid

 

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 2 of 2

…continued from Edition 1

After having really good friend chem and vibing well again with Hunter at this festival he says to me, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?  I assumed that he meant let’s go deep into the crowd and cause a ruckus. We’ll be obnoxious and dance and laugh and all of that goofy shit.  Cool, I’m down.  So he grabs my hand and leads me into the very center of the crowd. He then places me in front of him and pushes against me and I can feel his penis on my back. Ew.

I’m WAY to passive, and instead of leaving right then, I just kind of stepped forward so that I was no longer in contact with him, and was silently trying to figure out a way to dip out without making it awkward. Approximately two seconds later, before I could properly asses my predicament, he took my hand and pulled it behind my back, and put it around his dick. I swear to fucking God that this guy took his whole dick out in the middle of a crowd of people while this show was taking place. I could not believe that this was happening. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just quickly reclaimed my hand and ran away.  I say “ran,” I couldn’t make a very quick exit because there were so many damn people in the way, so I did hear him shout to me, “did I offend you?” To which I didn’t even waste my time with, and kept walking then exited the festival wishing that The Trojan was with me.

Did you offend me? I think on the grand spectrum of the offensive scale, you offended me on every level, yes. Not going to waste anymore time discussing that. It makes me sick.

Like I said, I was sober, but having a cocktail alone at a bar to take a moment to wrap my mind around what just happened seemed appealing. I took a seat at a bar stool and called Fat Face. He knew that something had transpired, he knows me well and knows my vocal tones, so I think he knew that he needed to come to my rescue. I downed two whiskeys by the time he got there, and he took a seat next to me, told me that I, “look really pretty tonight,” (which I thought was super sweet because we don’t often talk like that too each other. Usually he’d say something more like, ‘oooo girl, you are lookin’ damn fine tonight!’ and laugh) and ordered a Yuengling. I told him what happened, and he was appalled. He said that I am absolutely too passive and should have squeezed Hunter’s dick off. We went on to have a relatively deep conversation that made me feel a little bit better. Well, kind of. Fat Face’s presence always makes me feel better, but the conversation concluded that there is something wrong with me.  There is something I must unintentionally do to attract that type of male degradation.  According to Fat Face, shit like this doesn’t happen to other people as much as it does me.  He then invited me to go to some other bar with him where he was meeting up with some of his work friends that I don’t know.

My initial response was something like, no I should leave you alone… I might cock block you tonight if I’m with you, considering it’s Valentine’s Day and all. He put his arm around me and said, “Cait, shut the fuck up.” So I shut the fuck up and followed him to a nearby bar. I was a good girl and made small talk with his friends who I liked and Fat Face and I did our typical thing… I spit in his drink, he did some bell hops, we argued over music, made fun of other bar patrons and harassed each other until closing time. Typical.

When we were leaving, I spotted a man who could not walk heading toward his truck. I don’t know that I have ever seen anyone as drunk as this guy was. He somehow got in his truck, which made me nervous, turned on the ignition, but then just passed out cold. Cool. He’s not driving. Normally I don’t get involved with shit like that, but it was definitely my moral duty to my fellow citizens to not let this guy on the road. I was being chill, and figured that I’d knock on his window and tell him that I’m calling him a cab. Problem solved.

Of course Fat Face gets all involved though and thinks that it’s a good idea to go inform the bartenders inside. Fat Face doesn’t give a shit about anything, I could call him telling him that my house is burning down and he’d be like, “I’m taking a nap.”  For some reason though, of all the things that he could get invested in, he decides to get all up in arms about this and try to man the fuck out of this situation. I just rolled my eyes and let him think that he was doing the right thing after he failed to agree when I made the point that the bartenders will do zero things to help this. However, Fat Face tells them anyway, and next thing you know, there are two schmucks that look like the type who failed out of Police Academy had overheard Fat Face talking to the bartenders, and who are now over there also trying to man the situation and get involved in the action. For some dumbass reason they wake the dude up and tell him that he should go. What the fuck? I was pissed. Fat Face and I watched in horror as the guy started driving.
“Watch him run into the building,” Fat Face says jokingly. Two seconds later, “Oh my God he’s really going to run into the building.”  The guy doesn’t even pretend to turn out of the parking space, and instead slowly rolls forward, smashing into the glass window facade of a brand new gym that is one door down from the bar. Tight.

Fat Face is now getting all frantic saying, “Cait. Call 911. Cait! Cait! Call 911!” Jesus Christ Fatty, shut the fuck up, I’m on it. So I call 911 and have a nice chat with them as a fight starts breaking out. What a douchebag bar scene. That’s when I told the dispatcher that I was peacing out of there. Once someone got knocked out cold, and was laying in the middle of the street unconscious for a scary amount of time, I informed dispatch that I couldn’t wait for the cops because things were getting sketchy, and she told me the fire department was on their way. As we were pulling out, the fire trucks were pulling in and Fat Face giggled with delight and said, “I kind of feel like I caused this.” Yes you absolutely did, you twat.

And that was my Valentine’s Day of 2015. A perfect exchange with a cute boy, a terrible onslaught by a gross man and a Cait and Fat Face adventure.

To be perfectly honest, after that rollercoaster of a night, I was glad, and felt it was oddly appropriate that I ended up with Fat Face on Valentine’s night because after all of my adventures and confessions… and no matter who I am fucking or loving or currently dating, Fat Face is always my favorite person to end up with at the end of the day.  True friendship is the most romantic thing of all.

I stayed the night over his place because it seemed like the responsible thing to do. He lives close to the bar and at this point, I had been drinking and knew it was not a good idea to drive all the way home. I would like to take this moment to let all of you know that Fat Face not only has one zebra printed bed comforter, but two. He also has a Chik-fil-a calendar hanging on his wall and for some absurd reason, about 15 boxes of Milano cookies sitting next to his bed. Again, Fat Face is hot and single and I will provide his contact information to any eligible women.

Update!  The following fucking day, I saw Michael.  Jesus Christ, talk about 36 hours of testosterone overload.  Someone pour me a drink.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 1 of 2

As much as I don’t participate in Valentine’s Day, something in relation to my love life always seems to transpire on this day of the year. Due to my love life just being so absurd that I sometimes literally laugh out loud at it, the circumstances that now seem to be a pattern in my Valentine chronicles are generally unfortunate.

Last year was, Confessions Vol. 13, and of course, I saw that boy the day before Valentine’s day this year. How disgustingly full circle. I was so caught off guard by seeing him (it was a very unsuspecting place that we ran into each other) that I accidentally said out loud like a total asshole, “Of course you’d be here,” with a sigh. I immediately felt a little bit bad for my utter disregard for politeness, but continued to be very unsmooth and made the situation even more awkward. Whatever, I don’t think I’m his favorite person anyway, so I’m sure he wasn’t expecting anything less.  He did look really cute though… but from there, things continued to go down hill. Little did I know, the following day I would break up with a boy that I had only known for an hour, get an unwarranted dick in my hand and have to call 911.

I was at a music festival, but a cool one. Not a filthy sweaty music festival that takes place in some nondescript field with twenty-year-olds who are half-naked, tripping balls and playing hacky sack. I have a problem with American music festivals because they have turned into being way more about getting fucked up than about the music. A show is just about the only time you’ll catch me not drinking. Well, I’ll have a couple of drinks but I am definitely not going to be drunk if it’s a show that I sought out and actually care about seeing. I want to “be there” wholly and let the music take me over rather than alcohol. Excuse the rant… back to the chronicles of what took place.

I walked into one of the venues that was hosting the festival, and there should have been someone playing, as the schedule read that a “Johnny C” started playing at 6:00 and it was 6:15 but there was no one on stage. Then, this kid drops his guitar stand in front of me. Instinctively, because I’m part of the crew when I’m on the road, I helped him pick up his gear. Of course, the part that fell in front of me was the tiniest part, that he clearly could have retrieved without my help, so I started laughing and said, “this is all I can contribute.” I hadn’t even looked at him yet, so then when I did, it was a bonus that he was cute.

I then put it together that he was walking around with a guitar stand, so duh, he must be one of the performers. “Who are you?” I asked, because I’m so polite.
“I’m Johnny C.” He was the guy who was supposed to be playing.
“So you’re late.”
“I’m not late! They’re late getting off stage,” he said and pointed to the idiots who were still packing up their gear.
“You guys are messing up my schedule, I have to go watch Polyenso who start in twenty-five minutes.”
“I’ll make it worth it if you stay.”
“Okay, but you better be good. I’m going to get a drink. Would you like one? I feel bad that I insulted you immediately upon meeting you.”
“I like your sarcasm.”
“So would you like a drink?”
“Not yet, let me prove myself to you first, and then you can buy me a drink later if you think I’m worthy.”
“Deal.”

That’s literally all that was said between us, but it was instant chemistry and I get my drink and go to the back and wait as he takes my whole life to set up. I was missing Polyenso, but I figured I had to stick around because by flirting with this guy, I partially committed to watching his set. Right before he began, he spotted me and smiled. I smiled back and threw him a peace sign which made him smile even bigger and then point at me. It was a very cute moment. I then remembered that it was Valentine’s Day, and how beautifully suitable it was that this random romance between me and an unsuspecting stranger just manifested.

He began, and he was good. I wasn’t in love with the type of music that he was playing, but he could definitely play guitar and I was enjoying it just fine. There was a problem though, he was drinking Bud Light. After a few songs, I really did have to dip out because my friend’s band was playing on another stage, and I had already missed 15 minutes of that, so I really did need to leave. I bought a shot of Jack Daniels, wrote a little note on a cocktail napkin which read, “Stop drinking Bud Light and have a shot of whiskey.” I put the shot with the note in front of Johnny when he was in the middle of a song and walked out.

I came back about an hour later, and he was smoking a cigarette outside with his friend. We started chatting and the conversation flowed really well. We were laughing a lot and obviously smitten by one another. It was like a scene from a movie. Further into our conversation, he said, “You’re really beautif…..” and trailed out and put his mouth on the fucking Bud Light bottle.

“What was that?” I asked, semi laughing. I knew exactly what he said but I thought it was funny that he was having issues with saying it out loud. He started laughing a little also and said, “I know, I just made that so awkward. After I started saying it I realized that there was no way for me to say it without sounding weird.” I thought that was cute.

He went on stage to do another set, and we had another adorable moment where he looked down at me during one of the songs and smiled. A real, genuine smile. That doesn’t sound like anything, but a musician making eye contact with you while he is on stage is actually a pretty rare occurrence. If you notice, they usually either keep their eyes closed or looking down. Mark my words, you will very rarely see a musician look upon an audience member and blatantly acknowledge them like that. Right then, after he smiled so sweetly at me, I knew that meant that I should go. If I stayed, what would end up happening? We’d exchange numbers, maybe we’d see each other again… maybe we’d have another good time, maybe we’d kiss, and maybe I’d like it, but at the end of it all, there would be an end, so why go through all of the bullshit when what we just experienced was perfect. We had already peaked. I know, it sounds nuts.  I can hear the boy with the white hair in my mind telling me now, “You are fucking crazy.”

So while Johnny was in the middle of a song, I bought him another shot of Jack Daniels, wrote another note on a cocktail napkin and left it on stage for him and walked out. The note read, “Let’s never see each other again because it will never be as perfect. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Maybe I should have stuck around because after that, the night took an unfortunate turn. The festival is a lot of local acts, so I knew a few of the musicians. One of them, who I will call Hunter, I would only describe as an acquaintance. I had only had one real conversation with him before and it was at a hippie wedding that we both had attended. We vibed really well that day, but we didn’t try to keep in touch or anything. I like his music though, so I catch his set every now and again when I’m in town and I’ll just wave from afar because I don’t usually try to talk to musicians when they’ve played because they’re typically caught in a social whirlwind that I don’t want to add to. However, right before I was about to leave, I saw Hunter talking with other musicians, not fans, so I figured now would be a good time to quickly say hey and have a quick vibe session with him.

He was sucking on a heart-shaped lollipop, so I walked up, and because we know how much I hate small talk, I just took the lollipop from him and started eating it myself. We quickly took the conversation to an inappropriate level that you only get when speaking with musicians… and I speak their language. To my not surprise, we were having a lot of fun just standing around for ten minutes laughing, chatting and drawing pictures of dicks on the cover of his album in sharpie. The headliner band then came on stage so he said, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?

To be continued…
Edition 2 of 2

 

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Holden: Some Songs and a Story

Holden. A fake name for a very real boy. The first time I remember seeing him was at Ace of Spades in Sacramento, California. I must have seen him the day before, because Sacramento was the second date of the tour, but my earliest recollection of Holden is watching him watch, in the dark corner of the black and red venue.

A few days ago I got done with a tour where I met a lot of wonderful people. People who I really didn’t want to say goodbye to, people who made me feel at home on the road and people who truly excited me. There is a lot to be said about last month, but this is not the time for that. While on the roof of some apartment in Los Angeles, I was discussing with one of the guy’s that I have become really good at letting people go, to which he responded, “that’s kind of fucked up.”

Maybe he’s right, but like I discuss in A Temporary Home, it comes with the lifestyle, and it’s necessary otherwise you’ll break your own heart. I’ve learned to recognize when someone is special, and just enjoy the little time that I do have with the person and when that time is up, you let them go. Sometimes though, I meet someone who makes that pretty fucking difficult. I did meet someone like that on this past tour, but like I said, it is not the time to tell that story. However, it did get me thinking about other people I have said goodbye to along the way, so in honor of retrospect, I am going to tell you about Holden, a boy I met on tour in the spring of 2014, and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.

I’m not sure what my very first thought was when I saw him, but I had a few.

One, he’s drinking alone, which I liked. Well, kind of alone. As alone as you can be when you’re inside of the venue that you’re playing at that night. He would entertain some passing females for a few minutes here and there, and I could tell that he was smooth. I watched him do that thing where you casually place your hand on someone’s arm or side as you lean in to put your ear closer to them in an attempt at conversation in a loud venue. That can be repulsive if a guy does it wrong, but I could tell he had that shit down. Even with his good moves though, he stayed leaning at this bar counter, and continue watching the show by himself and let the girls walk away.

Two, he looked like a douche.

Three, but an incredibly good looking douche. Now that I know him, I think that Holden is one of the most beautiful boys that I’ve ever met, but at first glance, I was sure that I was NOT going to like this guy despite his James Dean appearance. He had a piercing on his face, and just this look that kind of screamed, I’m trying. I was very wrong.

Four, there’s something else though. Something else must have ran through my mind because I still decided to say something to him. Maybe I figured that I was going to be on the road with this dude for four months, so I might as well get the first introductory conversation out of the way. He was not in the band that I was working for, so we were not on the same bus, but his band was the direct support, so we were still going to be traveling together (it was a four band tour package) for many months.

I had been watching this… couple(?) all night. I hesitate to say couple because I’m 90% sure that they were on a second date, or something close to that. I don’t know how to describe what this chick was doing, but it was one of the most embarrassing things that I have ever seen. Basically, she was trying to dance on this guy and be sexy, but just failing at it so hard. It looked like she was attempting to give a lap dance despite the fact that the guy was standing up. She kept trying to jump on him, and then dry hump him I guess…? It was such a catastrophe. I was literally laughing out loud at this brilliant sight, but there was no one else who seemed to be witnessing it.

Like I’ve said many times, I hate small talk, so I figured I’d use this moment to speak to Holden so we could skip the formalities and dive straight into making fun of people together. Holden was about 15 feet away from my merch table, so I motioned to him to come over. The very first thing I said to him was something like, “Have you seen this couple over here?”

Holden: “The dancing chick?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Holden: “Oh I’ve been watching them all night,” he said with a lot of enthusiasm.

I fucking liked him immediately. I was so unprepared for him to have the same sense of humor as me, and to be on the exact same page as I was in that moment that I was kind of taken aback. As much as I hate talking, I am generally pretty good at conversation IF I decide to make an effort, but in those first moments with Holden, I did stumble a bit.

During the course of the tour, we went on to become fairly close. I don’t know that I have ever been so attracted to someone who I didn’t need to kiss. It was weird, I felt like I had a crush on him, but it was a very platonic type of crush. If that can even be a thing. I didn’t want to be with him and didn’t think about holding his hand or kissing him or fucking him or any of those things that you think about when you are into someone. But, he did kind of make me nervous, and I loved being around him. So I don’t know what the fuck to call how I felt about Holden. A “platonic crush” is the only thing I can come up with.

In a way, I think everyone kind of had a crush on him. I even heard the English Hooligan describe him as a “sweetheart” once, which I have never heard him call anyone else before or since. My fondness for him was no secret. I would regularly announce, “I’m in love with Holden,” to everyone (including him a couple of times I think) when I would see him by himself playing an arcade game, or sitting on the ground smoking a cigarette with a strand of hair falling into his face River Phoenix style, and those times when he said, “one second,” and then would walk a few feet away from us, vomit, and then turn right back around and join the circle again laughing, and take another shot of whiskey. Holden turned liquor into his bitch. It was outstanding. With that being said, that boy had some demons.

When you yourself are haunted, I think it’s pretty easy to spot another soul who is drowning in their own poison. On an afternoon in Philly, we ducked into a bar for a couple of beers, and he told me some of his tale which I won’t repeat here because it felt private, but I could feel that part of his past was eating him alive. But my God, he was such a beautiful disaster.

Holden is the type that somehow makes self-destruction look glamorous. I know that is terrible to say, but unfortunately, often times most interesting characters are the ones that are at constant war with themselves. I don’t want to make it sound like he was some depressive basket-case. He was always in a good mood and was always a good time, but I have a sixth sense about these things, and I could just tell that there was a lot going on underneath the surface. I used to love watching Holden on stage. Him and one of the guitar players would always smile at each other, and I’d often see them laughing about something, and it just looked like they were having so much fun. He belongs on stage.

I have this random memory of him, and it’s so seemingly insignificant that I don’t know why it stuck with me. We had a day off, so a few of us took a boat and jet ski out. We were out in the middle of the water and someone would take the jet ski for a few minutes, come back to the boat, and switch riders. EVERY TIME the new rider would drive away, they would unintentionally splash those of us on the boat with the fountain of water that jet skis create out the back. Even though everyone knew that this happened, and despite that they all tried to get far enough away so that the splash wouldn’t hit anyone, it did every time. Except when Holden got on. He was the only one who got the jet ski far enough away so that he didn’t splash anyone before taking off. That might seem minor, but for some reason it stuck with me.

Holden had good taste in music too. One of the very first conversations we had, one of the things that got brought up was the local music scene in the town where he is from. I asked him to make me a recommendation of a local, and he almost immediately said, “John Moreland.” I liked that he answered me so quickly. Often when you ask someone to give you a music recommendation on the spot, they shy away from the question.

So, I listened to John Moreland that night, and I fell in love with him, which made me fall in love with Holden. “Break My Heart Sweetly” is possibly the saddest song I have ever heard, and it seems oddly appropriate that I heard it due to Holden. It’s always sexy when the very first thing that someone tells you to listen to really hits home. It feels like you’ve found a kindred spirit. He went on to consistently give me good music recommendations, which brings me to the conclusion of this vignette. My retrospection of Holden inspired me to make a playlist. So this one is for Holden, the boy who broke my heart sweetly during the spring of 2014, and I’m so fucking glad that he did.

http://8tracks.com/goldenlullaby/raise-your-glass-to-retrospection

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The Adventures of Touring – Special Edition: Noisey Made Me Sound like a Groupie, but I Feel Cool Anyway

This is how much I love VICE… I have the app. I barely understand what phone applications are, so if I have an app, it’s because I really use it. Along with VICE, I have BBC News, the dictionary, USPS, google translate, atVenu and fucking Solitaire. Dorky apps. On the bus during long drives while a lot of the guys are on some game application that gives me a headache just by looking at it over their shoulder, I am the annoying one announcing things like, “the word of the day is solipsistic,” or “VICE found a guy who claims that he only has 100 boners left.”

For those of you who need some VICE in your life, Noisey is basically the music section of the magazine, and I got mentioned in one of the articles. Well…. kind of. Indirectly. Very indirectly. I was misquoted, and made to sound like someone’s one night stand, but you know what, I’ll take it. He was nice enough to keep me nameless, but I am here to take full credit because like we all know, I am perfectly comfortable with exploiting myself.

This particular tour holds a very special place in my heart, so I didn’t think that I’d be able to write about it for a while. I fell in love with this band and crew, and the band and crew of the entire three band tour package. When that happens, it’s sometimes difficult to take a step back and explain it all in a way that the non-touring world will understand. However, due to being mentioned in a Noisey article… I will tell this single tale for now. I’m sure there will be more later.

On the last day of the tour, a Noisey columnist came onto the bus to interview the lead singer of the band that I was working for. They discovered a note that I had taped to the television so that everyone would see it which read, “Hi boys- I lost my jeans somewhere on this bus. Please let me know if you find them amongst all of your stuff. Thanks! -Caitlin”

I suppose to someone who has never lived on a tour bus, that may sound strange. However, when there are twelve people living on one bus, shit gets misplaced. If you’re a good busmate and understand bus etiquette, you only bring the necessities onto the bus and leave your fucking carry-on in the bay (the storage space underneath the bus). Regardless, with twelve people, that still means at least 36 pairs of socks and underwear, 24 shoes, five million chargers and approximately three trailer keys. When you add the consumption of three bottles of liquor, two cases of beer and copious amounts of drugs every night, shit disappears. T-dog, my favorite bus driver, would regularly find my underwear in the bus vents and I have found men’s pj pants in my bunk who belong to boy’s who had definitely never been in my bunk.

My note was interpreted by Noisey in the article as saying something more like, “I left my jeans on the bus last night. Let me know if you find them.” I appreciate the artistic license he took because that makes it sound a lot more rock n’ roll, like a hot little metal chick with last night’s make-up smeared around her eyes wearing sexy fish-nets and I-just-got-laid-hair put the friendly letter up, instead of the boring merch girl.

Before you start thinking that this is going to be a fun mystery thriller which ends full circle with the jeans providing some profound moral to the story… it’s not. It’s just a story that is characterized with a shit load of bums and the jeans really have nothing to do with what went down. Lost pants is just a hilarious representation of the drunken debauchery that took place.

The night before, one of the guys, who I will call the Trojan, and I stayed up until sunrise drinking gallons of vodka while he educated me on Metallica. We sat there and listened to a whole album from beginning to end, which is something I appreciated because so few people do that anymore, and his enthusiasm was kind of a turn on.

The following day was a day off. When we all woke looking like a crew of utter death, the Trojan turned to me, still in his boxers and said, “Caitlin! Are we drinking?” You can’t say no to a Trojan…

Jack Daniels for breakfast in my Niagra Falls mug. It’s going to be a fucked up day.

The guys went to a bar early afternoon, but I had to break from the pack and do something normal to kind of recenter my life for a moment. After multiple days of staying up all night and drinking, you start to lose your sense of time and space. So, I went to a museum, looked at fossils and learned some shit.

Later, we all went to a steakhouse that had at least 500 taxidermy animals on the wall (not exaggerating) and we ate some of their insides. It was delicious. We were rolling 12 people deep, so we needed two van taxi cabs everywhere we went, which was a pain in the ass. I enjoy minimal responsibility, which is why I will never TM, but somehow I became in charge of calling the cabs, so when they didn’t arrive for a while, for some asinine reason, I got held responsible. To fend off the harassment, I started doing a tap dance on the sidewalk to lighten my mood, and when that didn’t work, I resorted to throwing a can of soda into the street. Rebel.

While waiting outside of the restaurant for my whole life, a happy bum approached us and OF COURSE, the Trojan started chatting him up while most of us attempted to not make eye contact. In the Trojan’s defense, I think he was the only one who was drunk. The exchange between a black metal Trojan and a skinny homeless man who looked like he could have been Sammy Davis Jr. became such a spectacle, that it was like watching a theatrical improv show on crack. At one point, the Trojan and the bum started dancing together on the sidewalk. At another point, the bum said something to me, to which I responded in perfect English, “I don’t speak English.”

Later, the bum said something about Jesus, to which the Trojan said, “I deep throat Jesus everyday, that little bitch.” At least we know how to keep things controversial.

We were in Denver, and if you have never been to Denver, it’s essentially where people go to do nothing. In other words, weed is legal there, so that’s where all of the hardcore stoners migrate. I can only tolerate so much Grateful Dead. Speaking of the Grateful Dead, I saw this on the wall of the bar that we ended up going to, and I couldn’t believe the perfection.

IMG_1543

That is possibly the most god awful published photograph that has ever existed. The guys in the back… holy fuck.

The boys were playing pool, and I was drinking my weight in whiskey while people watching and deciding that the girl who was dancing with the teal fringed mid-drift had escaped from a Mormon family and was currently experimenting in lesbianism. I often play that game where you look at a stranger and make up a full back-story for them. It can be a fun bar game.

After losing numerous pool matches to a guy wearing cargo shorts and a fishing cap, the Trojan was over it and we decided to head back to the bus and just… see what happened. And oh, shit happened.

We crossed paths with a girl at a bus stop. She asked us for money, providing some story about how she needed to get to the next town over because of her dying mother. I could be completely off, but it was something absurd like that. She was good, so if you have never lived in a city, you might have believed her, but because I know that anyone panhandling is fucking lying, I knew better. Still, we spoke with her for a moment, encouraged her and I gave her my knife that I keep in my shoe (because she was whining about not feeling safe) and we went on our way. Regardless of our awareness that this girl was completely full of shit, after denying her and walking five meters, the Trojan and I turned and looked at each other and both said simultaneously, “I like her.” Damnit.

It felt like the idiotic thing to do, so naturally, we went back. We’re so vain; we liked her because she was pretty and articulate and just not your average beggar. At all. She did not look like she was on the streets. Put her in some heels and a skin-tight dress, and she could have gotten by as a high class escort. Come to think of it, I should have suggested that to her. Anyway, we went back and told her that we can’t help her with her child who has been kidnapped (or whatever the story was that kept changing), but we can buy her a drink. So the three of us went into the place that was immediately next to us, which of course ended up being a gay bar. Long story short, she’s out of her god damn mind, and kept trying to hit on flamboyant gay men and complaining that the bar didn’t have olives in the cocktail tray that she was using like a buffet counter. The Trojan and I thrive on this type of awkwardness, so we were eating this girl up. This got us all kicked out however.

At the time, it seemed ridiculous that we were being expelled from the place, because I have seen much much much more obnoxious behavior at a bar, but I got the feeling that she is probably a regular there and she is probably not welcomed at the establishment anymore for past reasons. We said our goodbyes, she cried because she’s mental, and the Trojan and I went on our way.

About 100 paces later, we run into Michael Mud. Another bum panhandling, and despite the Trojan claiming to hate people, he is incredibly friendly. I like people (…in the grand scheme of things… unless you chew with your mouth open), and the Trojan and I were kind of partners in crime during this tour, but had he not been there, none of the events of the night would have taken place. So due to his nature, we of course start chatting it up with the three toothed beggar who we would later learn to be, Michael Mud.

The Trojan and Michael got deep. They were having a serious moment and I know my place, so I kind of stepped back and just observed this take place. They were bonding on a musicians’ level. Michael had an acoustic guitar on his back, so we asked him to play something. He kept declining because the guitar only had three strings, and I think he felt embarrassed playing in front of the Trojan, who is a guitarist. The Trojan almost literally kicked Michael Mud in the ass, demanding him to play and like I said… you can’t say no to a Trojan.

So Michael started playing, and it was really something. I wish I could remember details. Damn alcohol. But I can remember the feeling, and it just had so much heart. I could have sat there at that dirty bench all night listening to him play. He kind of started playing the blues. True blues. When you strum some minor chords and fill in measures with improved, lyricals of misery. We learned a lot about his outlook on life in about thirty seconds because of a song sang on the side of the street at 1:30am with a $30 acoustic guitar that was missing half of its’ strings.

Some more words were exchanged, and later Michael Mud started giving us his sob story. Something I really like about the Trojan is that he doesn’t give a fuck. He does and says what he wants and he doesn’t have sympathy for people because he can see that we are all the same. When Michael Mud responded to something that he said with, “well that’s easy to say when you’re in a successful band….”

This sparked a fire in the Trojan. To which, I don’t blame him. He has worked fucking hard to get to where he is and he still has to work bullshit jobs that he doesn’t like in order to maintain his status. So what I remember the Trojan saying back was basically, “Fuck that. Life is shit for all of us. The world is a cunt, but you have this guitar, so just keep doing what you want to do with it.” Michael Mud started to tear up a little bit, and that’s when I knew we had made a slight difference. Even if it was just in that night. And he made a slight mark in our path too. I’ll never forget that man, or watching him and the Trojan smash each others hearts with cold iron stakes.

We told him to come to the show the next day and we’d put him on the list. He didn’t have a phone or anything to take down information with, so I wrote the address of the venue in sharpie on his guitar, and also my phone number in case he had any trouble. We both walked away knowing that there was a slim chance that this man on the streets would actually arrive. Despite this, the next day I arranged to have Michael Mud on the list. To my surprise, he called me the following morning. He basically wanted to make sure that we weren’t just being drunk retards last night, and that we still wanted him to come. Of course! I was so happy!

He never showed though. I still wonder what happened.

Somewhere in Denver there is a really special bum named Michael Mud, with the address to Summit Music Hall written in sharpie on his now, six string guitar. The Trojan gave him some of his guitar strings before we parted ways so that he would have a complete instrument. I gave up my sick knife to the first beggar, and the Trojan gave up his guitar strings to the second. In a weird way, that’s everything we had to offer.

The Trojan and I made our way back to the bus, and who the hell knows what happened after that. But somewhere between the walk back and the truck stop the next morning, I lost my jeans. I have no idea how because I was wearing them! That’s it. That’s the story of how I came to be indirectly mentioned in a Noisey article. I never found those damn jeans. I’m sure that they just ended up on the floor of the bus, tossed out of my bunk, and then haphazardly shoved into another bunk but… whatever. I’ll trade a pair of Levi’s for a night like that any time.

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