I think I might soon turn into one of those people who wears two pairs of socks. My second-hand leather sneakers just aren’t cutting it.

“I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid touching my eyeballs.” -Dirk Keaton

W(h)e[a]ther or Naught

I remember Kyle tried to get them all in one shot.  He tiptoed past the car and into the grass, treading lightly on the wet ground.  The deer scattered when the flash went off.  They pounded their hooves hard as they retreated into the forest.  I don’t recall ever seeing the developed picture, but I imagine that it was nothing but black, outlines of trees, swirling brown blurs, and the out-of-focus ticker tape of falling snow.

Alex’s timing was a little better.  He carefully monitored the forecast, waiting for confirmation of the coming deluge.  When the first flakes fell, he took the train from Philly to West Chester.  I put on some black clothes and picked him up from the station.  We met up with Kyle and Sandro, wandered deep into the woods, and tried to make a torch out of a stick and a rag soaked in kerosene.  We failed miserably.  The snow and wind kept my cigarette lighter from igniting.  We settled on what we had on hand: a heavy chain and a rusty machete.

Sandro suggested sinister poses for Alex and me while Kyle took picture after picture.  I knelt amongst dead leaves and broken twigs by a frozen lake, brandishing the chain in the air, a grim specter embracing death.  A willing supplicant to unseen Nordic (or southeastern Pennsylvanian) spirits.  An awkward boy wearing a woman’s coat looking more pouty than barbaric.  The snow melted fast on my newly-shaved head.  My glasses fogged.  My gloves soaked through quick.

Alex wasn’t that much more successful.  He couldn’t get rid of his toddlerish grin.  A Christmas morning kind of smile.  It never left his face, no matter how threateningly he wielded the machete.

A few months ago, I had the chance to see some of the photographs from this shoot, now five or six years old.  They are among the least kvlt, true, or primitive images ever produced by suburban middle-class kids.  They put on display every bit of pretense and awkwardness, joy and mental instability that characterized my early twenties.  These pictures are also what I think of first whenever winter weather comes in earnest.

Still, I wish the picture of the deer had turned out.  I keep returning to that scene every time I sit down and try my hand at poetry.  When Kyle approached the herd, I leaned against the trunk of my car and stared, at once awestruck and absent-minded.  I cupped the lit end of my cigarette beneath the palm of my hand, hoping the snow wouldn’t put it out.  Hoping the deer wouldn’t see the glow.

It’s snowing now.  It will most likely snow for the next twelve hours.

I’m nearly finished a take-home final and planning on staying up to do more work, but am suddenly really light-headed…

It is unspeakably embarrasing to witness a plastered mid-30s dude drunkenly flirt with a woman in a cafe who’s just trying to read a book.

Sometimes white, sensitive singer-songwriter dudes strike me as the most scary and misogynistic people around.

Retrograde

Despite six consecutive days of touring, one day off, and one day spent practicing, I played some of the sloppiest guitar of recent memory during last night’s show at Galaxy Hut.  My fingers felt sluggish and my left hand crawled up and down the neck.  How my vocals came across is an utter mystery to me, since I’m so unaccustomed to using microphones.  Still, the set went all right (couldn’t have done it without Dawn!) and we were pretty well-received by the audience, who varied in age from mid-twenties to the over-fifty set.

As a reparative gesture for double-booking the original date of the show, Lary from Galaxy Hut allowed the bands unlimited beer.  My friend Alex and I spoke conspiratorially of our recent over-indulgence in alcohol as I ordered pints for us at the bar.  Halfway through mine, I felt as if the spiteful lacuna of the past day’s sobriety had been gently patched up with eight ounces of Blue Point ale.

Janel & Anthony were wonderful as usual.  I am also convinced that their effects pedals have wanton Dionysian revels while in storage, which produce many, many baby effects pedals of uncertain parentage.  This is based solely on the sheer number of them the band had last night compared to when I last saw them.  Dawn theorizes that the growth rate is, in fact, exponential.

Brian Gonyer performed his first solo Eubonics show with the all-Asian support of his partner Ari, his hype man Cherub Rock (that would be me), and DJ Byron Tau.  The set was on the shorter tip, and I’m not sure if everyone made the last train back to DC.

Back Home

I am literally minutes away from falling asleep in my own bed.  One more show in Arlington, but not before going back to work and prepping for the semester.

The tour was a wild success based on the following critera:

-Folks seemed to genuinely like my music.

-I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with nearly every person who shared the bill and/or their floorspace with me.

-I miraculously avoided severe hangovers.

-I came home still loving my tour mates.

-I still have over $100 in my bank account (though only barely).

More stories and pictures forthcoming.  Promise.