Although it was terrific fun walking around town shooting up cop cars while armed with two hot chicks and some paint-ball guns, I decided we should quit while we were ahead, go to the mountain and finish off the Jack Daniels. There, in the drunkenness of the early morning, I began to climb down the dark mountain side. I was hoping the girls would follow me so I could ask them important questions like why their shoes didn’t match their hair. It was then I lost my rapport with gravity and tumbled head over heels a hundred and fifty feet down the mountain. I was lucky to land on top of a lonely tree.

It was on that lonely tree where I began to reflect on my life which, up to then, had been completely devoted to music. If that sounds like a noble thing, I can assure you it is not. My biggest mistake was trying to create music for the art of it. I realize now that music and art have nothing to do with each other. I have since checked my idealism at the door, along with my soul.

I got into music because I thought it would be a good way to express myself. I have always valued individuality. As a kid I constantly strived to express it. Recently though, I have come to the conclusion that musicians these days must essentially be characterless. Why try to create something new and original when it is so much easier, and the rewards are potentially so much greater, to copy something that has already been accepted?

I often become frustrated when I realize how many aspects of my life I have sacrificed in order to try to create something new and interesting only to show up to a gig and have some chick say, “Oh, he’s so cute.”

Fuck off.

“I like the way he makes that little pouty face.”

Fuck off.

“But I wish he would smile more.”

Fuck off.

“What’s with the hair?”

“That’s alright,” I tell myself. “One day there will be a beautiful princess who will get it. She’ll understand and appreciate the thought and dedication that has gone into doing what it is I do. She will be the one.”

But if there is one thing I learned during my recent conversations with God, who I affectionately refer to as the “Ol’ Cocksucker”, it is that I have been dreaming, and there is precious little space reserved in this world for dreamers.

On the lonely tree I thought about a girl I used to know. She was the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Not that I would ever tell her that. She knows. They all know, even the ugly ones. I imagine it must be somewhat disappointing to them when they first realize how simple men really are. I wonder why I never tried harder to get her. I’ve never been one to be afraid of girls and sometimes I actually find them to be quite amusing. Maybe I feared the disappointment that was sure to follow when I discovered that even the most beautiful girl in the world didn’t get it.

Sometimes I wonder what is so special about being human. Like monkeys we spend enormous amounts of time mimicking other monkeys we see on TV. If I was in charge of the world, which will probably never happen because you have to know the right people to get that job, and I wanted to control the other monkeys I’d make sure there were plenty of examples on TV for the other monkeys to follow.

I would reward psychotic behaviors of all kinds. I would feed the monkeys drugs then lock them up for being evil enough to use them. I would encourage the monkeys to fight each other over such stupid things as the color of their fur. If I was feeling especially energetic I would start a religion. I would say, “I know you’re a monkey, but pretend you’re not. Just sacrifice all your monkeying around in this life then in the next one you will have a hundred monkey-whores feeding you grapes.” Then, just when the monkeys were about to give up their hopes and dreams and their faith in the greatness of monkeykind, I would fake a Mars landing.

Paranoid monkeys have a fancy word for this type of thing, and it’s the paranoid monkeys who know what’s really going on. They call it “imprinting”. They say imprinting is used by the head monkeys in order to encourage certain types of behavior in lower class monkeys, like musicians. I dare say that if the whole idea of imprinting doesn’t deeply disturb you, it probably hasn’t dawned on you yet.

Just then I heard a concerned voice call from the top of the mountain. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered as I checked for broken bones. My right knee appeared to take the worst of it but my ego also took a bruise.

“Good thing you’re so cute cuz you’re dumb as shit.”

As I climbed down the lonely tree I began to understand why the Ol’ Cocksucker invented Jack Daniels. I started my gallant quest towards the top of the mountain but this time I was especially careful because just like art and music, gravity and Jack Daniels don’t mix.

I met Delilah on the road about a year ago. We talked for a while and then I invited her to my room for a drink. When we got to the room, without saying a word, she took off her clothes and lay naked on the bed. I curled around her yielding body as she spoke softly about her brother who died in a car accident. Afterwards, she got dressed and walked towards the door. “It was nice meeting you,” she said politely and left.

Six months later we played in Delilah’s hometown. I spotted her on the dance floor wearing high heels and a short black dress. I sat at her table and she introduced me to her mom.

“You stay away from my daughter or I’ll murder you!” her mom spat violently in my face.

So I took Delilah’s hand, led her through the club and out the front door. When we got to the parking lot I dragged her into the back of the band van. I was excited to be with this strange creature. Then we saw the flashing lights.

“Oh no!” she panicked. “I’m not supposed to be around cops.” She tried hiding behind me as two cops came to the van and called her name. After opening the door they handcuffed her and tossed her into the back of their cruiser. Somewhat discouraged, I returned to the hotel.

***

When Delilah got out of jail I made plans to visit with her at a hotel on my way to the next gig. The hotel was busy that night with tree planters who were passing through and partying before starting work the next morning. I was lucky to get a room on the third floor where the planters were partying even in the hallways. I went to my room, took a shower and got ready to meet Delilah and her friend downstairs in the lounge.

When I joined the girls we drank beer and sang karaoke. It was then I realized I had forgotten my hotel key inside the room. I tracked down a night janitor who helped me retrieve the key. When I returned to the lounge I escorted Delilah and her friend back to my room. I placed the key and my money, about a hundred dollars, on the dresser and we continued to drink and talk for a while until her friend went home. Then there was a knock on the door. I opened it and was immediately surrounded by three tree planters who were obviously geeked on go.

“Dude. Your girlfriend put crack in the weed man,” one of them threatened. It turns out that when I went to get my key Delilah had smoked a joint with them. I now found myself in a precarious position. It would be unwise to fight these guys with no backup around, especially when they were so jacked up, so I told them that it would be best for everyone if they just minded their own fucking business. With that they quietly left. An hour later though there was another knock at the door.

“Security.”

“Just a minute.” I dressed and opened the door. Unexpectedly, the three tree planters propelled gallons of soapy water from a large garbage pail onto the bed where Delilah was laying and then swiftly ran off giggling like schoolgirls.

I thought their action was kind of funny but Delilah didn’t. I walked downstairs and got some dry bedding and pillows. The tree planters were nowhere to be seen. When I returned Delilah was on the phone to her homies.

“Wanna earn some rocks?” I heard her say. “Come and get these guys for me.”

About a half an hour later two acne-scarred thugs showed up. One of them pulled a sawed-off shotgun from a brown paper bag. “Who are you?” he asked.

“He’s in the band,” Delilah answered for me. “The fucking assholes went down the hall.” With that the four of us walked down the hallway trying to track down the tree planters. Delilah and her homies proceeded to bang on every door screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs. I was relieved when we didn’t find them. We went back to my room and one of her thugs accidentally dropped his loaded weapon onto the floor.

Delilah began to calm down after her homies left. It was time for me to leave for the next gig so I began packing my bags. I went to the dresser where I put the room key and my money. The key was there but the money was gone. It seemed the perfect ending to a night I would rather forget.

“That’s because you don’t know the secret yet,” he stated as a matter of fact.

“What secret?”

“It’s more terrible than anything you can possibly imagine,” he replied.

He was the roommate of my drug dealer. The following minutes would change my life.

“Kurt Cobain, Bob Dylan and John Lennon. They all knew the secret,” he continued with a manic glare. “Once you know it you can never go back. It will always be with you.”

That was three days before my first nervous breakdown. Insanity is not as fun as I thought it would be. Looking back though I should have seen it coming. One weekend in high school my bass player and I ate a hundred-lot of acid. Shortly thereafter, the panic attacks started.

If you define power as “the ability to affect your environment”, then life is power. I didn’t know that then. Power is a means of proving to yourself that you are alive. It is the only way to know for sure.

***

I decided to move into an old church that my friend Sidney had turned into a recording studio. My bed was located immediately below the studio in the church’s basement. The ceiling was less than five feet high, which meant I had to crouch as I moved. There were no windows and my only light was from candles. I paid special attention to a steel pipe hanging next to my bed. I had already banged my head against it and almost knocked myself out.

In the evening Sidney and I drank wine on the outside deck and talked about the secret. I was surprised to find out that he too had been aware of it. At five in the morning I went downstairs and flopped onto my bed. No sooner though had I drifted into a peaceful, wine induced sleep than I was jolted from my comfort by thunderous rumbling and blood-curdling screams. The low ceiling above me began to shake and angry voices swore violently in distorted tones.

Upon concluding that the odds were somewhat in favor of the above commotion being real, I took a hockey stick from the corner and moved cautiously towards the bottom of the stairs. When I looked up I saw Sidney and his old cat, Betsy, on their way down to see me. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you something,” Sidney apologized. “I rented out the studio to a primal scream class this morning.”

***

After a couple weeks I became hardened to my strange environment. I spent time writing songs with my new friend, a bat who I spotted banging around against the thin metal of the air ducts above. I decided that as long as he minded his own business I would do the same. Besides, I didn’t really know how to go about getting rid of a bat. A couple days later though I saw another rodent, a large rat, digging in a bag of garbage next to the door. The bat was one thing because we had an understanding. There was mutual respect. But with a rat things are different so I contemplated my next move.

I walked upstairs and found Betsy on the counter eating kitty treats. I took her lovingly in my arms, carried her downstairs and laid her softly on the concrete floor. At first Betsy was not aware of anything unusual but soon she sensed something was up. The aging feline moved methodically towards the garbage where the rat was no longer visible. Undaunted, she valiantly continued forth on her sneaky hunt. Upon first seeing her prey she backed up and assumed a ready, crouching position. She then pounced viciously at her first clean opportunity. With her teeth, she grabbed the rodent by its tail and began to smash her squealing foe repeatedly against the cement wall until its blood splattered outward staining the surrounding concrete. After teasing and playing with her victim Betsy dragged the conquered corpse towards me and dropped it at my feet. She looked up and proudly awaited my approval. At that point I was unsure of what to do. I never had to dump the body of a rat before. So I took a shovel, scooped up the corpse and discarded it into the garbage. “Now,” I wondered. “How do I go about cleaning up all this blood?”

In music, the space between the beats is important. It determines the feel and is the place where everything flows. Sometimes, life is what happens between the beats.

***

It was 3 AM and we were halfway to the next gig. The windshield wipers struggled to keep pace with the falling snow, which had created a thin layer over the mountain highway’s perilous black ice. At 40 below the dense fog concealed both the road ahead and the abyss that was the valley beside us.

Suddenly, there was a booming thud. Jerome wrestled with the wheel as the van fishtailed violently down the highway. In the back seat I was surprised at how quickly I resigned myself to a fate of being splattered into mush. Next to me, Keefer raised his arms and opened his mouth in dramatic slow motion while we continued to skid down the highway.

At least we continued to skid forward.

“Good job dude!” I praised Jerome for his driving.

“I had to aim for the smallest one,” he replied. “There were 3 of them. I never saw them until it was too late.”

“Good thing it was a deer and not a moose,” Keefer offered. “Those things with their long legs come flying right through the windshield.”

It was still a hundred clicks to the next town and our headlights had gone black. We were without heat and had to stop frequently in the middle of the highway in order to fill the radiator, which sprouted anti-freeze from six antler-sized holes. Slowly, we rolled into the next town and fixed the radiator.  We arrived at the gig twelve hours later just in time to hit the stage.

On this night there was a lineup for blocks and the tequila was flowing freely. From the stage we watched the eager, young punk chicks dance.  Afterwards, Keefer and I stepped into the bathroom and noticed a pair of shoes protruding from the bottom of the stall. Keefer’s curiosity, mixed with the tequila, got the better of him and he peeked over the top of the stall. It was Jazz, an eccentric fan. He was sweating and the sleeve of his unbuttoned shirt was rolled up past his elbow. A needle had been jabbed into his forearm just below a small tattoo of a heart with chains.

“Dude. Is it working for you?”

Jazz seemed disturbed by Keefer’s intrusion, but Keefer asked again. “Is it working for you dude?”

Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was an eager, young punk chick.

“You want to fuck me don’t you?” she asked.

“What’s in it for me?”

“I knew it.” she replied excitedly.

With that we left the club and made our way back to the hotel. The show was over and it was time to fill the space between the beats.