15 Songs, 15 Memories - The Power of Music

Music runs my life. It's always been there for me, and I bet you feel the same way.

The first song I ever remember hearing on the radio was "Don't be Cruel" by Elvis. I was a wee young sprout sitting in the bucket seat of my dad's yellow Chevy Vega. The first record I owned was a copy of "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure: The Soundtrack" I got from my cousin Becky. The first tape I ever owned was one of those birthday tapes from Toys r Us, and truth be told - I might have listened to it on days that weren't my birthday. The first CD I ever got, along with my CD player, was a copy of Elton John's Greatest Hits, Volume One. As an interesting fact, it was actually a rare misprint. The CD was labeled and packaged as volume one, but was actually the songs from volume two. I wonder what I did with that, I bet it's worth some money. Anyway, I'm trying to get rid of a bit of anxiety and a mild case of writer's block; so I figured I'd invent myself a creative writing exercise.

Everybody has those songs. You know what I'm talking about. Those songs that you listen to over and over again. Those songs that remind you of good times, good friends, and good living. The songs that can instantly take you back to a moment in time that you thought you had all together forgotten. Then there's the songs that helped you through some of the bad times, or offered you hope when you couldn't find it anywhere else. They aren't in any particular order, because no favorite song is better than any other favorite song. Numbers are fun, especially when they count down, so I'll just number them as I think of them.

You could call this a list of my favorite songs, but that's not really what this is about. It's about a few experiences in my life, and what the soundtrack was. You all have similar experiences, I'm sure, and I'd love for you to share them with me in the comments. There's something about music. Once you get it, you're hooked, and you'll never look back. Here's a list of some songs you've heard of, probably a few you haven't, and one person's visceral reaction to the music that seemed at the time like it was made just for him.

#15 - "Fade to Black" by Metallica (Ride the Lightning)
My first copy of Ride the Lightning was a dubbed tape I got from my cousin Eric. I had listened to Master of Puppets and ... And Justice for All, but I still hadn't heard Ride. My cousin damn near shit a brick, and ran downstairs to grab me the tape right away. At first, I only listened to the second side because I really liked "Creeping Death." I was thirteen years old, and I had the hots for this girl that lived in my neighborhood. There was a big group of us kids that used to play together, and she was one of them. One of our friend's brother had just died in a car accident, and we were all sitting in this girl's backyard talking about life and death. We played truth or dare, and this kid named R.J. dared her to kiss him. I was destroyed. That night, I listened to the first side again, sitting on a couch in the garage with fresh ears. I listened on my little portable tape recorder that I recorded guitar riffs with. When I heard the lyrics, "Life it seems to fade away, drifting further everyday..." I had one of those melodramatic teenage boy moments where I thought the world would never be the same again because I couldn't kiss that girl, and the sadness of our friend's death made things even worse. A lot of people say this song kept them from committing suicide, but I think they're lying. The truth is, they were all thirteen and bummed out about a girl that didn't like them back.

#14 - "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel (Other People's Songs)
This is one of the cheesy radio songs that will end up on any list like this. If "Fade to Black" wasn't cheesy enough for you, this song surely is. There's a few memories I have associated with this song, but the most important was the day I formed my first business. I had just come home from a road trip out East, and my roommate was making out on the couch with his girlfriend so I split. I had spent the last twelve hours thinking about what I was doing with my life, and after hitting the seek button on the radio for a while, I stumbled on to this song. I had just read a bit more about Peter's departure from Genesis, and read into the song lyrics a bit more. "Which connections I should cut." That's the key lyric in that song. There's a moment before you make a major life decision, right before the decision is made, where you have to deal with the burden of choosing which of two distinct paths you'll walk down. "Solsbury Hill" was the soundtrack of me deciding to pursue writing as a reality instead of a pipe dream.

#13 - "Stigmata" by Ministry (The Land of Rape and Honey)
The first time I saw Ministry was at the Orbit Room in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I have so many memories from that night. The bass player of Hanzel Und Gretyl showing me her boobs, getting stuck in a blizzard on the way there and nearly missing the show, and screaming along to every Ministry song with my best friend Stan. We loved that band, man. We listened to them all the time. We talked about that show for weeks. It was one of the loudest shows, and one of the better shows I've ever seen. The whole time, though, there was this dumb kid on a million drugs screaming "PLAY STIGMATA!!! STIGMATA!!!" every two seconds. Near the end of the show, they played "Thieves," and we took the kid down in the mosh pit. Good times. Now every time I hear this song, I think of that dumb kid and the look on his face when me and my buddy Stan screamed "Shut up!" at him and shoved him with all our might into a hyperactive circle pit.

#12 - "In my Life" by The Beatles (Rubber Soul)
I bought a crate of Beatles vinyl from my Cub Scout Master, Rodger, in 1996 for twenty five dollars. There were copies of nearly every U.S. release, with the exception of the Self-Titled. (My parents wouldn't let me have that one, it's the one that made Charlie Manson crazy, you know!) I wanted to make sure I put a Beatles song on here. The Beatles were the first band I ever obsessed over. I listened to them constantly, digested magazine articles, taped television specials, and wore out every single one of those records. I still have them, but good luck listening to those smudgy, scratched, and abused relics. I'd have to say that my favorite Beatles song has always been "In my Life." It's almost like you can feel the weight of the world on John Lennon's shoulders. It's such a great song. "Lovers and friends, I still can recall, some are dead and some are living." Death is something I've had to contend with on frequent occasion since the very beginnings of my cognizance. "In my Life" gets played shortly after every funeral I go to, and that means I hear it a lot. "I know I'll often stop and think about them."

#11 - "Disappear" by Dream Theater (Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence)
The first Dream Theater album I ever bought was "Scenes from a Memory," shortly after it came out, and I was hooked from then on. I waited in line at the local music store, Music Express, for an hour before they opened to get that CD. I still go to see them, and I still spend way too much money buying all their crap. I have almost every DVD, bootleg, Live album, Studio album, and single. I definitely like Dream Theater a lot. Since I'm talking about the way music affects our mood, or creates a story in our mind, I'll just have to say that I think this is James Labrie's most personal and sincere vocal performance to date. If I remember correctly, the song is written about the death of his mother. It's such a beautiful song. You can almost feel him suffering through the microphone. Even if that isn't the real story, I'm still going to pretend it is. "And I'll carry on, the best that I can, without you here beside me." Those words speak so truthfully to anyone who's ever lost something they know they can never get back. It seems to me like everybody has had a few moments like that in their past. I know I've had my fair share. This song helps soothe those pains that never really go away.

#10 - "Counterfeit" by Limp Bizkit (3 Dolla bill yall)
Yes, Limp Bizkit sucks. I know. Fred Durst is the world's biggest douche bag. When I was fifteen years old, though, Limp Bizkit was the coolest thing in the entire world. After I first heard that album, I ran to my guitar instructor with my spare guitar and begged him to teach me about the theory behind low tunings. That sent me down a road of musical exploration that I still haven't found the end of. Hopefully I never will, either. In 1999, I think every fifteen-year-old Midwestern male in America was singing Limp Bizkit songs and getting threatened to have their mouths washed out with soap. That was one of the CDs I took with me on my trip to Colorado after Eighth grade. Weeks later, I was a DC shoes-wearing, Yankees cap backwards, bleached haired little punk walking the halls of good 'ol Alma Mater Prima, Hackett Catholic Central. "Reality bites, but that's what life is." Thanks Fred, I'll take that to heart.

#9 - "Like Icarus" by Summer Dying (One Last Taste of Temptation)
Summer Dying was a metal band from Lansing, Michigan, that was active in the early 2000's. I saw them a few times at this great fallen venue in Kalamazoo called "The Space." To anyone that remembers that place, there were a long series of open notebooks that visitors were encouraged to write in. I still wonder who has those notebooks. I know I wrote a whole bunch of dumb teenage angst in there, I'd really like to see them some time. The first time I got really high, and I mean REALLY high, I listened to this song and thought I was being communicated to. I had smoked weed before, but this was some really good stuff I had just bought from a guy I worked with. I smoked it on the playground at the school near my parent's house with my buddy Vince. He started having a panic attack because he thought his entire life was actually a video game. I just felt really good. He finally went to bed, and I went into my room and put my headphones on to listen to this song. It was my favorite. I really wish Summer Dying hadn't broken up. I had such a good time at those shows. "Is it just me, or are the stars bright tonight? Up high. Enchanted visions of stars that shine for me in heavens above! I wish to be inside of you! Inside the constellations of your heart." Then there's this ear busting guitar solo that made me feel like my brain was melting. Summer Dying! Get back together!

#8 - "Shivers" by Armin Van Buuren (Shivers)
This song still gives me shivers, as the title might suggest. In 2005, I was partying really hard. I had a whole lot of money to spend on kegs and fifths. Obviously, you can't party forever. Things took a turn for the worst in November. There were a series of mishaps, which you can read about in my book, "Whatever Happens, Happens: A True Story About Coming to Grips with Reality." My cousin, Eric, was trying to practice DJing trance music. Since I had a giant P.A., we would have trance parties in my basement every couple of weeks. One of my favorite songs was "Shivers," and he made sure to play it for me every time we had a party. One night, when all hell was breaking loose in my relationship with the girl in the book, my best friend and roommate went completely insane and started punching holes in his bedroom wall to the beat of this song. After that, the CD was just left on repeat. By the time that track came around again, he was passed out and I was cleaning his blood off the living room walls. Long story. "How could it end this way? Don't leave me. Love me. Just a little bit longer." It's hard to hear the song now without thinking about the four-to-the-floor wall beats.

#6 - "In Search of Sunrise 3" by DJ Tiesto
Since this is a DJ set, I figure I can just pretend it's all one long song. I had some really, really good sex to this record. I had been trying to get with this girl for a few weeks, and I finally sealed the deal with flowers and dinner on a Friday night. It was the CD I had been listening to to go to sleep for like three months. We were so warm in that bed, feeling each other up and making out like twisted animals during the first song, and by the time the third track rolled around we were ripping each other's clothes off and starting to get down. I'll tell you, man, that was the best sex I ever had. To this day, when I listen to this CD, I still feel like I'm right back there. "When I hear you now, we have to find another way, and I see you now, I see you in so many ways" Indeed.

#5 - "Bankrupt on Selling" by Modest Mouse (Lonesome Crowded West)
This was the first song I learned how to sing and play on the guitar at the same time. I still remember most of it, even though I'm getting pretty rusty at guitar. The lead singer of my high school punk band, Mexem, taught it to me one night on his vintage gibson dreadnaught. It was a beautiful guitar. I saw Modest Mouse shortly after my eighteenth birthday with my old boss Aimee. She was a really cool girl. At work, we used to listen to Modest Mouse all the time. Our regional manager, Chad, absolutely HATED it. We made sure to sing extra loud when he was around. I owe a lot to Chad, because he's the one that got me promoted to General Manager at twenty, but I probably owe even more to Aimee. She was like my big sister. We hung out a lot, and that concert was a really fun time. She was a few years older than me, and she taught me more than she probably realized just letting me hang out with her. The first time I ever drove to Chicago was to bring her and her daughter to the airport in Milwaukee so they could go to Colorado. She bought me dinner and gave me twenty bucks, back when that was enough to fill up the tank of my '92 Grand Prix - the first car I ever had. I parked the car somewhere in the suburbs of Chicago, and took the subway downtown. I had no idea what I was doing, but I figured I would make an adventure of figuring out how to get back to my car. I was only like seventeen, and it was the first time I had been in a big city like Chicago without parental supervision. I can still remember walking around trying to find the sears tower, only to realize I had been walking around it for twenty minutes. It didn't take me long to figure out how to get back home, but I sure felt like I had accomplished something at the time. As a matter of fact, Korn's fifth album came out that day and I bought it with the twenty bucks she had given me for gas.

#4 - "Hide and Seek" by Imogen Heap (Speak for Yourself)
My experiences with this song started in a really bad spot. I first heard it during the peak of my short run of heavy psychedelic use. Honestly, it's still really hard for me to listen to this song. I just listened to it once and had to go smoke a cigarette. I had been on a weekend long bender, and this was the third day of straight partying and ingesting all manner of foul substances. I ate two gel tabs of acid, and one pill of ecstacy. Things were going well, at first, and I was tripping with my buddy on the same doses. We were taking shots of tequila, chain smoking cigarettes, and sitting at my dining room table babbling on like the maniacs on acid that we were. He's one of those "hallucinogens are a pathway to higher consciousness" people, and after our animated conversations, he wanted to have a meditation session. He turned out all the lights and lit some candles in my dining room, and plugged his iPod into my standalone record player from the seventies. The speakers on that machine colored sound in such a strange way. I'm not usually very comfortable sitting silently in the dark, and whatever the vocal effect that she uses in this song triggered some strange psychosis in me and I started to have a bad trip. Instead of leaving me alone, like I asked my friend to do, he insisted on guiding me through a meditation to see what was bothering me. For the next half hour or forty five minutes, I was huddled up in a ball in the corner reliving every little thing that ever made me sad or afraid. I guess that's what you would call a bad trip. I haven't really done any hallucinogens since then, aside from snacking on some mushrooms here and there, and I've never told anyone this story. About a week later, I was at the bar drunk as shit with the same guy and another good female friend of mine. Over the course of time, he had let on that he really liked this girl. Problem was, she had a boyfriend and didn't really like him. She and I were becoming really good friends, and I didn't want my buddy's foolish lust to get in the way of what was becoming a valuable relationship to me. Beyond that, we were at some party in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. Since I was still recovering from some heavy mind-screwing, I was kind of in a fragile state of mind. I still can't remember what she asked me that made me turn, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with my buddy Stan, who had died about a year before. The next thing I remember is being curled up behind a bush, sobbing, and having what was probably a flashback to my bad trip. My two friends were instantly there, but I really just wanted to take off and be alone. Since they were such good friends, they knew there was no way they should just let me leave alone in that state, so we took off. Somewhere on the road, this damn song came on and I re-lived the whole experience over again. We drove to a quiet beach near where we were, and had a very terrifying experience laying on the beach in the dark drunken night. I haven't ever been more embarrassed in my life than I was the next morning. I don't know how many lessons I had to learn as a result of this song, but suffice it to say it's a great many. I really have to thank my friends that were with me on that night, on the off chance that they might read this. Her, in particular. It's not often that I need emotional support, in fact it's quite rare, but she was there for me when I needed it and I still don't know how to properly thank her for not letting me go off alone into the dark that night. You want to talk about a visceral reaction to music? If I even hear one bar of this song, I'm instantly humbled. "Mmm that you only meant well, mmm well of course you did, mmm what you say, that it's all for the best because it is." Oh man. Life is really crazy. Listen to music.

#3 - "Wish you were Here" by Pink Floyd (Wish you were Here)
This is one of the songs that I'll only listen to on Vinyl. In the summer of 2006, I was really depressed. My life had kind of taken a nose dive, probably through more fault of my own than I realized at the time. For weeks, it seemed, I had this record in the player next to my bed. I would listen to it over and over again. I had just been through the experiences I wrote about in Whatever Happens Happens, and things were not looking good for me. I had lost a lot of friends, and a good deal of my own sanity, and this song seemed to be the only thing that would help. Legend has it that the guy Pink Floyd wrote this song about showed up in the studio while they were recording this album. He was the old leader of the band, but he had eaten a bit too much acid and turned into a recluse. They continued on without him to much success, but I'm sure they never forgot about their buddy. It was kind of the same thing for me. This song speaks to anyone who's missing a long lost friend. "We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year." Sometimes things change, and there isn't a anything you can do about it. You should spend more time with your friends. There's never an excuse not to spend time with the people you care about most. Life goes by fast, and people grow apart. If you care about someone, tell them. Never leave without saying goodbye, because you never know when it'll be the last chance you ever have to say it. To all the friends I've lost along the way, "how I wish, how I wish you were here."

#2 - "Sucked Out" by Superdrag (Regretfully Yours)
This was the first song I ever played live on stage with my first real band. We must have practiced it a thousand times in my parent's basement. We played the talent show at the drummer's high school. I dressed up in a shiny blue kung fu uniform and painted my face white, with a blue stripe down the center. We played last, and we played our hearts out, but we didn't win and we kicked out the drummer a few weeks later. We still played that cover for the next few shows, but as the lead singer grew up, his taste for more abrasive punk rock blossomed and the Superdrag cover never made the cut again. As a matter of fact, I don't think I've listened to this song for years but I still remember every word. There's something about playing live on stage that I just can't ever get enough of. Having people pay money to see you do what makes you happy is the best feeling in the world, and it makes it even better to hear those people having a good time and singing your own music back to you. The feeling of being on stage and putting on a great show is second to none, and I take every chance I get to do it. There isn't much that makes me happier than standing on stage and seeing the smiling faces of people that are there to see you, and then delivering on your promise to entertain them. The raw energy between a musician and a crowd is experienced on both sides of the security line. Just as happy as you are to see your favorite band play your favorite song, so are they to see you enjoying something they created. Music is so powerful, so culturally ubiquitous, and so capable of expressing emotion. Music makes it a pleasure to be alive.

#1 - "Master's Apprentices" by Opeth (Deliverance)
If I had to pick one favorite song, this would be it. This should be my theme song. I know I said this wasn't supposed to be a countdown, but I have to admit that if I were pressed to make a decision to hear one song for the rest of my life, I think this would be it. "Every wretched dream, I have left behind. Every waking hour, I lie and wait. Sucked inside by will. Gone into the flood. All my questions unfurled as I was put to the test. Once I'm alone, there's no turning back." With Opeth, it isn't so much about the lyrics because you can't really tell what Mikael Akerfeldt is screaming in this song until you listen to it a thousand times. Those lyrics are from the clean part near the end, right before the epic crescendo of the song. There is so much power communicated in that song, so much energy and passion. Opeth is one of those bands that your girlfriend would listen to and say "I just don't know why you like these people screaming all the time." Mikael Akerfeldt is a god among mortals. There's something about a live Opeth show that leaves you in a trance. The way the guitar melodies play off each other, the pounding drums, and the grandiose composition make Opeth one of the most thrilling musical experiences I've ever been privy to. Sure, it's metal, but they're good- REALLY good at what they do. Opeth is pretty laid back for a metal band, and most people who know what they're talking about wouldn't even call Opeth death metal. There's a brooding side to their music, a beautiful side, a side that adds the perfect balance to the intensity of the heavy parts. Opeth makes really good music, some of the most polished and meticulous that you can hear.

I could write about a a hundred more songs that made an impact on my life, and I hope this list got you thinking about some of the memories you might have had to some of your favorite songs. I'm tired, though, and I think I'm going to head to bed. Please feel free to comment on this and share any experiences you might have had to your own life's soundtrack.

Talk to you all again very soon!
-Zachus

The Silver Mystery Tape

"Mysterious cassette tape of area band found in hollow log."

WITH AUDIO!

Every once in a great while, an adult is given the rare chance in life to tap into their fast fading childhood curiosity. To solve a mystery, to gather clues, or at least to do something more intellectually stimulating than pouring liquor down your throat and watching television. Earlier this spring, as I was jogging at the Asylum Lake preserve in Kalamazoo's Winchill neighborhood, I happened across one of these moments.

As I trudged along trying, perhaps in vain, to get rid of the flour sack hanging off of my abdomen; I glanced down to my left when my eye caught a bright metallic object on the inside of a hollowed-out tree trunk. There it was, a real-world mystery in front of my face. Thinking it might be a hallucination, I stopped to investigate. I reached inside the log, and picked up a silver spray-painted cassette tape in a case. Once taped to the upper-side of the log, it had fallen into view - presumably just before I chanced upon it.

As I held it in my hand, the tape instantly reminded me of all the bands I've been in throughout the years, and all the cassette tapes I've recorded past bands' practice sessions on. There's something about holding a cassette tape in your hand that makes music more tangible . The single cassette tape was larger than the iPod I was listening to as I jogged. I'm beginning to wonder if kids my youngest brother's age would even be able to recognize it for what it was. Recording mix tapes, both of my own music and songs I recorded from the radio, was my favorite pastime before our family got the internet in the mid-1990's. The first cassette recording I ever made was recorded in the summer of 1994, shortly after school got out. My best friend Jon and I recorded two songs titled "Christian - Bold and Fat," and "The Tomato Soup man mines for Oyster Crackers." They were a capella tunes, accompanied by beating on pots and pans with my mother's wooden cooking spoons.

Then there's my high school punk band's rehearsal cassettes. There's the tapes I made when I got my hands on my first four-track, and even mixtapes my high school girlfriends made me. There's a giant box of cassette tapes in my closet, longing to be listened to after such long last. I'm sure you might have a few, too. There's a warmth captured on the magnetic tracks of a cassette tape, a familiarity of childhood. At least to me. To most audiophiles, the musical coloration of a cassette tape is like a pillow over the speakers. I like to listen to music on it's intended media. There was a period of time where music was made with the intent of it being listened to on a cassette deck, or with radio compression. Now we have these digital artifact-ridden, poorly-ripped, variable bit-rate, and multi-generational digital files we trade amongst each other all with the hopes we had from the beginning: to find the new sound that moves us. To grab a hold of an Artist's mind - just for those three fleeting minutes. If you're anything like me, music drives your existence. It's the sounds and the feelings and the emotion. The memories you associate with those sounds, and the feelings you work all week to chase for those weekends of freedom.

Well, someone made that music. Someone put it on that tape. Someone walked a half-mile into the woods to put it inside a hollowed-out log, and someone walked into those very same woods to find it. Someday, I'd like to find who made the music on this tape. I'd like to shake their hands for the good story, and I'd like to encourage them to live their dreams.

I made a digital copy of the entire tape, and I tried my best to clean up the quality of the audio. It was clearly recorded hastily, and without much knowledge or equipment. There's a big misconception that music is bad, or amateur, just because it isn't professionally recorded. If that's true, I should just give up right now. You have to make it from playing in your parents' garage to MTV somehow. There's a road that you take from point "A" to point "B," and that road is a long one.

So, instead of bore you with my personal story any longer, I'll give you a few highlights of the contents of the tape (I know you're all dying to know.) I'll host a few tracks on my SoundCloud account for as long as I can; and I'll update the streams if I find a better place to host from. I named the tracks myself, since I have no idea what they're called.

Here we go:

This first track is a low-key vocal track accompanied by a staccato-strummed acoustic guitar. The singer seems to be on the verge of finding his own voice in the crowd.

"Crown Set Down"

Silver Mystery Tape 01 Crown Set Down by DigiTHC

The Second track is a little more complete, with a keyboard thrown in the mix along with a drummer to tighten things up a bit.

"Cool Kids Clap"

Silver Mystery Tape 02 Cool Kids Clap by DigiTHC

The third track is probably the most polished, with a funny little skit on the intro.

"Huge Moustache"

Silver Mystery Tape 03 Huge Moustache by DigiTHC

The Silver Mystery tape was filled completely on both sides with music, most likely recorded over the course of several days. If anyone wants a digital copy of the tapes, I will be more than happy to provide them; and I should have a copy on Archive.ORG as soon as I figure out the Intellectual Property situation.

*If you, or anyone you know, lives in the Kalamazoo area and has any idea who this music was created by, please drop me a line at TheNewScumProductions@Gmail.Com. I'd love to give credit where credit is due, and I'd love even more to thank them personally for such a good story. Not to mention a peek at some music no one else has ever heard before.

Drop me a line, it's always good to hear from people.

-Zachus

Fear and Loathing at the Inauguration of Barack Obama

It was an epic seventy-two hour excursion from Kalamazoo, Michigan to Washington, D.C. and back involving a fifth of vodka, a fifth of rum, six Blue Agave flavored energy drinks, half an ounce of high-grade marijuana, six pills of adderall,two hits of acid that I never took, two pills of ecstasy that turned out to be fake, and twenty-four hours without sleep. I was greeted with two cases of Spike Energy Shots, two shots of Maker's Mark, and an hour nap. Standing, late in the evening, on the briskly chilled streets of Washington D.C. on January 19th smoking cigarettes was a welcome relief from the piles of snow we'd left behind in Michigan.

Following my nap, we set out for the first bar of many in those two days in the Capital. As we sat around a pool table in some basement bar near Columbia Heights gingerly sipping our $9 Guinness pints, one could not help but notice the subtle thematic differences in bar culture that remind you how close to the heart of American politics you are. Instead of the working-class Michigan mix of Nascar/ESPN/Telemundo, the array of televisions were affixed on CNN/CSPAN/MSNBC. Rather than the pre-coital grunts of mid-IQ college students from Western Michigan University, the conversation was relegated to one topic only: the next morning's local attraction, the inaugural soiree of the 44th President of the United States of America.

We stumbled from the bar to a nearby hookah lounge and plotted the following day's events. As of eight the morning we left, we had assumed we were in possession of tickets to the gated area nearest the Capitol. Those tickets had failed to come about, so we were at a loss as to how we were going to gain access to this prestigious and highly-secure historical event. We decided to just get as close as we could, then find the nearest bar and watch the thing on television like the rest of Earth. At least we knew it was going down less than a mile away, and we could openly drink the large quantity of alcohol we had been in the habit of drinking that winter.

Following another brief nap, we showered and assembled for the subway ride to Chinatown for the walk down to the mall. Nearly eight already, we were surely not the early birds. Just out the door you could tell something was happening. The air almost seemed thicker with the improvised music of millions of people gathered in a tiny spot on Earth. As we crammed ourselves into the overly-crowded subway trains, I had my first "wow" experience of the day. I'm no stranger to big American cities, no stranger to the sights of a big group of people. The real experiences are the person to person, eye to eye experiences. As an elderly black woman demonstrated her well-adjusted subway skills simultaneously chatting, holding the rail, adjusting her glasses, and grabbing the collar of her Sunday-best grandchildren looked at me and smiled. All she said was,

"TODAY IS A WONDERFUL DAY"

I hiccuped and smiled, first of the day's caffeine, cigarette, weed, and whiskey still on my breath, and replied, "it really is, ma'am." I'm not usually one for such formality, but I figured it was right for the occasion. She smiled again, and nodded along, shuffling children by the shirt collars. I sunk back into my chemical haze, more of a historian drunk on the stories of the ages. What was so wonderful about this day? The first black president? A good thing, no doubt, but not the heart of the reason for millions to gather of all races. A good riddance to the eight years of frat boy politics? Also good, but not nearly the locus of the excitement. The true Jesus Christ of the thing, the true reason everybody came from all over Earth, Barack Hussein Obama, that's who. The guy speaks the English language like it's rolling out of a textbook. Compared to the spelling-bee flunkout before him, a sonic boom of exquisite articulation.

Truth be told, I didn't really know a thing about Barack Obama outside "The Audacity of Hope," and I really don't still. Sure, his dad was Kenyan with a sob story, his rags to riches "live for the next generation" all-American mom, hot ivy league wife, trials and tribulations of youth, community organizer, Hawaii, blah, blah, blah. If Keith Olbermann said it, I heard it, and if he didn't then, well, I didn't. I don't want to pretend I know more than anyone else who got college credit for intro to poli-sci. I know what just about everybody else knew: when the guy speaks, people listen. Period. It was just the cult of personality behind this guy that made me wonder what we've all become as iconographers.

I stood there, jaw agape, as we walked up the subway stairs to the light at the end of the tunnel. As we went up, step by step, the first thing I saw was a man with Obama's face on his T-shirt. In his hand, he held a bottle of water with Obama's face on it.

"O-Bama water. Fi' dollas! Historic Event!"

bled to a cacaphony of
"OOOH-Bama! Get your t-shirts here"
"O-BamaBama, OBMAMABAMABAMA, O-0-o-o-oBAMA"
"O-Bama cups!" "Get your Obama coins! Real hand-painted brass! Twenny Twen Twen Twenty" "Obama, Obamabama, Obamaramaobama get your lasagna!"
"Buy our new Obama Brew- A hearty, American Pale Ale brewed in America only $7 a bottle!" "Obama! Obama! O-baaaa-ma, gonna kill O-saaaa-ma"

The beating of fists on the bottoms of five gallon drums.
The crackle of a protester's bullhorn,
"Barack Obama is going to Hell! America will burn in Hell! Your only eternal salvation is with the LORD JEEEEEESUS CHA-RIIIST"

"OBAMA AIR FRESHENERS! Two bucks, three for five!"

My favorite, though, was "celbrate this momentis ocasion with a elephant ear!"

The lovely barely-educated vendorfolk had made it from some backwoods Virginia hillbilly stronghold. A blonde television reporter points a microphone at a mounted police officer, and an ambulance crew carries off a man on a stretcher. Thousands of people ahead and behind us we stumble out to the daylight and see an endless mass of people walking, eating, talking, and all- every last one- smiling. As we grew nearer and nearer to downtown, and as the Starbucks became one every few blocks to one every corner, the crowd got thicker and thicker with the sound of choked breath anticipation, civic pride, and the smell of the vendors- food and body alike.

As we approached an area of sight-distance from the Capitol building, it became more than obvious there was something very big happening. Police cars everywhere, road-spiked barricades, men with machine guns, and giant television screens seemingly hanging in mid-air. Strangers embrace in tears. Tears for the joy of the future, perhaps, or tears of old memories that won't go away so easily.

Lost in the overwhelmingly existential nature of the whole thing, I floated about like the wandering drunk I was in tow of my friends Seth and Ally only trying to make sense of the whole thing. Why were we here? Why did we come? What was happening? What's with the commercialism of Obama's face? What mattered so much to so many people that day? Where are we going to get a place to sit and drink? So many questions, such minute levels of BAC. Not being burdened by a vehicle must be one of the best perks to the big city.

We found a place called RFD, where we took a seat at a four-top near the outside smoking area. As I wandered in and out between cigarettes and irish car bombs, my ears perked up right away. This guy is having YoYo Ma play at his party, dude. That's intense. We had racked up a significant bar tab by the time and at one point I was sure I saw a bong between Obama and Biden, but quickly realized it was a glass of water.

Then the man speaks and all is silent but for the clinking of glasses

"Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. they are serious and they are many they will not be met easily or in a short span of time but know this, America, they will be met"

I actually shed a tear. Just one, couldn't help it.

"That all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness"

"Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we may live a better life"

"Know that America is a friend of each nation and every man woman and child that seeks a future of peace and dignity, and
we are ready to lead once more."

Ok, maybe two tears.

The clamor of the bar began to rise to a normal level following the speech and into the following speeches. Then, as the helicopter took off with George W. Bush, the entire bar let out a thunderous cheer. We paid our tab after a few more drinks, and went to the mall to survey the scene.

Ironically, this was the most sober of times I've spent in the Capital city. As we tread through the garbage of four million average-joe consumerist assholes, and watched from the muddied marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial as ducks fought with plastic bottles for space in the reflecting pool. We kept to the path around the boot-flattened hill near the Washington Monument, and read thousands of discarded fliers. Could one be so disappointed with his fellow citizens after having his faith restored in the human race just a few short hours ago?

So, what was so god damned wonderful about the whole thing?

Four million people stand in a park for eight hours to watch a guy talk, and then they leave a pile of shit in one of the thousands of port-a-potties. A big steaming pile of shit to remind us we're all a bunch of raving-mad savage beasts, leaving a wave of destruction wherever we go. The way I see it, no greater assessment of our national identity could have been made but in that moment where a man stood triumphant speaking of change and progress only to have his literal millions of supporters fall back into the same rut of petty argument, carelessness for their surroundings, reckless abandon of civility, and blatant disregard for anything but what's right in front of their face. The taxi ride home was nearly silent, and it is not possible to render the true scope of the ghastly scene to writing.

In Kalamazoo, the bar televisions were still on sports.
But all that's left from the box is audacious hope, anyhow, right?
Just saying.

-Z

An Ode to Progress

At a red light the other day, as I was driving to work, a middle-aged man in a blue mini-van rolls down his window and started making frantic gestures at me. At first startled, I remembered that this is a common thing. I have a simple sticker on the back of my car. Four simple words, none more than four letters. It reads, "Who is John Galt?"

For those of you who don't know what that means, click this link to purchase the book "Atlas Shrugged" by Ayn Rand.

For those that do, imagine the scene. Police station in the back ground, the NPR on both radios, two cars neck and neck. Me, unsuspecting, and another person foaming at the mouth to make a comment.
"Oh man, I love your sticker. 'Who is John Galt?' My god, there's a hope for this world yet"
I couldn't help but notice the Christian Family Bookstore bumper sticker and shudder.

Amicably, I smiled, grabbed the copy of Atlas Shrugged I 'just so' happened to have with me, held it up and said:
"Words to live by, friend."

We drove on.

I went to work, I pressed the buttons on the cash register, and I dreamed of times to come. Soon enough, just eleven short hours later, I would be out of work and traveling down the street on the way to the grocery store. I hear a horn blare from a car speeding past me as they lean out the window and scream:
"Who is John Galt?!"

Two in one day makes a good day. I sit in the coffee shop and pick through the book. A man, well-dressed, and in his late forties taps my table. I look up to see a smile.
"Great book you have there"
"I know it"
"First time?"
"Seventeenth"
"Hence the highlighter"
"Yes, and you may call me Hugh Akston if you wish"

We both share a quick laugh, and he walks out to his car. Shiny, red, extravagant. his new car blurs into the the motion of the passing traffic and he's gone. Three in one day is uncommon.

Settling in from the journey home, I started watching classes on Academic Earth as I got ready for bed. I watched the first lecture of four in a series on Copyright Law by Keith Winstein. As he instucted the class, he looked up from his book and said:
"Anyone read Atlas Shrugged? Any objectivists here?"

::silence::

He shakes his head as I laugh out loud, and explains how a theoretical Randian ideal has to do with a certain viewpoint of the law.

I found myself wishing I was in his classroom to be the person that jumped up and screamed

"Who is John Galt?"

Four references in one day leaves me resting assured that the world hasn't gone to an idiotic hand-basket hell.

Tracking down the Oneiroi

I've made it no secret, my newest pet project. I'm searching for the American Dream, plain and simple. If not just to grab it by the throat and choke it half way to death, leaving it's elusive body gasping on the floor of some North Carolina strip club stage knowing what it's like to be down on your luck. Funny how every time I go looking for the Dream, I end up face-first into some diabolical foray of endlessly iterating drug frenzies, alcohol binges, and aimless cross country driving. The damned dream gets further away for every stab in the dark I take at it's wispy-thin effigies dancing in the shadows of our nation's last-call bars.

I found myself smoking weed in public last week, a habit I don't indulge frequently. Setting the scene, we were at a local downtown haunt frequented by a large cross-section of Kalamazoo's finest. Next door, Ani DiFranco was playing at the State Theater (a casual coincidence.) I sat on a shady picnic bench with my friend Mike, and his buddy patiently yet frantically awaiting the telephone call that his first child was about to be born. On a bet, I asked two attractive young ladies at the bar if they'd fancy a jaunt down the street to have a few puffs on some lovingly cultivated, high potency marijuana. The ladies excused themselves from their dates, their husbands, who were left sulking at the bar as their newlywedded brides went off with two scary looking men in black clothing to smoke a plant most definitely still illegal in the United States. Both teachers in the Kalamazoo Public School System, the young ladies admitted that they had been on the hunt to get high ever since they went downtown to see Ani.

"Are we going to your car, Zach?" the blond asks, bubbly yet inquisitive.
"Nope," Mike interjects as he jams an index-finger sized joint in the poor thing's face.
"In public?" the stern and visibly more assertive of the two blurts out, as if accidentally.
"Sure, why not?" I say, as the passer-bys keep to themselves and stare straight forward.

There we sat, fifteen minutes in all, as the crowded bar district of Kalamazoo dispersed it's drunks accordingly. I thought to myself, if only for a second, "have I found it?" as we wandered back into the bar. Six pints deep, I had to occupy the lavatory. Naturally, so to speak. As I washed my hands, some rube walks in and says

"whoa, who's been smoking the reefer?"
"Oh, not me, I must have just missed out. It smells damn good, though, I can tell ya that much"
"Damn right, It's like fuckin Snoop Dogg was here or sump'n"
I laugh as I tell Mike the story, and he says
"Oh, I was ripping a chillum in there a few minutes ago"

As my mind wanders back to the places I've been, the people I've met, and the things that I've seen; one thing remains constant. Smoking marijuana. If it be Hashish-laced cigarettes in the Great Pyramid of Giza, back stage at the Club Soda, to every concert from Nobuo Uematsu to ICP to Opeth to Kenny Chesney, under the thundering elevated trains of Chicago, in the back alleys of Manhattan, in the dense thick of the Redwood National Forest, in the dazzling lights of Las Vegas, at all the parties, through all the late nights, in the kitchen coolers, the bar bathrooms, and the beds of girlfriends - one thing remains as a constant. Every one I know, and everyone I hang out with, and nearly everyone I've met smokes marijuana. Yet every few weeks, I hear that another one of them has gone to jail because of it.

I think, futher still, about the American Dream. I think about all the endless hours of driving with a smoldering bowl of chronic tucked under my leg, all over the country. I think about all the strangers I've encountered and smoked with. I think of all the grow-ops I've seen, all the strains I've smoked, all the cops I've nearly hit my pipe in front of. I think about my friend's close calls and near-misses with getting busted. The favorite glass pieces broken on brick porches. The stashes dumped down sewer drains. I think about the off-duty cops I've smoked with, I think about the Oklahoma billboard I saw, "cops against prohibition."

I think of the American Dream. I think of smoking weed on the streets of Washington, D.C. during the Inauguration of Barack Obama. I think about what it all means. I think about the bong my dead friend Stan bought us that sits in my footlocker. I think about the connections that we all share, as people caught up in the moment of being people. Sharing stories, passing a neverending bongload around a cicle. The joints around the campfires. The feeling you get, not when you're busy living, but when you remember the good times you had.

That feeling is the Dream in action. The feeling of connection with some great big idea that no one can quite hold on to, but for a moment of fleeting reverie. Needless to say, no matter where I'm drinking a mug of beer, there's always someone who's eyes sparkle when I say those two words we all hear every day.

American Dream.

Psychophantic Sedentary Symbiosis

I pulled out my headphones in line at the grocery store to pay for my groceries (mostly booze,) and the girl checking my ID made the mistake of asking the now ubiquitous question: "what are you listening to?"

"Bible of the Devil"
"Oh" (She picks up the bottle of Tequila, looks at the rum) "I guess this explains it"
"No, that's what the limes are for"
:Total Shock and Confusion:

She was nice, but totally terrified of the fact that I might not believe in god. Totally put off. I'm just another guy in the store buying booze, but the fact that I said Devil in public whilst wearing sunglasses suddenly makes me the enemy of the fucking state.

Yes, I drink. That's why I came to the place with shelves of liquor. Drugs, booze, cigarettes, sex, gambling, lying, cheating, cursing, motorcycles, yes, all of it. I have a definite sour taste for the law, and for a majority of society and their stupid pallid incompetence. I've been in rock bands for more than half my life, and I've done done more drugs than most people can name. I've traveled the world, and all anyone can ever say is "how?" Easy. Work hard, play harder. I've read the satanic bible as many times as the real one, and the bible of the devil the band is named after the codex gigas, which IS A CHRISTIAN BIBLE. Do these people forget that you'd have to believe in God to believe in the Devil? I am an ATHEIST! I don't believe in fairy tales of any kind!

Everybody else gets caught up in shopping at whole foods, balancing their lifestyle, and marching the straight and narrow right on to the collection plate at megachurch. Idiots. We're all going to die, and Horus will not be taking us to get our hearts weighed, much less will Jesus stand in robes judging our every life choice. Jesus, contingent on existence, would most likely not care. What a forgiving chap, right? When we're all rotting in the ground, the ground will not care how many shots of tequila you took two hours before work.

Religion is stupid. Just a thought.
Stay tuned for updates from the road. I'm leaving Kalamazoo for a while.

How pretentious do you have to be before you google yourself?

You've done it, right? You saw that blinking cursor on the search bar, and you couldn't help yourself. Maybe just to see your alter ego, maybe to add hits to the counter. It's a sad creature of malevolent self-pride to type your own name into a google search. Today, I did it. It wasn't the first time, it won't be the last. I was honestly surprised by what I saw. What's my score today? 3,190 hits. Granted that includes the first name "Zach," but honestly, I don't know how my name came up 3,190 times on the internet. I have 121 friends on Facebook today, and 0 followers on twitter. I own a website, thenewscum.org, which has had a few hits from stumbleupon, but nothing much. I gave out about a hundred stickers or so, and haven't got a single comment about the site from someone I don't know. But they are all over the Ohio turnpike rest stops, I know that! Sure, there's the podcast as well; The New Scum Fix, but there's only 13 episodes. I'm trying to create a presence on the web, of course, who isn't? The thing is, though, where do we draw the line? How do you take someone seriously on the internet? I'm just as real as any other person, but how can we quantify success these days? Some of the most brilliant minds on the internet are just normal guys like you and me, that just happened to have an early stake in some form of electronic exchange that gave them e-notoriety. So how prententious do you have to be before you go and start googling yourself? Not so pretentious at all, it would seem, but pretentious enough to enjoy surfing through thousands of results. You can rest assured, though, that no matter how much your checking account fluctuates, google will do nothing but retain more and more information about you and who you are as time passes. When does pretentious turn to terrifying?