Epic Failure

Recently returned from New York, I have been playing this one particular album over and over. For one thing, the band is really good and merits repeated listens despite the back story. But the fact is, there is a back story. I saw this band in Manhattan under unusual circumstances, and all these listens bring me back, not only to the trip itself, but especially to that night and the craziness that happened. It's one of those albums that will forever hold extra meaning, and no one could have predicted such a lofty outcome. It got me thinking about other albums in my life that hold the same clout. There are really only a couple, but one still sticks out more than ever, and it is a tale of unnerving regret and humiliation.

In high school, I was not the cool kid. I was taller than average and underweight. As in grossly lanky and with a bad haircut to boot. So when this one particular female actually talked to me, I was surprised and thinking it might be a joke. For three years, we ran cross country in the fall and were both hurdlers on the track team in the spring. She was a good athlete but was modest in nature and didn't like talking about her success. Away from the track, she was unlike most Asian girls at school. She had green streaks in her hair and wore army style boots. She was mostly anti-social until you got to know her. Despite her grace on the track, her true calling was in art and was unmatched in that department. Once I realized she wasn't fucking with me, I opened up to her and we shared intimate details about each other. She introduced me to a band I had only heard one song of up to that point. That is the problem with radio hits. Whole opinions about an aural art form are based on a 3 minute snippet that is force fed by a DJ who talks over the entire intro.

The song I knew was "Creep." The band was Radiohead. She bought me their new album at the time, OK Computer. She was in love with Thom Yorke's vision, and I knew why after I heard that album. The radio tune was "Karma Police," and she hoped everyone would hear that song and skip the album so she could have the band all to herself. I remember thinking how harrowing and morbid OK Computer sounded for a mainstream music enterprise. With most albums I listened to back then, I would serve the music with other actions such as homework or cleaning. With OK Computer, I just sat on my floor and heard what was going on. I thought it was awesome and respect for my friend, already busting at the seams, grew even greater. Needless to say, we were both ecstatic when Radiohead announced a tour that would pass through L.A. in support of OK Computer. This was a perfect opportunity to see these songs live and expand our minds naturally. I felt great too, because I was able to break the news to her about the show. Usually, she would be the one doing this but somehow the news had escaped her. I told her I'd get the tickets, she could pay me back later, and we could go have a great time. It never felt like romance between us. It was just going to be two great friends having the best time ever. No pressure, just awesome. The tickets went on sale on Sunday morning, and I had to physically go to a record store to buy them. For one, I wasn't smart enough to think of finding tickets online at that age, which is pretty sad for a 17 year old. However, I also didn't get permission from my mom and certainly this would have been needed to buy online. I wasn't one of these kids who swiped mommy's plastic. So, I headed down to Music Warehouse around noon. The tickets had gone on sale at 10am. We all know where this is going. I strided into the store, ready to be the hero for my friend and excited to see Radiohead. I announce to the guy at the counter, like it's a proclamation of national importance, "Two tickets to Radiohead." Straight and to the point. In the face of a potentially life-altering moment, the prospect of heart crushing disappointment never really occurred to me. I had to do chores in the morning, the whole time smiling and envisioning how incredible all of this would turn out. This must have been my undoing. "Sold out," the guy says. It was so typical-sounding. It was like he had been saying those two words all day. Which I guess he was. Just doing his job, not giving two shits about Radiohead, ushering stupid kids like me away for the next customer. But I wasn't ready to leave so easily. I had too much riding on this. I ask, "Really? As in nothing left? At all? Nothing?" The guy was visibly ready to get on with his day. With a finality that is hard to forget, he raised his eyebrows, lifted his shoulders and said, "Gone in an hour. No more." With that, I was left to exit the store.

Telling my friend this news was not easy. She already knew I was going for the tickets, so I didn't have hours and days to think about my approach. Well, really, in this situation there is no easy way to break it. She was calling my house by 2 that afternoon, unaware of the events that had unfolded. She was still excited, the way I had been in the morning. She was ready to see Radiohead, her favorite band in the world. I was the one who had to tell her sorry. Her disappointment has stuck with me. She spent some time fretting at the fact that I wasn't lined up at the record store early in the morning to guarantee tickets. That hurt a little, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming disappointment. The kind that doesn't involve yelling and insults but just the downer, depressed hopelessness that it invoked.

That is what I think about every time I hear OK Computer, which is already a heavy hearted record. It wasn't supposed to happen, but it did. It's not like there weren't other chances to see Radiohead, but it was the only time it could have happened with her and in that moment. Nothing can bring that back, nothing can undo my stupidity. It was complete failure with my name all over it.

I (used to) Work Hard, I (used to) Play Hard

At some point, things started changing. Probably around the time I moved out of San Francisco. I drive around the suburbs and see the occasional bar. An establishment such as this makes perfect sense in a big city such as SF, where public transportation allows the individual to get completely wasted without having to worry about getting home. That and the fact that bars in big cities have unique personalities and atmospheres. The bank I use is in a shopping center here in Pleasant Hill, like everything else here for that matter. Included in its confines is a bar. I have never been inside, but I often walk by out of curiosity. The reason I don't go in is because there are always patron reps outside its doors depicting what lies beyond. Gross white people with their bass fishing shirts tucked into their denim jeans slurring through old sports stories. Like Al Bundy without the clever script. I peek in and it looks like an Applebee's restaurant without the dining area. Then again, who am I to talk shit? There's plenty of stuff that needs fixing in my own world, but I single out others and their idiocies to take the edge off. Insecurity is probably to blame. As much as I'd love to step into that circle and discuss sports with those folks, the fact that I actually don't know too much keeps me at a distance. I start realizing that I know very little about lots of topics rather than very much about a few. I can't hold it together. I turn to music and think maybe I know shit, but I don't. I play a few riffs on my bass, but it doesn't make me a musician. I listen to a few bands, but I can't go into great lengths. I don't even know some of my favorite album names. My cd's are stacked standing, so I recognize them by design and color rather than name. I think I know shit about sports, but I know lots of guys who try talking about it with me only to realize I can only hold it down for a couple minutes before I'm out. I don't know what I know the most about, but I know I don't know much. I should probably do something about that. It would probably help my situation. That shitty bar serving all the blandest beers around isn't sounding too bad right now. I can walk instead of drive, laugh instead of cry, and maybe learn something for a change.

Home on the Strange

I got back from New York about 1am yesterday morning. Resuming my routine of job hunting, I'm sitting here asking myself, "Did I really just spend a week in New York"? I am tempted to wave off the possibility except for the fact that I have incredibly distinct day by day accounts, 190 photos, and a shit ton of memories that have nothing to do with location at all. It's a funny thing about traveling. When I go places, I rarely retain details of individual stops. They provide a new backdrop, and maybe that fact is what helps the conversations and actions taking place there seem more prominent. For now, everything is so fresh in my head. I am thinking back on the smaller details of what went down, and as much fun as I ended up having, not everything was smooth. And that's okay. Life doesn't take vacations just because pretty boy Josh does. Awkward moments and nervous laughs serve to even out the dreamy surreality.