As you might imagine, I write most of my posts either on my lunch break or after I get home from work. I've found that writing while I sleep is damn near impossible, and it usually results in incoherent ramblings about ocelots, mountainside physician-assisted suicides, being suffocated by Anna Nicole Smith while eating raw eggs that cook in my mouth, or chasing criminals through grocery stores with Forrest Whittaker.
The last couple days have been, to put it mildly, hellishly busy. Monday, I pretty much worked until 11 p.m., at which point I finger paint awkward first date scenes for an hour or so every night while listening to the True Blood theme song. Writing is off limits during that time. Yesterday was one of those days where you go to work, sit down at your desk, and work fervently for the entire time you're at work. Most days, there is some time for me to breathe and maybe even check the internet to see what's going on the world of online trivia. Some days, I'll even go so far as to stop working while I'm eating lunch. Yesterday was not one of those days.
Last night I saw The Gaslight Anthem at House of Blues, which, behind The Metro, The Riv, The Vic, Beat Kitchen, Schuba's, Double Door, Reggie's, Charter One Pavilion, and Gregerson's living room, is my favorite live music venue in the city. Then again, I haven't seen a show at the Aragon (thanks, Meg White). Anyway, the show was very good. By the way, if you don't have all three Gaslight Anthem albums, you should get them immediately.
I love concerts. A concert is one of the few times I can think. I'm an introvert, so I'm weird to begin with, but I love being able to immerse myself in my own thoughts for a couple hours without interruption. I stare into the abyss, usually at the band and, more often than I'd like, at the back of the fat head of some dude who decided to stand right in front of me. Fuck people over 5'9". But anyway, a concert is one of the few times you can observe someone at their job doing what they love to do (and something that that I would love to do, were that I had any musical talent), and I can use that, in that moment and after, as an inspiration. When I'm standing there, staring at whatever band it might be, I think about everything I've done with my life and everything I'd love to do with my life. Seeing people doing something they truly love for a living -- and rocking out, no less -- gives me hope and makes me happy.As you may know, Gaslight Anthem is from New Jersey, and they tell good stories in their songs. Last night during the show, I spent the better part of an hour thinking about an imagined childhood in New Jersey. Italian and Irish family and friends. Living in a three-bedroom house built between 1950 and 1960, on a street lit at night by Thomas Alva Edison's incandescent light bulb. A stevedore father who loves listening to Wilson Pickett and Sam Cooke records, even though he hates black people. A secretary mother named Marie. Smoking a lot. Being a Jets and Mets fan. Union halls. My friend Tommy who knocked up his girlfriend Gina. Burned-out cars. Ferris wheels. The giant Exxon sign that brings this fair city light. Dreaming of leaving, even though I had no chance. It was all there.
Then I thought about how I want more tattoos. If I were to get a tattoo on a visible part of my arm, I would probably ask my employer beforehand because some people seem to think the presence of permanent ink on your body bears a direct relation to how well you can practice law. Would they say yes? And if they agreed that they would not fire me for getting it, would I ever truly be sure that they would stick to their word? 'Cause if they ended up firing me down the road, I'm pretty sure the tattoo would be the only reason.
Then I thought, What's the last song I'm going to hear before I die? I hope it's something by Wesley Willis. That got me thinking about what songs I want played at my funeral. I'd also have to go with Wesley Willis, probably "Birdman Kicked My Ass" or "Freakout Hell Bus."
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