Neglect!

I'm kind of over this whole blogging thing. If it were an actual physical entity, Fast Music, Fast Times would be placed in a cardboard box, taped shut and stowed away forever in my (parent's) closet. Forgotten and unused, weB log would take up residence next to the karate uniform I had as a child, the skateboard I never rode, the sketch pad and drawing pencils I used once, and the electric guitar that gets touched twice every eight months. I start things that I don't finish. Ask any ex girlfriend.

Entries and creativity are bound to increase. Soon, Polar Bear Club starts playing shows. That's the whole point of this thing in the first place - show reviews, show pictures, and sordid tales of general high jinkery. Mix all of that in with Trevor's Tales of Self Hate and you got a website that insists on being bookmarked. The loathing will be on the rise too! Currently, I'm about fifteen pounds over weight. If you put your ear close enough to your computer monitor, you might just hear the waist band of my jeans crying out for help! How am I supposed to not eat cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner when it's just sitting there all frosted and sexy looking? TTYL, friends.

Cut My Life Into Pieces

Once again, I don't feel like writing a god damn thing which borders on the ridiculous because I have three more hours of work and absolutely nothing to do. The mere thought of typing pains me and this is probably the work ethic that has led to the never ending rut I call my life. I haven't updated in awhile so I feel compelled to give you something, my dear reader. So, what follows is an idea that I found funny at some point over the weekend but quickly loses all steam and substance. (Side note, has anyone noticed I have no idea how and when to properly use a comma? I'm sure at least one out of the three of you reading has. This is me. A high school and college graduate who lacks basic skills. Life has failed me/vice versa)

Too many words. Let's just get straight to the shame.

So, this past Friday, I almost created a Match.com profile for myself. I make most of my decisions while intoxicated and this time was no different. However, for the first time since possibly 1994, I resisted the sweet, sweet whispers of my dark mistress Lady Booze. I didn't follow through but I must say I got pretty far into the registration process. I wish I could tell you that common sense reared its ugly head; that I sobered up and realized that paying thirty dollars a month for a dating service is both sad and the first indication of a serial killer. Nah, that's not what did it. It dawned upon me that living at home, at this stage in my life, is like having AIDS, and kids, the ladies do not like the AIDS.

Jesus. What a horribly insensitive and offensive thing to say. Ok, maybe, just maybe, my living situation isn't the same as being HIV positive. Let's get serious. It's living having The Herp. And I don't mean the kind of Herp where you just get a couple of blemishes on your lips and face, you know, the cold sore. I'm talking the rampant patches of seeping sores that cover The Special Place. Admittedly, your groin area looks like the aftermath of a terrible grease fire but there is an upside here. The benefit with this kind is that you don't have disclose right away that you're tainted meat, you can work up to that. However, eventually, you have to let the sore, er, secret out of the bag.

This is how my warped brain relates the STD with living with the 'rents. Stay with me here. I mean, If i ever was to actually meet someone off Match.com (or in real life) I'd eventually have to disclose that, "No, those aren't my roommates. Yes, those are my parents. No, they haven't fallen on hard times and I haven't graciously and unselfishly taken them in and offered refuge. Yes, THEY took ME in because I'm more or less a hobo that happens to own a car." The same same type of conversation exists if I harbor the simplex virus, "No, you probably shouldn't touch that. Yes, I'm aware it looks like the plague. No, it's never going away. Yes, I understand if you leave now."

Sure, unlike herpes, the move home isn't permanent (God, how many times have I said that before?) And most adults could probably handle a conversation or confrontation like the one noted above. Hell, there are probably female adults out there that wouldn't really care that I temporarily lived at home. The thing is, I'm not like most adults. If you knew me, you'd know that I have the emotional capacity of a boy raised in a bubble his entire life. I don't function well outside of the bubble. It's not my fault, I blame an ex girlfriend (Good morning, Sarah!)

Where does this leave me you ask? It leaves me on my parents' futon. With no air conditioning and no chance of a lasting relationship anytime soon. Fear not, my suffering is your entertainment. So it's been awhile since I've met anyone new and by awhile I mean years. Back then girls used to smell nice. Is that still the case? Thanks for the help, friends.

Fuck You, Pay Me

Oh, hey, I didn't see you there. Thanks for stopping by. What's that? Oh, yeah, that's just a flyer over there for a Bouncing Souls show. Maybe you've heard of them? Yeah, me too. Pretty big band, no? Mayflower? No big deal, I just play bass for them and we're opening. Yeah, sounds pretty alright, I guess I'll show up.

Pfft. Fuck. Really though, I'm in this band called Mayflower and we're going to open for the Bouncing Souls. Do we deserve it? Nah, probably not. I mean, there are better bands out there who've been around longer and know how to write a catchier song. Honestly, we probably wouldn't be on the bill if I didn't know a dude who knows the dude putting on the show. But hey, punk rock and hardcore is all about who you know, right? Right.

Either way, I get to be in a band that opens up for my favorite band. That rarely happens to anyone and frankly, I deserve it. I mean, I've spent many years toiling away in shitty bands, playing shitty songs, playing shitty shows. Sure, I can't play guitar or bass to save my life but it wasn't my fault we sucked. It's never my fault, I'm Trevor.

I have an hour left of work so , just for fun, let's review some of the aforementioned shitty bands I've partook in during my DIY career.

Rebel Riot - I don't want to get into much detail here because this audio abortion deserves an entire blog entry all to itself. Lets just say it was an oi band fronted by an overweight, skinhead guerrilla. I was clearly an impressionable youth who would have signed up for anything judging by the fact that this was also the time I wore a spiked belt and large pants. Cut my life into pieces.

The Defilers - Well two of the dudes who were in Rebel Riot were in The Defilers so you know this band sucked too. Oh, you don't? Well, we fucking sucked. By this time, the way I chose to embarrass myself was by wearing black nail polish. Older Trevor would really, really hate younger Trevor.

Shock Nagasaki - For this one, we have a myspace linky for you to enjoy. I didn't belong in this band and in fact I think I was kicked out three or four times for skipping practice and shows. The Clash and the Sex Pistols huff dong equally and Shock Nagasaki often covered both. It was nice to not be the biggest cock in a band for once, however. (I almost bought a pair of creepers to fit in with the rest of the band, don't tell!)

Killed For Less - Hey! If you're into really shitty audio quality, click on the link to the left, post haste! In all seriousness, this is the band I'm most proud of and two of my best friends were in this band with me. Scott from Mayflower was down with this sickness as well. Unfortunately, I was down with the wearing a bandanna around my neck phase. It's a cold world.

Well, we got a little off track there but I think we'll both agree we had some fun today. Maybe I'll see you at that Bouncing Souls show. I hear Mayflower is playing. I'll be the dude on stage wearing something stupid. What trend can I hop on next? Let's find out together.

Ride The Snake

**Edit** I started this entry over a week ago and never got around to posting it, it didn't start off very funny and never really went anywhere. I'm just going to keep what I had and add on to it. It never became funny**

Let's talk some more about me, shall we?

Slowly but surely, and over the last couple days, the reluctant move back home to the parents' home has begun. I'm not paying rent for July so obviously I need to be out of the apartment by, well, tonight actually. I was out gallivanting (boozing and whoring) this past weekend so a lot of the responsibility to move and clean was left up to Nate. Bad move on my part but I had committed to going out of town months before we decided on the move and I just couldn't break those plans, as much as I may have wanted to. I did what I could with the little time I had. On nights I have to work. my day doesn't allow for much other than sleeping. Today was a hectic one fueled by only two hours of sleep. Life goes on.

Packing all of your life's possessions into the back of a Honda Accord and only having to make one trip is both sad and liberating. Note, when I say liberating I mean emotionally devastating . So if we're going to judge one's success on possessions, well, I lose again. I have a large tv, a Xbox 360, and a wallet sucking/soul stealing car payment. The tv was a good life choice and probably the main reason why I'm being allowed to move back home. It's my admission ticket if you will.

7/7/08

Fuck it. I have nothing tonight. My creative juices are spent. This is what you get from me tonight, an excerpt from a conversation I had with Boogz over the internet machine. It basically encompasses everything I suffer through now that I live at home with my parents, er, roommates. Enjoy or be horrified, the choice is yours.

[00:49] xtremoneyx: I HAVE NOTHING TO BLOG ABOUT

[00:50] capn t burgs: no shit

[00:50] capn t burgs: you're bout to get unfavorited

[00:50] xtremoneyx: i deserve it

[00:50] xtremoneyx: i'll have something tonight

[00:51] xtremoneyx: it will suck

[00:51] xtremoneyx: maybe i'll write about the fact that i feel ashamed when i jerk it now

[00:51] xtremoneyx: b/c i'm next to my parents room

[00:51] xtremoneyx: in their home

[00:51] xtremoneyx: silently loving myself.

[00:52] xtremoneyx: whilst sobbing.

Happy? Now we booth feel dirty.

<3>

Fuck Summer.

Seriously. Listen, I have a beer gut, the tits of a girl in 10th grade, arm tattoos I prefer to hide, and gams whiter than the Aryan race. I'm not going swimming, wearing shorts or parting with my hoodie. Therefore, I choose to sweat, complain and act miserable. That being said, this past weekend was pretty sweet. WANNA HEAR ABOUT IT?

It's funny. I guess you could say I have two different groups of friends. One group has been to a basement show and knows who Saves The Day are. They also usually tend to be a lot younger than me. The other group of friends calls a show a concert and only goes into a basement to do laundry. The latter consist of dudes I've known since high school and the only thing we really have in common at this point anymore is the fact we all went to Victor High many moons ago. You see, these guys have their shit together and they always have. They didn't take almost ten years to graduate college. They don't sleep on their parents' futon. And they probably don't regret every decision they've made in the last ten years. They do have their own homes, high paying jobs, girlfriends or wives and in some cases, children.

So there must be some other common interest or common similarity that breaks through all the differences and lifestyle choices, right? There has to be something other than high school, yes?

Beer.

We all like to get hammered. Even my friend who could buy and sell me at any point likes to booze it up. This past Saturday a bunch of us decided to get together to watch fireworks at a local nearby spot. Well, we certainly couldn't do that sober so a back pack full of beers was a must. We loaded up our pack mule and off we went head first into a park full of families and well meaning adults in search of the best place to watch the fireworks. Once we decided on a location in the park, the bag opened and the beers were popped. Troublemakers. As our beer consumption and curse words elevated, families began to pack up their lawn chairs, as well as children, in order to get the hell away from us.

I'm told the fireworks eventually ended and from what I can piece together, we ended up finishing off our drinks in a pitch black forest. Re-read that last part of that sentence and think about it, a father of two who has some sort of government job, a lawyer, a salesman were all boozing hard with some shitty dude in a forest. In the middle of nowhere. In complete darkness. And these are my adult friends. Not the punks or social misfits that complete my other half of friends. My chubby fingers pecking away at this keyboard just can't do this story enough justice. Secretly, I was hoping that we would all be arrested just to bring light to such an absurd story and situation. I changed my mind when I realized that the police blotter the next day would reveal that my home address is the same one now that it was when I was a senior in high school.

When I come home this morning after work and have to sneak past my parents' room (so I don't wake them up) I'll try and remind myself that summer/life isn't so bad as long as booze, night time, and old friends are involved.

I drink so you don't have to. God bless.