Jan. 4th, 2015

whynot: etc: excuses, excuses (express yourself)
This weekend was the first time the band practiced without special guests. It's been a veritable parade of relatives and high-school friends, and on Friday night, after Jack and I wound our way back from the Cape in a new car we bought from a little old lady on the cheap ("just drove it to church and back on Sundays", and the dome lights don't work), the three of us coalesced together again. Jason, Jack, and me - half-ragged hypostases, triune god of going nowhere fast. Here we are again, we said to each other. If ever I end up waking up grimy-eyed at 5 AM in the backseat of a car speeding across the southwestern desert, pursued by the law, I have no doubt that Jack's gonna be the one behind the wheel and Jason will be riding shotgun. They'll be arguing the details of a decade-old memory, what happened back in high school, that one time in Mr. O'Brian's class. Something completely innocuous. Cans of Red Bull in the footwell, and the constant battle to quit cigarettes currently put on hold.

We are, I suspect, becoming a little codependent. Are we musicians who just get fucked up? Or are we fuck-ups who like playing music? We call it band practice but we never practice for anything. We're not pursuing gigs, not even open mics. Come weekend nights, we're squeezed into the guest bedroom tangled up in each other's wires, two beers in and singing other people's heartbreak. Every so often, we remind ourselves that we're better than this. The sentiment never lasts, but the inertia does.

It was the three of us again this weekend and we had been waiting for it, it's so easy, litany of things we can sing in our sleep, and all we want is easy. Let's play this song, let's play that song, and the indecision in-between that leads to noncommittal noodling and a rambling jam. It's not that we're good. It's not that we aren't offensive and lazy and inconsiderate to each other. We're a well-oiled machine that does nothing much. We will simmer and give up and control, but there's some feeble light of dawn when the dust clears. We are in our simplest form. We love each other. This solves nothing. Love is no panacaea, but neither is the dawn; you just know that both are inevitable, that's all.

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