Sooooo... for the past week, I've been straight up aurally addicted to this band The Head and The Heart.  Like, specifically their song Down in the Valley.   Like, couldn't walk away if I had things At Stake. I walk around signing it.  I walk around hearing the lyrics rattle around in my head like a full can of bronze spray paint.  I mouth them, sing them whenever I think nobody is watching me. I...well here, just check it out for yourself:



So there.  That's it.   That's why I've been spellbound for the past, what...few days? Week? Going on a embarrassingly long amount of time?  I just can't shake it.

Because I want to be the Last Band Member. Number 5.  The Guy that's playing random percussion and Rocking Out.  Wait for the 3:45 mark.  Waaaaaaaiiiiit.  Yeah: That. Guy.  Because...

That's It.  That's what I want.  I have a Massive In Japan sized interest in music.  BUT.   I don't have a ton of musical talent.  Like everything in my life, I have a middling amount of passable ability.  Me= Dabble in Everything;  Master absolutely nothing.  And as far I get in music is having a non-Cat Being Raped voice and a decent sense of rhythm.  So to be that Guy in an up-and-coming rocket ship of a band? The Guy wearing cheap-ass Wayfarers from a truck stop, a Wife Beater, and shaking a couple of maracas.  Out on the road.  Riding a wave of notoriety and cash.  And Not Giving A Fuck™. 

Because you're That Guy.  You're not really tangibly valuable to the band.  You... Let's be honest: You don't add really anything to the musical experience.  At All.  You're...another face to feed out on the road.  You play the Shakers.   But.  BUT... You're awesome enough to be still out there.  You're worth comes from personality.  From proving yourself to be...a value add.  Better than money.  Cash Money.  Dolla Dolla Bill, Ya'll.  Better than Gold.  You're just a Good Guy to be around.  And you're worth more than you thought you'd be, and so you ride This. You ride how the music gets to you.  How It snaps your head back.  How It makes your body bob up and down, dancing in place.  How...It makes you a Fan again.

And that's what I want so bad.  That...feeling of being in Awe.  When I come to and notice that my jaw is hanging just that bit lower.  That things just got that much heavier.  That things got...that much better.  That's What I Want.

Besides- He has nice hair that I like.  So there's that too.

The Monday Swing is nothing more than chemicals, escaping vapors of the neurotransmitters burned up in the climax of the weekend, smokey trails left over from a weekly budget-crushing firework display meant to rattle the teeth in the gaping maws mouthing the ooohs and aaahs.  I know this.  I expect this now, a condition of my condition, like a side effect crammed into the fine print of some new asthma medication.  

But It was a bit more vicious this time around, with only pointy teeth and bony elbows offered as a greeting.  Like your favorite pet chimpanzee reminding you what's what.  And that maybe you should clean its cage a little more often.  And that HOLY SHIT HE JUST TORE MY FACE OFF LIKE AN ILL-FITTING HALLOWEEN COSTUME.

I should have know better than to turn my back on this Monday.  I should have remembered my own Cautionary Tales of Monday.  I am the Trip Fisk of Mondays.  Mondays are not for decoration.  Mondays will cut your fucking hands off.  Mondays... Mondays will fucking cut you wide open.  This is why I tell my stories...

Especially after WhiskeyFest Weekend.  Especially.  WhiskeyFest is one of the events...one of the few that are an annual spectacle, a Midwestern Mecca of Mash and Grain.  This was my 750ml year in Attendance.  What was new/different about this time back through The Breach?  One- Rye is fucking back, baby.  Tons of Rye whiskey at the Fest.  And actually, my favorite of the night was Redemption Rye, out of Bourbon-Land.  Dos- GroupMe was an invaluable resource for the evening.  Like a gangbang for your text messages, it lets whatever group you set up all stay on the same page. And relay amazing Whiskey finds. And make sure everybody knows who pissed themselves throughout the night.

Which thankfully, was nobody that night. We made it through the evening without a casualty. Which is a rarity, between the Dudes and the glassware.  Somebody...somebody or thing always is...unlucky. Or pulls the Short Straw. Or takes one for The Team.  Whatever.  They end up broken or hurt or doused in...beverage. This year we all made it through WhiskeyFest...only to break ourselves later that night.  Broken chairs, spilled water, and tainted pants.  Which ended up being a theme for the weekend, until I got on the train, The Whiskey Shore Limited Express, headed to The Cleve.

And now I'm here, fighting a lack of chemicals with an excess of chemicals, using a bottle of Redemption Rye, a rye IPA, and a bag of Jalapeno-Jack SunChips as cannon fodder against my face hole.  No raising of the victory flag tonight...but by the weekend there should be Celebratory Fireworks lighting up the sky...