Fucking Dead Artists and My Shitty Life

By Kloghole

My family has always been plagued with “good” luck in bad. Today is a picture-perfect example. I was awoken at 6:45 by the cheery news that the caliper I replaced belched its fucking brake fluid all over the goddam garage floor. The fucking “refurbished” caliper blew a seal. I would have tackled it the night before, but I didn’t because I felt too goddam shitty to do a fucking thing about the news that the brakes were a bit squishy. I did not want to try to work on something when I was not in the “right” mood.

So, I yank the fucking caliper off, and realize that I need to loosen some bolts to get the pads out. Like a groggy fucking asshole, I bang on the fucking wrench to loosen the bolt which promptly crashed downed into the wrench on the floor, shooting the fucking thing right into my eye. Yeah! (For the record, I have now: cum blood, shit blood, spit blood, and cried blood. If you piss blood, it probably means you have cancer, so I hope not to check that fucker off my list)

So, I took all that pretty well. Went to the parts store BEFORE Urgent Care. Mowed the fucking lawn, then did some weed eating in my weed garden out back. The weed eater died, so I went back in the house. All good.

After a Menards run, tried to start the weed eater, but no luck. Tried to patch the soaker hose spurting more water than my eye was leaking blood, and ran into a bit of a glitch. That was when my cool officially was lost. I ripped the fucking goddam soaker hose out of the fucking garden and brooded for the rest of the afternoon, too fucking pissed with a throbbing eye, shit-fucked weed eater, and a stupid fucking soaker hose that would not stop ripping.

I am getting to the fucking review you sons a bitches. So, I have to admit the good luck in the bad luck. I shot a fucking wrench in my eye at high velocity, but I still have my fucking vision. We seem to have that sort of luck. If you’ve read previous reviews, my brother’s house burned down, killing his cat, but he was unharmed. The Allman Brothers figures into one of these little scenarios.

After visiting University of Oregon to try to ply them into accepting me into their graduate program, I drove from Eugene to Fort Collins, Colorado, well almost. In the early hours of Thanksgiving, I was crossing the plains of Wyoming with a fucking insane crosswind. I was doing ok, but getting a bit groggy. I pulled over, and took a bit of nap. I got back on the highway, and nodded off a bit. I pulled off, but the offramps were full of semis, and I felt a bit more awake. I pulled back on the highway, and here it is, the Allman Brothers were in their fucking monstrous noodling session. Not a single fucking lyric in twenty goddam minutes. I swerved from one lane to another, as I nodded off. In my infinitely stupid groggy logic, I thought I would look drunk if I went back to the slow lane. One more nod, and I’m in the median. My sweet fucking Chevy Cavalier’s ass end dips into the median and shoots back across the highway, dragging me backwards across the freeway. The wheels catch in the dirt, flipping me 360 back on the wheels.

I was not hurt, but did get some scratches from broken glass from digging my cassettes out from under the seat. My partner picked me up at some greasy spoon, and I made it to Thanksgiving dinner with my mentor. Aside from the insane rollover bullshit, I remember that there was something hard clinking around in my vegetarian bean soup. I was able to snag it with my spoon to find a bone, dancing around in the bottom of my bowl. The other thing I remember is that my mentor said, “You are lucky you were not killed.” and I replied, “Perhaps, I was unlucky that I did not die.”

Days like today remind me of that experience. All the years of fucking torment and torture from people who are simply stick-stupid, and the frustration of life in general would have been avoided. I could have avoided all of that by sliding into darkness on that windy, fucking, Wyoming night. Instead, every fucking day is a goddam battle with the forces of evil. Simple fucking things like putting batteries in a clock becomes a fucking hour long saga of torture and every possible thing that can go wrong coming to fruition. Every time I open Microsoft Word, I have to summon all of my available fortitude not to suck on the business end of any available firearm.

Greg Allman’s and, in another way, Chris Cornell’s passing provide a time to reflect on life and death. When I was working in the garden this weekend with my partner, I put Allman Brothers on random, not because Greg was gone, but because it was one of the few artists on my phone that she and I could agree upon. We saw the Allman Brothers, but I think I was a bit stoned. I remember having a good time, and barely able to distinguish Dickey standing up front and a tiny little figure behind the keyboard that ascertained to be Greg.

When I first heard Soundgarden playing over the record store speakers, I was not impressed, but I later was drawn to Cornell’s voice. I dug the album Temple of the Dog (not Soundgarden, obviously), and especially Superunknown. I related to “Fell on Black Days” and “Black Hole Sun.” Ever since I was old enough to feel the darkness, I walked in the shadows of emotional void. Chris’s death is a reminder that anyone can have that day, or event, that triggers an action with profound effects on others, but is a welcome release for the actor. I have been on that precipice, many times. I cannot tell you what distinguishes those who commit and those, like myself, who walk away. All I can tell you is that it is not about you – about how much you care for the person, or how much you mean to them. It is about the moment, the culmination of a lifetime of tiny indignities, and life-altering scars from our past. You did not fail them. There was nothing different you could have done. It is a very personal decision, and sometimes results from a cascade of events no one can predict.

The death of artists reminds us both of the music that they made, but the way in which the music has played a role in our life. The Allman Brothers has been a pretty foundational musical influence for me. I find that their music fits me, and my life, in profound ways. Not only the album(s) Beginnings that almost killed me, but also songs like “Dreams” and the more recent, “Old Friend,” have a depth of feeling and meaning that provide the soundtrack to my life. Not all of us can write music or poetry, so we rely on these artists to give us the vehicle for our emotions. For that, I am thankful.

Okay, I fucking outright lied. I didn’t really do a review, but I give this day three fucking turd nuggets with a bit of shit stream down your leg. I am still alive, but that consolation has greater weight for others than myself.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers!