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| So Patriotic |
I grew up in Pigeon Forge, KY “Where lowly sparrows are forged into manly pigeons”. As I grew up, I wondered whether I belonged to my family. One of eight children, I was home-schooled and worked on the massive Dollywood complex at night. Looking up at the stars, I thought about if I belonged in this world.
After a particularly heated argument with my parents, I decided to explore my history. Whereas the other children in my family enjoyed more mainstream tastes, I couldn’t help but to find the weirdest music imaginable. They kept on telling me “Pick a station” but I found the radio static in between far more interesting.
Going through various documents at my local library, I stood dumbfounded. I had been adopted by these Dollywood enthusiasts. Desperate to learn more, I went over to the orphanage to find out who my parents had been. After asking everyone at the facility and getting nowhere, I sat on the doorstep, dejected. Gus, a friendly janitor, stepped outside to drink out of a large paper bag and to smoke a thin, funny looking cigarette. When I explained how distraught this situation made me, he rushed back inside. Thinking I scared him away, I sadly walked away. But in a few minutes I heard him running towards me.
My parents were Jennifer Herrema and David Pajo he explained. Literally the two most indie people on the planet spawned me. That’s why I didn’t fit in with the local school kids. Asking the janitor if he knew anything else, he told me Jennifer did huge amounts of drugs and David Pajo toured so much he had become a nomad.
Knowing what I had to do, I began to hitchhike towards a relevant larger city. While in Erlanger, Kentucky, I thought about going back. Even though I didn’t fit into my family and disliked re-painting Dolly Parton’s breasts all the time, they probably loved me. In fact, they must’ve been worried sick about where I’d gone. I called home to explain that I knew I was adopted, and heard a loud click on the other end. Nobody wanted to hear it.
Walking around the city, I didn’t know what to do. Is there anything to do in Kentucky, I asked myself. Behind me came an answer. I turned around to see a gawky Polish DJ who went by the moniker “Walzak Attack”. Going up the Eastern seaboard, he brought me to Brooklyn, where he lived with his wife and children. For a while I worked at his wife’s restaurant, serving Piegori with gusto and pizzazz. My troubles came back though, and I began acting up, yearning to join the cool kids who began to infiltrate Greenpoint.
Desperate, I tried to explain how being cool as fuck was in my blood. I even started a band without my parents knowing, called “White Dice” which consisted of mangled clips of polka mixed with random Sine Wave generator inputs. To my ears, it sounded heavenly. To my parents, they found it deeply offensive to their conservative Catholic roots. I thought they’d understand, particularly my new dad with his DJing. But my Dad was into Eurotrash, not real music.
Together they decided to send me away. When I turned 14, I was told they were doing a summer trip up in Connecticut. I noticed that my pseudo-siblings weren’t coming, so I asked why not. Walzak answered that he wanted to make up for things, and the bad blood that had grown between us. Believing him, we went into some random part of the country I’d never been to.
Saint Thomas More School of Underachievers took me in. The trip was a ruse. Apparently this was the last resort for me. I woke up at six in the morning and began my exercises. Even in such a hostile, clearly not artistic setting, I tried my best to flourish. For art, I shot a machine gun around at the rifle range. Recording it, I sent it to Peter Brotzmann with a note that said “Here’s a real machine gun”. Meaning it as a tribute to his harsh 1968 album, it only got me a blurb on some Portuguese kid’s website. Not good enough, I felt.
Over the summers I worked at a Yam farm in New England, picking Yams in the mildly Democratic voting sun. The farmer talked to me about feeling alone on his farm, since he was a “Swamp Yankee”. Choosing to grow Yams because “Nobody gives a damn about the Yam” I connected with him. Explaining my situation to him, he gave me a vast quantity of Turnip-flavored alcohol to help me through school, which I half-heartedly consumed.
Upon graduation, I hoped to return back to Brooklyn. Sadly, when I arrived I didn’t feel the love the couple initially had for me. Instead, I raised enough money by selling domain names to porn providers in order to get into college. Thinking up all the porn names left me feeling drained in a myriad amount of ways.
Life at college proved to be challenging. I wasn’t sure I could survive at first since I had gone through so much. DJ-ing at my local college radio station brought me back in touch with my long-dormant indie skills. Suddenly people began asking me for mix CDs, and I attracted a strange cult-like following which culminated in a giant, several days’ worth of partying on the beach. By the end of it, I gained articles of clothing I hadn’t had before, and had matured into an adult.
For the first time, people accepted me. I thrived in the structure-less structure that was a vaguely reputable State University in New York. Making friends, they gave me advice for what to do after college. I followed my dreams, and ended up working at Pennysaver, designing coupons for local pizzerias.
Yet again, fate called my name. A close friend of mine decided to teach abroad in South Korea. He taught Math, I taught History. Doing this for a few months, we grew bored. We wanted more excitement. Thinking about heading back to New York to take an accounting job, we ended up working for a rich German family on their yacht, tutoring their spoiled rotten children in Philosophy and Abstract Art.
Being unceremoniously dropped off in New Caledonia without pay, life for us had to be rebuilt again. Slowly our savings increased enough where we could afford to fly back to the US. The night before we left, my friend threw one of the most disgusting orgies ever gathered. I almost participated, but I wanted to check my emails instead. Reading them, I discovered that those people in my life, my indie rock parents, my Kentucky parents, my Polish parents, and even that weird New England guy missed me. I felt cared for. I needed to go back.
Next morning I got up. My friend spent the entire night having intercourse, many, many times. Feeling a bit ill, he passed out. Worried, I hurriedly brought him over to the hospital. Spending all my money on his healthcare wasn’t enough; he was going to leave me. The first person my age who I truly cared about was leaving me.
On his deathbed, he gave me a laptop computer. He explained to me how I had lived through so many interesting, bloggable events. Encouraging me to create my music blog, I dedicated it to him, the original Beach Sloth (via him being lazy). Following his instructions, I watched him leave this world for a better one. Then, as the staff in the hospital changed their shifts, I brought his body outside near a large coconut tree. Coconut crabs began to engulf his body, tearing it apart with their freakishly large claws. He would return back to the beach from which he came as I tossed his cleaned bones into the ocean.
I emailed my family about what had happened. Touched that I cared about someone else, giving rather than taking, they bought me a plane ticket back to New York, where I got to reconnect with all my siblings and parents. My father from Kentucky, with a hint of pride, told me “This belongs to you” as he handed me a Royal Trux and Slint album, signed by Jennifer and David respectively. Landing a job as an accountant, I continued to listen to and analyze music.
Through telling this to you I hope to inspire you to seek out the bizarre and rise above the mundane.