Origin Story 6

Some say a picture is worth a thousand words. I felt this one was worth a little more.

             Growing up was hard in the heartland of America’s industrial decay. Being one of nine children, I distinctly remember living in extreme poverty. Sometimes when I wanted to feel luxury, I’d go to the local library and pretend I owned all the books. When the librarians were away from the desk, I’d scourge the back of the office and look for food to eat.

                Yep, life was hard. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my life. Aimlessness became my ultimate trademark. Reading more and more, I wondered if a group existed who could feel my plight, with whom I could truly sympathize. 

                One day I sat on the porch stoop eating ants I found on the ground. Two painted individuals were walking across the street. Each one wore mysterious clown/gangster makeup. Intrigued, I approached them and asked why they looked that way. Smiling and laughing, they stated they were Juggalos going out to spread the good word. They were missionaries from Detroit sent to spread the gospel of the Insane Clown Posse.

                I asked what did the Insane Clown Posse believe in, and what made them so insane? Were they perhaps insane in the membrane, and started singing that popular Cypress Hill song. The two told me to stop and listen. According to their gospel, The Insane Clown Posse was insane due to the enormous unequal distribution of income, thus creating a vast underclass. If I joined, I could help redistribute the wealth. They wanted me to get ‘down with the clowns’. I told them about my desire to stay a virgin until I found that ‘special someone’ not willing to simply clown away that important part of me. Both of them laughed and told me they meant musically and not in any other way. I was relieved. 

                Later that week I was baptized as a Juggalo in a backyard pool of Faygo. Finally, I belonged somewhere. Though my parents complained about my music, saying how the Insane Clown Posse were no Alice in Chains (what I used to listen to). Both my mom and my dad told me my vocabulary had gone down the poop bowl. I didn’t care; I had finally found a group which accepted me. 

                Dropping out of High School, I became an Insane Clown Posse disciple. I lived and breathed their breaths. Since I had such true faith, I was offered dope-ass deals on the latest and greatest ICP merchandise. But not all was fine inside the Dark Carnival I soon discovered.

                People didn’t like Juggalos or Juggalettes, claiming we reeked of sticky soda and Body Odor. Well, I’m sorry, but ICP hadn’t come out with a deodorant yet, otherwise we would’ve been on top of that. Other forms of persecution came from our own bosses. Since we listened to ICP, we must be stupid and I got paid less than my non-ICP listening coworkers. I made up for that by working less hard at 7/11 and stealing more Sausages, which tasted very similar to those ants I used to eat as a kid.

                When I was 18, I came under pressure. Anti-ICP fervor had sparked up across the country. Slowly others began to hide their clown roots, much to the dismay of my ICP peers. But I stayed true, keeping on my makeup, even if it meant people thought I was an idiot who listened to shitty music. I didn’t care. I was stronger than they were.

                One day I wasn’t stronger. People raided our local ICP temple bearing weapons and boom boxes blaring allegedly better music, such as Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones. Honestly, I thought ICP smoked those turkeys. I didn’t want to get hurt though, as they begun mercilessly beating my fellows Juggalos and Juggalettes. I thought ICP fans were ninjas, but they were getting their asses handed to them pretty easily. Worried my entire life was falling apart, I hid inside a large squirrel costume until they had left. 

                Fearing for my safety, I stayed there until I heard a voice. Looking across, I saw someone wearing a female squirrel costume. She asked me if I had anything for her. Jokingly I said I was storing some nuts for her. That made her very excited and she asked me if I wanted to yiff. Not knowing what that meant, I said sure and soon discovered a new part of my life.

                Yiffing made me feel strong. No longer did I have to expose myself to others, setting myself up for ridicule. Instead, I could have sex with other people while inside a giant squirrel costume. Whether or not people were attractive didn’t matter anymore. I saw deep into their souls, where the souls were perfectly encased in a suit of plastic. I felt knightly in my suit, if a knight didn’t stand for all those things like bravery and stuff.

                Wearing a giant squirrel costume brought me into a whole another world. Oddly, people weren’t willing to hire a guy who dressed up in a giant squirrel costume. I was getting discriminated against again. Even without money, I found friends. Crust punks became my new friends. Despite living in a giant squirrel costume, I smelled better than them. 

                This was the lowest point in my life, according to some social worker who gave me free sandwiches. He said that an Insane Clown Posse fan that was a furry and lived under a bridge had few job prospects. After I mentioned I was a high school dropout, he started laughing hysterically at how totally fucked I was. I think the last thing he told me was “Have a nice life” in between bursts of laughter. 

                But then, everything changed. I met a crust punk girl who apparently had extremely low standards. This may have been due to her heroin addiction, I’m not sure. She saw something in me, a fire which burned. We’d talk about how our parents thought we were failures, just because we had no money and lived under a bridge, searching through trash cans for sustenance. Despite my complete lack of education, she said I was smart. 

                One night, as she held my tail tight, she asked to see my face. No one had seen my face since the incident at the temple. Worried at what she might think of me, I removed my head to show her my face. She threw up next to me, but immediately explained that was due to the foul smell. Looking at me, she asked for me to remove the rest of the suit. Her eyes looked beautiful. I realized I was going to have sex for the first time outside of a giant squirrel costume. I felt scared but she guided me through it. 

                Together we moved into an abandoned building. I began to step outside of my giant squirrel suit comfort zone. All people I guess have to step outside their comfort zone. She gave up heroin. Now both of us live off the drug of love, one where addiction is strong. We moved closer to something approaching normalcy. In the morning we’d get up early and steal shit from 7/11. Whereas we used to steal stuff from the garbage, we’ve moved up to stealing from stores. Someday we dream about stealing from American Apparel. But baby steps I guess. 

                I’m excited about the future. She got me into non-ICP music, though I piece of my heart will always want to get down with the clowns. Now I review music, hoping I’ll make sweet money cake from this blogspot. Things are looking up. Thanks for reading.

Origin Story 4

California in the 60s embodied the best of America: great schools, wonderful bands, nice clean beaches that extended into infinity. I used to walk around the beach, hanging out, practicing my voice for the choir. I felt blessed knowing that I had been chosen to become a child actor, a career that had no negative side effects whatsoever. 

                Having so much power felt great. I played Tommy in the hit TV show “Eight is Enough”. Eight was more than enough, with me being the main attraction. The other children were mere decorations compared to the grit and soul I gave to Tommy’s character. Later in “Charles in Charge” I played Buddy, a cool bro with Scott Baio. Together we changed the face of Television. 

                Off the set, I became a buddy to many as well. My all-night parties are still talked about to this very day. A few of them lasted for days, as I played the hell out of my guitar for my indie rock band “Willie Ames & Paradise”. Successfully I wooed many young starlets with my songs about drinking, doing drugs, and having crazy amounts of sex.

                Life felt great. I nearly won an Oscar for my role in the hit movie “Zapped”. Work came to me like the sun did in the morning. Everything would last forever in the 80s. I was king of the world.

                Sadly, my reign got cut short by the 90s. In the 90s, people stopped doing as many drugs. Worried, I saw a therapist, but he didn’t help. Instead, my therapist appeared to be enabling me with my bad behavior. So I continued doing a ton of drugs and alcohol.

                Things became real one day though. As I stood in line at 7/11 at 4 in the afternoon, completely out of my mind on Quaaludes, a little girl coming home from school began singing:

Charles in Charge
Of our days and our nights
Charles in Charge
Of our wrongs and our rights

And I sing, I want,
I want Charles in Charge of me.

          I thought I was in charge of my life. But here I was, freaking out heavily in the aisle of a 7/11, stealing pet food to eat. The song reminded me of being younger, more responsible. Charles, I remembered him well. He was the therapist I saw, who I stole his kid’s college fund of $80,000 to buy more blow. Obviously he enabled me, by allowing me to go on his computer while he went to the bathroom and removing funds from his online checking account. It was a test of faith, and I passed.

          Rehab looked good. For a while, I thought I’d just try methamphetamines, but Christianity appealed to me slightly more. Plus, I didn’t really have enough money for any more drugs, so Christianity had a lower money threshold.

          Being a born again Christian, I decided to repent for my wicked ways. I wrote my former therapist Charles a thank you note for the $80,000 I stole from him. It read:

Dear Charles,

Thank you for the $80,000.

I used it to buy blow.

Due to my large purchase I got a discount.

It was good shit.

          Around that time, I figured why not let other people understand the joy I had in discovering the Lord. Watching Spiderman expose himself to children, and Batman’s generally erratic behavior, I thought why not create a more stable superhero. Too many superheroes harbored grunges. Instead of that, I figured have a Superhero who gained his powers from passages in the Bible. Someone told me that the superhero should be named “Bibleman” but I told that ‘someone’ to get out of my face.

          Bibleman ended up a tremendous success. I not only got to reappear on TV but taught children about the joys of worshipping Jesus. Then the criticism came in. Rather than journalists taking hold of my comparison to “High Budget Sunday School mixed with Batman” they instead described it as “overweight man quotes passages from the Bible”. Others stated that even though Veggietales were animated vegetables they had more soul than the hallowed out shell I had. 

          I tried to not let it bother me. Moving to Kansas to escape it all, I realized I couldn’t afford Kansas since I had no money. Quoting the bible, I stated that “It is easier for a camel to pass through the hole of a needle than a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven” – some dude in the Bible. No matter what I did, becoming an ordained minister, fighting evil doers with bible passages, nothing worked. Without anyone to turn to, I moved back to Los Angeles.

          On Thanksgiving Day I thought about what I was thankful. I said quietly to myself, tears welling up in my eyes “Nothing”. Mulling over what I should do next, I looked at the Bible. Asking myself “What would Jesus do?” I came to the answer “Kill Himself”. Disappointed at how dark the Bible was, and how I didn’t really understand it so hot, I began to prepare myself for suicide.

          Trying to place a noose on the ceiling fan, the table broke beneath my legs. Stupid table, I yelled at the inanimate object. Extracting its revenge, a piece of the wooden table stuck itself in my ass. Calling the hospital, I underwent emergency ass surgery.

          My doctor came in with a stoic expression on her face. Reading my charts, she solemnly stated “You may never fart again.” Days went by as a thought of a world without farts. Children played outside my room, I watched them from my bed. One of the kids asked the other “Pull my finger”. I literally broke down and shoved my head into my pillow, uncontrollably sobbing. Luckily for me, the surgery was successful but my farting situation remained tenuous at best.  

          For weeks I walked around with a cast around my ass, drawing all sorts of unwanted attention. By staying inside, I avoided the taunts of schoolchildren. Catching up on music, my last true salvation, I stumbled upon music blogs. These music blogs offered various repeating links, to Pitchfork and Tiny Mix Tapes. One displayed a different sort of link, to a place called “Hipster Runoff”. Reading it, I felt relevant for the first time in years. His writing spoke to my soul. I re-wrote the “Charles in Charge” theme song into “Carles in Charge”. Upon the liquidation of my estate in Kansas, Carles suggested we meet up.

          Carles’s real name is Poindexter Dinkelhof the III, a 42 year old accountant from Wichita, Kansas. Meeting him at a local Chili’s with his wife, he explained to me how I could turn my life around. For him, music gave him an outlet that he didn’t have in his real job. His children loved him for it, he said. Do something that you’ve always wanted to do, change your life he told me.

          Feeling inspired and bankrupt, I became a licensed financial advisor. Since I went into bankruptcy and hit rock bottom, I decided my woes were things others might learn from. Also, I got a job working as entertainment for a cruise line, fulfilling my dreams of becoming a true-blue traveler of the world.

          In my free time I created a music blog in the style of HRO, except not as good. Naming it “Beach Sloth” it began late this summer. 

          Why the name, you might ask? Well, since I’m a big believer in Christianity, I wanted to convert all beings into Christianity, beginning with the animals. Since sloths are named after a sin, I wanted to reach out to them first.

          Once I get enough money, I want to lure the sloths to the beach by putting lots of comfy pillows on the sand. After they are lulled to sleep, I will then baptize them. Upon their baptism, I’ll offer them coffee so they might be more productive members of society. 

          Hopefully you’ve learned something about me today. I heart all of you.

Origin Story Number Three:

I'm too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts.

Growing up in Fidel Castro’s Cuba was hard. Because of the strict rules against being cool, I understood that my love of culture was forbidden. Upon the release of Radiohead’s seminal album “Ok Computer” I stated to my friend how cool I thought they were. He stated that Fuck’s “Pardon My French” was the better album, and that I was an ‘entry-level’ kid. The SDE (Cuban Secret Police) later took him away and asked him to identify all the cool kids. Many young children were thrown into prison, but I was spared. Perhaps he decided not to reveal my coolness, or that I hadn’t reached a level considered ‘troublesome’ enough.

Upon seeing the movie “Rushmore” in an illegal underground cinema, I knew the authorities would be after me. Max’s mannerisms fit mine so perfectly, I could relate to the character so well. Yet I had to keep this cool knowledge to myself, for fear of exposing myself and others to danger. A plan began to appear in my head, of escaping this retro country to the Promised Land, America, which had bountiful amounts of independent music and cinema, a place where I might become an “authentic” consumer of haute culture.

Each night I played a flute for various stingrays. Training them to carry large objects, I earned their trust by taking good care of them. Stingrays are well-known in Cuba for being faithful servants, but few had tried what I wanted to do. My goal was to float away from the island not on a raft, but in a 57 Chevy so I could be protected from the elements and sharks.

I talked to my family about leaving. They agreed it would be for the best. Late at night, after the electricity got turned off to save gas, I scurried out at night with my Chevy. Starting to play my flute, I heard a car fast approaching. Apparently I had become indie enough for the authorities to capture me. Finally, I thought happily to myself, all that talk about music and movies wasn’t for naught. People really understood that I was cool enough to present a threat to the government. 

As they approached, I drove my car into the water and sailed on top of the mighty stingrays. What I didn’t realize was how slowly stingrays move. Though I escaped from Cuba, I suffered another fate. Floating on these creatures might be safe, but you need enough supplies of water and food to survive. 

The day I ran out of water ended up being a turning point in my life. Realizing that I was nowhere near the Florida coast, I felt defeated. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Cuba, with the malevolent dictatorship. Perhaps listening to the Macarena wasn’t that bad, and I should just become a mainstreamer. Delusion started to set in. No, I screamed to myself, I was too attractive and likable to become that.

Heading towards the edge of the car, I looked at the vast sea surrounding me. All this water, and not a drop to drink, I thought bitterly to myself. Suddenly I felt an urge to urinate as I munched on my Shredded Wheat, ready to become fully dehydrated. But an idea, a brilliant idea, popped into my head and helped me to survive.

Quickly I pulled down my pants and urinated into the bowl of cereal. Thinking that this was the lowest I’d ever go, I began to eat the urinate-soaked cereal. Drinking my own urinate saved my life. Plus, it tasted pretty good. Mixing it with shredded wheat gave it a nice edge it otherwise wouldn’t have had. 

Finally, I saw land. Thankful to my stingray companions, I promised to send those alternative CDs once I had gotten myself settled into the new country. Driving my car across a beach, blasting my Rushmore soundtrack, I got yelled at. That behavior, a well-tanned person explained to me, earned me the insult ‘entry-level’. I screamed back “Sorry, I just left a brutal communist regime. I’ll read a couple of blogs and get back to you asshole.”

Lacking any marketable skills, I feared I would fail in this new and strange land. Slowly I learned that I could sell myself to people in exchange for money. I could earn a living this way, a scantily clad woman informed me. Thanking her tremendously and almost hugging her (but then thinking twice about it) I set forth on my new business adventure.

Whoring myself out to retired Jewish Grandmothers, I learned that Florida was not the cultural center of the United States. Asking them politely after they were done smoking, they informed me that all cool people lived in New York and then moved down to Florida when they were ready to die. I earned enough money to move up to the big city, but could only afford a small place in Brooklyn, a neighborhood called Williamsburg. I wondered whether or not Williamsburg would attract the cool kids, or perhaps I should move to Queens. Asking around Manhattan (which appeared to be filled with rich people) they told me Queens was where people settled down, and Brooklyn was for pretentious indie dicks.

I enjoyed living in Brooklyn. Never before had I seen so many relevant record stores. Hoping my family was still alive in Cuba, I sent them a Doobie Brothers album, since they were apparently all the rage around that time. People listened to the Doobie Brothers in Brooklyn, I learned, but only ‘ironically’. 

For a while, I tried selling myself, like I did in Florida, but the grandparents in New York already had male prostitutes. Worrying about my future, I began writing blurbs in papers for various bands I enjoyed; along with pictures of people I thought looked cool or lame. The column ended up being a smash hit at Northsix, and someone told me to write for Vice Magazine.

Hoping to impress my future boss, I wore a suit and tie. Eating my morning breakfast of urine and shredded wheat, I looked forward to meeting the kind-hearted soul named Gavin McInnes. Those I asked about Gavin stated he was a soft-spoken and caring man who yearned to give back to the community which had done so much for him.

Entering his office, I saw him having intercourse with a woman painted like a Cat while she made a smoothie using a half-dead squirrel and Wintergreen Altoids. Seeing my face, he welcomed me into his office. First he asked me if I liked Pat Buchanan, and I said yes, since that guy hated communism, a force I had only recently escaped. Liking this answer, he smiled and nodded. He said my breath reeked of urine. I said that made sense, since I drank my urine on a regular basis, now believing it to help boost my immune system. Curious, he asked what I ate with my urine. Unsure of where this was going, I said shredded wheat. Angrily he told me to get the fuck out of his face. 

Dejected, I walked out of the office. Standing on the street, Gavin came toward me. Almost out of breath, he said I got the job. Explaining he needed to weed out the fake urine drinkers, I became a member of the Vice Magazine staff. 

Over the next several years, I learned how to mock others with wit and grace. My accent became more distinctly “New York” in feel. Even when my mentor Gavin left Vice Magazine in 2007, I continued to partake in writing many album reviews. I remained in close contact with Gavin, and he ate a bowl of cereal soaked in his own urine as a tribute to my greatness.

2010 ruined everything. I met a girl. Her name was Bethany Cosentino. After falling madly in love with her, I wrote a glowing review in Vice Magazine about her band Best Coast. But the love ended up being only a ruse. Nathan Williams, some pothead, ended up being her actual boyfriend. To add further embarrassment, she wrote about it on her blog. My career in snarky commentary was over. Vice Magazine tolerated many things, but genuine emotion wasn’t one of them.

At my favorite bar, a kid named Jordan Castro came up to me to try and interview me about it. Since I was on heavy psychedelics, I thought he was a spy from Cuba here to take away my freedom. Viciously I attacked him, and three people twitted about it. In his Tumblr, he called me a “worthless asshole”. That didn’t hurt so much, since nobody knew who he was.

Depression bit me hard. Worried about losing the last shreds of credibility, I tried to get in touch with the Jewish Grandmothers in Florida, to restart my life down there again. I learned most of them had died, but one was still sort of alive. The sort of alive grandmother told me I was the coolest person she could remember and when she passed away, she left me a pair of used underwear and $650,000.

The money gave me a second chance. Speaking to my mentor Gavin, he suggested rebuilding my street cred with a blog. A blog from the heart dedicated to those stingrays whose sloth-like movement inched me towards my current freedom. That is why so many of these posts reveal my inner most thoughts. I’m trying to mend my heart. Thanks for the hugs.

Origin Story Number Two

I grew up in a beautiful town out in the Soviet countryside. The middle child, I nonetheless experienced the nourishing tender love and care from my good communist mother and father. My father worked as an engineer and served for many years in the local Communist party. Due to his heavy participation in the party, he was justly rewarded with a plum position working at a local power plant. Playing in the lush green fields, we were happy to call this ravishingly beautiful city home. Even now, I remember my friends being jealous of my good fortune of living in Chernobyl. 

One day I woke up and everything changed. Unbeknown to me, my parents were fighting against the Soviet occupation of their beloved Ukraine. Quickly we were rushed to live in an underground bunker and for several years we crossed between Ukraine and Belarus, seeking the liberation of each country. After the disaster in my old town, I understood why they did it. We were fighting against an evil empire, as Ronald Reagan stated over the radio. His voice reassured me that all was right with the world. Our father promised us that after Ukraine became independent, that we could head over to the US, to a land of milk and honey.

Milk and honey is what we lived off of from local farmers sympathetic to our cause. Finally when I was 12 I saw the empire keel over and die. Excitedly we packed our bags and headed over to America. Worried about the influence that a big city could have over my younger sibling my family moved to rural North Carolina. 

As I entered Middle School there, I realized I was different. I didn’t speak any English, so I forced myself into American culture. I bought Nirvana albums and dressed all Grunge. My parents worried about my style of dress, thinking that American culture would take over my Ukrainian roots. Upon my constant grouching about everything, they felt reassured that indeed I would fit their hopes of me growing up into an embittered, disillusioned, over-educated member of society, just like they did. According to them, the Ukrainian way involved being deeply weird and being kind of a dick, but acknowledging that you’re an asshole. I passed this test with flying colors after I hurled a beer bottle at someone at school, only to half-apologize to them in front of the principal.

Upon graduation from Edenton, North Carolina’s school system, I decided to move to a big city. I missed being around large groups of people. Telling my parents I was going to study Dentistry in Chicago, they initially were concerned. After I told them about the high suicide rate that Dentists suffered from, they gave me a thumbs-up of approval. 

Living in Chicago in the late nineties ended up being a magical time. Around that time, a record label called “Thrill Jockey” grew in importance. In order to pay for school, I did side gigs touring with the famous band Tortoise, playing the vibraphones. Since so many people were in the band, my name usually got mangled. More than a few times some of the musicians who opened up asked me for drugs, thinking I was a Russian gangster. Asking about this profession, I learned that apparently being a Russian gangster paid more than touring with a relevant indie-rock-jazz fusion band. I stood in disbelief, unable to comprehend crime paying so much better than underground rock.

Following my passion, I joined the Russian mob. Since I was technically Ukrainian, I had to pay a higher Union membership fee. My job consisted of manipulating stocks and setting bags of poop on fire. During my years with the Russian mob, I saw more money than I’d ever seen before. After the FBI raided my workplace, I was out of a job. Bored at being a dentist and having genuinely enjoyed my artistic experiences, I decided to write a show about my time with the mob. It was called “The Vakhovskayas” and the pilot was rejected for having too many philosophical references.

Distraught at my attempt to create a hit TV show, I worked as a Dentist in the greater Los Angeles area, still pitching my ideas to whoever was interested. One day a dorky looking bald guy came into my practice. He stated that he read my work would fit his concept for a show. Intrigued, I asked him to proceed. Explaining how it would take place on a deserted island and would explore sci-fi and philosophical arguments, he told me how it could be one of the greatest shows that Television had ever seen. Throwing a few titles out there, he told me, they decided against “Airplane Crash” and went with the simple name “Lost”. 

After having wasted most of my afternoon listening to this, I told him to get the fuck out of my office. This idea he had, I said, would not earn him a dime. Plus, I cancelled several dental cleanings in order to hear him yammer on about his gibberish, money that would take hours to earn back. Later that evening, I left a flaming bag of dog shit on his doorstep with a note that said “This is what your show will be”. 

Even though the show ended up being mildly successful with tepid critical praise, I made the right decision. Instead of focusing on my writing, I turned to music. Working with James Ferraro, I helped the nascent hypnagogic pop and chillwave genres turn into the cultural powerhouses they are today. Due to my participation in this genre, I have made literally hundreds of dollars. However, after my street cred is converted into actual dollars, I’ll have enough money to buy a small Indonesian island.

My coverage of chillwave and hypnagogic pop on this blog isn’t exactly benign. I make no apologies for this, but rather ask what you would do in the same situation. Would you simply keep the good music for yourself, or would you share it with the world, like I have. Thank you for your continued support of this blog. It means a lot to me.

Origin Story Number One:

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.