New Beginnings?

It's 1:36AM Central time. As if anyone could care, because time waits for no one. It marches on and on.

But it does matter for some of us; especially those who have an ounce of creative blood in them. We lay in bed, tossing and turning, cursing ourselves for not being able to fall asleep. Things run through our hearts and minds like ticker tape in the form on color, words, pictures or sounds.

Congratulations. What you may be experiencing (if it hasn't hit you yet) is a masterpiece creating itself before you. Whether it be a song, essay or painting you can't see it coming, but you can watch it unfold.

And ohhhh, the satisfaction that you get when it hits you. Or when you realize the good you've done.

That's how much of my mid to now late 20's has been. Its been an ongoing journey of new beginnings and Renaissance era. I can say this about my life as both a writer, musician, person and student of the world. There's a certain point you become aware that you need to do this and that, or you can't be this way anymore.

Then you realize you're just wasting your time and thought setting rules for yourself that you end up breaking. You learn something new every year about the world and yourself that you never knew before.

That's what you can rely on: experience, not empty promises.

I've been 28 for a little over a month now, and I kept reminding myself before my birthday that "I'll wake up on July 18th, and nothing will be different. I'm going to be the same person, the day is going to unfold. Nothing drastic."

It's not like I expected myself to look in the mirror and suddenly see some older person in the reflection. I've looked 18 for the past 10 years and I've been 5'7" for the past 14 years!

And I was right. Nothing did change. I woke up late from sleeping late the night before, had a wonderful dinner with my family and my best friend. And that was it; another day come and gone.

I can't tell you exactly when it happened during the next couple of weeks, but something did change in me. I never paid attention to the whole "something important happens to you every 7 years" spiel that some people say, but when I look at it, my life did have some drastic changes during each of the seven years.

When I was seven, Nintendo changed my life. It gave me no real friends and countless hours in front of the T.V. burning my eyes out. However, I still have close to perfect vision and don't need glasses.

When I was 14 I got into punk music, which would later on be very influential to my life. I got into bands like Rancid, The Offspring and Face to Face. Me and a few friends would sing song's off of Green Day's "Insomniac" album in class. I almost joined a punk band as well, since I had a friend who played drums and one who was getting into guitar. He was taking lessons, while I was watching a recording of Green Day's '94 Aragon show and mimicking Billie Joe's panic attack twitches and buzzsaw downstrokes on his guitar.

My favorite memory of this was reenacting the entire show in the laundry room of my parent's apartment. I knew all the songs by heart and hammered through them on my brother's amp and guitar.

Of course, I was too shy and timid to do it, so that never happened. Who knows what would have happened if we did form the band and I ended up singing and playing guitar?

Fast forward to seven years later when I became 21. I started my first band. In the punk community, or I guess in any rock music circle, I'd be considered a late bloomer. Kids then and now start early... like 13-14.

Like I would have.

I thought to myself, "Fuck it. I have the passion, I have the drive. I want to do this."

Whatever that is. You can say you have those things, but realize later on that you lacked something more important than those.

Direction.

At 21, I had all these hopes and dreams. I wanted my band to be famous. I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted to go on tour, chase the girl of my dreams, and hopefully I'll get her to notice me.

Those kind of lofty, pointless, yet charming dreams. Things you say, things that sound good and important. But at that age, you have no idea what it means.

Everything is a game, and you can dream about it and that's where you'll come out the winner. So, you say screw the real world.

I also became politically charged. I was very unaware and could care less at a younger age, but then I realized that I was an adult now, and this stuff affects my life. I didn't vote when I was 18.

I took many things for granted.

Things tended to slow down when I hit the mid point at 25. It became more of a mid 20s crisis era for me. I failed a lot, and went through times that I never wanted to go through and had thoughts that I never wanted to think.

You feel like either you are working against the jaws of a trash compactor or wondering why the world is against you. Why is life guiding you towards misery? And if you can make it through this period, steer the boat away from the storm, then you're good. I came so close to drowning and letting myself go without a fight.

Then ration kicked me in the groin.

However, I have not reached the point in the story where the Ancient Mariner looks into the sea and finds the serpents beautiful yet (a quick reference to those of you who enjoy Samuel Taylor Coleridge).

By my mid 20s, I already knew that music was a part of my life and it was not going to go away as some phase. I've loved it since I was a kid, and when I started playing in a band, it just clicked. There was a lot of internal struggle. There were immature people who cared more about themselves and getting laid than writing good music, or people who were just there.

I'm no angel either. I had more of this mentality of being some sort of guitar hero in the punk scene and writing impossible stuff hellbent to blow every band out of the water. I was bitter and angry. I didn't like how all the bands had the same moves, clothing, hair-cuts, whiny-voices... and their fans annoyed me just as equally. I drifted more and more from what really mattered, which was good songwriting.

After I turned 25, one thing that I have noticed is that out of the blue, with no reason or rhyme, I started going back and listening to older, defining bands such as the Clash, Husker Du, Social Distortion, the Ramones, the Beatles... just older bands.

I don't know why I did. I mean, it's not my first time discovering them or listening to them like a wide-eyed teenager. But even then it wasn't clear to me what it even meant for me to be listening to them.

More and more I realize that it has come to shape and define who I am now at 28. These bands are not flashy in any way... what stand out are their flawless songwriting. Their lyrics tell a story, have a motive, tell truths. They are time capsules to the world around them from their era.

Kind of like history books, but written by the actual observers. Some of their observations still hold true today.

I look at Joe Strummer, and see how much the world really meant to him. How much he wanted change and did something about it. He wasn't perfect; he went through the bad before he found the good. And even when he was already an important figure, a true icon in Punk, he still was learning and had so much humility in him. He was the kind of guy who would stand outside after a show and make sure he didn't miss an autograph.

Then I look at newer bands like the Gaslight Anthem. The lyrics are not political, but they are poetic, honest, and beautiful. Their music is simple, catchy and filled with melodies. And though I've only seen them through video, they look like they love what they do and they care about their fans. They don't seem them as dollar signs; they see them as friends who come to have a good time.

And that's how it should be. And I ask myself, 'Why can't I have that?"

Then I realize, I can.

If I let myself and follow my heart.

What's changed in me now at 28 is that those things they were said at 21, the passion, the drive, etc., it has a direction and a vision.

I don't want to end up being some kind of 28 year old, man-child. I want to age, grow older gracefully.

I want to contribute something positive in society instead leaving a mess behind or causing one. To know that something good benefited from it and it can inspire people to do something good too. I want to write music that hopefully if I end up getting married (of live in girlfriend, whatever) someday and have kids will make my family proud. I want these songs to mean as much to people as the songs my heroes wrote meant to me. It can't be forced though, and I'm still learning what it means to be a good songwriter and work with the heart and mind in unison.

So I'm trading in all of my flash on guitar for a more solid foundation and stronger sense of feeling. The right ringing of a chord can sonically and emotionally crush a 3 minute hammer on solo.

I want to take care of myself so I can live a long and happy life. I want to write honest, meaningful essays and stories that will either make someone think, laugh, cry, or want to reach through the page and kick my ass. I want to listen to peoples stories and really care about them.

But by doing this I will not sacrifice my quirkiness and my ability to laugh, love and and cause playful havoc. My goal is to live life to the fullest and have a more concrete direction.

I think about the people in my life who've come and gone, and who've come back for some reason to be stronger friends to me who I look upon as brothers and sisters. I'm thankful that those who left are gone, and I don't see that changing. They are the most non-judgmental, intelligent and unique people that I'm proud to know.

And I see my friend Jade entering the phase I went through at 25, and I hope its a smoother ride for her.

These are my thoughts. It's now 3:12 and I'm pretty damn sleepy.

Good Night.

-Jimmy

"Here's Lookin' at you, Kid."

Sorry I've been away for so long. I meant to write and tell you, but I was caught up living life.

How was the world while I was gone? A lot of people in Chicago think that it is the world, and everything else revolves around them. Hipsters and Yuppies seem to think this, and they are All-Knowing.

I was away in Northern California for a week at the end of June, and I hate to say this Chicago, but I fell in love. The Spanish roofs, the bright sun, the laid back atmosphere. For once, I really felt like I was welcomed and that I belonged. I didn't feel like a pair of eyes were watching me; judging me because I didn't dress like a Banana Republic Mannequin.

Instead, I got warm smiles and even "hellos" from complete strangers. The one Starbucks by Bianchi Rd had a really cute Punk Rock girl who didn't look like she was dressed up by Hot Topic and wanted to slit her wrists. She smiled too, as she handed me my Green Tea Frappucino.

It was hella good.

Highway 101 was a nice ride. Now I know the greatness Mike Ness speaks about.

The journey to the East Bay was wonderful. The traffic was pretty gruesome at 2PM when we hit the Berkeley area. My heart lit up when I saw the Gilman Street exit like William Wordsworth gets orgasms whenever he fantasizes about nature. Because I have the greatest cousins in the world, we took a stopover at 924 Gilman Street: Ground Zero for the Bay Area Punk Scene. No shows that night, but if I were religious, I'd compare this feeling to setting foot in Jerusalem.

I haven't been the same since.

The East Bay was absolutely stunning. 21 years since I've set foot on it; and I can't say I remembered much. That didn't matter because I was able to make room and absorb new memories to take back with me to Chicago. Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39, The Wax Museum... just a little spec of the city which left me wanting more.

San Francisco, we have unfinished business. I also was very unsuccessfully in my quest for the beautiful Emily Whitehurst. After all, she's the ass-kick-off-the-couch for me to start a band. Oh to be 21 again.

I'm liking 28 just fine. She too has aged gracefully.

Her middle name is Grace. Fuck, I sound like a stalker.

My soundtrack didn't wander much, but was completely necessary. There was something about my iTunes shuffling through Rancid, Green Day, Op Ivy and Social Distortion that made it all the more perfect. Obviously, these are California bands, but to be driving around town with these bands blasting through your headphones, the feeling can't be described. Though I've never tried smoking a cigarette, bong or a blunt, it was probably a feeling equivalent to that first hit.

Nirvana.

So Chicago, though I still have some love and respect for you; your wonderful architecture, lake, hard-working citizens (yes, there are these despite the abundance of douchebags), Northern California has stolen my heart.

Though I have not set foot in Southern California this time around, and that's where I hear things get really fake and weird.

And that San Diego cops are the most racist cops out there. But their nights are goregous.

Can't we all just get along?

But don't worry, I'm not leaving just yet. Oh, one thing I noticed that you two have in common is that no matter where you go in the US, Wal-Mart is a sponge for each city's White Trash. For once during the trip, I thought I was back home.

Human Kaleidoscope

Meniere’s disease is an inner ear disorder that can cause a colorful, smorgasbord of events: episodes of vertigo (which are usually severe, by the way), ringing or humming in the ears (also known as tinnitus), feelings of pressure or fullness in one ear, and fluctuating hearing loss. Unfortunately, you aren’t given a choice; you either experience one, two, or all three of these events simultaneously.

A Day in the life of Meniere’s Disease

Meniere's disease normally begins like this: You could be sitting at your desk working and suddenly it feels like a small, Teflon balloon has inflated in your left ear. But that’s not all; it also feels like there is a little bit of water moving around inside it. With a slight tilt in your head, you feel the water shift from its location, changing the pressure in the ear. It becomes a nuisance, but it also becomes a game. You try and poke at it hoping that the balloon will pop, but it seems unbreakable. Then, it deflates. The feeling doesn’t disappear but intensifies.

First Impressions Leave Lasting Ones

During the summer of 1997, I had my first bout of Meniere’s disease. It was a year in which my friends dragged me to the movie theater to watch blockbuster hits like “Face-Off” with Nicolas Cage, and “She’s The One”, in which one of my friends went through great trouble to convince the front office that we were old enough to see it (we were only 16 and it was rated R.) To his dismay and defeat, Jennifer Aniston was not naked in the film and I had just wasted $7.50.

Then it happened. We were in the middle of watching “Con-Air” at the Lincoln Village Theater in Lincolnwood, Illinois, when something didn’t feel right. I felt my pupils dilating, which made it feel like my eyeballs were shrinking and expanding, and they seemed to have trouble focusing. My vision kept zoning out from being clear to blurry, the screen switched from being what is was to a pixilated, abstract smudge to my eyes. I tried looking around the room, and there was a delayed reaction. By the time my head had fully turned to the right, it took a few seconds for my vision to catch up. I decided to close my eyes for a while and just listen to the film. I thought that maybe if I rested my eyes, it would eventually go away and I would be fine. I knew what a migraine headache was, and although I never experienced one, I assumed this was what was occurring.

I was wrong and experiencing this while sitting down was only the start of my troubles. The real fun started as I stood up from my seat. My legs felt like mere toothpicks trying to hold up an apple. It was as though all the weight shifted from all parts of my body to my head and gravity was jerking it down as I uncontrollably tripped over the back of a seat and somersaulted to the next row. My friends carried me on their shoulders to the lobby and left me in a corner by the exit so that one of them could get the car.

It is not a Migraine!

Two glaring similarities between a Migraine headache and Meniere’s disease are that both can make a person feel nauseous and increases a person’s sensitivity to light. Sufferers, in turn, become darkness-craving Vampires that seek a nice quiet, dark room with a bed to rest in.

When my friends carried me from the dark theater room to the bright lobby, my head started to spin violently and both of my eyes became kaleidoscopes. I felt like vomiting and it only slowed down when my eyes were shut. Not only this, but my legs were flimsy and I couldn’t even stand without using a friend as a crutch.

A migraine headache does not cause an episode of vertigo, but a throbbing headache and sometimes blurred vision depending on the strength of the headache. Also, tinnitus does not precede or accompany a migraine. These can last anywhere from 4 to 72 hours. A Meniere’s attack has a similar duration, but can sometimes last longer.

Just When You Thought it was Safe…

Meniere’s disease is like having a revolving door of annoying neighbors in your life. They come and they go; and while they are present, can make your life a living hell. And just when you think they’re gone for good, it turns out that they were just on vacation.

The episodes can arrive in clusters: which are that several attacks might occur within a short period of time. However, years may pass before another episode begins. Between the acute attacks, most people are free of symptoms or mild imbalance and tinnitus.

My first attack lasted for a week, but did not completely go away until a month after. It was not until the fourth day after the incident where the spinning motions ended. However, for the next several days, there was still a delayed reaction in sight when I turned my head. The symptoms decreased day by day.

My second bout did not occur until June 2003, a whopping 6 years later. It came back with a vengeance and was much severe; I had to take a week off of work because I could not see straight and driving off the side of a bridge was not worth my life and $8.75 an hour. Halfway through the week, I was able to pinball myself through the walls of my parent’s house onto the couch where I was able to enjoy semi-spinning episodes of Sesame Street and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I wasn’t able to do anything physically engaging, and there was usually nothing to do around 11am.

Since then, I have lost count of the number of attacks I’ve had. Some have been severe, and some have been mild. The mild ones only last a few hours and usually after a nap, the strength of the attack decreases. With focus and concentration, one can walk in baby steps towards their destinations. However, driving is still out of the question.

There Are No Answers (Yet.)

I didn’t approach my doctor until 2005. Despite the vicious attacks I encountered, my parents and I shrugged it off and thought it was just a mild case of Migraine headaches. My father had a history with migraines, and our symptoms were similar. However, he didn’t experience the vertigo episodes that I had.

When I visited my doctor, he saw no signs of health problems. He checked my inner ear canals and saw no signs of wear and tear. No inflammations, whatsoever. I did not smoke, I’ve never done any drugs, and I hadn’t had any alcohol for two years. I was at a very healthy weight of 150 lbs, which was what I should have been for my age and height. I ate a healthy balance of meat, fruit and vegetables. So how could somebody as health as me be a target for such a disease?

Science (or God), maybe for the reasons of keeping life fun and interesting, have kept medical experts scratching their heads as to what the underlying cause of this mysterious disease is. Through the years, more hypotheses have developed; however, none of them have been conclusive enough.

You are a Victim

Think of it this way: You are at the school playground hiding behind a tree. You hear the voice of the class bully call out your as you look for a better place to escape to. In the end, it’s useless to run but you hold on to every thought and possibly that somehow you’ll find a way to break free. After scanning the playground, you find a large pipe that you can crawl into in hopes of being safe.

Then it happens: The pipe starts to move, steadily picking up speed. You want to crawl out, but you can’t. The force of gravity wraps you up like a cocoon and has you at its mercy.

It’s not only the physical trauma that Meniere’s disease inflicts that makes it dangerous, but the psychological effects it can have on a person. Many studies have documented that patients with Meniere's disease tend to have more psychological disability than the normal population, possibly including depression and/or anxiety, in reaction to their disease. It may be necessary to take antidepressants or anti-anxiety drugs, under the supervision of an appropriate health care professional.

In 2006, I had frequent and severe bouts of Meniere’s disease. Within a two month span, I remember having at least four attacks. After one complete episode, there were times that a second one would strike within a few hours. I felt powerless and at the same time, I felt like I lost control of my life and future.

As an active musician, one of my biggest concerns having an episode during a gig, especially with the frequency rate it attacked around this time period. Would this be something I could get used to and fight off while I’m moving around onstage? Would I even be able to perform sitting down and face away from the crowd? I tested these questions out at home during an attack and failed. My arms were too weak to strum, and even in a seated position, my mind was so disoriented that I couldn’t compute what chords to play or what was next in the sequence. I thought about quitting my band, and I felt my dreams slipping away. My parents had suggested become a songwriter for other artists, but the thought of having Hannah Montana singing and performing my songs put me into a larger tailspin.

I also thought about how this would affect my career after I graduate. How long would it take for me to get fired from a job because I couldn’t come in? It would definitely put me in every company’s Black List. I already had attendance problems in class, and I had to explain to my teachers what was going on.

Luckily, I have been fortunate enough to have a good support group consisting of family, friends and co-workers who understood. Believe it or not, this is the most important thing that a sufferer of Meniere’s disease can have.

Support Groups

Ask anyone these days, whether it is your best friend or a completely random stranger, and they will tell you “You can find everything on the Internet.” This is absolutely true. If you type in “Meniere’s Disease support groups” in the Google search bar, you will find numerous chat boards and websites dedicated to supporting people who deal with this disease.

One of these support groups can be found at MDJuction.com. There are 30 members (as it stands), and its occupants range from people who deal with Meniere’s disease to people who have family that deal with it and share their stories. A very popular topic of discussion is that “Meclizine is Bonine.” This is very important to a person dealing with Meniere’s because Meclizine is a drug that a doctor could only prescribe. Now, it is easily accessible and can be found in an aisle at your local pharmacy.

Unfortunately, even these websites are not immune to soliciting messages and immature posts from unruly visitors. Sticking out like sore thumbs are headlines that read “Watch my booty shake” and “Mature Lady looking for Older Gentleman”, posts that belong in a Craigslist personal ads section.

Keeping the Situation Under Control

In this present day and age, Meniere’s disease still has no cure. As I had already explained, treatment that was once deemed as “prescription only” is now sold over-the-counter. Meclizine, an antihistamine used in treating the disease, has been recently added to Benadryl motion-sickness products. It is also sold in a deliciously fruity-flavored, chewable form called Bonine, which is my current weapon of choice. It can be taken before an episode to prevent one from coming, or it can be taken during or after. Doing this would either limit the duration and strength of the attack, or by taking it after, would quicken the recovery time. Another drug called Calan, which is a calcium blocker, can also be used in between episodes of vertigo.

Another alternative is ear surgery, but this is not a procedure done frequently, especially in young people. Meniere’s Disease is much more traumatic around the 50-70 age group, and surgery might be necessary to relieve this.

Eat Smart and lay off the Pretzels and Coffee

What a person eats largely affects the frequency and symptoms of Meniere’s Disease. Having a consistent diet (and not skipping) meals is a good place to start. Any drastic change in the body’s metabolism can trigger the disease.

Avoiding foods or fluids that have a high salt content is very important because high salt intake results in fluctuations in the inner ear fluid pressure and may increase the symptoms. A diet high in fresh fruits, vegetables and whole grains, and low in canned, frozen or processed foods is suggested. Also, a 1,000 mg sodium intake diet is usually recommended. So cut down on the Rold Gold and sink your teeth into a nice, juicy apple.

Caffeine is another thing to avoid because it has stimulant properties that may make the symptoms worse. Caffeine also may make tinnitus louder. Large amounts of caffeine may trigger a migraine headache, which would add extra adventure for thrill-seekers. Helmet not included.

In the beginning, it was extremely hard for me to commit to this because caffeinated products were the end all, be all of my existence. Limiting my consumption of coffee and chocolate was just as bad as watching your best friend walk away with the person you’ve had the longest crush on. However, by doing this, my bouts of the disease have become less frequent and I’ve only had three episodes within the last two years.

My God

Although I can’t recall the exact date that the matter took place, I do remember this: I was eating lunch at the Inner Circle located on the second floor of UIC Student Center East. I had an hour and a half of break time before heading to my Journalism class, so I figured that I would grab a quick slice of pizza and review my notes. This was quite a challenge, for my A.D.D. threshold was pushed to its limitations. The combination of obnoxiously loud cafeteria delinquents and bad karaoke contestants up front spouting out alien phonetics foreign to the human ear had worn out the skin of my eardrums.

I envied those around me who were immune to this plague with their iPods handy. Over the weekend, I had accidentally left mine in the front seat of my friend’s car. Yesterday, she sent me taunting text messages telling me how much she enjoyed being able to listen to music in her car again. I felt like Samson when Delilah cut off his hair: my force field that shielded me away from the awkward encounters of the world had momentarily been shut down and I was prone to assault.

Jesus, someone tell me that no one will notice…

I glanced over at the entrance and saw a guy holding a clipboard and wearing a red polo shirt with the name of his church on the right hand corner. He paused momentarily and scanned the room in all directions, hunting his victim like the ferocious bird of prey he was. As his head quickly swiveled towards my direction, my eyes plunged down at my book and I pulled out my phone while pretending to be in the middle of a conversation. Maybe if I acted out a believable dialogue about the homework assignment, this guy will pass me up and torture some other poor schmuck. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to me and asked me a question, interrupting the conversation I was having with myself over the phone.

Shit.

“Do you believe Christianity is the one true religion?” he asked me. I continued to play along with my made-up phone conversation and signaled to him that it would just be a second before I dropped my call and was willing to speak to him.

“I’m sorry, what was your question?” I asked as I smiled and folded up my phone.

“Do you believe Christianity is the one true religion?”

“Honestly, I don’t. I believe the world is composed of many different religions, and I don’t believe that one of them is superior over the other.”

He paused for a few seconds to try and comprehend what I just said. By the stumped look on his face, I could tell that he was either dumbfounded by my answer or was upset with it. He attempted to launch a guilt-ridden counterattack on me by asking me rhetorical questions and trying to make me feel unsure of my beliefs. In making me feel like a lost soul without a purpose, he could brainwash me into his beliefs. I don’t give in so easily and I even if you have me drawn and quartered by a horse-driven chariot you couldn’t get me to say “Uncle.”

This game of tic-tac-toe had been at a stalemate for over twenty minutes. For every “x” that he would throw down, I’d put down an “o” in front of it. I wasn’t looking to prevail as the winner of this debate, but hell, I wasn’t going to lose and let this guy force-feed his beliefs to me and tell me what to do. Besides, isn’t this the reason why Catholics and Protestants, Israelis and Palestinians, Republicans and Jihads, have been at war with each other? They are at constant battle over whose interpretation of the Bible or Koran is right. One says Jesus is the Son of God and the other sees him as a Prophet. Some depict his appearance as haggard and nomadic (considering he did a lot of traveling with his disciples) and others see him as this well dressed man with long brown hair, a beard and blue eyes (even though he is from the Mediterranean.) I’m guessing that depending on the demographic, the image of Jesus is best represented by the nationality of the people. So he is pretty much a box of Crayola crayons. The point is that everyone has a different view of who “God” is.

To some people, "God" appears on their grilled cheese sandwich or as a stain on the wall.

I admit that as I have grown older, my views have slowly transformed. I grew up in a bi-partisan household in which my mother is a Catholic and my father is a Protestant and is also a Mason. I was baptized as a Protestant, but I grew up going to both churches and learning the differences between the two, which believe me, are not very different. They both worship the same god, but one claims that confessions with Priests and Penance will be your ticket to Heaven and the other focuses on a more direct relationship with God but accepts donations. However, my parents never told me one was better than the other or that if I didn’t read the Bible I would go to Hell.

We went to church almost every Sunday when I was young, but as I progressed towards my adolescence, it slowly started to decline. This is not to say that my family became less religious, but maybe this allowed me to have a freethinker’s approach when I became an adult.

On many occasions, I have attempted to read the Bible. What scare me are the many people who build concrete walls around themselves and live in accordance to it. I believe that it’s their own personal choice and if it gives them a sense of purpose and meaning for their lives, I wholeheartedly respect that. When it gets past the point where they feel they have the power to pass judgment on people for their beliefs, that’s where it gets scary.

The other day I saw this painted on a bus stop bench: “The Fear of God is the Beginning of Knowledge.” Why? Shouldn’t we love our gods instead of fear them? After all, they are the ones we confide in and trust during unavoidable moments of darkness. If fear were the vehicle that drives our motivation to worship our gods, then I’d rather park it and walk through the unknown searching for answers. Isn’t this how we go about answering the meaning of life after all? Each passing day presents us with a new puzzle piece that we never knew about life and ourselves, and the puzzle is finally complete when we die. Or in some cases, it isn’t.

This is not to say that I am a Nihilist. I feel that my beliefs are split up into two categories: I am “culturally” Protestant, but “spiritually” Agnostic. Therefore, I am an "Agnostant." I was raised and baptized as a Protestant, and I do adopt their belief in a direct relationship with God. However, I don’t know what my god looks like and I question the Bible’s precision and validity of what is written. There are so many versions that I’m sure that something was added or deleted through the march of time.

If I am certain about something, it’s this:

1.) My God allows same sex marriages. It believes all men and women were created equal, and not just in a written document.

2.) My God doesn’t support war, and It doesn’t approve to Its name being used for the glorification of violence acts against humanity. If someone were to call out Its name before slaughtering people because they don’t agree with them or they want something for their own personal greed, It will turn Its back on them and let them perish.

3.) My God hasn’t labeled me a Sinner at birth. My God is positive. When I have done something wrong, my conscience and morals tell me. My God only offers the comfort, strength and understanding to encourage me to be a better person.

My God is not any better than your God. It does not carry the title of claiming It is the one true God. It welcomes and respects all beliefs.

Scene Killer: Reflections on the Mass-Murder of The Chicago Rock Music Community

“...they made me aware just how momentous music is, and why we should care.”
-Tsunami Bomb


Face it, Chi-Town. Rock music is brain dead for the most part.

A mere, lifeless vegetable.

However, comparing rock music today to the mighty vegetable is a flagrant insult to a vegetable itself! Vegetables have a variety of colors, forms and flavors; some good, some ok, and some bad. But they all have the capability of being beneficial to a person’s well being in the long run.

I can’t speak the same of the latter.

The act of producing sounds from instruments and capturing them into hi-fi or lo-fi recording is alive and well. It’s as accessible, legal and as easy to do as over-the-internet Prostitution.

Ask Eliot Spitzer.

However, the spirit and the art itself have flat-lined. Not one single, rhythmic beat to save themselves.

When this tragic episode happened is highly debatable. I remember a few years back when you could look around and still find an honest, decent musician with the heart and the open mind to create something original. Even if it was in a specific genre, at least they were willing to stretch the boundaries of that sound and try something different.

Then again, I was never a conventional thinker.

Nowadays, I can’t flip through ads without seeing a good 90% of the titles containing the words “Brutal Metal”. But this, by no means, is mentioned as a mushroom stamp of a shot at this prehistoric tribute to the discovery of music. I applause them for their extensive knowledge of cavespeak, neanderthalic grunts and playing steel strings like three elastic rubber bands on a wooden log through modern age amplification. However, not many of us speak or understand this exclusive language. At least they’re nice enough to print out the lyrics in English inside the sleeve. Unless their point is to spread the word out and educate the masses about it.

Kind of like what the Europeans did when they wanted to spread Christianity to different parts of the world. But less carnage.

Where were you when the fun had started?

Where the hell was I? I unfortunately didn’t get the memo.

Quite frankly, music has always been a product. And in the past, music has done a great job of selling itself. But now, it’s like being blindfolded to take the Pepsi Taste Challenge and someone urinating in both cups.

Record companies have become restless and hired Gepetto to stick his hand up the ass of Lars Ulrich to bitch about piracy and how it’s taking away from the business. The answer is simple: Don’t make us spend our hard-earned cash on garbage.

Many bands today choose to play their cards and present their catchiest (and sometimes only good) tune. And I agree, it’s a very wise decision.

But due to the growing number of music fans having shorter attention spans (especially for crap), they’ve had to check themselves into clinics because they’ve developed Carpel Tunnel on their thumbs from constantly pressing the “fast forward” button on their iPods.
Steve Jobst, being the genius businessman he is, knew of this. Which is why iPods need to get replaced every so often.

Besides, bands get their income from largely from touring. Newer bands rely solely on image, stage acrobats, the “whine” and the “jellyfish” prance because they all sound like carbon copies of themselves. A lot of them do flying roundhouse kicks that would make Chuck Norris blush and 1080 degree spin moves that would make figure skaters hand back their gold medals. It’s quite the spectacle and someone should please hand me a scorecard with a 10 on it if it were the Olympics. But last time I checked, I was a concert venue and I came to hear and listen to a band.
And someone please give the vocalist some Tylenol Sinus and a back brace. I think he’s being forced to sing through his nose and he seems to be walking like an invertebrate.

This kind of sad excuse for “Emo” has makes real Emo music want to commit genocide. My condolences to Robert Smith and Ian McKaye.

Some may ask why I think so highly of New Jersey’s The Gaslight Anthem. Sure they remind us of Bruce Springsteen and that New Jersey rock sound.

They also make us reminisce on how good music was and still is. They make us smile and think back to the better moments of our lives.

Shit, I’d rather pop in a Bon Jovi album and dance in front of my mirror. I’m sure John Wayne Bobbit feels more sensation than what’s being played now.

The veteran bands in community that have been left for dead and are clinging to life survive by intra-city incest and count on playing the same venues in the same places in the same city. They are the type of bands that cling to each other like osmosis and won’t go outside of the circle. And if a member were to leave the circle, his or her choices are only limited to other bands within this Pink Sock of a community. They are oblivious to the outside world and the possible talent around them.

Who said I wanted to fit in?

But I’m proud of the some of the historic bands that have influenced some of the successful bands to come out of Chicago. I salute you, Naked Raygun, 88 Fingers Louie and The Smoking Popes. Had you not existed we wouldn’t have Alkaline Trio and Rise Against, bands that still matter. However, Alkaline Trio is now a California-based band.

Very smart decision.

There’s only one time I wouldn’t mind seeing the same lineup in one venue. It’s called a legitimate tour, and I’d be a fan representing a different state other than Illinois and a different city not called Chicago.

In finding the bands that do matter you’d have to go deep into Dante’s Inferno, the community’s seven layers of Hell. You’ll find some of the best raw talent there is, regardless of the genre. These bands never make it out because they don’t have the support, know-how, money, and are being overshadowed by the dark, methane cloud farted out of the more popular bands’ asses.
Then, there are those who just don’t give a shit and would rather play dive-bars the rest of their lives. They are the best of the best.

And that’s also a scene killer.

Stay classy and effin’ fashionable,
Jimmy

Turmoil at the Eternal Traffic Light, October 2008.

We are heading west on Irving Park Road towards the “six corners” intersection in the Northwest neighborhood of Portage Park. I am sitting on the passenger’s side of my friend Jenny’s gunmetal gray, 2007 Honda Element, trying to cope with the trauma of listening to the new Britney Spears album that has held the airwaves captive.

I, too, am captive; constricted of movement except for the violent squirms of my shoulders and torso like a lunatic in a straight jacket. I’d love to roll my window up and spare myself from humiliation, better yet, hold Jenny’s head out and use her window as a guillotine! Unfortunately, she has complete control over them. We are almost at our destination.

She loves every minute of it. I sneer at her while she keeps her eyes on the road, wears a wide, sinister grin, and starts to blurt out lyrics. Her voice overpowers Britney in many facets: tone, sustain, and vibrato. She’s a real, classically trained singer.

An amazing one, might I add. So I wouldn’t expect anything less.

As we approach the traffic light, a green Nissan X-terra in front of us with a blue Obama bumper sticker, slows down as the light changes from yellow to red. I take a quick glance at her without moving my head hoping she doesn’t notice it, but she does; a cold-hearted stare from her frigid, blue eyes zoned in directly at the sticker. Her stiletto boots press down on the brakes as the car loses speed. Her furry black and white purse, which she acknowledges as her “dog”, rolls over from the back seat to the front of the car. She is Ted Nugent in drag, PETA’s arch-nemesis. I try to spark a conversation before she opens her mouth and a plague of wasps come out.

“So, do you think Ryan and Jeremy are waiting for us at practice?” I ask.

“Jeremy is probably still setting up his drums, so we’ll probably be there on time.” A moment of silence follows. “So, you’re gonna vote, right?” My face crumples up. Damn.

“Of course,” I say firmly.

We’ve been battling for months on this topic, exchanging verbal jabs back and forth with each other. Each jarring blow ended up hitting a brick wall.

Yet she stills asks. Three minutes have gone by and the light is still red. Is this Hell? Is it too late to turn Atheist?

“Obaaaaamaaaaa?” she asks, wide-eyed with her eyebrows raised up.

“Yeeeeeessssss…” I mock back.

“Fine, fine…” she quickly fires. She pouts and shakes her head, like a spoiled child that can’t get what it wants. I keep a poker face, but inside I am smiling because I know that one vote can affect the Presidency.

If it all came down to me, I’d make the other side suffer. It would be like watching someone who I hated drown; I’d eventually jump in to save that person, but not after watching him or her flap their arms in despair and sink.

I’ve had to deal with their champion for eight years, now it’s their turn.

“I don’t see what the buzz is all about, I think it’s stupid to vote for someone just because celebrities are endorsing him…”

As she goes off on her tangent, my attention is sandwiched between Britney Spears’ irritating falsetto and statements she recites from Fox News. Eventually I’m going to need an Advil and some poison to wash it down with to ease the pain. As if a purple-hearted Warlord and a plumber can unclog the deep shit we’re under.

“Who said I’m choosing Obama because celebrities are getting behind him?” An uneasy silence follows for about 30 seconds. I’m becoming more frustrated, manically fiddling with my fingers as I look at the green arrow appear underneath the red light. I find myself humming to the tune of the music, which I curse myself for later on.

“Well, have you even watched the debates?”

I chuckle and nod. “Well, what do you think? Do you think I pull all my facts out of my ass?”

“It’s just… I’ve been watching them on Fox and Obama just isn’t a good choice. Besides, he wants to increase taxes on people with independent businesses, so he’s going to screw me over.”

Aside from being in the band, she has her own Internet clothing company. She designs her own cloths, creating styles that cater to women who have a unique style in which they are confident in and want to represent themselves. She’s an extremely hard worker and gives up natural sleep to see that things get done. I admire this about her.

“How much do you make annually?” I ask.

“Less than $60,000,” she says.

I understand her concern. Rich or poor, there is a nationwide concern about job security and income. If it doesn’t hit now, it’ll hit later. No one is immune to this, even her.

Somewhere along the way, she might have overlooked what was written in the fine print about Obama’s plan for independent businesses. Either that or she never knew to begin with.

“He’s only going to raise taxes on independent businesses that make over $250,000 a year,” I point out.

“Oh,” she whispers to herself. “This country has gotten worse.”

The argument stops here. Good riddance. For some reason, I thought about an evening barbeque we were at a few months back at our friend Brian’s backyard. I was talking with a few people about how Sammy Davis, Jr. had one eye, and Jenny walks in on the conversation and asks, “Wait… the baseball player?” We stare at each other in silence with an eyebrow curled up, trying not to burst out laughing. She is lost; she tilts her head over like a confused dog with her eyes squinted, her left eyelid twitching with rhythmic spasms. “He’s the one who hit 72 home runs with the Cubs, right?”

Some people ask what the difference between an argument and a debate is. Intelligence.

Besides her typical “Blonde” moments, which she greatly admits to having, she is a well-educated person. She graduated from college at the age of 20 with a degree in Business and Marketing. This is displayed by her persistence in strategically planning out neighborhoods to promote the band. She looks for communities that contain a high demographic of people who would possibly be interested in our music and assigns each member to go out and promote. Beforehand, she designs flyers and assigns the rest of us the task of duplicating demos to pass out for free.

Though her feistiness and determination has rubbed past members the wrong way and gave her the label of “Band Tyrant”, I welcomed it. It helped us to expose the lazy bastards who didn’t want to work and reap our harvest. If there is one thing I have learned about being in the Chicago Music Scene in the last seven years, it’s that most Chicago musicians are either extremely talented with no drive, or have inflated egos and a lack of talent to back it up.

The light finally turns green, but a “number 81, Irving Park Express” bus cuts us off and stops to let its passengers exit and enter. Less than a minute into it, the light turns yellow then red again. False alarm.

I felt sorry for those incompetent schmucks who actually thought there were Weapons of Mass Destruction sitting idle in Iraq…

Wait. Weren’t we supposed to be fighting terrorists in Afghanistan? I forgot: oil, liberation and religious cleansing are more important than the safety of our people.

“Agh! I hate this light!” she vents out, slamming her fist into the top of her steering wheel. “Someone needs to fix this stupid thing!”

The hole in the Ozone layer isn’t the only thing that needs fixing up in the Earth’s atmosphere. We should probably hire the nation’s best scientists to create a shield that would also absorb the impact of a several hundred missile strikes from North Korea and Russia.

They hate us too.

I look over at my alpine white Les Paul that is resting in my lap and I think about why I became a musician.

A Punk Rocker, more or less.

It started off as a love for a specific kind of music. I liked the simple and catchy tunes and the less than perfect vocals to accompany it. It was music for the underdog; it gave every Average Joe or Jane a legitimate chance of being an actual musician.

I never had any teenage-angst in me; 9/11 happened a few months after I turned 20. I was spoiled as a teenager growing up in the economic success of the Clinton Era. I took it for granted thinking that jobs would always be there, that my dad wouldn’t lose his job a few weeks later and support the family with unemployment checks. I thought that maybe the world would change with the right song. Kinda like a hippie, but angry and intense.

Punk Rock gave me a change to voice out my frustration while playing the music I loved so much.

Jenny doesn’t understand. Her family lives comfortably in Wilmette.

The light changes to green again, but the bus takes its time straightening out and getting back on the road. By the time the backend of the bus is at the foot of the traffic light, the light becomes yellow.

“Fuck it. I’m going through,” she mutters out vindictively. I shrug. Bright, white rays shoot out from every angle, bouncing of the corners of the street like pinballs. Suddenly, it feels like we are at the center of the dance floor in a Disco. “What was that!?”

“Oooh. It’s those cameras that take your picture when you run a red light,” I shouted with child-like amusement. “Makes it easier for the Piggies to write you up a ticket, especially since they have it on tape!”

It’s the first time I’ve seen those things in action.

They’re creepy.

Maybe George Orwell was right. Big Brother is watching.

“Damn it. I just went to court last month to contest another ticket,” she says in a tone of defeat.

“Speeding?”

“No, tailgating my dad’s car up in Michigan.” We both laugh synchronically.

Unbelievable.

I have been asked how two people with completely opposite political views and lifestyles can be in a room without causing a wreck. My answer is not the typical “We’re doing it for the sake of the band and writing music, but we hate each other’s guts.” Despite our differences, we actually do meet somewhere in the middle with many issues. We both care about the state of the world, and we only want positive change.

As lyricists, our ideology comes across as neither liberal or conservative, but rhetorical, optimistic and hopeful. We also never shied away from exposing a more dark and pessimistic side and both agree that maybe our only hope in this lifetime of ever getting it right is by burning the world down and starting anew.

We finally make it past the intersection and everything is smooth sailing from here. The neighborhood is a mental time capsule of the 1980s for me. Vintage streetlights that are dim, wooden signs that are rotting with snazzy painted lettering and a vacant lot that used to hold a Ponderosa steakhouse. That was parents’ favorite place to go.

“Dude, what’s up with all these streets starting with the letter “L”? she asks.

“No idea.” It is pretty odd how the next 3-4 streets start with the letter” L.” Laramie, Lexington, Long. These strings of consonants are soon broken by another set of street names beginning with the same consonants. Mango, Monitor… Ugh.

Part of me never wanted to grow up. Life was so carefree and simple back then, or maybe it was because my awareness of the world’s evils had not corrupted my innocence at such a young age. I saw no difference between a Republican and a Democrat, toy guns were realistic and cool, Michael Jackson the King of Pop and still black and the music was much better.

I’m thankful for that.

My parents chose not to expose me to that kind of world. They were very political people, but they raised me to appreciate art and nature. I spent a lot of afternoons at the park letting my curiosity take hold of the steering wheel. I never was a conventional thinker. While other kids would play baseball with their fathers, I was questioning why grass was green and why I’d get sick if I ate it.

“I don’t understand why Jeremy and Ryan can’t make it a point to schedule in a practice every week? Do they not want this band to succeed? Jenny asks, breaking the spell I was in.

“Meh. I don’t know anymore. One’s got ego issues, the other one’s lazy. It’s pretty annoying.”

We are coming up to Austin Ave. as Jenny taps the stick to signal a left turn.

“I say we call a mandatory band meeting. I can’t deal with this anymore. This is the right street to turn on right?”

“Ditto. Let’s wait ‘til after the show. This is a pretty big gig we got. We don’t want them bailing on us. Yeah, this is it. There’s the patio store.” I point at the store to the right side which says in white, orange and maroon lights “PATIO.” It resembles the Chicago Theatre.

The problem with me when I was young was that I took things for granted. I lived in a fantasy world in which I’d graduate from college at 21, make a lot of money, get married and raise a family by my mid-20s. If I were to meet up with my 5 year old self in a time warp to have a cup of coffee, or chocolate milk, I’d feel like I owed him an apology. Imagine going up to a little kid with the brightest dreams and telling him or her to stay in those dreams because reality sucks.

“Yeah, that’s true. Knowing Ryan, he’s probably gonna come up with some lame excuse the day of the show.”

“We can play as a three piece. It’s not like Ryan added anything creative to the music. Ugh, we just missed Waveland.”

“Shit! Second time in a row! You wanna make a quick stop at McDonald’s?”

“Yeah, I could go for a shake. They’re probably not even there yet.”

I’ve been told countless times that it’s my generation that’s going to suffer from these times of economical turmoil and war.

I am more fearful of my future children’s generation. I always wanted to have a family, but our current crisis is forcing me to think otherwise. My paternal instincts want to raise children in a better world free of guns, child-molesting members of the Church and genocide.

But I guess if we keep things up with the way they are going, there might not be a future for anyone of us. We can choose to live by the Mayan calendar and wait for the meteor to save us before we end up killing each other.

2012 isn’t that far away. But who knows what’ll happen with the next 4 years.

Only God and Obama.

Prose with a Mission

I don't believe in writing those "introductory" pieces for everyone to read. I'm not going to tell you what I like to do on a lonesome Sunday afternoon, what breed of dogs I like, and if I think we should be sipping Martinis by the beach.

This is not a Relationships Classified Section on Craigslist.

If you wanted to know about a person, you'll read and absorb their words. You'll pay attention to their use of language, if they have the skill to transform a sentence into a work of art, their use of the under appreciated semi-colon, and depending on their intentions you'll see it as a window into their world.

Pay attention to whether or not they break, bend or follow the rules. One writer may adhere to the rule that three sentences form a paragraph, while another writer may say, "Fuck that. I think one word can stand alone as its own paragraph and be just as powerful!" It's like telling someone to go to hell, fuck off, or I hope your kids get locked in a closet with Michael Jackson, while another person may just raise up the one-finger salute and walk away.

Break the rules at your own discretion. Remember that in order to break them, you first need to know what they are. You can't just write out one-word sentence paragraphs down the page just for the sake of doing it.

Try it. You'll look like an idiot.

Did you pause for a moment to think about it?

Good for you.

See what I just did? There's a rhythm and an art to quick, short paragraphs. They are short, but to the point. They cause you to stop for a second and think about what you just read, or while an author narrates, it causes tension in the piece. Most importantly, it creates a relatively easy flow for a reader to get into.

If the writer of the piece is successful, they will give a magnificent, super human power which only they will possess for the time being. It can be a matter of minutes, or a few hours. They will be under such an immense haze that they see only what you see. In essence they become you; they inherit your joy, sadness, hate and passion. For a certain time frame, you get to play god with their emotions.

Holy shit, that's amazing!

So congratulations. You have given them the gift of art, and in return they have given you the gift of their undivided attention. Don't you feel special?

I certainly do.

Ausgezeichnet und willkommen zu meine Welt.

-Jimmy