Lately LB has had to drive me around since I started having panic-induced seizures. They took my license due to medical reasons, which is good because even without the seizures I am a notoriously bad driver. Problem is, she has to be superwoman to make it all work. She’s the real-life Jack Pearson, but I am no Mandy Moore.
Anyway, she drove a lot of hours this weekend so that we could go see SHOVELS & ROPE, which gave me palpitations from the moment I purchased the tickets until the second they left the stage. The latter half being because I spit on a guy who called me a cunt. Not my proudest moment. In retrospect, I should have broken his nose.
Then, the bouncer guy came to make me leave, but I am super nice, so he ended up really liking me. Instead of kicking me out, he brought me closer to the stage. Spit-face guy wasn’t very happy about it, so I winked at him just to let him know it all worked out in this cunt’s favor. Now I’m convinced I should become a music vigilante. If you talk loudly during a show, I may or may not spit on you. You never know where I’ll show up next. Although, I’ll give you a clue. Method Man.
After the show in Baltimore, she drove us back to Lancaster with our good friends Sharon and Jess. It was Jess’s birthday, but I don’t drink Jameson anymore so I was probably a pretty lame birthday buddy. Either way, I had a fucking blast. That was Friday. We woke up Saturday, and LB drove us all the way to Queens and Brooklyn in the kind of fog that makes you worry that something may have actually exploded and you’re literally driving toward it.
She had some help with parallel parking, because that’s the only real driving skill I have, and the only time she follows directions is when she’s trying to park a Subaru in New York with cars lined up around the block honking. That’s also the only time she ever asks to borrow a Xanax.
We stayed in my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Brooklyn, although he’s on tour in just about every civilized country on earth. And, she is with him.
Their house is awesome, and her dog is even cooler. He slept on top of me and LB, so I felt right at home. We went to Jess’s birthday bar, and we had fun for about two hours until LB started to fade. That was around 10:30pm. We decided to cross the street, grab some Oreo’s and skim milk, and make our way back to the house for a Golden Girl’s marathon instead. Jess said she had a great time without us, but I’m pretty sure that’s total bullshit.
The next morning, I woke up and met the Airbnb guy who stays at their house. His name is Franklin, and he’s a rad jazz drummer and Tibetan Buddhist from Norway. I asked him to teach me how to meditate, because your thoughts can kill you, can’t they? We spent two hours talking, and I love him and his purple night skirt. He told me that I needed to learn that my thoughts are simply thoughts. Like waves in the ocean. He said I will never feel at peace if I don’t learn to experience the thought and then let it go.
Ever since then, I started doing this new thing where the second I have a shitty thought or feeling, I yell the word THOUGHT out loud. Even in public. At least now everyone knows whenever I’m having a thought. Bad news is, it isn’t work appropriate. Good news is, it really works and I don’t care. I ordered a purple night skirt, and I will forever remember you, Franklin. Now, I’m so at peace that I can’t be a music vigilante anymore. My short—yet successful—career in the music business has ended, once again. If anyone would like to take over in my steed, the position is open. LB will be conducting interviews later this evening.
Happy Birthday Jess Coppinger, you sexy New Yorker, you.