My Edge is Anything But Straight by Nick Riotfag (via combat—wombat)
THIS IS WHAT I’M SAYIN. This is also probably why queer people are 40-70% more likely to smoke cigarettes. and partially why I find it impossible to quit (because everyone I know smokes).
(via hickiesandhotpants)
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Being a privileged white kid who has never worried about being oppressed, I understand that it is a bit odd for me to comment on the illnesses of the maltreated. However, coming from a family with a deep history of addictions of all sorts I felt it was necessary for me to address Riotfag’s hypothesis, which simply does not align itself with the scientific data.
Alcohol addiction is very much an individual pathology. We form addictions through a subconscious release of dopamine in the brain which tells us that a specific action is pleasant, thereby reinforcing the action itself. Also, the likeliness of your brain to reinforce things such as the over-consumption of alcohol can often be genetic. So, by definition, it is an ailment of individual pathology.
Perhaps most important is the claim that alcoholism is a direct effect of “an oppressive society”. To be frank, you’d be hard pressed to find many who would argue that African Americans are the largest downtrodden minority in the United States. If the hypothesis that oppression drives people to hit the bottle had any weight to it we should be able to find that African American’s have a history if alcohol abuse, yet that isn’t the case, infact;
“Among adolescent minorities studied nationwide, African Americans show the lowest prevalence of lifetime, annual, monthly, daily, and heavy drinking, as well as the lowest frequency of being drunk.”- David Hanson, Phd.
The unfortunate reality of the situation is that the action is reinforced both by the brain as well as our social circles. Does depression drive people to drink? Of course. Does feeling held down by society make you depressed? Absolutely. I am in no way saying that minorities of all walks of life are not entitled to their battle against an oppressive majority. But by taking the blame away from ourselves and with “forward thinkers” like Nick Riotfag influencing others to point the finger at society for their own weaknesses, we teeter on the edge of a youth culture ready to play the victim, free from the responsibilities of their own actions.
(via prettysugarlife-deactivated2011)
Ashton took some sweet behind the scenes shots of The Welcome Home’s recent photo shoot!
thewelcomehome:
We just got done with a photoshoot with Red Williamson, here’s some behind the scenes shots from Ashton. Video from the shoot coming soon!
This reminds me of myself, everyday.
In a few short hours I’ll be boarding a plane bound for Hollywood. It’s like a train bound for glory but at the same time very different, unless “glory” means dangerous levels of smog and celebrity impersonators, I’ll have to refer to my dictionary on this one.
The last couple weeks of my life have been wild. I’m the sort of indecisive person who will wobble to and fro from where my life should go, or how what beaten path I should follow, knowing well that each is adorn with its own noxious intermix of thorns and glass that I’ll trek through dithered and apprehensive.
However, it’s when I’m propelled by some strange act of happenstance into a decision that seems to be made for me that I find myself the most satisfied.
Just when the future of The Welcome Home seemed the most uncertain, we were hit with this glorious opportunity to prove to OURSELVES that we have what it takes, that this is a life worth fighting for. All the sudden the days seem normal again, wrought with chaotic planning and a seemingly endless lists of goals at our feet. This is where I belong, confused and wandering through a fog with my friends by my side, not quite sure where we’re headed, a light up ahead may well be a mirage, but we remain hopeful.
I realized most importantly that I would love nothing more than to live this life over an endless amount of times, stuck on repeat. These people, these places, the love, the heartache, the confusion, the hope, its all a part of a crazy journey.
And it’s all worth it.
ps. I check the definition of “glory”, its kinda vague so I’m gonna guess that it IS Hollywood.
Most of us are born with a sort of mental armor. Or maybe we aren’t born with it, but at some point in our youth we deduce, after having survived years of scraped knees, bicycle crashes, valiant battles with the common cold, and handful of other minute injuries, that we must be in some sense indestructible. Tales of diseases and unforeseen fatal-accidents only occur in other people’s lives, not our own. This phenomenon is dubbed ‘The Invincibility Complex’, and to some degree or another, nearly everyone possesses it.
Tonight I walked into a Shell Gas station, a seemingly trivial event. In the 3 minutes or so it took me to pay the clerk and leave, a car had careened into a pedestrian outside the store. When I looked over to see what all the commotion was about, I was confused even though it was clear what happened.
What really bothered me is I felt nothing at first. I just looked out blankly as people were scattered about the street, horrified at what many of them had just seen. My senses refused to act, my brain hesitant to respond. “You’ve been there before.” I know what that feels like, how peculiar.
After exchanging some concerned queries with the obviously distraught station agent, I debated staying to see it through, but it knew that if I did it was only to feed selfish curiosity. That kind of voyeurism didn’t feel right, so I left. As I drove off an odd guilt hungover my head like I was supposed to do SOMETHING, anything to help these victims of happenstance. We are truly powerless at times.
I won’t ever know if she survived, who fault it was, or how those mere seconds will have changed their lives forever. But I am certain that they won’t be the same.
Their Invisibility Complex, while it may not be shattered, is fractured something fierce.
I already have a small understanding of how fragile life is, but I don’t necessarily enjoy that I do, nor do I really think that Im better off having that veil lifted at the relatively young age of 13. However, the wounds do mend, and a part of me feels like it couldn’t happen again, despite that there is no evidence to support a cosmic fairness.
Hypothetically, we develop this shield, and others like it, to help ease our stay. If we understood in full how delicate every aspect of life is, down to our very presence in the universe, we may be inclined to never leave the house and live inside a bubble like Tod Lubitch (See The Boy in the Plastic Bubble [1972]). But that doesn’t seem very productive in the scheme of thing, does it?
Nice one, mind. Good move.
As we drive hastily past the ranges and plateaus of the midwest, there it is, millions of years worth of the Earth’s existence sprawled out in front of me. Scribed within the vast threads of colored rock and sediment are answers to questions we ask everyday, and some most of us have yet to ponder. The problem is, they recount their tale in a language I’m simply too ignorant to understand. Just my luck.
However, I take away this much as the moral to their anecdote, and I figured I’d share it; my tenure here is ultimately miniscule and insignificant.
If we aren’t lucky enough to make a small impression on man-kind’s record, we can hopefully leave our mark through genealogy, so that our kids have a chance to shape history how they sit fit, so on and so forth. And for the most, that’s our lot, “Eat, sleep, repeat”, and we scatter some events here and there.
If we step back and view “the big picture”, our stay is, at best, a fraction of a hiccup. The world will move on once we’re gone, like it has with every creature that’s inhabited it at one point or another, and so it goes. But these ideas are nothing new.
We don’t give rocks enough credit.
I guess that overall notion of universal inferiority would depress some people. But the point is, that epiphany struck me with an odd sense of self-purpose. If this is all we’ve got, and as far as I can tell, it is, it’s up to me to make this life what I want. Even if my accomplishments never make it on the map.
We are all playing out idiosyncratic short stories. How will mine read?
FIN.
We’ve arrived in Las Vegas. I love this city for reason “What happens here” ads fail to hint at.
A shaky video of our performance at SXSW. Songs include “You, like Black Magic” and most of a new untitled song.
Quick recap:
-Spent most of the week wandering around 6th street. Purevolume House shows were the greatest. Tons of free alcohol, taco bell, and amazing bands. One of the craziest experiences of my life. Looking forward to next year.
-Lets just say that my American Telecaster has become the “Jason Todd” in my list of Robins (Batman fans, I’m speaking your language here). My guitar was stolen, or as I like to put it “kidnapped”, after our showcase. Im impatiently waiting a ransom note, threatening phone call, or any dramatic incident to tell me the fate of my fallen friend. Also, Jason lost my 70’s Minolta film camera.
Equivalent exchange always lingers.
I think my body is trying to kill me. Either that or Im effortless prey for a slew of viruses, who I assume sit and conspire against my better health, probably for no good reason. Maybe I was spanish influenza in a past life and they’re just jealous of my prior success. Jerks.
With that said, I’m sick again, for the millionth time this year alone. In the days since my last update (or captain’s log, if you will) most of us on the tour have contracted some sort of cold. Unfortunately it’s attacked the throats of the 3 of us singers, converting our voices into some sort of amalgamation of Louie Armstrong and Joan Baez. Maybe we’ll have some baby boomers at our show tonight who will gleam with nostalgia after hearing our worn voices. I’ll keep my toes crossed for luck, and maybe that will help my poster while I’m at it. A boy can dream.
In another note, I went to Disneyland and had one of the best weeks in a long long time while we were in California. Pics and such from that at later times.
Living in a van with a bunch of lewd man-children, for any increment of time, is as interesting of a life as I could ask for a this point. With alpha-male dominance being hurled in such a way that we resemble school girls having a pillow fight, I can nearly see our maturity heading for the hills. That’s just in our nature I guess, but we are able to call it back in time to accomplish what’s needed. So responsibility lingers, thankfully.
Being back in my hometown after years is a trip, I’m talking my tour-mate’s ears off with all the reminiscing. There’s an aroma in the air that smells like childhood ambition, in the days where I became a dreamer. Now I’m back, doing my best to live how I hoped.
I’m going to try to see my older brother, who I haven’t seen in 6 years, while Im stationed here. I’m hoping our hectic schedules and transportation situation doesn’t prohibit us from seeing each other.
Being here makes me miss the hell out of my family, ALL of my family. A lot of the groundwork for my nutty functions and dysfunctions were laid in this city, and I’m appreciative of all of it. I’m excited to see them when I get home, and my dad and Abuelita in the fall. There is never enough time for family.
“It’s funny that we’re so far away but every time we get on I-5 it feels like home.” -DPG
In the gauntlet of ‘Texas or Bust’, Bust looms as a formidable adversary. Seattle to Portland, Portland to Sacramento, Sac to Fullerton, all out of our own pockets with no pay in sight. If I lived in a comic book, money would be my antagonist, and he’d look just like The Hamburglar.
We play The Slide Bar in Fullerton tonight (owned by the guys from Lit haha), and compensation is booze, which we’ll gladly guzzle down and carry on with smiles plastered on our faces! :D
Because thats the real point of this, getting drunk, no no Im completely kidding, I barely drink as it is. What I mean is, while venues fall through, we make no money, we often play to sparse crowds, and we pump most of our time and effort into an unsure future, we are also very lucky to have the opportunity to do this. I am head over heels for making music, and the fact that to make a career of this I’m pushed to be out traveling is a subtle blessing. I get to experience so much and even though Im broke, Im happy doing it, however long it lasts.
Sacramento was really great, it really helped sway my whole view on touring through California. Unlike my usual visit, I didnt feel out of place. Most everyone I met seemed like someone I could relate to, and hanging out at a bar that actually played great music with a dance floor that didnt wreak of a meat market was refreshing. I wouldn’t have mind staying longer.
I’ll say this though, its fucking COLD in Cali, we drove through SNOW this morning!! SNOW!?! NW Weather, I love you, but come on, you’re smothering me.
Anyways. I’ve spent a long time fearing I live a fools life. Right now, I really don’t care much either way.
I realized today after looking at, but not necessarily due to, the beautiful woman in the photograph, that Joanna Newsom’s (pictured above) Milk-Eyed Mender has burrowed itself a firm place in my list of records that I cant live without.
It’s not that I think it’s the greatest album of all time, her shrill voice often cracks through the modest production of the 12 folk-inspired tracks. But, the songs are poignant and well crafted. A few in particular, including Sprout and the Bean, affect me something fierce. The melody acts as needle and thread, sewing into my cerebrum to later torture me with reminiscence.
There are a handful of records/songs that will always bring me back to a certain time in my life and I ask “Have I already lived out my best days?”. I don’t think so, the thought is counter-productive, but the question lingers.
The right refrain can really kick the hell out of me. But it reminds me that I’m alive, and I discern that the calender pages are ripping down at an alarming rate :P ”Gotta fly!”
In a way, the music is timeless to me. I guess that’s the pro to this selfish profession we strive for. I can only hope that something I write will one day mean to anyone what these songs mean to me.
Anyone else have songs/albums like that?
