nude highway driving

I love walking to work. It takes about 50 minutes, and I get to walk past all the Capitol Hill bars, around the deck and down the stairs of the Capitol, across the Mall and up a bustling Pennsylvania Avenue. People are out and about as the monuments, museums and buildings vogue in the sun. D.C. actually is a pretty city, in most spots. Walking to work on days like today usually becomes a sort of meditation, bumping me into a sun-induced relaxation before dealing with nine hours of hectic news.

Today walking to work pissed me off.

You can’t walk through the Capitol like you used to. Congress has implemented many different little security additions, probably costing us millions, and for the past several months has limited public access to a building the public owns. Today they even had the sidewalks through the grass off-limits to visitors, as well as walking on certain sides of the street on some blocks. Public streets. Public sidewalks. While Congress is on vacation. This “security” is a blazing example of self-importance and nothing more, as nobody is going to attack Congress. Nobody needs to. Congress is irrelevant. They don’t do anything except rubber-stamp whatever the Redneck Across Town wants. It’s sad and deplorable, but it’s true. No terrorist is going to attack Congress because the effect on the country’s policies and operation would be nil. (Unless a French nationalist attacks and the country, in the confusion of the aftermath, forgets and starts calling fried potatoes “french fries” again.)

Yesterday Donald Rumsfeld submitted a proposal to overhaul the military that would, among other things, transfer up to 300,000 jobs to civilian contractors, let the DOD skirt environmental laws and get him out of reporting to Congress on weapons programs. I am confident Congress will pass this, right after they give Bush the go-ahead to invade Syria.

The loss of the Capitol, coupled with not being allowed in Lafayette Park some days, reeks of a government that no longer is for the people, but for those who think they are above the people. This is the most public of America’s cities and the public areas slowly are dwindling in the name of national security. I don’t buy it. I want my public spaces back. I want my country back.

Be afraid.
Be very afraid.

Well, I guess that will take care of those pesky journalists who refuse to get embedded and report what we tell them to report. Everyone should be immensely pissed about this.

I especially am shocked and awed by the “accidental” missile attack on al-Jazeera, the same station whose offices we “accidentally” bombed in Afghanistan. The same station who gave the U.S. exact coordinates of its offices after its hotel “accidentally” was bombed in Basra a few days ago. It seems, though, that the DOD unfortunately is getting its desired result.

You’re either with us or against us - right, guys?

Going through my recent war nostalgia made me start thinking about all the great concerts I saw my semester in London, then about all the great concerts I’ve seen in my life. Music and concerts are major building blocks of my memories that help me signify splintered pieces of my past. These thoughts came back when I ran across ticketstubs, a site dedicated to telling ticket stories (concerts, sports, travel, etc.). You submit a scan of your stub and write a short piece about your experience. This is one of the coolest ideas for storytelling on the Web — a groovy angle on what Fray does.

I already submitted (and they published) a piece on seeing a secret R.E.M. gig in London in 1991. I hope to write a couple more — it’s the first time I’ve submitted anything to a writing site on the Web, and I’m kinda shocked and relieved I did it. Hopefully this is only a first trickle. The concept was the perfect inspiration to get me going.

I’ve been hooked on shows ever since my first — Alice Cooper in 1981. I was 10 years old, and all I listened to was him and KISS. As fate would have it, Alice stopped by our little Missouri town’s Memorial Hall on his “Special Forces” tour. My parents caved in and took me. I encountered my first Christian fundamentalists — they told my parents they were going to hell for bringing me there, to which my dad replied that he was the devil. And I smelled pot for the first time (I couldn’t understand why my parents wouldn’t tell me what the funny-smelling smoke was).

Imagine, if you will, two normal-looking parents sitting at this show with a 10-year-old in the middle, standing on his chair and yelling all the lyrics. I was devastated that Alice had what looked like short hair — he was going through his new wave phase — but my faith returned when he walked out for the encore (”School’s Out”) with his long hair hanging down, screaming “Thought I cut it, didn’t you fuckers?” I was out late on a school night seeing someone who, to me, literally was a comic book hero. I was on top of the world.

I haven’t stopped going since. Sometimes I even go to shows of bands I don’t love just for the live experience. I learned after being totally destroyed by the chaos of my first Fishbone show (1988) that some bands have to be heard live to be fully understood. Other bands I like never should be seen live (Smashing Pumpkins, Consolidated). I’ll always remember my first punk show (Black Flag, 1986), my favorite concert ever (Butthole Surfers, 1987), my first stage dive (Mighty Mighty Bosstones, 1992) and my first gig at the 9:30 Club (Bad Brains, 1999).

In fact, I’ll probably always remember most of the shows I’ve seen, as they all have a significance. Even crap shows, such as seeing Poison open for Ratt, became memorable experiences (that one thanks to a cup of ice, 6th-row seats and good aim). They all affected me in some way, and I hope to be affected much more.

In the meantime, I’d like to know some of your memorable concert moments. Feel free to leave little descriptions in the comments or, if you have a stub and some time, drop a story off at ticketstubs. I’d love to see that project grow.

Henry Rollins has gray hair and I don’t want to go to work in the morning.

During his show tonight, Henry described seeing the Ramones for the first time in D.C. in 1979 . The place was packed, the band tore the place apart with their intensity, sweat and energy were flowing freely and Henry walked away knowing that his life was changed and while he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his life he knew he wouldn’t “be a banker or an insurance saleman or something like that.”
For me, this defining concert moment was Black Flag in 1986 in Tulsa, Okla. — “The Valentine’s Day Massacre.” It happened at a club that was in existence for about a month and a half. My ticket cost $6. The T-shirt was $8. There was no stage. As obscure SST bands Gone and Painted Willie opened, Henry Rollins sat on the floor near me and just stared ahead, cracking his knuckles. He was my hero, but I wasn’t about to go talk to him because he looked like he wanted to kill people. I didn’t want to get killed at my first real punk show, maybe just roughed up a bit by angry chicks with mohawks. When Black Flag took the stage, things got intense. Henry, wearing only running shorts, pointed at the masking tape that marked the stage boundaries and said “don’t fucking cross the tape.” The band then ripped into “Loose Nut” and the previously sedate crowd turned into one of the greatest pits ever. Bodies flying, music cranking, boots stomping … I was hooked. I was changed.

Throughout the years, he remained my hero. I never really got into drugs mostly because of him and his friend Ian. I dug his poetry while he was in Black Flag and continued to dig the spoken-word stuff after the band disintegrated. I even liked the Rollins Band, even though it just wasn’t the same to me. Most important, I always respected the way he worked and lived. He came up through the real scene and instead of becoming crap to make a name for himself after Black Flag he brought the fans to what he felt like doing … publishing books by himself and people such as Nick Cave and Exene or cranking out righteous music that kicked your ass. And he once dated Lydia Lunch — how cool is that?

Every time I see him do spoken word, he lightens up a little more. His shows have gone from pure-fucking-rage poetry readings to almost comedy standup shows, and it all rules. I know some think he’s a sellout, but I think he’s played by his own rules the entire time and always stands up for things he believes in and I still consider him a hero. Every time I see him speak I get inspired and think back to nights of staying up all night listening to Black Flag and writing.

I thought at first the lights were too bright or angled weird, but I eventually realized tonight that Henry Rollins has gray hair.
He’s got it early at 42, but it’s there and I feel old. He’s still immensely inspired by Life itself and has the same energy and spirit he always had, just with a lightened-up twist. Instead of talking about killing pigs he talks about getting kicked in the balls by little kids. Instead of telling us we’re all cockroaches waiting to be squashed he talks about spooning Bill Stevenson in the tour bus. An amazing 2 1/2 hours that (as usual) made me want to quit my job and try something that inspires me. I’m not in a sellout job or doing something I hate just for the money, but I’m also not living true to my dreams and taking a chance on my creativity or intellect (they’re around here somewhere). There’s nothing more frustrating than knowing you’re not living up to your potential.

So … what to do now? I don’t know. It’s super late and I could stay up all night writing about the different thoughts, feelings and ideas zooming through my cattle-prodded head, but I must get some sleep so I can get through the workday without feeling like the walking dead.

I’d much rather be on the road.