The Jake of All Trades

The Day That Shouldn’t Have Come

I heard the new Metallica song on the radio this Friday. The DJ then asked for us to call in with our thoughts, all the while saying how they were “trying to get back to the old Metallica” and various other phrases that lead you to believe this is going to be the one.

You know which ‘one’ I am talking about. The ‘one’ that you have been waiting for since the last note of the black album. The song that shows that Metallica is still awsome.

Well, this song isn’t it.

I listened to it. It starts off strong musically… and then he starts to sing. And seriously, he sounds like Weird Al Yankovic. Only that isn’t fair to Weird Al, because if he was singing it, he’d do a better job.

Then the song continues. Forever it would seem. The begining which sounded like a good build up, never actually builds up, it is the song. Where is the metal, METALlica?? Where is my crunch? my double bass? Near the end you get a hint, a taste, like someone had a beer in your glass before you poured water in it, but you know that isn’t going to do anything but make you want a real one.

So then it happens. The callers start up. The first one sounds like he is younger than my shoes and proceeds to tell us how much this song ‘rocked’. OK fine. The DJ agrees. Next caller, same. Next. Next. The “I’ve been listening to Metallica for 20 years” caller, rocks.

Then the DJ says it. The DJ says it sounds like this song came right off of “In Justice For All.” I am speechless. No, that is a lie, I am cussing up a storm. I grab my phone and proceed, for the first time in YEARS to call a radio station.

This song does NOT sound like it came from “In Justice For All.” That album was art. “Ride The Lightning” practically defined a genre. THIS song was not made by that band. If the Metallica of that era walked on stage while Metallica played “The Day That Never Comes” they would have beaten them off the stage for disgracing their name. The only thing I can think of is that Metallica was replaced by alien doppleganger squirrels. Nothing else makes sense.

I can’t get through to the DJ, which is probably a good thing. Calling him a moron on the air would have probably resulted in my getting a sound byte and mocked incessantly.
Look, the song isn’t awful, but it is not good either. It isn’t Creed, or Limp Bizkit. It just isn’t old-school Metallica either. It is their right to change, to sound however they want. And it is my right to pretend they broke up after Enter Sandman.

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“What do you want to do when you grow up?”

The question was asked to all of us at one point. Where is your direction in life? Where are you going? What is it you want to spend the rest of your life doing?

The rest of my life.

That is a bit of time for one thing, one task, one GOAL. Seems too much for any one thing to take, a burden even Atlas would cringe at.

So perhaps instead of what do I want to do, it should be what do I want to do for now? Now I seem to be doing well as an engineer, part time writer. If I had a say, it would be the other way. Writing every day and consulting as an engineer. One of these days, no?

That being said, I was a web programmer once upon a time. Something I still dabble in, still mingle at parties with. I’d go back there too if it was something interesting. Database programming for corporate websites would not be my ideal.

So what do I want to be when I grow up? Well, since I don’t have plans to grow up, I suppose I have time to figure it out.

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June found me in the desert. It found me in the car. June drove, occasionally, but only when I didn’t want to go that way in the first place.

June found the floor of my house after ripping up the carpet to install laminate. It did not, however, stick around to finish the job.

June brought a new motorcycle in my garage that I don’t own, but had to fix. It found my motorcycle in parts and ignored it.

June read a kick as Sci-Fi novel one morning at the pub, pint in one hand.

June called twice, and left messages, but I never called back.

June was a wedding outside with five friends who have never needed tuxes to stand by each other. It was hot, but we were prepared. There was dancing and laughter and re-arranging furniture.

June found ice on Mars.

June never found time for a blog post, which is why this is in July. Or at least, that sounds good.

June taught me capoeira angola, watching as I did cartwheels, ginga-ed, and laughed until my body was sore in new and creative places.

June reminded me I am still young.

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Phillis Levin is my Muse.

Many poets have issued that title on a woman. “She is my muse.” This woman they talk of is beautiful, elegant, they are no doubt in love with her, and equate inspiration to write poetry, happy or sad, about her, to ‘Muse’.

Phillis Levin is my Muse, in the purest sense.

When I starting down this path of creativity, of writing, poetry, of using word as art (ART?) it was a journey that started in the dark (yes, I mean high school). Writings were scribblings in the corners of notebooks, they were mimics of Latin poets, and ‘experimental’ things, which later turned out to be not that ‘experimental’. But this is a part of the poet’s journey, as it is a part of any journey. This part is the beginning.

Then came college, and writing courses, and this strange, but new idea of reading other poets. This idea is a strange one to understand why it is a NEW THING.

A book, Afterimage, was handed to me, by a Ms Phillis Levin.

I read the book twice that night. Three more times in the week that followed. Some where in there I found inspiration.

It was not that I wanted to write like her, or I wanted to follow her journey. Instead what she gave me was the light in the darkness, the direction to start my own journey. I wanted to be that good, and for the first time realized that a bit of work, of tears and cramped hands, that there was more to be done with myself, than simply writing what I had been.

This was her inspiration to me, to start my journey, to take my writing seriously, to turn it into a declaration: “I write.” She is my muse in the purest sense, for I saw her as art, as poetry, as the personification of this undefinable thing I had set off to find.

Her new book is out (alas, the older ones are harder to find, but if you can get them, please do). It is called “May Day” and worth every inch of your bookshelf it will take, of every moment of your life you will read it, of every word that is on the inside leaving the page and haunting you in those moments before you sleep.

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My days have been full since last weekend, tests, work, all this real life. Last weekend I took off from all of that and went to a convention.

It was a new hotel for March, and they were not ready for us. They say by August they will have enough people, support, back-up support and even moral support, but we will see.

On Friday night there was Rocky Horror Picture Show by the Satanic Mechanics, a group I am familiar with. The show was great. Afterwards found myself and a new bunch of friends and argued, talked and drank about movies, books and of course, Godzilla.

I had a reading on Saturday at 3:00. I read two stories, Island in my Head and “Untitled” which I wrote that morning. I went to most of the readings. The reading rooms were great, but they were so far from the main part (aka, the dealer room and bar) that not many people even knew they were there. We will need signs for August, and whiskey.

Sunday Scares that Care did an auction for some collectibles. It was good stuff and for a good purpose. I wandered home, tired and ready to do battle once again with the real world.

Which is much more scary than anything I found at Horrorfind.

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