The Wake

Dear Diary,

I had reached a point where nothing did it for me anymore. It seemed all I could do was hole myself up in my room and ponder the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience, and regard my existence as inexplicable in this antagonistically indifferent universe. I didn’t even enjoy crying into my vinyl collection anymore. Self-deprecation? Hah—could it be any more passé? I had even forgotten how to hate my parents!

No offense, Diary, but often times, when I felt these weathered pages couldn’t contain all my inner anguish, when I felt as though the aforementioned antagonistically indifferent universe would crush me into oblivion, I created an iPod playlist of expressionist piano music and went for long walks with hopes of clearing these troubled thoughts.

Even that, however, was proving futile. I felt directionless. Perhaps, I decided, I was looking up to the wrong people. I had admired Morrissey since Hot Topic started manufacturing those deck Smiths t-shirts, but when I found out he was a celibate vegan who practically melted from sunlight, I realized I was only further smothering myself with negativity.

So the other night I tagged along with brother Chuck to his tech job at Xcel Energy Center. Chuck’s alright. He’s 32 and still lives with our parents, but he seems to have life more figured out than I do, because he has a job and everything. So naturally I trusted his judgment when he told me I could use an evening away from pondering the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience and regarding my existence as inexplicable in this antagonistically indifferent universe. Word, Chuck.

As it turns out, this musician named Kid Rock was playing a concert there on that same evening. I’ve been meaning to check out some of his older lo-fi underground experimental basement tapes that people have buzzed about, but I was really heavily into other bands at the time and everything, so I never got around to it. Regardless, his music blew me away, especially the selections from his genius record Kid Rock, which I think Pitchfork might have given an 8.4. I personally found it to be so emotionally naked. Like the brutally powerful tearjerker “Rock n’ Roll Pain Train,” where he laments that even American badasses get lonely? Or how about that poignant ballad, “Cadillac Pussy?” That shit cuts deep, Diary. Deep.

I could tell by the audience’s dry humping and middle finger flashing that all were equally moved. This was definitely a mindless fad near-religious way of thinking that I could really get into. By the end of the evening, things were really looking up. I met and exchanged numbers with this really sweet girl named Flossy who had just gotten tested for chlamydia and totally didn’t have it! How perfect is that? Also, I got an exclusive invitation from this guy named Scott Stapp to go play chess and discuss Nietzsche with him and Kid Rock and some of their really friendly female roadies in Kid Rock’s trailer. Apparently some of it might even be filmed for…I think they said a PBS documentary? Radical!

Well, that’s all I have for now, Diary. It’s always nice to know other people have been just as perturbed with their own mortality, but are choosing to elevate from it in really healthy, positive ways!

Bawitdaba,

Peter