So in quick succession, I was broken up with by someone I thought the world of and -as stupid as it sounds in the context of polyamory- thought was “the one”, and injured my back at work. I have been hurt, confused, rejected, feeling like I have nothing left, in pain half the time, downing painkillers like they’re fucking Tic-Tacs (partially for the back injury, mostly because goddamn shit’s easier to deal with when you’re high), suicidal, less suicidal, and am now on some sort of even keel where -even though I’m depressed as balls and everything sucks- at least I can face the cuntarsed fucking day and at least tell it to fuck off. Suffice to say, it’s been a hell of a few weeks.

But this isn’t what I’m going to talk about. I already talked about how much breakups suck, how dating after a breakup is a miserable fucking affair, and how when you think it’s all better again, someone fucking swoops in and fucks with that. I hate repeating myself, so I won’t.

I turned 32 a couple of months ago. Which is scary enough.

I turned 32 a couple of months ago and I am starting a punk band as the beginnings of what will inevitably turn into a midlife crisis. Now that shit is scary.

I have never been in the music scene. I have been rostered on the door at The Newsagency, I have filmed live gigs, and I’ve seen more than I have filmed. But I have never been a “muso”. I never was a “muso”, I was just some dumb kid who happened to have a guitar. The first band I guess I was in, “Rare Breed”, didn’t even last a jam, which was barely a jam because the bass player was grounded and couldn’t make it, so it was just me and the drummer. This was year 8 in high school.

This was year 8 in high school.

Many, many years later, I am older, wiser and fatter, my hair is thinning to the point where my options are “shave it off” or “be blissfully ignorant”, and I’m that 14 year old kid again, wanting to start a band with his mates.

This shit terrifies me. I mean, at least now I have a few years of serious practice and sorta-self-tuition under my belt so I now know more than the intro to Nirvana’s “Come as You Are”, but seriously. I’m 32. I have no business playing in what essentially is my first band. Doubly so because my last creative pursuit ended up crashing and burning about two years ago and I’m still pretty bitter about the whole thing. I should be behind a desk, working for “the man”, not fucking around pretending I’m Fat Mike (much like, as of a few years ago, I was pretending I was Kevin Smith)

Thankfully(or unfortunately, depending on your opinion of shitty punk bands), I lost all dignity ages ago and I was never one to kowtow to the idea of the wife, the kids, the white picket fence, the day job, the mortgage. I never had my shit together, why start now? Besides, I’ll probably be dead by my hand or by cancer at 45. So Carpe Diem? Carpe Punk Rock?

I guess my advantage here vs when I was doing film is I don’t need to make it my job. I have a job. it pays well. the band is a glorified hobby that I hope to fuck works out and I could live off of being a creative. I don’t have that stress of “where am I going to afford shit this week?”. I can afford shit this week, and the next, and the week after that. I don’t need to network, and schmooze and make nice with people I hate just in the ever-so-slight chance I might be hired back again. I don’t have to be a responsible, adult, business owner, I just have to write a song based around three chords and play it, and if I play it badly, it’s fucking Punk rock, it’s more endearing if it sucks.

But it still scares me. The thought of embarking on some new bullshit journey in my life scares me, the fear of fucking it all up scares me. The fact that -short of some pretty fucking amazing people and a supportive girlfriend- it’s pretty much all I have left scares me.

But if Internet Explorer can fortify enough to ask to be my default browser, I can probably fortify enough to write good music, to be played by bad, drunk musicians.

Carpe Diem, Carpe Punk Rock.


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