Eric Idle, "The Greedy Bastard Diary"
This book is a series of entries written by Idle while he was on tour for the Greedy Bastard tour at the end of 2003, written originally as a blog for the official Monty Python Web site. I went to his performance in Cupertino, though he mistakenly states he was in San Jose in this book.
The ex-girlfriend and I were just becoming an item at the time. In fact, I don't think we were officially yet a couple. I scored us free tickets with some of the best seats in the house for free by volunteering to pass out handbills. I wrote to Idle's agent, explaining that even though I was a huge unabashed Monty Python fan, I had never bought anything new — the films, books, albums, videos of the television series, and later, the DVD set, had all come from used stores. I wasn't, I explained, about to start giving them money now.
I got the job.
The non-payment trend still continues, as I was given this uncorrected galley by a co-worker. I got to read it before it was released.
But actually, I had already read a major portion of this, as I read most of Idle's blog while I was gearing up for our show. So when the book came out I was confused. Why would people pay for something that was available free on the Internet? Why would you make an online journal a pulpy coffee table book that costs $23.95? And why the hell shouldn't I do the same thing?
---
The punk rock show marathon is now over. On Sunday night, for the NoMeansNo show that I was already excited about, I discovered that Victim's Family, my other favorite band, was opening. When I first got the tickets, they weren't on the bill. Before I was excited — now I was ecstatic.
Victim's Family needs a little explanation, as they are woefully under-appreciated. I think I was about 21 when I was introduced to them. A friend brought me one of their albums, telling me to give them a listen. A week later, I saw him again and handed the album back.
"This," I said, "has to be one of the worst bands I have ever heard in my life."
"Listen to it again," he said. "In fact, listen to it four or five times."
I did. A week later, he returned.
"This," I said, "is the best fucking band ever."
It's hard to explain the appeal. Imagine Primus, if they were actually a punk band. Three guys who were amazing musicians, and who refused to do the standard verse/chorus/verse/guitar solo/chorus ensemble. Imagine Ralph, the singer/guitar player who could actually sing, but prefers to screech like he was auditioning for the role of Beef for Phantom of the Paradise 2 - Electric Boogaloo.
Ah, hell. Just listen to this.
I suggest listening to either "Fridge" or "Worthy Adversary."
Now listen to it four or five times.
Still don't like it? I'm not surprised, really. I'm one of the only people in this town who appreciate them. People still give me shit when I wear their shirts.
So I'm at the show on Sunday, just off to the side of the stage so I don't get hit in my broken clavicle, and the bass is so loud and heavy that I can feel my broken bones shake. Hopefully, they're now settling in the right position.
And I'm loving every minute of it.
Speaking of which...
This is my clavicle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. Without me, my clavicle is useless. Without my clavicle, I am useless.
---
Even with the punk rock tour extravaganza, I've had a lot of hours passed doing nothing but hurting and thinking during my healing time. It can't be helped, as there isn't much else I can do. I can't hold a book in one arm, and my house doesn't really have anything suitable to prop both a book and myself up with. I can't play video games. The shitty DVD player I own doesn't have a remote, and thus if the disc has a fancy opening menu I can't play it properly. So I lay in bed, propped up with a dozen pillows and blankets. The position on my bed gives me a lot of time to stare at my bookshelves.
And I can see that the book waiting next for review is another reminder of the ex-girlfriend.
Hurting and healing.
Of course, it's always like that after a breakup, isn't it? Everything serves as some kind of token to what once was. I think it's akin to talking with a psychic — they make a vague reference, and you jump to close the gap as to how it might pertain to you. This is why popular songs always follow what I call "The Big Three." Every song fits into three categories.
- "Boy I really love him/her."
- "Boy, I really miss him/her."
- "I'm really cool."
The last category is admittedly fairly all-inclusive, because it can mean anything from "I can dance," to "I got a styling lifestyle," to "I can fuck," to "I can shoot you in the face," depending on what genre you listen to. It's the first two categories that are interesting, because they fit the psychic friend analogy. Everybody has felt these two emotions. That's why these popular artists follow the formula. These are easy subjects for your fan base to make the leap to connect with their own lives. They relate.
Sometimes this is an easy jump to make, but most often there is a sense of ambiguity where the listener has to edit selectively. "Well, neither of us are from Alabama, but she was sweet, and I am home right now. Man, I love that song! It's so true!"
Ok. Bad example. Sorry, I don't listen to popular music. Songs about love and loss are a rarity in punk, or at least my kind of punk.
---
So I'm typing up the stuff about Victim's Family on Sunday night, and I have my CD player going. I've worked enough crappy jobs where customer-friendly radio blares away with songs filled with the big three that I can tune it out automatically. The music is playing as white noise so I don't have to hear my bones grinding together as I type.
But I'm still not paying attention to the music, as I'm wondering how to approach the Eric Idle/ex-girlfriend connection. Five days had just passed without hearing word one from her, despite both our insistences that we want to remain close and good friends.
There have been a lot of gaps like this in our communication lately. Eventually, it feels that it's less likely that she's busy, as she insists is the case when I bring it up, and more like what she did when I first broke up with her — pulling away because the truth about the situation is too uncomfortable to talk about until I get frustrated and do something stupid. It's a cheap and easy way out of an uncomfortable situation. She admitted as much that she did this with me before. While she admits it was a shitty way to handle things, I don't really have any proof that she's changed her ways.
And like I said, that's what it's felt like lately.
Hurting and healing.
Yes, I realize that I may be over-analyzing or seeing something that isn't really there. But the fact that this comes up says something, right? There are issues that are unresolved. Issues that I need to resolve. I decide I'll meet with her on Monday after work to discuss these issues.
Instead, she calls me.
I had invited her about two weeks ago to go with me to one of the NoMeansNo shows. I didn't specify which one. The fact that one had already passed without mention from her, I thought, meant that she wasn't really going to go. But I asked if she wanted still wanted to go to the last leg of the punk rock extravaganza.
She did.
While listeners of popular radio need to make that leap I was talking about, I'm getting smacked in the face with it. The show is in Berkeley, at a tiny bar that just happens to be the same place that we went to our first show together. To make even more eerie connections, when we went to that first show we went to see the Hanson Brothers. Now we're here to see NoMeansNo.
This needs explaining for the non-punk. For you see, NoMeansNo and the Hanson Brothers are the same band members, just playing different songs.
The Hanson Brothers, whom we saw at the beginning of our relationship, play happy music. NoMeansNo, the band we just got back from seeing, can not be described as a happy band.
The show ends and we go back to the car. Like the first time we went to this place, we've conned somebody else into driving my car. As we leave the bar, I ask her if she wants to make out in the back seat on the way home. After all, that's what we did the first time.
I sat in the passenger side of the front seat.
We talked for a bit when we got back to my place. I can't say anything was really resolved. All I know is that I'm tired of feeling as bad as I have.
Two hours later, I'm still punching keystrokes on my computer trying to puzzle things out for myself. I haven't really gotten anywhere. I have white noise on the stereo again. The 300 CD changer plays album after album, and I'm not listening to any of them.
Ralph from Victim's Family has a new band called The Freak Accident and that CD starts up — appropriate, and yet another one of those moments of weird timing as they played with NoMeansNo tonight. Out of nowhere, Ralph's lyrics snap me out of my typing haze. I start the track over and listen. And then I play it again. Then I pull out the lyric sheet, making sure I heard what I thought I did.
- Well, I really, really think that it's a shame and a sin
But I won't apologize for the shape that I'm in
I can't seem to shake this funny feeling inside
And I'm sorry if I scare you or I injure your pride
I can't figure out where it all went wrong
But it doesn't really matter, because we don't belong together
My friend
I hate to see it end
But bye bye.
Well, I could try harder, but I'm just too tired
And I wish that I could say that I was still inspired
But something happened somehow way back down the line
And it would be just great if I could fake it's all fine
But we can't go on thinking that it's going to get better
And in enough time, you'll see it won't really matter at all
My friend
I hate to see it end
But bye bye.
Well, I wish I could explain myself a little bit more
So you wouldn't have to worry about evening the score
Or to make me feel worse to make yourself feel better
I don't see any reason we should be upset
We'll just go our separate ways, and I'll wish you peace
If you don't really care, it should be a relief. But of course
It's true
It hurts like hell to say this to you...
Bye bye.
Wow. No ambiguity there. Thanks, Ralph.
