Watsky and Dumbfoundead and no, please, what is real, how do I validate that?

I guess with batman and then Watsky, I'm making a habit of thinking when I should just get lost in the action. When trading a rare and fleeting high for a week of introspection, I rarely think twice. At the concert in Eugene I didn't have to compromise though. I think I may have the sound guy to thank for that, because if I had been able to hear all the lyrics I probably never would have gotten out of my head. And that was a time to leave the head, because that was some sweet fucking energy. My clearest memory is definitely the moment when the crowd first really roared and he just stood there, and it was like he grew two inches in every direction and you could see that first shout in every smile of the night. Incredible.

The music was more than I expected. My brother and I were going to go to Watsky, because he's really into it and I'm really into hanging out with my brother. But he booked it off to Montana the day of the concert. Not to mention that we had totally forgotten about it. I texted him later to make sure he was proud of me.

The morning before the concert I rode 70 km on my bike. My biggest ride of the summer so far. I'd barely ridden, barely exercised at all in months. I had mono, Gunther was stolen, I went to Madrid for 2 months, I was sick, my foot was infected... Now in the final week of antibiotics I'm getting out and feeling damn good. Took yesterday off to go to the beach. But I'll be back on my new (well, new from craigslist) Cannondale Road Warrior 1000 today, once I'm done writing. And done setting up another opportunity to work for free. Who doesn't want to learn about grant writing?

I digress. After my ride, I prepared to lounge as hard as anyone has lounged in the history of the world. Not even enough spunk left to read a book, goddamn I went straight to facebook. Ahhh vicarious living. But lo! It was a weekend, as one who doesn't work is prone to forget. That means the 9 to 4:45ers are pumped for adventure. But my legs don't want to move. Let's go to Portland! To the coast! To Eugene!

But why would I ever leave this chair?

Then I thought to myself, my friends enthusiasm for adventure cannot be quashed by my own fatigue. This sort of passion should be encouraged. Like a girl at the bar who's found someone with whom simple conversation flows easily, but would rather have awkward pauses punctuated by deep personal revelations (I wonder if there are actually other people like this...) I scanned the pub of life for a sexier alternative to my current black leather cuddle buddy. By black leather cuddle buddy I'm still talking about the chair, I promise. 

Concerts are pretty much my go-to in situations like this. I checked the usual Portland venues and gave a big spiritual fuck you to all of the awesome things you had to be over 21 to see. Soon I will go to those shows and I WILL NOT BUY YOUR OVERPRICED DRINKS. But hey, Eugene may have a much higher jank coefficient than it's other valley cities, but WOW Hall has always been a happy place for me. March Fourth, Portugal. The Man, good times indeed. Thank god it was Camille asking for an adventure, because no one else would have wanted to go to a rap show.

I called a friend who is always up for random shit, and we were a trifecta of weird. Barbequed dinner and I had fulfilled my daughterly obligations. I don't have any pictures, but we wore ironic t-shirts (I would love to steal 'Free Weezy' from Camille because that shirt just felt right) and I threw on the punk vest for good measure. We were going to call Quin and tell him to dress inappropriately hipster, but we figured it would happen anyways. We were right. I hope I'm the first person at a rap show who wore silk hair ribbons and a red airplane earring. There's nothing like the first time, or so I hear.

My CD collection is MIA since I removed it before Madrid, and I am pretty much OVER falsetto after listening to In The Mountain In The Cloud for the last two weeks. American Ghetto is better anyways. Camille kindly burned us Watsky's last release and what she called "Inapropro Rap" but was more accurately "The Worst of KDUK." We listened to both of them. Drove. Parked. Quin offered to smoke us out but I was gonna be driving soon and Camille was afraid of cops. Not to mention the fact that weed doesn't do anything for me unless I'm drunk. Or it's an edible. In short, we arrived. It's a crucial intermediate step.

In, crowd, Jellysicle played and I sang along to the weird looks I got. The opening act would have been fine accept that he said YOLO once. Not easily forgivable. Also, he did that thing where rappers wear oversized clothes and gradually strip during their set. It was not super graceful, and the way he did it was a little bit contrived. I've seen it done well once. Nothing like the first time. I would stop quoting that, but it's so appropriate all the time. Except for where love and sex are concerned because really it only gets better. And the silly thing I think that's mostly what it's meant to refer to. So... intermittently good aphorism choice, Wastky?

Dumbfoundead is a good rapper. Fancy rhymsies, cool beatskies. But there was something about his presence on stage that really struck me. Vaguely metrosexual attire, effortlessly worn. No fiddling and arranging, like that sort of thing often incurs. A misplaced elegance about him. He drank from a dixie cup like it was crystal. If swag could ever be used effectively, I would use it to describe him. Himself and distinctly no one else. And hardly a hint of facade, the way he giggled at the kid in the front. So comfortable that he couldn't have been real. Like a cocktail of oxycodone and cocaine. It was striking. I still don't know what it was, but it hit me. I wonder if I will ever feel how he presented himself. I wonder if he felt as he presented himself. 

That line of thought goes on to infinity. The music was really fun, especially the cellphone song. I didn't quite get the hang of putting your hand up and down until later in Watsky's set, but it seemed to make them happy so I did it too as my contribution to the performer's enthusiasm. 

Then came that moment when Watsky came on stage and absorbed all of the wild/raw that the crowd could yell at him. It smoothed the transition from this presence to a kid who's gimmick is that he doesn't really know who/what/where/why/how yet. Not gimmick in a bad way, really. Gimmick in an 'I didn't buy a big fat thesaurus and it's almost the right word' kind of way.

So what did I overthink, apart from DFD's aura? I thought about what makes a good story. About what I consider weakness, and how that should change. I thought about being a good person, and how I've watched that slip down the ladder of my priorities because I've decided that it comes naturally. I thought about passion for your work. I don't think I'll ever physics as hard as Watsky rhymes, and I won't want it as badly as he does. I've forgotten what passion really means because I settle for less. I dip a little bit into everything and I come out with a full coat of paint but it peels and warps and I start all over again with a new color scheme over the pigments that barely diffused into my skin. 

Feels good to get all of that out. Feels good to write smooth and without embarrassment again. Without motive AGENDA. I should have waited for the right word when I wrote gimmick, instead of just picking up what surfaced. I kinda like it now though, too late. I hope the gimmick you read is the gimmick I wrote.
Check this out, if you're where I'm at.