STEPH DEROSA: I’M IN A FUNK >>>
As I relax inside the blue walls of Renaissance Café’s private restroom, I find myself staring hypnotically at the retro posters hanging all around me. It’s that psychedelic curvy-style writing that seemed to take over any and all posters developed in the 1960s. I’m sure I sound like a complete idiot, as there is most likely a name for this trippy writing style — but you know what? I’m just too damn tired these days to even Google the small shit anymore. Renaissance’s fairy and concert posters alike send me into a daydream trance that spins me into an imaginary world of pink ponies, glittery unicorns and singing leprechauns.
Just kidding.
I feel old. That’s all I can think at this moment. Any “daydream trances” I’m having these days are of laundry, errands, groceries, what I’m making for dinner, how I haven’t made it into the gym in a long while, the high price of gas, what the fuck I’m going to be doing this weekend to entertain my mind, and if I’m going to have to find a babysitter in order to do it. Most times I feel invincible, full of energy, and full of positive light. But lately I feel simply full of battery acid.
Yesterday I stopped by The Red Hot so I could hand over some very valuable Weekly Volcano goods to owner Chris Trashcan’s parents. I mentioned how I felt old and run down. They laughed in my face. Literally, I could smell their breath as they profusely bellowed out gaping chords of laughter thrown my way. Kevin the beer guy (I think his name’s Kevin) rolled his eyes and continued to chow on his lunchtime hot dog. I had spent the last two nights drinking — but not “drunk.” I had stayed up late, but not past midnight. I had been with friends, but not “partying.” Why the hell did I feel like I had been on a weekend-long binger? What the eff is wrong with me?
I’m feeling my body get older, that’s what’s wrong with me.
Right now all I feel like doing is hijacking a plane to Hawaii, stocking up on Oxycodone, and sleeping a week or two away while being fanned by a beautifully tattooed local who goes by the name of “Kekipi.” But I can’t. Gas prices, remember?
It’s summer in the Pacific Northwest — one of the most beautiful times of year in the most beautiful part of the United States. Yet here I am bitching and moaning, sticking myself in a tired rut. Am I the only one? C’mon, someone has to be with me on this. I know you’re out there. What do you do to overcome it? Acupuncture? Massage? Vacation? Soduku?
In the meantime I’ll be reviewing the Trax from the 253 submissions and hoping some bad-ass local music will snap me out of it. Maybe I’ll stock an ice cream cart and give away free ice cream this week. Maybe I’ll rip off all my clothes and streak down Pacific Ave. Something silly needs to happen, something different. I’m open to any ideas.
Let’s chat about it here.
