Relief? Belief!

Kicking my own ass.

Circa 1977 Self-potrait

NOTE: This is a rewrite of a piece that originally ran in my OTHER newsletter, See You Next Tue!

Among the many qualities longed for but never fully possessed by me (above) is consistency (not even the foolish variety, that supposed hobgoblin of small minds). Sure, routines descend out of necessity. During my last on-the-clock job (Talk Show Host, SiriusXM) 6 AM would find me waking; by 7:15 I was on the ferry to Manhattan, at my desk 20–30 minutes later. Thursdays and Fridays I’d voice-track my Outlaw County show between 9:00 and 10:00 AM. 10:30ish I’d head for the studio and at 11:03 sharp we’d go on the air. Our show ran until 2:00 PM and post-show–if no meetings or other work–I’d head home directly, arriving around 3:00 PM. I did that for years with little variation because someone paid me handsomely to do so.

Now, my time is all mine and–absent financial motivation (like a freelance gig)–I no longer rise at a set hour (though the ravenous Marty and Baby Billy usually meow us awake by 7:30 AM). My week has no scheduled commitments (a blessing and a curse) beyond the two newsletters I produce. I’ve been remarkably disciplined about those (a source of pride, even if their combined subscriber base couldn’t fill the backroom at Hoboken’s late, lamented Maxwell’s) and when I gave one or the other up for short stretches I felt entirely at sea. But my life was once full of places to be and people to see, whether involving a band, a job or some volunteer organization. Most have fallen away and, left to my own devices, instituting a regular practice beyond the newsletters eludes.

For instance, I keep telling myself I’d like to block out daily time for playing the guitar and learning songs. The day begins and ends and the guitars remain in their cases. I want to institute play sessions with the cats, to keep them from being utterly bored and turning on each other (and because some of my more joyful moments involve Marty and Baby Billy). Yesterday, I had them chasing a damn laser pointer for ten minutes and it was the most playtime I could muster for weeks (Bad Cat Dad!). It’d be good for my health to institute a fitness routine, maybe sign up for that Planet Fatness 50 yards from my house: it hasn’t happened. But Exhibit A of my failure to buckle down is the book I’m supposedly writing.

I’ve talked about NIHILISTIC a decade now. Ten fucking years. How much have I gotten done? I could probably cobble together a fourth of a book by adapting and fleshing out writing already done. That leaves 75% unwritten. And this is something so important to me I’ve referred to the book as “My third act.” So what’s at the bottom of my inability to engage a regular practice beyond two tiny-audience newsletters? Does it surprise you to learn I’ve done some thinking about this? Here’s what I’ve worked out:

Foremost is the endless household to-do list (titled FIX), crammed with practical considerations that easily chew up all daylight hours. Beyond the regular everyday shit on my NOW list–vacuuming, laundry, meal prep, dealing with pets–there are a million homeowner fires to continuously extinguish. To wit:

• New sweep for front door

• Reglaze broken storm window

• New weatherstripping on all storm windows

• Cut Plexiglas for basement storm window 

• Paint Bilco doors

• Paint basement door

• Paint back door

• Find a fence contractor

• Find a bathroom remodeling contractor

• Spackle/paint holes in office wall

These are the more urgent items (winter coming on, etc.). The LATER list includes “stretch goals,” like:

• Run ethernet cable to upstairs from router

• Hook the home phones back up

• Remove superfluous cabling on exterior

• Empty garage shelving

• Empty bedroom shelving

• Purge file cabinet

• List shit to sell

• Clean wood floors

• Delete drop ceilings

• Repaint rooms

• Clean & paint garage

“But Chris...” you say, “...others are just as, if not MORE busy than you. Aren’t these just excuses?”

Hey, man, fuck you!

Sorry. You’re not wrong. There are people with jobs, kids, homes, who still manage to carve out time for creative and other pursuits. This is where it gets thornier. The other reason I seem unable to get out of my own way and get anything significant accomplished? Sweet T. and I were watching the Emmys and Richard Gadd of Baby Reindeer fame got up to accept one of his multiple awards. He spoke about how his parents never told him who he should be or what he should do but instead to follow his heart and do what made him happy. He wasn’t the only one. Awards shows are minefields for me because there’s always one or more recipients who gush about the parents ...who told me I could be ANYTHING and do ANYTHING and not to let ANYTHING or ANYONE tell me I couldn’t or try to stop me! It’s hard to describe the exact feeling that washes over me at such moments but “Turbocharged Disappointment” comes close. Fuck, I just turned 62 and I’m still dealing with the lack of foundation built me by my mom and dad, who encouraged exactly none of my talents and seemingly thought me incapable of being anything but a fuck up (if you want to see the results of someone being left to their own devices, you’re looking at it). Any award acceptance speech of mine would include the sentence “Everything I’ve achieved in life is despite my parents, not because of them.” 

Back in June, while mourning Jeremy Tepper at his memorial, I told the story of how his belief in me convinced me to leave a rock solid job at NPR for the unknowns of satellite radio, where our new talk show might be cancelled in a matter of months. It was a scary leap of faith only made possible because Jeremy said You got this. This is what you’re supposed to be doing. Come on. We’ll have fun! Telling this story again has me weepy thinking of how often I longed for my mother or father to say something similar. 

You got this. We believe in you. You can do it.

The thought of either of my parents intoning any variation of the above boggles the mind. For whatever reason, they took little to no interest in me or what I was good at or wanted to do with my life. Imagine the guitarist I might be today if I heard Would you like to take guitar lessons? instead of STOP PLAYING THAT DAMN SONG... YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE! Imagine if instead of I’M TOO TIRED TO MAKE IT TO YOUR PLAY! I heard What time should we be there? We’d love to see you on stage!? Imagine Can I read any of these things you’re writing? instead of WHO TOLD YOU YOU COULD USE MY TYPEWRITER? YOU’RE GOING THROUGH ALL THE DAMN RIBBONS! Or instead of PUT DOWN THAT DAMN TAPE RECORDER BEFORE I BREAK IT! it was Play me some of these radio shows you’ve done...

Instead. Instead. Instead. Instead.

Instead, I was forced to be a self-starter. So I picked up the guitar in junior high because I needed something to set me apart, something to fall in love with, something transformative that allowed me to be anyone but my hated self. I joined the Drama Department in Lindenhurst High (Go Bulldogs!) for the same reasons. I sat down at my mom’s Royal (and, later, her IBM Selectric) typewriter every night because I needed something mechanical to get out all the dark thoughts, the pain, the sorrow, the hurt. And it worked. Somehow, all these strands–the guitar playing, the acting, the writing–combined and led to a cover band (Cobra) then a punk rock/hardcore band (Nihilistics), then my radio career (The Nightmare Lounge, Aerial View, Freewheeling). Now, all else has fallen away but the writing. It still percolates in the background in the form of my journal, where long monologues for Aerial View once gestated and various pieces that ended up on NPR and in various published compendiums began. But despite earning a few dollars from my writing, true belief in myself as “Chris T., Writer” never quite manifested. Somehow, this lack has impacted my ability to self-start. The whole “I’ll show you!” attitude that’s carried me most of my years has dissipated. Maybe it isn’t as easy as “I blame my parents.” Maybe that isn’t fair, considering how fucked over they were by THEIR parents. Maybe the fear I’m not up to it is what utterly derails me.

And just last week a friend was telling me she shared my newsletter with family and friends and they all can’t wait to read my book.

Fuck, I’m letting you all down.

Maybe I need another Jeremy Tepper to say You got this. This is what you’re meant to be doing. Come on, we’ll have fun! But there was only one Tepper and none of my professional writer friends has quite the same motivational ability.

At this stalled juncture I’m willing to try anything to jump start NIHILISTIC. My latest idea is this: Full Lindenhurst Immersion. If I thought it possible to rent the upstairs of “The Barn”–the 2-story storage shed my dad built behind our house–I’d do it (maybe there’s even a bathroom in it by now?). More likely I rent a reasonably-priced AirBnB somewhere near the main drag–Wellwood Avenue–and spend a week journeying into the past to tell my story. At night, I’ll find a local bar full of Lindy lifers and embed myself to soak it all in.

Yes, it sounds a bit extreme but it’s also what a self-starter would do, right?

GO BULLDOGS!