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Things That Will Not Last

Me.

Everyone I know or have ever met.

Everything on the planet.

The solar system.

The sun, and the Earth, because when the sun dies, it will obliterate the Earth.
But the matter that makes up the Earth and everything on it won’t go away because
it can’t be destroyed. It will last as matter. But it won’t last as it currently exists.
Like this notebook won’t exist
and the pen writing these words won’t exist.
Words themselves won’t exist.
And one day, everything that I’ve ever written won’t exist. Because even if it’s all
backed up on a server somewhere, that server will be destroyed along with everything
else on Earth. Unless there’s a backup server somewhere in another solar system
with all my shit on it and there’s someone there to read it.

But even then, when that solar system’s star dies, that’ll be destroyed, too, so there
would need to be another backup server in another, preferably younger solar system that has
a longer amount of time before their star dies, or maybe they’ve invented the technology
to prevent their star from dying, but I don’t know.
That sounds like the definition of hubris, besides
there are probably a million ways for a server to get destroyed or critically malfunction
if things go badly enough.

So maybe it doesn’t matter how many servers my writing is backed up on,
or even all writing that’s ever been written, or all art that’s ever been made,
or music that’s ever been played, all record of human existence and non-human existence
is destined to exist in memory only
and then not at all.

Because all things cease to be.

And stars die.

But in my dreams, I think maybe… a million years from now,
at the end of the chain of countless servers, maybe there will be
the equivalent of a person in a solar system where they figure out
how to keep stars from dying going up to another equivalent of a person
in the equivalent of a coffee shop or a bar, and they say to them,

“Hey. Have you heard of this poet?”

Today Was a Good Day

Today I had one of those Izze sodas, the strawberry flavor.
You ever have one of those? Man, they’re fucking good!
Oh, also, O.J. Simpson died.
Solid day.

Some Theories about Time (Whatever the Fuck That Is)

Steve Miller wrote,
“Time keeps on slippin’
slippin’
slippin’
into the future.”
Even though I feel like time is an utter mystery to me, that line has always rung true to me.

If I know one thing about time, it’s just that — it’s always slipping away, right through our temporal fingers. The beginning of every exciting thing is paled by sadness because I know it’s one step closer to the end of that thing.

What made me realize in my late twenties that I had Inattentive ADHD (f.k.a. ADD) was my bosses kept saying to me, “Nick, you really seem to struggle with time management.”
And I thought, “Fair… but how can I manage something I’ve never been able to see or feel?”

If I had one superpower, I’d just want the ability to see time. Not control it. Not manipulate it. Just be able to see it and be able to see how it works. Isn’t that something we all want, deep down? We’re taught from an early age that it’s wrong to stare at the clock, yet the personal clock you carry on your wrist is called a “watch.” Time dictates the majority of our actions. Time is how we measure our reality, what we use to reference one event against the next.

My favorite line from Rust Cohle’s character in True Detective is when he says that “time is a flat circle.” I always thought it was a cool idea. It never made sense to me until recently, but now I think I get it. We think of the past as being behind us and the future stretching so far ahead of us, we can’t see it. Any increment of time is a flat circle. But all of time is a spiral, circling over itself
again,
and again,
and again,
never eating its tail but passing over it
endlessly,
and endlessly,
and endlessly
upwards.

And that is how things come back around while still moving forward.

So if you’re reading this blog, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for spending some of that almighty demon magic known as time reading my words. I’ll try to make it worth it.

The Time I Saw Billy Bob Thornton’s Dad Band (live)

“Hey, Alex wants to know if we want free tickets to go see Billy Bob Thornton’s band on Friday,” my wife said to me one night last summer, her thumbs poised over her phone.
“Billy Bob Thornton has a band?” I asked, incredulously.
“Apparently. What should I say?”
“Tell her, ‘sure’.”
What the hell, I thought. In the years since COVID, we hadn’t really been out much. I’d also been wanting to check out Cervantes, the venue where our neighbor-friend Alex bartended. And — at the very least — they were free tickets and we’d get to see Billy Bob Thornton in person. Who turns down the opportunity to see an Oscar winner in the flesh?

Of course I had no idea Billy Bob Thornton had a band. Did you?

At first, I was a little surprised, but that quickly wore off. Lots of actors dabble in rock music. Johnny Depp, Zooey Deschanel, Jeremy Renner, Juliette Lewis, and Jeff Bridges are just a few examples. It probably helps if your first name starts with “J,” I guess. But I was surprised to learn later after skimming Thornton’s IMDB page that he was a musician even before he was in movies.

The name of his band did strike me as odd, though —

The Boxmasters.

What in God’s name is a “boxmaster”? I wondered. If your mind is as much in the gutter as mine and you figure what that word might be slang for, you’re actually right on the money. This seemed to square with all the sleazy, bad-boy characters I watched Thornton play when I was growing up, from Bad Santa to Bad News Bears. I know actors aren’t the same people as their roles, but it’s hard not to associate them as such when you don’t know them in any capacity outside of that. So that’s how I saw Billy Bob Thornton — some guy who crushed six packs while working on old cars, cussed fluently, and was way tougher, cooler, and more badass than I could ever dream to be. That illusion was about to be shattered.

We got to the show a little after doors. Alex was bartending that night, so we got our drinks from her and hung out for a little bit and talked. The show itself was in Cervantes Other Side. This was a smaller venue located off to the side of Cervantes’ main room. I liked the venue itself — I’m a sucker for small room shows, especially when they’re a little divey. They remind me of the venues I went to growing up.

The opener for The Boxmasters was a local band out of Boulder called Mountain Rose, a solid rock band with a country-bluesish sound and a lead singer with a killer voice (if you have the chance to look them up, please do). Alright, not a bad start, I thought. But the anticipation kept building toward the moment we’d see just what kind of musical chops Mr. Thornton and his fellow masters of the box actually had.

At one point, I saw an older, skinny, tall man way up by the stage who bore a passing resemblance to Billy Bob. I pointed him out to my wife.
“Oh holy shit, there’s Billy Bob Thornton!”
“That’s not him.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s him!”
“No, it isn’t.”
I annoyed her with this for a good five minutes while taking copious hits off my vape pen. The thing is, I don’t usually get intoxicated for shows or concerts — especially if it’s one of my favorite acts. I don’t like anything getting between me and the music, man. But if it’s a free show for a band I don’t particularly care about, all bets are off. I ended up being very thankful I brought my pen along.

Finally, the moment arrived and The Boxmasters took the stage. The crowd cheered, and we joined in. Though we were mostly cheering for Thornton. I got that momentary “wow” feeling any time I get when I see a celebrity in real life. Billy Bob said his little intro, not trying to disguise his Arkansas accent at all. The crowd cheered more, and The Boxmasters started their set. One thing that struck me right away was that there were no other “famous” band members. None as recognizably famous as Thornton, anyway. His star status definitely outshone his bandmates. Maybe that was ok since he’s the lead singer, but I got the impression immediately that this wasn’t helping any of the other musicians stand out.

I’ll say this — they weren’t bad. Their first few songs were actually pretty decent and got the crowd going. As far as basic musician stuff goes (staying in tune, keeping time, staying together, etc.) they were fine. Nothing that blew the doors off, but then I wasn’t really expecting that. I also wasn’t expecting Thornton to have some mind-blowing, virtuoso singing voice, and he certainly didn’t. Thornton yells more than he sings, but not as well as, say, a Brian Johnson or Lemmy Kilmister might. Apparently, he doesn’t have a virtuoso yelling voice, either.

The Boxmasters’ particular brand of rock is a sort of throwback, by-the-numbers, safe, early-1960s rock. I don’t really know how to describe it. Picture something you’d hear in a diner or on a family made-for-TV road trip movie and you’re pretty much there. I don’t know who the market is for this kind of music, but there must be one somewhere. As the set went on, their music just sounded more and more mediocre. Each band member seemed very self-assured of just how cool he was (oh yeah, if I didn’t mention it before, the whole band was comprised of dudes) and not in a way that seemed self-referential or ironic in any way. At no point did they make fun of themselves, though they had every right to. I became increasingly aware of a bad taste in my mouth, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Then, my wife turned to me and said:
“They’re just like a bunch of middle-aged dads who get together in their garage to play in their little rock band.”

Ho. Ly. Shit.

That was exactly it — The Boxmasters were nothing more than Dad Rock. I can’t even say “glorified Dad Rock,” because there was nothing glorified about them. They weren’t even the kind of Dad Rock you could begrudgingly find a little cool. I felt a twinge of dismay as this sank in. Suddenly Billy Bob Thornton was no longer the cool badass I’d assumed he was since adolescence. He wasn’t the guy crushing six packs while working on cars; he was that guy’s nerdy, annoying neighbor.

Then, just as quickly, with the aid of the vape pen, I found this very amusing. After all, it’s not like Thornton was my idol or anything. Just some celebrity who I assumed was cool. Actually, I probably do that for most celebrities. Realizing he was just another Boomer trying to remember the halcyon days of his youth was pretty damn funny to me, and it definitely humanized him a little.

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