TRAPPED IN THE CLOSET FULL MOVIE VIMEO CRACK

The picture’s far too big to look at, kidīy the swirling stream of what is and what was…

“That’s cool.” A rhodes, an organ…a slightly out of tune walk-down acoustic lick. And the opening track starts – The Big Picture – and it’s some tape deck crackle, some back seat shuffling, a car door shutting, a conversation about directions to a party.

TRAPPED IN THE CLOSET FULL MOVIE VIMEO CRACK

Got on the road at the crack of afternoon and he put the CD in and I was confused by the choose-your-own title but I was so entrenched in Steely Dan and Stevie Wonder and Steely Dan at that point in my life that I didn’t have the option to think it pretentious. My brother put on Lifted or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground (their masterpiece, my lonely favorite) as we started our first leg of a California to Vermont cross-country trip in his Ford Explorer. That a-million-miles-from-withstanding, shut your hollow two-dollar PBR leg-mouth, you under-informed twit. * In my Bible-paper thin defense, I had seen them earlier that Spring at the Greek on the Cassadaga (my Ouija favorite) tour in Berkeley and Jim James opened solo and Gillian Welch and David Rawlings were on the bill and everyone played together and I think my Mans was pretty creamed and he was having a fucking great time and it was probably one of the top three favorite shows I’ve ever been to and then at the Town Hall show he seemed a little tight like he wasn’t having a great time but who the fuck am I? (no one) - one show was an outside stomper and the other an intimate seven night run in a historic theater. I crapped on my own Cheerios: I denigrated my Spiritual Snowplow. And with the release of the new Bright Eyes record Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was (their finest work yet – my new favorite), I feel like it’s time to come, well, if not clean, at least loamy maggot-sack of shame in hand and say: I’m sorry. But my monthly shame-grapple with this despicable blunder from my young, stupid mouth is becoming bi-(monthly) the older I get because he’s given me everything, for better or worse, and it’s stop, drop and roll, always, every time, death and taxes the former. I wish I were pouring it on for the hyperbolic cheap seats. But in that same sack, around that same year, on that same island, I did what I cried about today, running through the woods, across the river and up a hill in my hometown in my 37th year: in 2007 I yelled at Conor Oberst to “Get Drunk!” at a Bright Eyes show at the Town Hall.

Unable to decompose, this moment is in there with overreacting (another conservative, spineless description) to my dog getting in the trash for the third night in a row throwing a rotten tomato at Jay Rozman when I was who-cares-how-old I’m too bummed out to do the math in third grade calling my good friend Henry Slauson a redneck because little Napoleonic Adam Mace said it was so telling a friend from my past, through grinding jaw at 3am in a Manhattan club, that if she needed to sow her oats before she got married…well, I’m nauseous.

The sack of people you didn’t want to be. It’s in that acrid sack of regrets high up on the shelf of life’s miserable closet. But I was a fool and an asshole for me and I did something so fucking stupid, so meat-and-liquor headed that I think about it once a month – and that number is probably conservative. And I’m not saying this from a holier tower - these days I just try to go to bed before my mind-driver punches the clock’s lights out. However, at that age what I did hang my hat on was pushing the envelope of trivial idiocy (see: getting drunker than one should ever be). Not full-blown, but an asshole in the scope of me, which isn’t bad in the scope of dudes, but that’s nothing to hang your hat on.

Trapped in the closet full movie vimeo