There are very few phrases more reviled, and defended, than "trigger warning."

And without making it a thing (because that's not what this post is about), I see both sides of the argument. Yes, most of us did survive not only years of higher learning but decades of internet-plundering-and-discovery without the need to be "warned" that a piece of reading or information might "trigger" us to recall, or even relive, a past trauma. And trying to predict what those triggers might be is a terribly daunting task; ya never know, in other words, what might set somebody off. But for Jared Leto's sake, what is the harm of warning somebody that material potentially perilous for those who have suffered trauma or even PTSD lies ahead? Sure, we didn't do this in the past, but we also wore wool in the summer and enslaved people in the past*. What is the harm of briefly warning readers that the following material discusses subjects that some might find disturbing on a personal level?

So that's my position - I won't judge anyone for using trigger warnings, and I won't judge if you don't. But again, that's not really what this post is about. It's about my recent experience being "triggered," and what it says about my specific anxiety issues.

I've written about anxiety and panic a few times on OPW, and I'm grateful for the opportunity. It's a tricky subject for me - I love having a semi-public outlet in which to share some of my experiences with panic attacks, but I'm painfully aware "anxiety" is becoming, to many, one of those buzzwords that, like "chronic lyme," "chronic fatigue," and "fibromylagia," causes certain eyes to roll. After all, there's no test for anxiety, and like "chronic lyme," anxiety produces no antibodies; when someone says they have debilitating anxiety, we pretty much have to take them at their word. Lately I'm becoming hyperaware that, while few people doubt anxiety attacks exist, some are starting to think it's one of those too-easy diagnoses people give themselves to explain, or allow, the little breakdowns that come when life is a bit overwhelming. And geez, who among us hasn't been overwhelmed?

(NOTE: I embedded a video from SNL above. But it might not show up on a mobile phone - if not, click here.)

Funny bit, yes? I laughed at a lot of it - even the barely audible sigh of contempt from the narrator as he claims the high-maintenance girl "quote has...anxiety." Yep, I laughed - right through the pit in my stomach. 

I know it happens. I know some people raise their eyebrows at the idea that "anxiety" is really anything more than the feeling they get before a test, or a job interview, or taking a tricky pool shot with $5 on the line. To them, it's a 21st-century excuse, a make-believe affliction. "We all have anxiety sometimes," they say. "Some of us just know how to deal with it."

Or that's what they wanna say, anyway.

Look, I get it. I do. If I didn't know first-hand what it feels like when your fight-or-flight mechanism goes on overload, how it compromises my hearing and balance, how my muscles shake uncontrollably while a very strange kind of fear grips my throat, how my heart rate increases and, more alarming, feels like my heart is pushing against my ribcage, how tears stream down my cheeks like they need to escape my eyes - and how all of that happens while I remain aware (on some level) that I'm actually fine, nothing is wrong, no one is trying to hurt me - maybe I'd suspect sufferers of anxiety are making mountains out of molehills, or wanting the kind of attention that comes with affliction. There have been a few instances (see: above buzzwords) when I've thought specific people were (are), at best, mistaking - perhaps deliberately - their conversion disorder or muscle pain for an invasive disease. 

But, of course, this attitude doesn't help. As a good friend told me recently, "keeping it to yourself because you're afraid of the eye-rolls behind your back is a great path to depression and agoraphobia." So that's partially why you're lucky enough to be reading this post. :) Because I suspect all of the above factors into why I was triggered into a pretty severe bout of anxiety while in the safest place I know from the description of a years-old online video: 

Reporter Discusses How an On-Air Panic Attack Improved His Life

I didn't see the video. Heck, I didn't even see the headline: Jill did, and she thought it was an important video for her to watch. She asked me if I wanted to, and I declined - I figured I might find it upsetting. 

What I didn't realize is I was already upset. And my attack had already started the moment she read those words aloud.

The idea of the guy having a public attack while simply doing his job was my trigger. I only heard a few words from the video - the anchor (not the reporter) was simply introducing the story - when I realized I was in trouble. I told Jill I would put on headphones so I couldn't hear the story. But Jill put her own headphones on instead - for about three seconds, when she looked at me and realized I was on my way. And even though she did everything right, I was in for a remarkably extended attack, complete with an eye-of-the-hurricane break in the middle, which I foolishly interpreted as a welcome ending. It was intense and exhausting enough that we had to cancel our social plans that evening - plans that actually included hanging out with our friend who said the wise words above.

So what did I learn from this? Well, for one, this highlighted something I knew but couldn't really articulate: "triggers" are more than the various words, entities, locations, and situations that tend to get the fight-or-flight instinct churning. They can be ideas, concepts that suggest my issues go beyond my general phobias (which include being stuck in a big, chaotic crowd and getting trapped with a tight shirt halfway over my head) and into darker fears about public humiliation that I can maybe focus on a little harder. Because even though Jill tells me the reporter's panic attack wasn't graphic - he recognized he was in the very early stages when he smiled and simply ended his segment early - the thought of going through something similar, of being exposed while working in front of an audience, is nightmarish in a way I can't really express. (Even writing that sentence churned up the anxiety machine. I had to step away. It's now many hours later.)

So am I suggesting triggers are...good? In a way, yes. They hold secrets. Before that night, I thought my triggers were based in the locations where I had the worst attacks - grocery stores, the Verizon place (something about rows and rows of product), crowds in which I'm adrift. But now I know that there's a certain primal fear that can send my adrenal medulla into interstellar overdrive. And while knowing is decidedly less than half the battle, it's an important step. For me, anyway. 
_ _ _ _ _ _ _

This has been another eposide of Matt's Brain is an Asshole. Stay tuned for many, many more episodes. If you'd like to contribute to my Patreon, hold that thought until I create a Patreon. 

* We haven't actually stopped enslaving people, but that's One Post for another day.

In 2008 (and please correct me if I'm letting nostalgia color things with a warmer palate than deserved), those of us on the left were proud not just because we won after 12 years of conservatism, not just because we proved that when your candidate is brilliant, erudite, and - y'know, cool - he could win an election even if his skin tone was brown, his hair tight and curly, his name dangerously Middle Eastern, and his opponent a beloved, universally admired hero of war (with, granted, conveniently horrific taste in running mates). 

No, we were most proud of Obama's victory because we believed it was a victory for America. For all Americans. Yes, we were too quick to dismiss some of his detractors as unable to see past his skin color and background (while this was true of some, the generalization backfired greatly). But even to them, we said: look, this is the one. This guy is here for you, too. You don't have to worry. He's one of us, and he's going to make you better off too. Everybody chill the fuck out. He's got this.

Nobody is saying this about the new guy. 

Today, it's "better run, Muslims. Get outta town, illegals." And to liberals, those "snowflakes," they have one word:

                                                       Or is that two?

The happy people are at their happiest when they're rubbing it in the faces of the losers. That's right, go cry, losers! You sad, pathetic - when will the right figure out how idiotic they sound when they use "snowflake" as a pejorative? Geez, conservative Twitter has more snowflakes than Fargo. They have 80-gallon drums of "liberal tears" too, and...ah, you know the details. You've seen them. The variations are limited, to say the least.

Shortly after the election, a conservative (but staunchly anti-Trump) friend of mine contacted his liberal friends personally. He told them he knew they were upset, but he didn't want us to worry - he truly believed everything would be all right. Before you get angry at him for not getting past his white male privilege, at least join me in appreciating his intent. He knew we were hurting, and he wanted to help, even if he didn't know how. Even those of us who are LGBTQ, African American, Latinx, disabled, or otherwise in the crosshairs of the new administration appreciated his attempt at being a friend.

Thing is, it didn't last. His patience wore thin. He started lashing out at those who bemoaned the Electoral College, who took to the streets in protest, who refused to ever accept the winner as "my president." He started painting us all in the same strokes as the most radical, hateful "liberal" he could find - if some jerk wrote that he wished the new guy would have a heart attack, we all wished it. That sort of thing. He started taking delight in posting deliberately provocative missives and responding "get over it" (and "get used to it") when we protested. In short, he, like nearly every conservative on social media, enjoyed our loss far more than his victory. 

And so it goes. Snowflakes. Liberal tears.

Granted, some people really do want this particular guy in charge. Sure, some peeled off when the campaign promises that pushed them to vote 'R' vanished like rice paper in a volcano, but many cannot wait for the new rules, whatever they may be. Another faction doesn't want the new guy to succeed, exactly - what they want is to tear the whole thing down (riots, Martial Law, the works), forcing us into a governmental do-over that omits key phrases like "all men are created equal" and the 19th Amendment. Their guy won, too.

Look in the bios of these folks, and you see the same thing. They "drink liberal tears." (Another one.) They can't wait to restore law and order. Watch out, liberals and gays oh wait that's redundant (haw haw!). There aren't many variations on this, so it gets boring quickly - the only game is to see who is willing to use full-on racial, homophobic, misogynist slurs, and who isn't. (They're all willing to use offensive memes.) You lose, losers. All lives matter, but not yours.

The spirit of 2008 is gone. These folks aren't the least bit interested in communicating that the country is better off for everyone, that the new guy has good ideas for all of us, that we'll be okay and everything will be all right. 

Maybe they're just being honest. Maybe they know that while they'll be all right, we certainly will not be. Which means they really did win. And man, did we ever lose. 

Lots of hubbub about Russia "hacking" or "rigging" our elections lately.

But those words aren't quite accurate, are they. Even if the allegations are correct, the Russians didn't alter the results, or install malware on our machines. (If they did, the only sane thing to do is a do-over, a heavily audited one on paper ballots.) It's more accurate to say the Russians "influenced" our voters, by publishing hacked DNC emails and creating false narratives about one of the contenders, among other tactics.

And while it's no trick to temporarily stir up infochaos, it really shouldn't stick. Not against an informed populace, anyway. Fortunately for Russia, they didn't choose an informed populace. They chose us.

If one thing has become clear to me, it's that Americans - on all sides - don't want information. Information is hard. It has no feelings. It holds our hearts up the the mirror and forces us to look, to reassess how we feel. We don't like that.

We want ammunition. We don't care if news is "fake" if it supports our narrative. We don't learn facts to challenge our bias and increase our knowledge base - we learn "factoids" we can trot out to make ourselves appear, and feel, "right." Even when we're wrong.

And we certainly don't mind being shown hard evidence that we were duped. If cognative dissonance doesn't kick in, allowing us to deny the reality we see before us, we'll simply blame our gullibility on the victim, claiming we were only duped because the person being smeared is so bad that the false bit could have been true. Rational people, of course, would wonder what other false narratives have skewed their perceptions. That ain't us - we give ourselves a hug and - to work a terribly overworked word even harder - double-down.

That's the American way. Whether or not it's a by-product of the Age of Internet is beside the point; it's our way of life now. And it has consequences.

Look, it makes sense for people to be angry when a guy cons them. But when they willingly hand him their wallets - and another $20 on top of that - you have to conclude that they want to be conned. They enjoy it.

And it isn't going to stop. 

A wise man once said "be it heaven or hell, the Christmas we get we deserve." Trust this guy - he was so wise he chose to die before his time rather than live one more second in this brave new world. (What a lucky man he was.)

So, panic attacks. I get 'em. They became a part of my life again a year ago, and I can expect one once every six weeks.

A Friday afternoon a few weeks ago, one arrived while I was in the Verizon store, staring at the wall of phone accessories while waiting to pick up my new phone. I was happy walking into the joint, for not only was I about to have a new toy, a glowing hand-held communication & porn machine, I was also about to spend the weekend looking after one of the best dogs in the world. I was in a happy place. But then - to make a long story short - I wasn't. 

We got outta there as soon as we could - i.e., once we got our damn phones - and I was able to mostly recover before our gig that night. (Yep, a gig. My timing sucks.) By Monday, my brain was back to normal (for me). Soon enough, it was time to return to the Verizon store.

And oh, shit.

Just thinking about the Verizon store, picturing that cursed wall of accessories while imagining facing the friendly but Sales-101 people, was giving me another fucking panic attack. And fuck. That. As I tried to calmly let Jill know the thought of returning to the store was getting to me, my voice cracked, everything went blurry, and once again, tension overrode reason.

I did two good things: I went to the store anyway for a successful purchase of phone cases, and soon as I could, I called my therapist. 

I can live with panic attacks. In fact, for a while, they're kind of neat. Sure, they eventually turn terrifying, and they sure are inconvenient. But every six weeks? That's not too bad. My life can accommodate that. 

But. An attack caused by considering returning to the location of the last attack? That there is some bullshit. And I'm not having it. So let's see what the good doctor can do.

Here, in the simplest, shortest way possible, is what said doctor told me:

• Remember when I said panic attacks are kind of neat? (No? Geez, it was only, like, 80 words ago.) Well, what if I was able to think of them as neat while I was having them?
• Panic is tension. By trying to calm down, you are pushing against your panic, and what do you create when you push against something? Tension. You feed the panic by fighting it, even by fighting with "peaceful" tools like meditation and grounding exercises.
• I told my therapist I experience good anxiety and bad anxiety. The good, I explained, is the kind I feed on when I'm about to perform for people; I can turn it into focused energy and let it drive my performance. The bad, of course, is the stuff of attacks - chaotic and unfocused, it makes me feel out of control, sending me into a mess of emotions while making my body shake, sweat, and twitch uncontrollably.
  Doctor: "Matt, good anxiety and bad anxiety are exactly the same. There's only one kind. It's your perception that makes it good or bad."
  Me:  =0

I used to meditate, I found it a great exercise in both relaxation and humility, because as it turns out it's really fucking difficult to just sit and focus on your breathing without thinking. I think it's ultimately about acceptance - accepting who you are, where you are in the moment, what you're feeling, what you're thinking. I was thinking I should really get back to meditating when this happened:

"How about you have a panic attack now?"

Wait, what?

"What if I were to induce a panic attack right now? Then I can show you what I mean about accepting it."

I...uh...

"Actually, no, we're not going to do it now. I can see how much tension the idea is causing you. How about next week?"

If you're thinking "how is this guy going to induce a panic attack? Is there, like a brain button I don't know about?" then you and I were ridin' the same bus (except for that stuff about a "brain button." Where the hell did you get that? That's just silly. Brain button. Come on). But I was game, and willing to bypass my skepticism and work with him as best I could. I made my appointment. And when the day came, I wanted my attack. I doubted it would happen, of course. How could this guy - a guy I trust with my soul, a small, gentle, wonderful man, give me a panic attack?

He didn't He gave me two. 

They weren't complete - they didn't bloom into full-on, out-of-control anxiety - but if he hadn't stepped in to help me stop them, they both would have sent me spiraling into chaos. I'm still reeling from what happened.

The session went like this: I stood behind his desk, staring at his wall of bookshelves, while he stood next to me, blocking my only exit (the desk was against the wall). And while we stood, he asked me to imagine a hundred people in that room, watching us. He used some specifics to ramp up the urgency, and within 10 minutes, maybe 15, I was in the first stages on a full-on anxiety attack - losing touch with visual reality, as though one of my contact lenses was replaced with a tie-dye plastic film. Or...something, the visuals are hard to describe. But my breathing was shallow, my throat was so clenched it was hard to answer his questions, and my neck was on fire.

At that point, when I was on the verge of really crossing over, he asked me to give my body permission to feel what it was feeling. This required saying it, out loud, until I meant it. It really was okay for my neck to be glowing. It was okay for my breathing to puddle-deep, for my legs to feel rubbery, for my brain to be in a cloud. My body was just doing what it had to do, and it's okay. I give it full permission to do these things.

And once I started believing what I was saying, My tension level dropped 15%. A little later, I was taking full breaths, and I could move my legs without effort. 

Neat, huh? But I'm not quite done, and this next part is really important. I'm trying to be concise, because I think this can be really helpful to anyone reading this, and I don't want to risk boring you any further. 

He stepped away, we sat down, we got ourselves together. (His tension had risen too - turns out, he doesn't like to be crowded with imaginary people either.) We talked about what just happened. We chatted, maybe joked, relaxed and reflected. And just when I was almost back to baseline:

"Okay. Let's do it again."

Dude, I - I really, really don't want to.

"I know. But please trust me, you have to do it again. You'll see."

We got in our same place, and he told me about the people, staring, judging. This time, it took only two minutes to get me to the tension level I was before, which is maybe 65%. The sweat started to roll again, and my neck was getting that freshly-slapped feeling I know so well. 

"Okay. Tell your body what you need to tell it."

I took the deepest breath I could. "It is perfectly okay for my neck to feel exposed, for my body to sweat, for my pulse to race. It's okay because once I accept it, my tension will fall."

The tension in my neck spilled onto my cheeks. My heart rate went up.

This wasn't right. 

"I give my heart permission - I give it -  dude, this isn't working. I don't like this please stop, please make it stop please."

"Matt. You just said 'if I accept it, my tension will fall.' That isn't how it works. You're giving it a condition, and panic doesn't accept conditions. You just gave energy to your tension. Don't do that - just accept it. Accept what you're feeling."

I did, to a degree, but I was struggling and really thrown. He let me off the hook, stepped away, and gave me another little grounding exercise to do.

But you see what happened? These attacks don't respond to reason, and they certainly don't respond to if/then logic. I told myself I could make it go away, when I should have just been telling myself to let it happen, to feel my heart race and think "that's okay. In fact, that's good." To feel my neck get red and angry and think "that's okay, neck. You're doing fine. In fact, how cool is it that the body reacts like this." To feel my legs turn to rubber and think "that's okay, legs. You go ahead and get rubbery. People take expensive drugs to feel like this - thank you for letting me feel it all on your own."

So yeah. I'm not remotely there yet. I have to practice, which I'm not looking forward to. But I really need it. My life is too good to have these odd little interruptions scuttle my momentum. That was an incredibly intense hour, and it had an emotional and physical effect on me I'm still feeling, some 32 hours later. But man, what a lesson. So if accepting the anxiety is what I gotta do, I'll be more accepting than an 80s German metal band with a chubby lead singer in K-mart clothes.

       I went a long, long way for that last reference. That's commitment, yo.

Calmly yours,
Matt

First off: this is a ridiculous premise. There's no such thing as a "music problem." 

And yet...I have one. My iTunes music library currently stands at 18483 items - if I listened to one song at a time without sleeping, I'd be entertained for almost 48 days straight before I heard any repeats. I'd also probably be dead, but that's another story. 

               Not that you want proof for something like this, but here it is
               anyway. Note my careful choosing of visible cool band/album
               in my totally "random screenshot." No novice, I.

But my song collection isn't my problem. Even though it's become a cliché to say it (or tiresome, at the very least), my tastes really have always been all over the place. I'm not one of those knew-'em-before-they-were-cool hipsters - while I understand the painful joy of watching the world discover your favorite "secret" indie musician, most of the indies I love remain stubbornly undiscovered. But while I'm not much for genre, my iTunes and iPod (until they invent a phone that can hold 200 gigs o' music, I'm sticking with the Pod - and fuck Spotify in its nasty little o) is loaded with hefty amounts of R&B, country, hip-hop, mellow gold, jazz, folk, and, of course, rock and its many subgenres (metal, punk, oldie, indie, corporatie, progressivie, singer-songwriterie, super-abrasive avant-garde screamo jazz, Tom Waits, and pop). 

So far, so what, right? We're all collectors, and it's only natural for a musician to gather up all the music he/she can get his/her ears on. And it's just as natural to want to organize your spoils a bit, and sometimes organization goes a bit beyond the Apple-offered categories. 

Thus, the Playlist. 

The Playlist is a bit of a bugaboo for all of us who used to practice the Art of the Mixtape, back when a mixtape was a cassette. A Maxell XLII-S 90 was mandatory - pricey, but you don't serve 19-year-old Glenfiddich Bourbon Cask in a Solo Cup. Speaking of art - mixtapes took time, man. They took planning (which usually began in history class). They had themes, they were living, breathing entities. Making a mixtape a commitment, and the execution was pure zen - all encompassing, from concept to actual recording (better get those levels and gaps right - you'll want a couple seconds after "Until the Night"), and ultimately life-affirming and cathartic. And listening to one, whether it was a gift or self-made, was a proud, active experience.

         Come to me, Max. I wish to demonstrate how perfectly "The Card
         Cheat" leads into "Dancing Barefoot" into "All Good Times are Past
         and Gone" into "Swan Song H" into "Black Night White Light" into...

I'll be writing about mixtapes in another entry, probably with the assistance of Jill "xtingu" Knapp, a Mighty Mixtape Maker herself. But I'm really here to talk about playlists. The thing is, they take very little effort - you just slide the song into the folder, and if you change your mind, you x it out. You can take great pains to put the songs in proper order, of course - I certainly do - but I'm not sure why, as even I often give in to that tempting "Shuffle" button. Sure, few gifts give me a bigger smile than a nice, thoughtful Mix CD, but the effort of the creation was always a major part of the charm (of course, we've all received not-really-welcome mixtape gift from admirers, and knowing they put in several hours can ramp up the discomfort exponentially). There's a lot to be said about the digital age of music - while I hate how easy it is to steal music, I love how easy it is to buy, how easy it is to distribute, how it will always sound great - but we lost something when drawers full of cassettes, milk crates full of records, and shelves and shelves full of CDs are replaced by laptops, phones, and spreadsheets.

But still...I fucking love playlists.

And I am fucking addicted to them.

Remember when I bragged about the diversity of my collection? Well, it appears some insane synapse deep in my psyche wants to organize it. So while some of my playlists are practical or straightforward - 80's music¹, Metal, and Instrumentals are all WYSIWYG, as are the ones containing every Billy Joel and Tom Waits song in chronological order - and some  leave more space for personal interpretation (Garage, Acoustic Chill, and Funk n' Motown) - some are...well...let's call them "esoteric." And they almost always start with a single thought about a single song.

Example: my Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall playlists. They began a year ago when I listened to "Man on the Moon," and it occurred to me that acoustic-driven, earthy alt-rock feels like a warm flannel jacket against a crisp autumn breeze and the smell of burning leaves (doesn't it?), and you know what, so does Richard Julian's "Don't Wait Up," and "The Thing About Boats," and I wonder how many other songs in iTunes feel like fall?

So I create the playlist, sort the spreadsheet by "Artist," and start scrolling through, looking for other autumnal tunes. Remember - I've got over 18,000 songs. Even with focus, it takes some time to get from Aaron Nathans & Michael G. Rondstadt to 5th Dimension (sorry, ZZ Top, but iTunes put numbers at the bottom). But I have the attention span of a flea hanging out at a meth lab, which means detours are inevitable. Oh, there's Bill Finley's "Faust," from Phantom of the Paradise - that's fall-like, sure, but it's also piano-based acoustic rock. Do I have a playlist for that? No? Well, let's just make one of those! Okay, back to the top, just in case I missed anyone.

Oh, while I'm doing that, you know what? It's not fair to just have a Fall playlist. Sure, it's my favorite season, but you don't turn down a Snickers just because it's not a Reese's PBC. So let's add Winter, Spring, and Summer, and...yeah, I better start at the top again. But this is tricky: "Thunder Road" is definitely summer, but "Darkness on the Edge of Town?" Is that winter? Does it even have a season? I don't know. But you know what "Darkness" is? Big. It's a big song. Sometimes I wanna hear big songs, you know? So...

You guessed it. Another playlist. Another several hours. Another several detours.

Guys, I can't stop. I've got a problem. I mentioned Acoustic Chill, but there's also Zone and Mellow Gold and Psychedelic Chill, and while there are some overlaps, I need them both. There's E-Dance, which is electronica, and Dance, Sucka, which is loaded with R&B and funk, and Funk n' Motown, which - but no, it's not the same as Dance, Sucka, you see? There's a difference in tone, in attitude. Just as Oldies, loaded with 50s & early 60s rock n' roll, is not to be confused with Nostalgia, fulla songs that marked personal milestones for me. But then why not just put those songs in Matt's Favorites, a 1600-and-counting list for when I want a nice, safe shuffle? Because they aren't the same, that's why. Just like Big and Dinosaurs aren't the same, even though Dinosaurs are big songs too, and...

So yes, It's a problem. A music problem. I do listen to these playlists - I often fall asleep as they play, generally on shuffle, on my trusty little under-the-pillow speaker - but the creation is the monkey on my back.

What bothers me, honestly, is the solipsism of it all. I'm not creating anything new, or deploying my brain to conjure any useful insights that might prepare me for future challenges. I'm just rearranging my spoils. Playing in my own mud.

My own beautiful, beautiful, musical mud.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got pointing, clicking, and dragging to do...

                                  Where are you going? Don't you want to
                                  help? JOIN ME OUR PLAYLIST KINDGOM
                                  SHALL RULE THE WORLD HA HA HA HA
                                  HA HA hey seriously where are you going?

I absolutely love making music with Jill "xtingu" Knapp . Love it will all my heart, liver, spleen, and other vital organs. Love it with all my soul, chakra, aura, and other vaguely mystikal terms that suggest life beyond this one. I even love it like a fat kid love cake. (Sorry about the bankrupcy, Fiddy. Something tells me you're gonna be just fine.)

Jill and I decided to go easy on the live shows this summer, especially once it became clear thatThe Big Reveal, the second full-length album from Hot Breakfast!, wouldn't be ready for a spring release. We decided October felt like a good month to drop an album - gives us of time to finish up without rushing, to get the artwork done, to book some "release parties," to dig into our savings account, to eat some fondue.

But opportunities kept sort of falling into our lap. And we are not ones to ignore the sage advice of the Pet Shop Boys, so we seized those opportunities, which led us to this lil' bullet list of What We've Played This Summer (so far).

• We were a featured artist at Wilmo Wednesdays on May 20th. We were to be in Austin for the entire week, but after a Rube Goldbergian chain of events brought us home a couple days early, we agreed to jump on the bill. Highlights included: getting to see my great friend and brilliant songwriter Brian Turner perform for an audience for the first time in years; meeting Mark Thousands (a wonderful guy and excellent singer/songwriter/guitarist/tattoo canvas); and checking out Anatomy of an Outcast, a ridiculously young & friendly hard rock/punk/soul quartet.
• We performed as a featured artist at McGillens Open Mic in Philly on June 11. We ended up seeing some really, really great acts and winning over a big, relatively young crowd, the majority of whom gleefully sang along with "Mr. Roboto," a song that charted, fell, and re-emerged as a cult classic before most of them had been born.
• We played at Yachtstock River Jam at the Deck at Harbor Pointe, a massive event featuring a bevy** of great artists we know and love, like The Joe Trainor Trio, Danielle and Jennifer, and Kuf Knotz. Tommy Conwell headlined. It was a really well-organized event that had the misfortune to be scheduled for June 27th - a day loaded with vicious thunderstorms and hurricane winds. Nearly half of the bands pulled out, and many who showed packed up and left immediately after their set. But while I didn't play well at all, by the end of our set, the 20 or so folks in the room had gathered around our stage, wondering "who are these wacky dorks singing about drunk guys named Larry and pants?" We also sold some CDs, added a buncha folks to our mailing list, and impressed the event's organizer, a guy who looked a bit like Sam Elliott in Roadhouse (read: a guy you absolutely want on your side during a barfight).
• July 3rd saw us opening for the Dead Milkmen at Crash! Bang! Boom!, the punk clothing store just off South Street that used to be Zipperhead, in an all-acoustic (no mics), invite-only show. That photo* up top, with Jill n' me singin' to a packed house in a hot clothing store? This is the coolest I have ever been. Here's a review from the owner, the lead singer/guitarist of awesome punk/goth/metal band Live Not On Evil. Best of all, our friends Kevin & Julie Regan were able to score invites.
• On July 15, we were asked to substitute for The Sun Flights, a band that sadly had to drop from the Ladybug Festival lineup due to an impending death in the family. So the next day, July 16th, we squoze Janice, my Mini Cooper S, into the last parking spot in all of Wilmington (I love Janice) to perform a half-hour set at Film Bros. on 2nd & Market, and MAN did we have fun. Our set went really well - we had a packed house that kept getting packedier (there was live music and open doors in a three-block area, so people could come and go as they pleased), and we got to spend some time with Joe & Kerry while seeing tons of old friends while catching some terrific sets from Margot McDonald, Sarah Koon, and Rachel Schain and the Comic Book Geeks. We made some friends, got recognized (always a kick), and thoroughly enjoyed the vibe and energy of one of the most beautiful nights of the year. Just seemed like everyone was happy, and every artist knocked it out of the park. We really wish we could have seen more musicians, but it was so great to be a part of it all, especially considering Gable Music Ventures turned us down for Ladybug a couple years ago.
• Say hi to Marshall. He was a guest of Joe, the Dead Milkmen's guitarist/singer (the "Punk Rock Girl" guy), at the DM's Crash! Bang! Boom! show. He's young and good-looking he and Jill chatted n' flirted like old friends much of the night, and then he asked us to perform with his punk band Sherwin in Lancaster for their final show on July 17 before he moved to Japan. So last night, we round-tripped it to a wonderful little punk dive/restaurant called the American Bar and Grill. And Holy crap, did we have a ball. Not only did we get to meet up with our friend Georgie, one of the most awesome people on the planet, but we ate some killer grub (chicken-pesto pizza for me, tenderloin tip salad for Jill) (I know, right? We're in DDD territory here!) and pulled out one of our best, tightest performances to date.
• Now, the ABG is basically two small rooms - one has bar in the center, which boasts an impressive beer/whiskey selection, while the other is a small dining room until 9 or so, when they tear down the tables and set up the PA and turn it into a "stage." The Dead Scouts opened at 9:30, putting the fog machine and stage lighting they provided to nice use. I loved how the beautiful, trippy guitar tones countered the hardcore-inspired vocals (think Fucked Up, a that wonderfully incongruous Canadian post-hardcore outfit). Good band, but so loud it was hard to stay in the room with them - maybe 6 people hung in there for the set. So when we stepped up for our half-hour at 10:15, we could tell the patrons were thinking "the hell are these guys doing here?" Well, we tell thee what, Doubting Levi, we're here to rock your lovingly hand-woven socks off, pal.*** By the end of our 6-song set over half of the crowd from the bar had piled into the stage room to witness the dork-rockitude and sing along with "Total Eclipse of the Heart." It was glorious. More on this in a bit.
• Anyway, then Sherwin - Marshall's band - came on. We had an 80-minute drive ahead of us, and we were already beat from an unexpectedly long Thursday. Before they started, we figured we'd give them a polite 20-minute listen before heading out. But ten minutes after they began, we knew they could have played 'til dawn and we weren't going ANYWHERE. They were seriously that good, mixing old-school punk with hardcore, rock n' roll, a touch of metal, and incredibly intense & honest vocals. Marshall rocked the drums - looking deceptively laid-back but driving every song, but every band member was top-notch, and the songwriting was incredible, merging influences from bands as diverse as Against Me!, The Clash, Minor Threat & Fugazi, Gorilla Biscuits, Bad Brains, even maybe some Black Flag. Best of all, they played the SHIT out of it, with a super-tight rhythm section and some of the best rhythm guitar playing I've ever heard. Bottom line: we love Marhsall, we love Sherwin, and I hope this music will live on somehow while he's 7,000 miles away. 

That brings us to today. 

After reading this over, I realize I've wandered off topic a bit. I was going to talk about how we sometimes have a hard time getting out of the house, either due to health- or social-anxiety, but we're almost happy when we do. We love our people, we really don't see them enough, and gigs are a great way of not only getting out and saying hi, but also connecting and reconnecting.

And that's all true, but instead, I'm gonna bore you with schmoop about Jill. Sorry. But here's the deal:

I love making music with Jill Knapp.

Whether we're performing at a gig, practicing at home or at our buddy Jeff Dement's house for a big Billy Joel Tribute show, recording a new song in the studio, or quietly learning a new song I wrote (one of the most intimate things we do together), I sometimes just realize how this gives me life. As we were halfway through our over-the-top take on "Total Eclipse" at ABG, I glanced at her as she gave it her all, combining theatricality with sincerity with comedy, selling it with her absolutely incredible voice,. and once again, I was overcome with how lucky I am to be this guy, to not only get to share our lives, but to share our music and our musical minds.

My fall is going to be devoted to getting people to listen to our album. We want it in stores, on radio stations, in homes, in everyone's iPod or iPhone or whatever new iDevice we'll all need six years from now. We believe in it. Look, it's only rock and roll - some songs are silly, some deeper, some tossed off in 15-minutes, some agonized over, some loud n' punky, some soft n' groovy. But ultimately it's just music, something most people maybe have on in the background as they drive to work, something to distract us in the gym. And that's cool - that's we need music for all that. But I've come to realize I'm at the peak of my communication skills when we perform as our silly, gimmicky duo. I want people to actually sit and listen, like we did in the old days. Not just because I wrote the music, or because we worked so hard on it. It's because when Jill sings the words, she's singing that indescribable thing that is us. And that's what I have to offer.

As I watch and listen to her sing, I'm filled with...something I can't explain. Love, yes, of course - more love than I ever knew possible. But when I listen to our music, whether live or captured on a buncha 1s & 0s, the combination of our efforts that created those sounds fills me with something that is probably the closest I will ever feel to believing in God.

That's right. "Hole in Your Pants" ain't just dorky. It's divinely dorky.

- Matt
​
* Speaking of, that photo up top was taken by Dean Clean. (Yep - I'm milking this "cool" think for all it's worth.)
​
** Congratulations, as you have witnessed the first and final time I shall deliberately use that word in print. 

*** That's right - three Amish jokes in one sentence. BURN! Or should I say...CHURN?***

****I'll just see myself out.

Here are some questions for you good people:

Do athiests have a "belief?" Or is atheism a lack of belief? Is it a leap of faith to believe there are no gods, or are athiests standing firmly on the ground by disbelieving in all gods?

In a few other words: is athiesm science, religion, philosophy, or a combination thereof? And - this one's for those who consider themselves atheists - does it matter? Is the difference between "I believe there are no gods" and "I disbelieve in all gods" important?

I have an opinion, but I'm much more interested in yours. Besides, who the hell am I to say? I think Ewoks are awesome and Tyler, the Creator is the best thing to happen to music since Smear joined the Foos for good. So maybe I'm not the best one to judge.
​

                                                             Yep. This guy.

So there you have it! Fire away. You're welcome to bring your own belief system into the discussion, but it isn't necessary. Politeness and respect is, though, but y'all knew that already.

Thanks! And if I accidentally earwormed you with George Michael, well...you're welcome. 

We played a 15-minute gig to open up the Homey Award Show on Friday.

Jill was awesome, and I say that with as much objectivity as possible. She nailed it. Me, I was eh. Made only one "mistake," really, and it wasn't major (of course, I nailed it in rehearsal). But I wasn't particularly on - I was a little too self-conscious to really play.

But I've certainly been a lot worse, and on those occasions I never gave it any more thought than "hey, they can't all be your best show" or "sometimes your fingers have minds of their own" and other musician clichés. For those who've never seen us, there's a lot of "act" in our act, which gives us a little cover, making it easier to fake-till-ya-make. So a flub here and there is no big deal, right?

Well, maybe it's because we were in a room of fantastic musicians, or maybe it's because my panic attack last week was the first strike of a deep-seeded, long-planned Revolution of the Brain, but my first thought after taking our bow (to a semi-standing O, no less) and running off stage was, and I quote: "I am a fraud."

Not "I  kind of sucked tonight," or "that was disappointing," but "I am a huge fucking fraud, and everybody knows it."

Not exactly fair, brain. 

                                            You used to be cool, dude.

Look, those aforementioned clichés are true - little flubs happen, and no one cares. I'm experienced (read: old) enough to know that although my guitar acumen is just barely strong enough to justify my presence on a stage, my strength is in performing, in connecting with the crowd, in being Kage to Jill's Jables. But when we tell people "what we lack in talent we make up in cheap theatrics," we're only joking about one of us. I can write, but I lack the performance skillz; cheap theatrics is all I got. 

Before I go further: this post is not a plea for praise and attention. That's not why I'm sharing this, I promise. In fact, I fear such responses, well-meaning and sincere as they are, can sometimes make my problem worse.

So to be on the verge of tears of humiliation after an ultimately successful, borderline triumphant gig - especially considering how few people in the room were even interested in live music - is to know that some neurotransmitter ain't transmittin' right. And to have that "FRAUD" feeling only triple in size and volume after winning the "Best Live Act" award means this might ultimately be a job too powerful for Xanax. 

Speaking of: after we won that trophy, I texted this to Joe Trainor (who was happily sharing our table): "I seriously cannot shake the feeling like I'm a fraud" (apparently whatever synapse zapped my confidence was also responsible for grammar). He walked up next to me and gave me a "what the fuck!?" look, telling me the show was strong (I trust him to be 100% honest about that) and I was being ridiculous. I explained the feeling the best I could, asking him if he'd ever felt that. 

He thought about it for a bit, and said "not really. But I think I'm objective enough to know that I'm a good player and singer, and subjective enough to really like and believe in my songs. So, fraudulent? I've had moments where I felt like I wasn't performing up to my own standards, but I never felt fraudulent. Disappointed? Sometimes. Disillusioned? Definitely."

He's right - he's one of the few musicians/actors/writers I know with an accurate assessment of his own talent, which is a rare but vital skill for those of us in the biz. But I think I'm pretty good at that too, and that's not an entirely comforting feeling right now. 

I dunno. I got over it before the night was over (one Xanax! Two Xanaxes! Ah, ah, ah!) and ended up having a great time. Our performance earned us at least three potential gigs, and I could not be prouder of Hot Breakfast! and all we've accomplished. And even though I'm writing this on maybe three hours of sleep, leaving my filter filled with holes, I'm still having a hard time conjuring up that "fraud" feeling I keep talking about. So maybe it was fleeting, and this, like All Things, must pass. 

But still, I'm gonna keep one eye on my brain for a little while. Just in case it's up to some old (and new) nasty tricks. I'm too happy for this nonsense. 

This is a public service announcement. Or something. What it isn't is your author bragging about some mental disorder. I promise.

I had an anxiety attack today - my first in a couple years. I was grocery shopping and had an overwhelming, all-encompassing, and utterly irrational urge to stock up on paper plates immediately. "If you don't purchase paper plates right now," my brain explained, "everything is gonna fall apart. Lives will be ruined, the time-space continuum will shatter, Limp Bizkit will release another album." This was serious. I was fixated, I was in a loop, and the only prescription was more paper plates. 
​

                                  This guy knows what I'm talkin' about.

I put several packages of paper plates in my cart and strolled over to the tea aisle, figuring that was the end of that. But while searching for Red Zinger, I realized I my pulse was racing and my breathing shallow - I was as tense as an unarmed Ted Nugent on a Disney Animal Kingdom safari ride. Now Red Zinger can be tough to find, but it's hardly worth that much stress. That's when it hit me. "Holy cow," I thought, as I'm apparently a character in 50 Shades of Gray. "I'm having a freakin' anxiety attack. Where the hell did that come from?"

At first, the I found the dichotomy hilarious - after at least 18 episode-free months, here I am panicking in the Safeway! I texted Jill "xtingu" Knapp to let her know what was going on, but she didn't have her phone handy, so she didn't get the message (if she had, she would have immediately walked to the supermarket and driven me home over my objections, because she's Jill). So I stuck to my task of buying up our snow n' ice storm supplies, even as the supermarket started to take on a nightmarish (but still amusing) funhouse-type atmosphere. "I'm buying butter during an anxiety attack," I thought. "I'm buying Fruit Loops, honey, Peppermint Patties, Bugles, and James Dean Pancake Batter-Wrapped sausages while I'm having an anxiety attack. This is kind of punk rock."*

But soon, it was more GG Allin than The Ramones. Consternation replaced my good humor. The tension in my spine, my quickening pulse, my utterly distracted mind, and my rising apprehension made shopping - and especially being around people - more and more impossible. This wasn't funny anymore. I finally stashed my cart in the corner where no one goes (where they store things like raisins, Lunchables, and balut**) and ran out to my car, where I listened to 50s doo-wop for 30 minutes or so and breathed deeply, desperately trying to bring my epinephrine levels down.

Okay, this post is gonna get even duller if I stay on this "and then I..." path. Suffice to say, the Diamonds and the Five Satins calmed me enough to get back in the store and finish shopping (ice cream > panic), check out (thank Cthulhu for those self-scan checkout stations!), and drive home. I unloaded the groceries, hung up my new sports jacket***, and said hi to Jill, who took one look at me and said "To the bed. Right now."​

            She still hadn't seen my text, but this is pretty much what Jill saw.

A dose of Xanax later, I thought I was doing on the mend. I was still physically tense - it was a struggle to get myself out of the fetal position - but my mind was calmer and perspective was returning. I was having rational conversations (for me, anyway) and joking about the whole paper-plates-as-mashed-potatoes-in-Close Encounters fiasco. Plus, a couple hours had passed, so I smiled and sat up - 

- and then came the waterworks. Uncontrollable shaking and crying. 

Bottom line: four hours passed between that first text to Jill and the last of my tears. A short time after that I was perfectly fine (as fine as I get, anyway), ready to conquer great viewings of YouTube and maybe scratch out another verse in a new song probably I'll never finish. But four hours is my longest attack yet - they used to be 90 minutes, tops. 

I don't care for morals (clearly), but if there is a moral, it's this: these things happen, and it's not shameful or necessarily tied to unhappiness. Something misfires in the brain and next thing you know you're stashing your cart and running out to your car in the rain. Granted, these attacks first started when I was unhappy, when my life was a mess and getting messier and my attempts to find happiness were becoming increasingly damaging - they were outlets for emotions I refused to deal with. And when I finally did start dealing with them and tried to get my life back on track (with many stumbles and mistakes, of course), the attacks grew less frequent. And now? I'm deleriously happy. I'm not sublimating, I'm not swallowing, and while not everything is perfect, I'm living a wonderful life, and I'm madly, deeply, hopelessly in love with someone who brings me more joy than I ever thought possible. Sure, I have problems and issues, mostly (but not all) health-related, but the good far outweighs the bad. Shouldn't these episodes be in the past?

Nope. That's not how it works. Today, there it was: a tough little anxiety attack waiting to absolutely blindside me with a poke to my brain.

I swear I'm not trying to aggrandize myself as a courageous figure who must carry a monumental burden. Not even close. My worst attacks are quite mild compared to what many people experience - for them, panic feels like massive, paralyzing, terrifying heart attacks. In my case, it's a more of a glitch, a little misfire, a mini-zap to the brain that finds me no matter what my state of mind. It's no one's fault, and according to many informal surveys, it doesn't make me deep and interesting. ("Hey, am I deep and interesting because I -" "No." "Can I even finish the question?" "No.") But it sure can add a little excitement to a mundane day. 

If this has ever happened to you, please, please tell doctor. When these episodes began, I hid them for months before finally, reluctantly, shamefully admitting to my doctor's PA that I was too weak to face these attacks down and probably needed therapy and pharmaceutical help. She said something wonderful: "Stop beating yourself up. People get sad, they get overwhelmed. You're a human being with emotions, and it isn't a weakness to feel emotions. It's a strength." I do my best to remember that when I need to. Life is beautiful, but sometimes it's a lot harder than it should be, and if a tiny dose of Alprazolam and a good cry can help you through the rocky moments, make it so. And let yourself marvel at what a piece of work is the brain and the body.

By the way, if anyone can use a few paper plates, we've got enough to cater a Duggers' family reunion. (Which I will never, never do, because fuck those guys. I hope they never get to experience anxiety attacks.)

* QUIT JUDGING OUR SHOPPING LIST. It's...for the homeless, okay?

** If you're having a fine day, do not Google "balut." All will be lost. 

*** What, your supermarket doesn't have a Men's Clothiers section? Right next to Haberdashery and Shepstery? Weird.

For a light entry before this Flexeril really kicks in and I fall into blissful slumber, I was going to post the five greatest double-takes in film history.

Unfortunately, even though I could have sworn I had a bunch of 'em in mind, right now I can only think of four, and two of 'em barely count as true double-takes. So I'm gonna edit my premise a bit and say these are the Greatest Moments of Sudden Realization in Movie History (or, as I like to call 'em, "Oh Shit" Moments). Every movie, play, and show should have at least one moment where somebody Suddenly Realizes Something and Nothing Is The Same.

Anyway, here's what I got for now. I'll talk around the spoilers, but still...spoilers. (But they're old spoilers, because I'm old.) And except for one or two entries, my list avoids mysteries and movies about people detecting things. But I'd love to make this sucker ongoing, so if you make with the comments, I'll make with the editin'. 

1. Tootsie
The Moment: Charles Durning realizes who's sitting next to him at the bar.

This here's my favorite double-take in film history, because it's so unusual - it's a slow-burn, rather than a quick, bug-eyed take. And it's masterfully done by an incredible actor. I could watch this on a loop.

2. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
The Moment: "You're Welcome."

Jack's face: priceless. 

3. Almost Famous
The Moment: He's HOW old??

Rock star Russell is on the phone with William's mother, thinking he can charm his way into calming her down. William's mother reveals William's age. Russell's reaction is great - his eyes are filled with surprise, and you can see the wheels turning as he processes the information. And best of all, once he hangs up the phone, we realize Russell has decided he doesn't really care how old William is - it's a non-issue. (Maybe that makes his girlfriend's age a non-issue as well? Let's hope so.)

Not that you asked, but Almost Famous is my favorite movie of the 2000s. 

4. Real Genius
The Moment: "Think about it."

The look on Val's ketchup-smeared face as Uncle Rico tells him what he's done gives me chills. Sure, Val built something that will be used for evil, but there's another layer: he suddenly realizes he was so caught up in innovation he didn't even consider the possible application of his creation. That the movie doesn't spell that second part out for you is a testament to its own genius. Oppenheimer probably went through the same thing. 

5. Usual Suspects
The Moment: Hey! That was my favorite mug, dude!

So over-the-top. So great anyway. 

6. The Godfather, Part 2
The Moment: "Johnny Ola told me about this place"

All Michael does is move his eyes. It's enough.

7. Diggstown
The Moment: <adjusts tie>

It's tough to be conned by a Big Reveal these days. We know all the tricks and the clues. We've seen The Sting. But Diggstown - a brutal, smart, shameless, wonderful little movie that deserved a much bigger audience than it found - succeeds in conning us, and it is beautiful. And it works because it plays fair. We shoulda seen it coming. We didn't. 

8. The Crying Game
The Moment: Oh, stop. You know what moment I'm talkin' bout.

Might not be fair to include this one - Stephen Rea doesn't exactly figure out the twist so much as have it shoved in his face (literally). But Rea does wonderful work here. On our first viewing, we're probably a little too stunned to notice (I accidentally learned the reveal before seeing the movie, so I can't say for sure, but I'm pretty sure I would have been fooled), but imagine everything Rea's character is going through at that moment, and note how well Rea conveys it all by downplaying. 

9. Jackie Brown
The Moment: Ordell figures it out

I'm cheating, because there's no reveal, and the realization isn't sudden. But I'm including it because Tarantino shows us something we never see in a movie: a character taking a moment to think. Ordell, framed so we less than half his face, turns his head and closes his eyes for 20 seconds before coming up with his answer. Ordell's tendency to think he's smarter than he actually is gets played for laughs in most of the movie; here, it turns out he's just smart enough. (Skip to 2:50 to see the moment.)

10. Primal Fear
The Moment: Heeeeeey. Wait a minute.

This one barely made my list. The twist is nifty, but the moment of revelation deserves a bigger impact than the movie provides. The problem is Norton's giveaway line. It's a little too giveaway - the audience processes the twist before the bulb goes off over Richard Gere's head, and that's all wrong. But the style is just so shameless - there's a close-up of Gere literally stopping in his tracks - that we allow it to work anyway. How can we be mad at a movie so eager to please us a great "oh shit" moment? 

So that's what I got. But I know I'm forgetting some great ones. Whadda YOU got, Wonders?