My Literal Therapy
by Alex Tallitsch on August 31st, 2008 • One Comment »
August 30th, 2008
… Guter. Yes, I spelled it correctly too, simply Guter. I never knew why he chose to misspell the name, but trust me it was fitting. Guter was in his late twenties and the second disc jockey at the establishment. He was a scruffy overweight little fellow and perhaps the nicest guy you might never meet.
Guter had grown up the hard way.
In fact, I don’t think he ever really had a decent chance from the get-go. He came from a dysfunctional household, had moved more times than two hands can count, and grew up in the lap of poverty in assorted rural towns across the state. He was an extremely intelligent guy, but never had taken one minute of time to try and apply it.
He lived in a world of depression, deep seeded hurt, and absolute pessimism. He was a product of his environment and had given up hopes of success long before he ever left high school. He tended to dull these feelings with a mixture of hard liquor and whatever other mind altering substance he could get his hands on. Guter was pierced to the nines, and lived in world of hardcore partying and the heaviest metal known to man.
Being the DJ at the bar was everything to Guter. He had worked there since the bars inception about three years previously and his entire world revolved around this one tiny establishment. The people there were his only friends, the bar was his only source of socialization, and carrying the identity of disc jockey gave Guter a tiny slice of pride he so desperately sought. To Guter, it was the equivalent of being the CEO at Microsoft.
Unfortunately for Guter, he was perhaps the laziest, most unmotivated and equally unfunded individual I have ever met. He was always dead broke, he hated to work, and preferred to spend his time as heavily intoxicated as possible. He hung around most of the day, lucky to have a pack of smokes and a Mountain Dew if the previous night’s tips had been kind.
What was strange is that he really wasn’t your traditional slack off. He was so intelligent and so friendly that people usually helped him out without question. Plus, one thing you could always say about Guter, is that when he did have some of whatever it was, it was yours as well. He would be the first to share whatever he had, if ever he had it.
He was extremely engaging, and Guter and I became quite close quite quickly. I would often find myself going out my way to root for Guter in hopes that someday, somehow, the world would give him a break.
But, like I said, Guter really didn’t care about anything.
He was given every opportunity to pave his own way. He would attempt to do odd jobs around the bar, but often either waffled on the projects or did them incompletely, drawing the spite of the large Purple Rain singing owner who spent countless hours yelling at the top of his lungs at Guter in utter frustration. The two would get so angry; the owner at Guter’s stupidity and Guter at the owner’s need to belittle and harass at every turn. I in turn, always got a bird’s eye view of the show.
Want to know the funniest thing of all?
They were pretty much best friends.
It is amazing the dynamic that goes around in tight knit barrooms. This relationship was no different. Here were two men that were completely defined by their environment. The bar was their home, their livelihood, and their only hope. Without it, they were just average. With it, they were someone and they needed each other.
I would often come to the bar during the day to do this or that, and these two men would be sitting around, talking, while coming off whatever substance abuse took place the night before. Those morning conversations, on the rare occasions that everyone was clear headed, were perhaps the most entertaining and memorable moments I have had. I would often find myself doubled up in laughter as the two friends would go at it with each other, each trying to outdo the other one as I took a front row seat to the follies.
I seriously have tears in my eyes right now thinking about it. For as many reasons as I didn’t fit in, there were twice as many reasons that I did. This group was fiercely loyal to their own, and those at the bar fell into that category. I was now part of the kin and everything that went with it. This dirty DJ and anger challenged owner would become the backbone of my second family. I would spend hours immersed in their lives, and take part in plenty morning conversations to come.
These morning sit-downs, deluded as they were, would also often function as an informal planning session for the establishment as well.
It was during one of these unofficial sessions where a young blond girl came in and suggested the most outrageous thing I had ever heard of.
Within minutes, Guter and I developed a plan for a spectacle that the average Joe will never get the privilege of seeing. It was exclusive, it was brilliant, and it was dirty.
We made our phone calls, chuckled with delight, and prepared for a mind blowing Saturday night of …
Blog, Boring Stories
by Alex Tallitsch on August 21st, 2008 • 3 Comments »
August 21st, 2008
Part Two
… came one of the largest most intimidating men I would ever meet. He was clad in jeans and a leather vest with a patch that loudly proclaimed him a member of the gang. He had to be at least 6’4” and pushing 300 pounds on a light day. In his mid to late thirties he had a scruffy beard and arms that were bigger than most people’s legs. I had been watching him all evening sit at the bar and consume massive amounts of hard liquor. I also knew that he was the owner of the establishment, who up to this point had not said a single word to me.
I had previously been informed by the other disc jockey, that certain patrons might want to participate in what I consider being the devil of all that is lame, karaoke. The bar had about a thousand karaoke discs, and I had been given a list of numbers and tracks that were favorites of workers and regular bar patrons to use as quick references until I was more familiar with the surroundings. The steady dose of metal had pumped the crowd into frenzy at this point, and the liquor induced violent side of many a customer has started to rise to the surface. I could feel the anger in the air, and now a monstrous biker, my boss, was headed straight for me.
He made it up to the booth, and proceeded to completely disregard my personal ring of space. He towered over me, and the stench of Captain Morgan and the deodorant of gasoline was overpowering. Staring me right in the eyes he says, “You got my song?” I looked down at my cheat sheet and noticed that there was indeed a disc and song number for the owner, and confidently informed him I was on top of things.
He looks at me again and says, “Good you better f’ing be, I want the echo turned up all the way on my mic too.”
By this time, the Judas Priest song was about two thirds through and I scrambled to grab his song request and get it cued in time, while navigating an unfamiliar board for the echo controls. It was a grab and go moment, but I got the disc, got it in the machine, and got my levels adjusted just as Judas was ending their last riff. My boss was on stage, dwarfing the mic stand, looking about as angry as one could see a man. I made a brief introduction, and finally took a breath as I hit play on the karaoke machine.
I sat back for a moment to grab a drink from my soda, when all of a sudden I hear the soothing guitar strokes of…
… Prince’s Purple Rain.
I completely froze. No way had I just pushed to button on Prince’s Purple rain, in a hardcore biker bar, for my obviously inebriated boss and gang leader. My first thought was to locate my backpack and make the quickest exit possible. By the time reality hit me, we were at about the eighth bar of song. I scrambled to get to the machine and right as I was reaching to hit the stop button, I hear, in perhaps the most amazing voice I have ever born witness to, “I never meant 2 cause u any sorrow. I never meant to cause you any pain.”
The entire bar proceeded to go dead silent, as this three hundred pound ogre delivered one of the most beautiful renditions of Purple Rain a man will ever hear.
It was absolutely breathtaking.
During the middle of the song, one of the gang members came up to me and mentioned that this man had turned down a professional singing career in Nashville many years ago. I had no doubts he was telling the truth. Not because of what I was hearing, but by what I saw in this man’s face as he sang.
You could feel the pain as he delivered every word. He sang with so much feeling that you actually could see his lost dreams and past transgressions. This giant face told a harsh story of heartbreak and broken spirit using the narrative and melody of a five foot four man in purple.
It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.
When he finished, he stumbled off the stage and made his way to his special bar stool in which he spent the majority of his time each day. He polished off another bottle of Morgan, and passed out shortly after closing time.
He remained mostly in-coherent for the next hour, not moving but an inch even as two Harley Davidson’s were fired up and driven smack dab on the middle of the dance floor. As everyone exited, I was left with a disaster area of destruction, complete with skid marks, my colossally large passed out hardcore biker gang boss on the bar, and the acrid heavy cloud of exhaust lingering in the air like someone had hit the fog machine.
I let the man rest at the bar for a bit, weighing my options while reflecting on the reality of it all. He had gone from angry to anguish right in front of my eyes. He was no longer the leader of the pack, my boss, or a man that would tear your face off in an instant. He was a human being. He was a man with emotion, with passion, and a burden of guilt and loss that must have weighed twice as much as his massive frame.
I eventually got him to come around and got his arms around my shoulders. I walked him upstairs to his apartment bedroom as he gushed stories of hopes and dreams, regrets and remorse.
I left kind of shocked that evening. I had been thrust into a tiny part of society that most people don’t get the privilege to look at. You can learn a lot from hanging out with biker gangs, and this would only be the first of many glimpses into this tight knit group of souls.
The days that followed allowed me to look further and further into the lives of these people and those that surrounded them.
Perhaps the most important, and by far the most inimitable guy I will ever meet, was a fellow by the name of, and this is not a joke, …
(To be continued)
Blog
by Alex Tallitsch on August 19th, 2008 • One Comment »
August 18th, 2008
I feel like I am taking a risk by writing this. I have to be very careful on how I present myself in the story to follow. I seriously fear for my safety on a very mild front, and wish this to be what it is, a story. I am not willing to remove my opinion from the tale, but I most assuredly will remove anything not considered completely generic.
I used to work at a hardcore biker bar. Not hardcore as in there might be a couple of scruffy guys in leather there, but hardcore as in it was run by some bad ass dudes.
Real bad ass dudes.
I will not name their organization, but they are synonymous with everything badass biker. They are the toughest of the tough, the worst of the worst, and the guys you simply do not mess with. Say the wrong thing, and finding yourself a permanent part of a cement garage floor is certainly not out of the realm of possibility.
Thus, you may notice my trepidation.
All I was looking for was a job. I opened the paper one day and there it was. Disc Jockey needed - twenty bucks an hour. I don’t believe a more perfect ad could have appeared that morning. With years of experience, and a salary rarely seen for a booth man, I hesitated for about one second before hopping in my car and entering what would be the start of something so surreal that even I can’t believe it.
Shortly after hearing, “You can start tomorrow” I would bear witness to things I most likely could never imagine.
To make it extremely clear, this place was a dive. Hole in the wall doesn’t even touch the nastiness that was inside. There were fist marks in the wall, the carpet had to be fifty years old and was plastered so badly with cigarette burns and chewing gum that it almost appeared like an intentional speckling rather than total destruction. If it featured a girl in a bikini, it was most assuredly on the walls, covering the filth that resided underneath. The bathrooms were nasty, the stalls had no doors, and the hand painted flames shooting out across the bar said everything a person would ever need to know. It was dingy, reeked with the residue of abuse, and screamed… dirty things happen here.
And I was the new DJ.
The first time you see fifty bikers roar up to a bar and walk through the door, you don’t realize the sheer power of their coming. It is tremendously deafening. After the dismount, they walk in and immediately size up the place, careful to leave two sentinels at the door to slow down any rivals that may appear after their entrance. My first night, I was placed directly next to this door, and my first minutes of work consisted of trying to entertain a crowd while two huge biker guys eyed up my every move.
Thank god I was raised in the eighties, because these behemoths were all about metal and hair roll. There would be a steady dose of Autograph, Judas Priest, Motley Crue, and Metallica to follow that first night. Many of them had their wives, (or the c-word as they called them) at their side, and they proceeded to drink and dance the night away.
Luckily, they instantly took a liking to the quiet clean cut kid, and little did I know that in a relatively short amount of time, I would be thrown into the world they lived in. I was assured of my safety by one of the gang members as they informed me I didn’t need to worry because there were plenty of guns to go around.
Now, if you have never been a part of a hardcore biker gang, you may be surprised to know that they are quite organized as a group. They have a strict hierarchy they follow, and members often start out as probates until they are deemed good enough to join the crew. They eventually earn a “patch” which they are then allowed to proudly display on their leather along with other assorted smaller patches whose meaning directly correlates to whatever atrocity it might stand for.
They have a leader, they have vice presidents, and they cover each other’s back no matter what the duty. Most of them are amazingly large, amazingly crude, and amazingly unconcerned with what you think. It is a lifestyle and they all embrace it.
Unfortunately, the world they live in is plastered with hardcore drugs, domestic abuse, and a complete disregard for humanity. Vile and unsettling, this atmosphere could suck the morality out of even the most careful of souls.
There were many times morality disappeared from that establishment and the first instance I can remember started in the middle of a Peavy pumping moment of Judas Priest’s “Turbo Lover.”
I was standing in the booth when out of nowhere …
(To be continued)
Boring Stories
by Alex Tallitsch on August 14th, 2008 • 3 Comments »
August 14th, 2008
Somehow this blog post evolved from a simple blurb about Eddie VanHalen. It is amazing how a little musical memory can sometimes provoke so much emotion and self reflection. Whenever I hear VanHalen, I think about my former friend Andy Dowty. As a sophomore in high school he could whip out Eruption on his guitar, which he coincidentally made by hand himself, flawlessly. Whenever I think of Andy, I always am led back to my own life and the subject of friendship.
You don’t realize how valuable a friend is until they are no longer a friend at all. By then, it is often too late to do anything about it.
As far as friends go I really don’t have many. In fact, there are only three or four people I associate with on a regular basis. Of those three, there is really only one that plays the role of a traditional friend. His name is Chris, but we call him BC which is short for big Chris. He used to be a monstrous fellow, but over the last fifteen years has lost at least three times his body weight. I still call him BC and he doesn’t have a problem with it. He is my fishing buddy, my companion, and my best friend for nearly fifteen years.
Chris had is first child last week, a young man that now goes by the name of Scott. Scott too will become my friend, and there will always be an open seat in the boat of life for him. If he grows up to be half the guy his father is, his life as a person will be immensely successful.
Outside of that, there really isn’t anyone else that plays that role. I used to have a lot of friends. Fifteen years ago I was about as social as they come. Today, the exact opposite holds true. People I have associated with have either stayed in situations I choose not to be a part of, or have moved on to places I have yet to reach. I often feel stuck in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be.
I sometimes wonder if I even know how to make friends anymore.
I have wrestled for a decade with the thought of re-location. I have lived in the same town for nearly fifteen years. It is a town that constantly reminds me of things I would rather forget. There are few places left to go that aren’t associated with memories I consider uncomfortable at best. It is hard for me to frequent special events, lest I run into someone from my past that I would prefer to not see. It is stressful, uncomfortable, and perhaps a little degrading as well. In lieu of this, I spend most of my time with me.
I have a hard time dealing with the community around myself. For every person I would like to know, there are three people who I never want to see again. It makes it extremely difficult for me to go anywhere, it makes it even harder to be social.
More trying yet, is the fact that my wife has the opposite problem. She is entrenched here, comfortable with her surroundings, and has little or no desire to ever leave.
It is undoubtedly the most demanding and unsettling problem I have ever had to deal with.
Some might say that the notion of re-location is merely running away from life. I would tend to disagree. I do not want to run away from anything, but the truth of the matter is that here, I can’t even get a good jog going. For me it is about comfort, about being able to be myself, and about not worrying about who is in the next aisle. It is about being known for the present and not the past.
Perhaps that process of getting from the past to the present has gone further than I realize. Perhaps the face of adversity makes me a better person in the long run.
Regardless, I find myself lonely in the journey.
Blog, Personal
by Alex Tallitsch on August 6th, 2008 • 5 Comments »
August 6th, 2008
Blog
by Alex Tallitsch on July 26th, 2008 • 7 Comments »
July 28th, 2008
I hear people when they look at me.
They are sizing me up constantly.
I try to live up to their expectations, but they are everywhere.
They are watching me. They are judging.
They are at the grocery story, the gas station, and at work. They are my neighbors, my friends, and that guy passing me in the left lane.
It’s relentless, it never ends.
It is hard to put up a good front. It is hard to try to please everyone all at once. It is hard to say the right things, walk the right way, and try to impress.
Heaven forbid I ever have to walk into a already crowded room, much less have to ogle for a seat somewhere in the middle of the peering eyes that are watching my every move.
It’s hard.
Every car door that slams, every knock on the door, every time the phone rings I jump, preparing for the impending doom that might occur.
Every time I write I go back and count the number of times I use the word ‘just’ just in case I used it a bit too often thus making me a poor writer. I worry about how many sentences utilize the Harvard comma, and wonder if anyone finds this dull and drab and unprofessional.
I feel more secure driving with the windows up. Only a crack at the most. Having them open makes me vulnerable to scrutiny and open to criticism.
From the eyes. From those that look at me. From those that are judging.
I have more online friends than real ones. I have a small splatter of close friends, but on the whole I am far too embarrassed to make new ones, or attempt any kind of social function.
I would have to talk about myself. That is too hard to do.
The only way I know how to talk about myself is by writing. If you want a face to face conversation, you can plain forget about it. I can charm you with the small talk, but if you want to know me, it doesn’t happen.
You might judge me, make me uncomfortable, talk about me in the corner with your friends when I have moved on.
That is because everyone is always talking about me.
They do it all the time, wherever I go, whatever I do. They do it silently thinking I can’t hear them, but little do they know I pick up the screaming in my head.
I have to find a way to impress them all of them.
I sit here everyday pondering how I can make the world quit looking at me. Is it changing what I wear? Is it producing more for society? Is it giving up on being me to be them?
I need to know, I need it to go away.
There are days I am so scared of the littlest things that I don’t want to leave the house.
The saddest thing is I bloom as the center of attention. I excel in the face of stardom. I flourish when all eyes are me. I love to be loved.
But it’s the people, it’s always the people. They look at me.
I hear them.
Blog, Personal
by Alex Tallitsch on July 20th, 2008 • 4 Comments »
July 20th, 2008
You will rarely see a positive post come out of this blog. Today, amazingly, I am breaking the mold.
In reality, everything still sucks. There still is little to no job market for a thirty something student, things are fairly tight, and there is little end to the misery in my crystal ball. Regardless, for some strange reason, I feel pretty good about myself.
I have a lot of things to be proud of, and equally as many to be happy about.
I have an amazing wife.
I have the world’s greatest dog.
I have three cats. Enough said.
I have a roof over my head, a computer to write on, and a television to watch. I have three cars, although only one of them runs at this exact moment.
I have friends.
I have Plurk friends too.
I have two killer blogs. People like my Packer blog, they e-mail their praise all the time.
The other day someone said, “Oh, your that Alex Tallitsch.”
For once, it wasn’t in a bad way.
I am a great student. I have framed things with certificates that say so. They are buried in a pile somewhere.
I am making positive decisions. Not the hot dog or hamburger type, but rather the real, hard to accept, winds of change type decisions.
Someone believed in me this week.
Today, for one of the first times in a long time, I see a glimmer of hope. I see progress. I see hard work starting to pay off, without caring that money isn’t the currency.
Am I scared?
Well yes, I don’t handle positive progress very well.
Today I choose to think with confidence, to think forward, to think for myself. Today I feel independent, and want to declare that emotion as such.
Today I can eat just one. Today I can believe its not butter.
Today I am what Willis was talkin’ about.
Blog, Personal
by Alex Tallitsch on July 16th, 2008 • One Comment »
July 16th, 2008
Yesterday was a trying day. I made some mistakes. I did some things wrong. I was uninformed, unprepared, and careless.
I genuinely felt terrible about the entire thing.
I got to talk to a virtual friend over the phone for the first time yesterday. He offered perspective, he offered advice, and he talked really really fast. I totally appreciate a person who isn’t afraid to tell things the way they are. It gave me a lot to think about, and I really took what this person had to say to heart.
It was intimidating, something I am very unfamiliar with.
When someone who I totally respect, takes the time to send me in the right direction, it really affirms that what I am doing is being noticed. I am sure I will get it right eventually, but knowing that someone cares that I do, is more than I could ever ask.
I am learning, I am growing, I am evolving.
A lot of people deserve a thanks today, and you know who you are.
One person in particular, deserves a whole hearted thank-you.
Uncategorized
by Alex Tallitsch on July 9th, 2008 • 4 Comments »
July 9th, 2007
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by Alex Tallitsch on July 7th, 2008 • One Comment »
July 7th, 2008
My wife gently reminded me I have been totally slacking on this blog lately. She is right, I have been. However, it is not my fault,
I don’t make this blog happen, this blog makes me happen.
I have tried to manufacture things from time to time, but in the end I have found that this blog will tell me when to write. There are certain days it screams for attention, and other times it wishes to be left in peace resting up for next time it needs to come calling.
There is no rhyme nor reason in The Search for Redemption.
There is no need to stop and ask for directions.
You can’t get there from here.
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