Ready. Set. Go!
This dopesmoker shit is 63 minutes long so instead of listening to it and then writing some funny shit I’m just gonna type for 63 minutes into this document and see what I come up with. So far this song is shittty as hell. I think I’m supposed to be high but i’m just tired. I ran 2 miles today even though it was only 33 degrees. My fingers got so cold that I couldn’t run any more. It felt good but now i’m tired at like 9:30. oh jeez this sucks! No there is some cymbals. Thanks a lot Jarmo. Thank you very much. This was his dumb ass idea and because we’re (butt) buddies I said sure baby boy I’ll listen to you stoner music. AHHH THE COLORS! At least that’s what I want, some quintesential water color melt down in my brain 6 feet deep in mush mush rooms. Here’s the deal. I’m so afraid of doing mushrooms. I’m afraid it’ll make my brain go cuckoo cuckoo and never go back. I mean drugs scare me in general but this girl said hey do mushrooms and watch holy mountain with me and i thought maybe and then i was attacked by a sex demon and and and well shut your nuggets i’m not gonna do mushrooms and thats final. I’m also not gonna smoke weed. Sure, i’m supposed to be chill as shit listening to his repetitive as hell stoner tune maybe thats why i’m not into this boom boom boom, i’m not high or wahtever. I’m gonna close my eyes and see if I can type the colors I see. Sorry in advance i’m not the best no look typer. HEre i go i see nothing but a stroe light. THis might be the answer to the world in a butthole. Now theree’s a horizon line, yes, it’s getting wider and a feagon came out and it feats beed…my eyes are open. yes! Literaraly, figueratively and metaphoreically. I’m high. Not on weed but on this bitching song. I feel it all in my body and just as i feel it the lyrics have begun. BHUH, BBEE, HEEAEAE! BUUULOW GUSLO, THE RIFF, BBBOO THE LAAAYYY. Those are the lyrics I swear. It reminds me of a wild screahing shark. A street shark. Buzz up pavement through the lense of an 80’s filter, live action. To me it feels like something the creatuns of Troma High would listen too. It’s somehow almost parady. Like Gwar perhaps. I am a caveman banging my elephant bone on the stone and tugging at my pubes. I am woman, submisssive to all males. Blood is all we eat and drink. Scarf down the feast that is out eternal mongaloudness. That’s just how I feel. I want to see more dinosaures in this dopesmoker world but it’s only cavemen…Simon Jack is awesome…Now the riff changes. Picking up. picking up. some cliteral flick guitar riffs. drums. Ok guys it went back i think to teh same old shit. JARMO! This song sucks. Now it’s becoming a tornado inside the tornado is a giant talking tomato. This tomato is part muppet. It laughs at you. And you scream, you scream and the float above the eye of the tornado, desks, furniture and dust flies around you. The giant tomato doesnt eat you it just gums you and laughes some more. The sounds that you hear as the furniture clangs around and kitchen untenzsiles fly outta mommyes hair is the sound of dopesmoker. It’s perhaps that massive. We need drugs to ordure. There are no flying beasts in this song. Also no space ships or airplanes. PROCEEEDS THE NEEDY UNYOUNG NAUTOLIS. That was the lyrics just now. A new verse. I wonder if you speed up the sound it’ll all make sence. Maybe it’s a 3 minutes song slowed down to 63 minutes. Another layer of cray cray, maybe they performed live in the studio the 63 minute version of their 3 mintue pop radio hit single and this is the song they came up with, dopesmoker because they were high as hell! When they thought that was a good idea. I want this song to be more 70’s more freaks and geeks, but it’s more 80’s grainy video to me. I bet i’m watching the…PROCEEDS THE NEEDY UN NAZARETH. I just checked. It’s only been 20 minutes. I want desperately to play video games or something but maybe this is a good challenge. I’m slowing way down, thinking too much. Sometimes I pause between sentances and that is wrong. I’m also using the backspace button> I should stop that too. Leave the errors in, weakness, These are our strenghts. If I was on drugs would I care that I spelled a word wroong? Hells no. The drugs would take away all inhibitions and i’d be sure to have premaritcal sex. Oh jeez, not that again. I can’t think too much about premarital sex, I’m subseptible to sex demons and ultimate sadness. I don’t want to get started on my masculinity issues. I’m here to talk about dopesmoker and how the sounds is hte sound of a concert through an old vide…CREEEKS MONROE LOW THROU DIEEEEE AND DOUGH…each time I talk about video camera I feel the mus…SAYYYYY RED IS RILD ONLY TONS ION…..The lyrics are awesome and whenever I here some lrics I have to write them down, but now he’s really going for it and I think i might just give up……………………..I just gave up and now i’m back. I was doing this review in the living room when no one was home. But my roomate showed up and I got embarrassed at the shitty music and gave up. Look I can’t do this. I feel like this is a shitty challenge. I feel embarrased to post this and not haveing actually listened to the entire one shitty song and inferior, why can’t I do this. It’s not like I got anything better to do. I’ll probably just play video games or wander around my house alone and depressed. It’s hard to write. Not as fun as it used to be. I don’t get as much out of it I think. I’ve been doing a lot of questioning about writing. Like anyone cares. But as I say that I just got a random email on facebook from some dude. He read this short article I wrote onmylostmoment.com and he said it changed his life or some shit. I want to write to change peoples lives but i’ve written without much fanfare for so long it’s hard to believe that my writting will ever do anything. And then do I even care? I just want a woman, someone to love but instead I have to be alone and write a book about kids that beat me up. I feel it’s important but everytime I work on my new book i feel pain, maybe that’s real adn good for the pprocess, but it’s hard to tell if i’m any good. I don’t feel like what i’ve written is any good. It’s just events, there’s no narative, no string to bind it all together. I guess that’s what editing is for but where to I end if i have no beginning or middle? It’s like this shitty song. I should be getting joy out of my writing because realistically it wont do anything. So it should make me happy. Only a baby will make me happy I feel. THis isn’t some depressed rant, don’t worry, I mean i’m happy. A lot happier then I was a few months ago, I mean geez I’m off my anti depressants. So blow that up you ass. But I still don’t want to be lonely anymore. Instead I write this shitty music review that I desperately want to give up. In fact wahts the point now I stopped for 24 hours and now i’m sitting in the dark on my room, alone, waiting for this chick to text me shit but she probably wont but it’s all i got of her is a few damn text, me trying to gin up ways to goed her in to talking to me, but whatever, that’s shit and blah blah blah I gotta write. write write write. Write a book. It could change people. That’s teh purpose of writeing right? Show people a new world. Well I go to work each day to hell. I get fucked over by kids every day and we all look at each other and smile because all you can do is laugh when little bits of your soul are gnawed away each day. Wanna visit that world you fucks! Dopesmoker!!!!!!! This song sucks and it’s taking me deep inside myself, pass the weed. pass the weed pass the weed where’s the relief. The relief is finishing my new book face down prone about hell school that is my actual life and having married sex with a woman. When I have kids my life will be complete. Oh God give me a baby. A baby baby and a woman baby. Even the troubled kids I work with can find love. but instead I write this dopesmoker review that has somehow broken into my deep unsettled unconciousness and is making me want more antidepressants. See. See! Why write if it brings this out. Where did the dinosaurs go? The ptarydactols? These aren’t real. They’re dead. Why write about the dead when I can live with living. Life is real and my real life is me alone in a dark bedroom that smells a bit like arm pits and a bed two big one man and it’s cold and i’m writing waiting for a damn text that will only cut the wound open more adn no one will read this far they’ll laugh and give up because of all the typos and shit and think that Vandermolen is a whiner but this is real life. real life baby. Maybe that’s why dopesmoker is dopesmoker? He to needs to hide from the cruel realities of the real world. I used to write about teh real world all the time. It was kid shit, shit about never growing up I think. I was write I think. Grow up and fucking die. Dopesmoker is this guy that has to smoke weed because he is dead already. Can you harm the dead, the undead? We are walking zombies, the people of pain. We are the disiples of a pleasure we lost when we were 10 years old and first discovered our penis. May the last of us be remembered for our penis and not for our mind. May the great resolve confold into nothingness but ubscurity. We are the nackered. what what what this stoner music is getting deep in my brain centerfolds. To love a woman. It’s getting into in my drillbit. My tiny eeny tang top. I can’t stop thinking what Rick and Brandon and Greg will think. Will they barf? But I seem to care what a lot of people think but maybe I shouldn’t care what anyone things and just write. Just write for me. No presure, No pressure, no goal or life changing, just recant my tails and let the world see. split the flame! I pause. I rest. I pause. I think of my weiner. It always goes back to the size and girth and the inferiority of it all. The micro machine. I am the rad racer. The flat red helmet on the top of the glissening latex skin tight. If I were a woman i’d be covered in it by all the men. The rad racer is the throbing member blasting off from the halo of space down the throat of the earth impregnating the volitile rocky core with life from another planet. The seed shall flurish. The molten is life. Together we will become more then flesh and bones we will be earth and moon, sun and stars, and together we will be the universe. Join me. Join me! Join me on my journey into you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I will now roll my head and type nonsence while I let the stoner music take over my entire being. beware of the threshhold. I have my eyes closed but i ljust let it all flow maybe this is where writing went it went into me and now i let it our and let it dlow and type as fast as i can without looking at the key board u vut just tupe just let it flow out of me and it feels like sex. there is where i masterbate and i rock and roll and listen to stoner music i am havine new age sex with my keyvoard and orfasming not to music but to writing becayse this music is opening up the caginal comples that orange and purple gatewau to a new millenium the age of sex the time after premarital sex when love is love and touch adn touch and let the autonomic writing be free this is a ghost a ghost a ghost….That was me typing as fast as I can without looking at teh keyboard and constantly moving my head around in circles. This is a true music review. I just checked the time. There’s only like 5 minutes left. Cray cray cray i thought I could never do it now I’m here. I think i unlocked the sex of writing. And the passions of this dopesmoker pothead music. I may have found true extasy and overcame a lot of the negative energies surrounding my writing. Simply by letting go adn writing just for me. Which apparently is all abuot me having sex. It’s on my mind a lot. Sometimes I wake up farting. I can’t stop farting. This would be all well and good and it would be awesome but it’s not. BEcause I get attacked by a sex demon and I think about giving a girl a bath or banging her in an alley. I can’t stop thinking about it even though i want to stop the demon devours me and sucks on me and i can’t open my eyes and this goes on for about an hour and i fart the whole time. I am attacked at all time and i wait for that damn text. I need to feel the music of dopesmoker. I might almost like this song now. I just needed to listen to teh whole thing, and not be a pussy and give up halfway through. Wait. Is that the secret. Face Down Prone sucks right now but that becayes i’m not even halfway through. If you don’t give up it eventually become awesome. I spent some time throughout this texting a bit but for the most part I wrote the entire time. There is 1 min left so i think i’ll call it a day. This is real Nick Vandermolen. Don’t think I’m a perv I’m just tellin you the truth for some reason becayse when i write i let it all flow out. drip by drop tit on top blow my top suck my cock. the endish. wait the song is still going. blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah done.
I hate being late for work. It makes me so anxious. It makes me feel so guilty and most importantly like I’m gonna get in trouble. I hate getting in trouble worse then I hate being late for work! Honestly…like my boss even cares. Quite frankly if I snuck into the school where I work, no one would notice. I could always say I was in the bathroom or “dealing with a crisis.” I’m responsible with my job, so lateness is not an issue. Once though, when it was raining, I missed the bus and then because of the rain, I assume, the second bus never came. The long and short of it is I ended up standing in a storm until finally I gave up and walked the mile to the special needs school I work at showing up at least 30 minutes late, completely drenched. How irresponsible. I remember a bunch of kids laughing and pointing at me. I hid in the bathroom for a few minutes drying my shirt off with wads of paper towel. It was distinctly humiliating.
The shame I feel when I’m late has caused the pendulum to swing in the other direction. I tend to be uptight about lateness and extra hard on myself for being on time. I tend to show up extra early to engagements. I’m not the type of guy who thinks showing up late to the party is the cool thing to do. When I have to ride the bus to school now I take an extra early bus and show up before even the principal does. I usually just go to my classroom and pace or stare at the wall on those days. The first job I ever had I showed up so early that I got embarrassed for being early so I hid in the bathroom…where I dropped my Walkman broking it. Now a days I usually wake up so early that I have tons of time to spare when I’m finished freshening up, I usually end up sitting on the couch watching the depressing news and feeling sorry for my self or playing slot machines iphone apps. But, I’d rather be early and bored then late and have some kids laugh at me and possibly (but probably not) get in trouble.
We all have that feeling though don’t we. The feeling that if we’re late we’ll get in trouble and all the kids will laugh at us. I think that’s the way I was feeling about my newest ebook, WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE.
When I started WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE, Nan Bu Nan Publishing was deep in a failed publicity stunt where we would release a new ebook every month for a year. Well, as you can already guess that was a disaster. We didn’t have 12 ebooks, in fact, we still don’t. By the time October came alone Rick and I both were burned out from trying to squeeze every last comic panel, and misspelled word out of our back catalog. By October there was no more back catalog and it was up to me to churn out some original content in what remained of the month, and WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE was my great idea.
I came up with the idea where I come up with most of my great ideas, in bed just before I fell asleep. Usually though, when I wake up in the morning I had forgotten most of the idea and all I remember is a ghostly approximation of an already badly thought out idea. So garbage. Luckily for me I remembered one key scene from WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE, and that was of a man who loved TV so much that he couldn’t become sexually aroused when he saw a woman unless she was on TV. In the scene he watches the TV while the woman on screen, who is actually standing behind him, dances, while he addresses the screen by his estranged wife’s name. Like I said, “Ghostly approximation of an already bad idea.” Sadly (and they call me an artist) that was all I had to go on so I began writing a little something leading to the dramatic conclusions of some sicko watching a lady get naked and finger bang herself while he talks to a TV. Great ending!
So I spent the rest of the month writing the story, finger banging and all, and it wasn’t half bad…well, actually, it was exactly half bad. You see, the last half, the great idea from which the entire story was conceived from, well that part sucked, it sucked real bad. But the first part, that wasn’t half bad, it wasn’t half bad at all, in fact, many said it was fantastic. My editors were calling it the best thing I’ve ever written. The language, grammar, and realism was through the room, at least for Vandermolen style. This wasn’t T-RAZ, as we here at Highebrook call over the top gimmicky, juvenile works. The second half, yeah, that was T-Raz, but the first half, damn, buddies were calling it brilliant. I remember my friend Brandon called me up to tell me how realistic the dialogue was and listening to him laugh as he read back to me a string of lines was one of my all time favorite writing memories. It’s the first time I feel like someone “got it.” But like I said, the second half sucked.
Whoops. Remember how the story needed to be done at the end of the month? Well, by the time I was even done with the first draft it was into November. I took to twitter and told all the masses that follow me to hold their horse, that there was a slight delay, and that soon, very soon, the story would be coming. November bled into December and holidays caught up and, well, WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE, never came up. Not only that, but the ending still sucked. December dripped into January, and on and on and on, and the best piece I’d ever written just got covered in digital dust while I sent tweet after tweet saying next month, I meant next month, until finally I just stopped telling twitter anything about the story.
I was intimidated and embarrassed that I couldn’t think of a proper ending. It took until April for me to really put my finger on the pulse of the story and muster up enough courage to work on it seriously again. I worked up the strength to delete the finger banging scene and reworking the entire second half. This led to multiple edits where a bunch of pipes broke in a motel shooting poo on everyone. Yup, that was the dramatic conclusion to one of my finest written pieces. Poo on the head. Still T-Raz. Finally, on my spring break I went to my parents house and hid away for the entire week working on the story, smashing my head against a desk trying to figure out how the heck to end the story, and there, on to my 6th different ending, the boys read it over and said you have done it. The ending was real, heartbreaking, and certainly not T-Raz.
But now it’s October. I finished the story way back in April, and now it’s October. That’s a good 6 months. 6 month! And I’m just releasing the story now. That’s right, WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE is now available on Kindle, Nook, and as a PDF from Highebrook Media’s Gumroad store. A year later after I said it would be out, it’s finally here. Why so late though. I think I was afraid. I was afraid of getting in trouble, of hearing all the kids laugh at me. I was afraid that maybe the story was like the first 5 drafts. It’s so much easier to walk back home when you miss that bus to work. It’s not fun to stand in the rain. That humiliation you feel when everyone reminds you to be on time hurts. I think I got a little down on myself and lost confidence in the story and myself for not having the story done on time. But I manned up, I put the story up, and I walked though those proverbial glass doors. Are all the kids laughing at me? Am I going to get in trouble for showing up a year late? Read WATCH TV WAIT TO DIE and laugh away, I’m on time now baby. Next time, I’m gonna show up early, you can find me in the bathroom playing slot machine apps on my iPhone.
I kind of hate nostalgia. Nostalgia is like an ass tattoo you get on some drunk Saturday night burn across the tri-county. Awesome at the time, and even thinking about it makes you smile, but man, don’t ever go back there to look at it. Nostalgia, I feel, is somehow wrapped into not moving on with life. I feel almost immature, and not excepting of my responsibility when I fall to heavily into it’s trap. Yes, it can feel good, but I know that if I were to really throw myself in, it’d just fall short. The best is yet to come (I sure as hell hope so!). And, maybe this is just the by-product of some cosmic burn I had one time when watching an old cartoon episode of He-man or the Ninja Turtles. One of my favorite books is White Noise by Don DeLillo and in it he writes, “Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It’s a settling of grievances between the present and the past.” Damn! Basically he’s saying you hate your life right now and wish you were a kid again. I love my childhood, my past, but I can’t look back, because I want my future to be just as bright. But a few days ago I walked into my old college church and it was 2006 all over again.
I was in Michigan visiting my family for a few days. I met with a friend and we began talking old times and looking back on our 3 years together as college roommates. Our talk went so far as to empower us to drive to our old apartment building and taking a picture of a new sign they put up on our building: “Lowebrook.” That was a defining three years in our lives, a seemingly endless college bender that believe it or not, was very closely molded by the preaching of a young up and coming pastor, Sunday night pot lucks, a post-youth group youth group called Spartan Christian Fellowship; all of which were connected with one church within walking distance from our apartment: University Reform Church (URC). My friend remembered there was church on Sunday night, so we went. What better way to cap our nostalgic saunter down memory lane then by actually going back to the Church that formed us?
It’s been years since I’ve been in that building. And now, I’ll never go back in that building again. You see it was the last church service in that building. Their congregation had really boomed in the past few years and they’ve found themselves a little money and bought a new building down the road somewhere. And this, completely jam packed church, was their final service.
Back in college I used to sit in the front row. I’m sure it was some sort of attention grab. It sure made me feel special. When the pastor would sing he would stand by me and I’d try to get him to think I had a good singing voice. Once he asked me to help move a podium because there was a baptism. And now here I was, 4 years after I had left, scarred and bruised from my time in Chicago, sitting once again in the front row, this time for the last time. It felt like the first time.
When I first moved to Chicago it took me near 3 years to find a Church. This was something I’ve never had to do. I grew up in a great church, went to it’s accompanying Christian school and when I went to college I just went to the church all my friends went too. I tried the same plan when I moved to Chicago - follow my friends. Their church was downtown, took about an hour to get to and within 18 months all my friends had either left the church or the Church. From there I bounced around from church to church, so much so that I had thought about starting a blog chronicling a different church each week. None of the churches compared to URC. I decided to settle, and went to this one church because it was within walking distance. Each week they made me stand up and introduce myself because they thought I was new. After a few months of this they started introducing God as a woman and I left. In fact I didn’t go to any church for months after that. What was the point, nothing compared to sitting in the front row hearing the roar of an entire congregation behind me proclaiming the name of God. Eventually I moved to a different neighborhood in Chicago, got cued into a church centered on social equality and racial reconciliation, became part of a Bible study and after a year, tend to enjoy going each Sunday. But it still doesn’t hold a candle to my days at URC.
And now here I was, back in the front row, elbowing my friend saying, “remember when…”. Nostalgia. I had nostalgia for that building and I think it was in part that nostalgia that kept me from finding a church back in Chicago. I found myself beginning to miss that building before the service had ever started. The pastor came to the pulpit and said, “All rise, our first hymn will be, A Might Fortress is Our God. One of my all time favorites. As the congregation behind me sang, “A might fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.” I felt a tidal wave and goosebumps ran across my arms. Those voices were so powerful. Later six different people, each representing a different generation of the church’s 45-plus year history spoke. When their tears flowed I nearly shed one myself. When the preacher, Kevin DeYoung, had ended the service for the final time in that building, I was the first person he came up to. He gave me a huge hug remembering me like it was only a few day since we last talked. He asked me about life and when I told him some of the ups and downs of the past few months he grabbed my arm so hard, looked me in the eyes and said, “You’re doing the right thing.” And as the congregation gathered around tables of cookies, cheese, crackers and chunks of fruit no less than 20 people came up to me, people of all ages, people I haven’t seen in years. They hugged me, asked me how I was doing, and were happy to hear that I was alive. There were photographers. There were old friends. And with a huge smile across my face I realized I was gonna miss that building.
I had nostalgia for that building. When I walked in there the smile I had on my face from built from old memories. But when I left, my smile wasn’t from nostalgia, it was created from the love of the people, the people singing, sharing, and generally caring for each other.
When I was a kid I liked a ninja turtles and Pokémon, yeah they’re great and all, but it’s the nostalgia that gives those things so much power over me. What I learned though is that people are so special and so unique that you don’t have nostalgia for them, a building maybe, but not people. Every one of us is special and important and when we look upon one another we should be in awe, you don’t have nostalgia for something you have awe over, you only have love.