This is Cameron Leahy Free consultations // The Downtown Fiction

 Hello readers,

It’s Cameron Leahy of The Downtown Fiction writing you from San Francisco. We played the renowned Fillmore tonight, which is a really beautiful room adorned with elegant chandeliers, red draperies and a large balcony. I really love this venue and San Fran for its musical history which is evident in the hundreds of posters on the wall commemorating the many greats who’ve played here in the past. Today like most days on tour I take my longboard and explore the surrounding area, usually stopping at a Starbucks if I can find one. Often we’ll ride together as a band, offering ourselves up to the heckling of crazies and weirdos on the street.

“God gave you feet, whaddu need wheels for!?” yelled a haggard, old fisherman-looking character near the water at Pike’s Place in Seattle. 

“To push!” Wes retorted. 

We don’t care, we relish it. It’s a break from the monotony backstage, which usually consists of a cramped room filled with tired, half-lidded eyes focused on cell phones or dogeared books. Antsy. Hours upon hours of waiting for what boils down to a single blurred frame. That moment when you step on stage and do the one thing you’ve come there to do, to play. And when it’s over you awake again to find the wait was worth it, another day won with the final beat of your set. Then you muster up every ounce of energy you possess and strive to do better tomorrow.

A blur. That’s what most appropriately describes tour. Once you’re going, you can’t stop. There’s no time for meditation, only constant movement, leaving the pondering to the sedentary. There are the expected highs and lows, but they roll off of you like rain. Just tonight after what we agreed was a fantastic show, our van was broken into, a window smashed and bags stolen. A bummer, sure, but it’s all part of the ride. I often find myself being asked how one manages life on the road—the constant travel, being away from home, the lack of sleep, the general weirdness and abnormality of being a nomadic musician—and I always have the same answer, because I can’t imagine doing anything else. 

-Cameron

Dear friends,

It’s been an epic period working on new music and rehearsing for upcoming shows in Brazil and the upcoming US tour with All Time Low in the fall. Lots of new songs, lots of new experiences to look forward to.

And hey! Yeah you! Thanks to everyone who came out to the Iowa State Fair this past weekend. (Sorry we brought the rain.)

Upcoming shows also include the New York State Fair in Geddes, NY on September 1st. Hope to see you there!

-CL

I met an eccentric, lanky-looking fellow in a big hat on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica who was performing a “handwriting analysis” service for donations at a small kiosk. We approached and he asked both Wes and I to write down a very specific sentence, sign it and date it. He looked at my writing for a split second and started spouting off random traits he claimed I possessed. Some were eerily accurate. Some felt a little extreme. Some were flattering but undeserved. A few just dead wrong. I grilled him pretty hard on the legitimacy of his claims.

“This sounds like you’ve said this to a lot of people before. It sounds rehearsed,” I told him outright. I could tell he felt a little threatened at first, maybe embarrassed in front of us and our friends.

“Well I have said it before,” he admitted. “I’ve read hundreds, thousands of people’s writing samples. I’ve read every book there is on the topic. I’ve studied the writing of the great figures of history. That’s a good way to learn.” He explained that there were undeniable characteristics in handwriting. I started to believe that maybe there was some element of truth to what he was saying. Then I looked at him and his big hat and his crazy eyes and started to wonder again.

Ultimately there’s only highly-educated guesses to be made in handwriting analysis, but I think the more interesting thought derived from the whole experience was that we do reveal a great deal about ourselves through the behavior we don’t realize we’re acting out. It’s like having something written on your forehead that defines you. To understand how our mind naturally behaves—the stuff we don’t realize we’re doing—that’s the valuable information. It’s the sort of knowledge that could help us lead to more important and urgent discoveries.

It’s a weird concept, but if it’s being used in a courtroom then I consider it to be a pretty legitimate science, not a pseudo-science. I could never believe that my handwriting alone defines me, but I don’t mind gathering some clues from those areas of thinking that push the boundaries of the mind’s potential to understand its surroundings and most importantly, itself. I believe that potential is endless. So did Rod Serling. That’s why Twilight Zone is the best television show ever. Thanks for reading.

PS Here’s a Youtube video I found that appears to be from the eighties or early nineties, based on this nice lady’s clothing and odd neck accessory. She speaks at length about handwriting analysis and how it’s applied in criminology, for those interested.


-CL

It’s very hip to live in this modern age where you can put something out into the world and receive so much feedback, so quickly. Many thanks to everyone for all the kind words about the Pineapple EP.

To our new fans, welcome. To our long-timers, you guys are the reason we are still doing this. We can’t thank all of you enough for being the best support any band could ask for.

Happy holidays and here’s to a wonderful 2012!

-CL

There is no devil. The devil is our collective evil. In reality, we fear ourselves.

-CL

Today’s to-do list.

-Take Men’s One-a-Day

-Stop obsessing over everything

-Wash jeans again… still smell

-Take genuine interest in what someone else is saying without going on an internal tangent relating to item two

-Better sleep schedule

-Write more songs about how fucked up it is that women/homosexuals/immigrants are still treated like subhumans

-Buy new camera lens cap

-Stop forgetting where you put your sunglasses (second pair in two weeks)

-Find more records on vinyl

-No more self-loathing

-Stop abusing body with chemicals

-No more fast food (tour makes this extremely difficult)

-Learn to be accepting of people with different musical tastes, even if their music is fucking godawful 

-Stop saying “fuck” so much

-Buy pineapple

-Follow through on commitments

-CL

My bird is very beautiful

Watch her bob her head

And move her body side to side

It’s as if she were dancing!

My bird can also sing!

Listen to her song, “Poo-tee-weet!”

My bird is very beautiful

My bird in a cage

-CL

The sickening silence

Of the night makes me wince

The desert is quiet

Whispers wrapped in the wind

My innards are turning

With a deafening sting

I want to feel nothing

But I feel everything

-CL

We exist, as humans, on the same plane. Every generation no more or less damaged than the last. Time knows no bias. Time never learns. We relentlessly examine history and yet we are surprised by the unpredictable, when history has done nothing but teach us to be prepared for that which we cannot foresee. The world is on a constant loop, performing the same act, again and again, the characters interchangeable. We are all members of the world’s greatest acting troupe, taking part in the age-old tradition of living.

And at the end of the day we must all go back to our dark places and ask ourselves “Why do we do the things we do?” It is our personal responsibility to audit our own lives. We measure our accomplishments and examine our failures. We adapt. We resuscitate our dying souls. And I am there now, in that place where dying souls go. I am there with you, gasping for air, clawing and grabbing at something to hold. Desperately seeking clarity. But clarity and logic are not interdependent. In those moments of great personal anguish and struggle, our logic survives. We are logical in the sense that we have the ability to go outside ourselves and look in. What is wrong? How can I fix it? What is there to fix? We have these answers, but the clarity to take action only comes when your inner-self agrees to listen.

My blood feels stale and recycled. It admirably pumps through my veins, fueling my broken machine. I operate only on basic survival instincts. Numb. As I walk, the pathway becomes narrower, the plant life grows more unwelcoming, the sun vanishes until it is too dark to see. I am navigating like a blind man, feeling my way through the thorny thicket. I am awake in a dream, begging to be woken up. I am searching for something to feel. Give me pain, give me anger, give me anything that is something. Masochism. 

Artists feed off of pain, we need it to create, to feel alive. Not just writers or painters or musicians, but all people. Art knows no definition. Artist (n.): one who lives. An artist is not deemed an artist because their work is hung in a sterile gallery but because they served a purpose. Whether it is to lead a quiet life known by few, or a very public life viewed by many, our existence is no less “art” than Van Gogh or Beethoven or Tolstoy.

My entire life I have lived to be loved, to find happiness and clarity, to be at peace. I am here to tell you that you will find none of these things by living for yourself. Love and live for your family and friends. Be unselfish and expect nothing in return. This is the only true purpose.

We are all stuck on this godforsaken rock together, after all.

-CL