The Problem with Feeling Better is that Feeling Like Shit Again is Just around the Corner

 I used to believe that there would come a time in life when I would look back at the collection of days I’ve stayed alive in this world and I’d think, “Ok, finally - this is all now worthwhile. The juice is officially worth the squeeze.”

I kept waiting for that ‘rubicon’ moment when it would finally feel like the great payoff for continuing the banal business of living would begin paying dividends.

I kept waiting for graduation from Cruel School. I envisioned waking up one day, doing the math on my good days cancelled out by my bad, and finally realizing that there’s more good here. In the pool of my lived days, the creme had finally surfaced.

It always seemed just barely out of reach. With enough faith, maybe, I could snag it though, and at last I’d arrive at a place where it was an incontrovertible fact: being alive has totally been ‘worth it’. This is, after all, the promise of the seasoned trope, ‘it gets better’.

The rhetoric goes something like, “How will you know how good tomorrow might be if you aren’t here to experience it?”

However…the somber realization is now hitting me: maybe the day may never come when there is a majority of good days in this life.

I’m 46 now. It’s pretty clear now that there are more sunsets behind me than there are in front of me. And when I take stock of how much of my life has been lived in joy…in gratitude…in appreciation, love, opportunity, abundance…the figure is pathetically small in comparison to the interminable sea of despair I’ve been navigating with only infrequent, happenstance buoys of relief dotting the landscape. Admittedly, and not proudly, I swallow hard the fact that my lived experience has been a majority spate of despondence, psycheache, and melancholy.

It’s infuriating. And just when the fog lifts (and it does), I’m reminded by some faceless source of certainty that my respite from suffering is transient, so I had better not get used to it.

You see, the problem with feeling better is that feeling like shit again is always around the corner. Not only does this acknowledgement rob you of any present joy you might have during those flashes of positivity, but there’s also no good argument against it.

…because no one stays up forever. Especially not one of ‘us’ - the maligned depressives blighted by persistent malaise and misfortune.

What an embarrassing curse. How crushingly perverse this burden has been, and is, and how painful the misunderstanding that assaults us every day of our lives.

Fuck this endless war.

For us, our default state is the agonizing, contemptuous one - irreconcilably so. For us, feeling out of place, sad, unloved, ashamed, displaced, abandoned, forgotten, purposeless, and listless is emotional home. This is where we return from our occasional jaunts into faraway lands where there’s sunshine and levity. Our centers are dark, bleak, and unforgiving, despite any attempts we might have made to rearrange the furniture or replace the peeling, outdated wallpaper.

The rats still gnaw at the baseboards. The joists and rafters still heave under the weight of the skewed, sagging structure. We are trapped in ‘fixer uppers’ with no one even half-interested in picking up a hammer and going to work (least of all ourselves).

Lord knows we’ve tried.

It’s not that we like it here. Don’t you dare accuse us of that. We don’t want this. But we’ve tried so hard so many times to ‘just feel better’ and failed that the return to our museums of morosity are the only choice we have.

At least…at the very least…they’re familiar. There is that.

And so, when given the choice between trying again to be happy, this being perhaps the 500th time (who knows), we should be forgiven for not expecting much in the way of sustainable results.

I cry inside for all of us who live here. If you are one of us, know that your suffering is just, even if the circumstances that put you here are not.

Amidst the unfairness of this experience, there is a kernel of understanding that we hurt for a reason we are never privileged enough to know.

When that kernel dies, the last vestiges of our spirits die, too. And when that happens, all hope is truly lost.

I wish it were not the case that we are cursed to die slow deaths that no one understands and everyone wants to be as far, far away from as possible.

But please.

Go on thinking ‘life is good’ and that we just need Jesus. 

For some of us, it doesn't get better.

 I was 18. Freshman year of college.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was walking down the sidewalk somewhere on campus. It was brisk fall day.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt this overwhelming compulsion to cry.

Nothing was wrong. In fact, the sun was out, pretty girls were walking everywhere wearing their pretty smiles, and I had every reason to be enjoying every single breath I was taking.

But instead of relishing in the beauty of my surroundings, a sinking sadness pulled me off that sidewalk and dropped me under a tree a few dozen feet away.

Within about 30 seconds, I became incapacitated by a choking wave of despair that any attempt to describe would only serve as an insult.

I had no choice. I was overcome.

And so, I positioned myself to be out of sight from anyone, and under that tree in Georgia, I wept.

This wasn't some limp-wristed, half-assed kind of cry, either. This was an abruptly violent, tears-and-mucous bawl that spewed forth, powered by every muscle my torso could recruit.

I distinctly remember, as my face contorted and my body pulsed in agony, wondering what the exact hell was happening.

For as I said, nothing was wrong.

My dog hadn't died.

I didn't fail an exam.

I mean, I was even wearing sandals, so my shoes couldn't have even been on too tight.

The point is I had zero reason to be any kind of sad at all, and yet, there I was under that tree, enduring an S-tier existential ache that manifested as the ugliest, vilest, and most consuming cry I had had since my mother passed years prior.

About 20 minutes in, sheer exhaustion took over. After all, one can only heave, secrete, and writhe for so long before the body taps out. And that's exactly what happened.

My abdominal and neck muscles were swollen with lactic acid. The tears and snot had begun drying into a stiff patina on my face, and I had just enough sense about me to attempt a standing position, which then turned into a slow, somber walk to my dorm room.

Keeping my head down, I made it to privacy, where I dropped on my bed and tried to understand what just happened.

Little did I know that what I had experienced was the first of what would be thousands of acute depressive episodes that would rip from me any kind of peace or contentment I could hope to enjoy for longer than a few days at a time.

That first episode was in 1998.

Some loose math will inform you that I'm in my mid-40's now. 50 is a stone's throw away, and by now, I have an ironclad grasp on the affliction that has been the albatross around my neck for the majority of my adult life.

Depression. More specifically, Major Depressive Disorder, or MDD.

Nearly 30 years of the stuff.

Jesus...reading that just now, man...it should make me feel like a warrior.

'30 years'.

Instead, it makes me feel embarrassed.

Oh I've tried it all. I know people say that and many of them are being hyperbolic, but in my case, it's everything and the kitchen sink:

Medications (more than 15 different ones)

Therapy (group and individual)

Inpatient/Outpatient treatment

ECT (that was a wild ride)

TMS (a recent and costly foray)

Psychedelic therapy (interesting, but altogether inconsequential)

Prayer (a last ditch effort)

Meditation/Mindfulness (a great tool but far from a true salve)

...and I won't bore you with the continued list. I think you get the point.

Speaking of points...what is the point in writing all of this out?

I used to talk about my depression in hopes of some kind of cathartic release, which does happen sometimes if I'm lucky.

But really, I think my point in writing all this up is to speak to the few of you who may feel completely alone in your struggle even after numerous decades of doing everything you're told to do in an effort to feel better.

Because, if you're like me, things just haven't gotten better for you.

Despite the well-meaning platitudes lobbed our way from friends, family and doctors, for some of us, it just doesn't get better.

Sure, there might be fits and spurts of hope...maybe an entire week or two might go by without a single suicidal thought or enervating bout of self-flagellation.

But, again, if you're like me, you eventually return to the default state.

The tired, melancholic, and yet still brutally honest state, where nothing is purer than the gravity that pulls your very soul down into the pit of your bowels with every passing moment.

This weight...this heft...no one can experience but you. It's 100% unique to your being, and in a way, it's sort of something to be proud of.

It's like, "There are many who may have sadness, but there are none who have MINE."

It's a small pride, but it's a pride nonetheless.

---

They say that when we die, we endure a life review during which we're shown all the consequences of every important decision we ever made.

For me, I've had to make a conscious, perpetual decision to simply stay alive.

To stay alive, despite the callous yank of death and the siren-like call of nonexistence

To stay alive, despite the instinctual urge to fold into the assured peace of non-being

To stay alive, despite the now-certainty that there's much more to fear in this life than there is to celebrate.

And so, when that life review happens, I hope I see first-hand the benefits of having made this decision.

Because I surely cannot see them now.

Thanks for reading.

Why Breaking Rules Is OK If You're Casa Bonita

If you live a block away from Casa Bonita like I do (a fact I'm never more than two minutes away from telling anyone I meet for the first time), you pay attention to the hullabaloo surrounding this gawdy, Pepto Bismol-ensconsed, culturally textured, kinda-Mexican-but-also-kinda-clowncar-esque steepled palace of mystery and memories. 

For the past two years or so, I've watched as new HVAC equipment was installed. A fresh coat of paint was slathered on. Two dudes known for their churlish, fart humor-fueled cartoon creation invested in it. Media speculation ran wild with tantalizing ideas of what the 'new' Casa Bonita might be like. 

Would there be cliff divers? (We now know that there will be)

Is the food going to still suck? (Probably not)

Will there be South Park characters? (One can only hope)

All this has been good fun to observe from afar, but as the time draws nearer and nearer to the pink pearly gates being swung open and the starving, rampaging masses of Coloradoans are allowed ingress into Casa Bonita, I'm sitting here wondering one thing: 

What's their tagline going to be?

Well, dear friends, yesterday, the marketing department at Casa Bonita, in between feverous sopaipilla binges and fielding customer demands for information related to the opening, dropped the tagline on us, in the form of this massive billboard.

Now, the first thing you'll notice is that you can't read the tagline. It's in white, against a light background.

Their creative team might have been easily forgiven for this graphic design faux pas were it not for the downright atrocity that is the tagline itself. 

Are you sitting down for this? 

Casa Bonita's new tagline is:

The Greatest Restaurant in the World

I'll give you a few seconds to let that sink in. 

. 

.

. 

Still not done yet?

Here's a few more.

.

.

.

Ok. Let's discuss. 

First of all, on the face of it, this tagline is horrifically broken. It's not about the customers or the experience of visiting Casa Bonita itself, nor is it at all unique. It's not imperative. And it attempts to depict Casa Bonita as an actual contender in the comparison of the world's ultimate dining destinations, including:

• Geranium in Copenhagen, ranked the #1 restaurant in the world, where a 3-hour tasting course will set you back a cool $600 a person. 
• Maido in Lima, where you can score an authentic Peruvian dining experience and wine pairing for about $1,250. 
• Quintonil in Mexico City, where $400 hardly buys you a seat at the table. 

The point is this: even a cursory evaluation of the world's greatest restaurants would lead even a gastronomic neophyte to the obvious conclusion that there is no way in hell Casa Bonita could ever be considered the greatest restaurant in the world. The mere assertion is laughable, which makes Casa Bonita's new tagline comically flat, absurdly arrogant, and an absolute embarrassment for those of us who write copy for a living. 

...or is it?

Here's the thing. If Casa Bonita was any other company in the world, this tagline would have been scrapped during the first round of cuts, and the person who came up with it would have been promptly and justly fired with extreme prejudice. 

But, this is Casa Bonita. It's a self-evidently ridiculous place. Its history is ridiculous. It looks ridiculous. Its very brand essence is steeped in a kind of unabashedly self-aggrandizing proclamation of kitsch and camp, which, upon further and deeper consideration, makes this tagline...

absolutely...

perfect. 

...because we all know Casa Bonita isn't actually the greatest restaurant in the world. It's not the greatest anything in the world. But, the very gall it takes to stand up and trumpet such a farce of a claim is exactly the kind of thing that a Casa Bonita mascot would do (I, for one, vote for Cartman). 

And you know what? It works, which is why breaking all the rules is 100% A-OK, so long as you're Casa Bonita and not anyone else. 

• BD

Bret Dallas and The Brothers of Brass: Epilogue

 After nearly five years of constantly being at each other's throats, I'm proud (and relieved) to say that our beef is over.

This story is a long and twisting one, but it bears a moral that I think has import for anyone who has ever held a grudge...especially one lasting for almost half a decade.

____________________

I'm Bret Dallas.

I play guitar on the 16th Street Mall. I've been at it for something like 12 years. Honestly, I've lost count.

I'm loud; I get it. But, there are more people who enjoy the music I make than there are who dislike it. At least, it has always seemed that way.

Back in 2017, my go-to performance spot was at 16th and Champa, right in front of what was then the Rialto Cafe (RIP). This is a highly trafficked area of the Mall, which makes it prime real estate for street performers. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when a brass band began playing their music on the corner next to the Chili's restaurant.

Now...I don't know if you've ever experienced the sonic throttling that a 6- or 7-piece brass band can produce. It's *impressively* loud. But, you know, when the music is actually good, it kind of doesn't matter how loud it is, does it?

Well, it does if you're vying for the same performance space like I was.

When the Brothers of Brass first hit the scene in Denver about five years ago, they pissed me right the fuck off. And, I got pretty damn vocal about it. There was a Westword write-up on the situation, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't fan the flames on Reddit more than a few times.

In the throes of all this rifting, I began to get downright exhausted. I takes a lot of energy to keep hating all the time, and when COVID hit last year and the crowds along the mall began to thin out, I found myself wondering why the hell I kept allowing this nonsense to eat away at me.

Fast forward to a few months ago. The COVID hullaballoo had started to abate, and I found myself enjoying an open mic jazz show at the Mercury Cafe with some friends when who should take the stage but the venerable Armando Lopez himself—one of the frontmen for the Brothers of Brass.

He ripped it proper as is his MO. Dude is a beast on clarinet and sax, though it's taken me this long to admit that without doing so through clenched teeth.

After he stepped off the stage, I decided it was time to place my hat firmly in my hands gulp down my pride, and offer up an olive branch.

"Armando. What's up, man," I said.

"Bret Dallas. How are you?" he replied.

"I'm alright. Look, man. What would you think about all this fighting becoming water under the bridge?" I said, extending my hand.

"Man, we've always wanted that," he said, shaking my hand.

...and that was pretty much it.

To give even more credence to the character of these guys, the sousaphone player I had an especially hard time with went out of his way just a few days ago to approach me and offer an apology of his own. I was shocked. So shocked, in fact, that I didn't get the chance to respond with an apology of my own.

So, Khalil, if you're reading this, I'm sorry, too. I did and said some shit that was way out of line, and I apologize for it.

...which brings us to today.

Love it or hate it, the 16th Street Mall is a staple of the Downtown Denver experience. As it continues to evolve (hopefully for the better), I hope the musicians who bring their magic continue to do so alongside each other instead of as adversaries.

I know I've learned a lot about myself and my craft these past few years. And, I'm now genuinely happy to see the BoB enjoying their hard-won success.

Keep it funky, my dudes.

Thanks for reading.

Replacing Coffee with Vali's Caffeine+L-Theanine Stack; +Kratom Giveaway...

Aniracetam! Overview, dosages, cost, etc...

Interview with an Ex-Heroin Addict, Pt. 2: Cody's Story

Poem

Sanguine light leaps from torches burning in the settled eve

A caravan of outcasts marches, bound as thieves

All of them save one dishonest to the core

But The One plays the role as if he'd lived it before

Journeying further and further into a jade green mystery

One thief perishes in a fall, having stepped carelessly

The promise of a king's fortune pushes them forth

Always, always, always and hastily to the North

The nascent pink of dawn glows at the horizon

It cooks the dying night, a relief from lightless boredom

The men welcome the day with renewed energy

Until a scattering of glowing eyes appears in the leaves

They aren't alone and The One is first to see them

Are they fairies? Goblins? Perhaps mischievous mermen?

The thieves slow their pace and ready their swords

When the leader of the Watchers steps slowly forward

As if of the shadows themselves the creature appears

A caustic, dark stare bewitches and fears

The thieves are confused yet The One steadies them

Before confronting the beast, he whispers: "Be ready, men."

"Pronounce yourself, wight. We are armed!" The One says

The Watcher obliges and reveals a purplish, contorted head

"Hsssshhhhhhh..." It hisses in disapproval in startling chorus

With the army of other wights spread out through the forest

"You come to our land in search of treasure, do you not?"

As black steam rises around it, It's voice cackles and pops

"How foolish of you to presume it unguarded...such folly."

"Figured you'd just pillage this place and dance off jolly?"

The sinister laughter of the demons resounds in the morn

It is devilish and confident, piercing and scorned

"We have come for gold and jewels, but not more than we need"

"For long and healthy lives for us and our families."

The beast recoils in disgust as the men band closer

The One feels ready to fight, but his men aren't so sure.

Who knows the number of demons that lay anxiously in wait

Surely watching with keen eyes for the end of this debate

"Fools, all of you!" the wight screams out, "The stupidity and gall..."

"...you have to venture here, and to expect anything at all.

We'll rend then flesh from your bones and drain you of all life

Until your corpses stack so high that they block the moonlight!"

A muffled cry rings out from the rear of the mens ranks

As the first of them falls to an attack on their flank

The One draws his rapier and stands ready for battle

But the men are surprised; even the best of them scatter

Suddenly a rallying cry from The One resounds forth

"This is our time, men! Bring them down with your swords!"

A flash of blackness darts quickly, almost too fast to mark

But a skillful parry from The One ends the threat in the dark

Looking across the skirmish, The One sees his men 

One by one being killed, their lives each being ended

But losing hope was never an option for him

So The One redoubles his efforts and fights for the win

Black blood from a wight splashes across The One's face

It burns as it soaks and has an awful, foul taste

A demonic howl indicating that a wight had been killed

Gives rise to confidence on the men's battlefield

"They're breaking!" he says, giving heart to his party

"Strike hard at their throats and let's end this Dark Army!"

And still on they fight, with unmatched fervor and skill

Until finally, one by one, the wights are all killed. 

A hush falls over the scene and the darkness seems lifted

The One then hopes the morale of his men shifted

"There may be more left, so mind your surroundings"

The One yells out with force, his hope for a win mounting

But there are no ears to hear him, and his men are all dead. 

The only sign of life comes from a twitching corpse with no head

The One stands alone in a scene of crimson black

The blood of his men soak the ground, life never to get back

"Thieves you all were, and you died just as such.

Your valor was strong, though your honor not so much

But I shan't for a moment let this minor setback

Keep me from the riches that I vowed to get back."

Quitting to Play Guitar - An Update

Maybe you were there when I submitted about playing guitar for a sold out crowd or about touring the country playing guitar on the street. Well, it's now been about a year since I left the corporate world to try my hand at becoming a full-time guitarist. There has been no shortage of struggles, disappointments, and triumphs through it all, and I thought the fine denizens of /r/guitar might appreciate some insights I've gained related to playing music for a living and 'following your dream', if your dream happens to be playing guitar.

First, some vital stats:

• I'm 37
• I have a college degree in Philosophy
• I live in Colorado
• I have no kids
• I am not married
• I have no debt whatsoever
• I own a car outright
• I am in terrific health
• I'm kind of on the fence about turtles...I mean, I kind of like them but honestly I think newts are cooler

Anyway, the above list should help to explain how it is that I was able to do what I did - namely, leave a salaried job with benefits to just start playing guitar all the time, hoping that things would eventually work out and that I wouldn't end up being the poster child for all of the reasons why it's a bad idea to pursue a lofty dream like being a professional musician. Realistically speaking, if I had a kid, a wife, a lot of debt, or some other such burden, quitting my job to play music wouldn't have been half as feasible of a prospect. In hindsight, it took a lot of fucking balls and regardless of how it all shakes out in the end, I'm damn proud of myself for having the courage to do it.

First, I want to share with you a few of the negative things that I've encountered as I've taken this path. They're not all insurmountable, but they are definitely a change from the comfortable, cushy corporate life that I used to lead:

• The chicks, record deals, band invites and fame did not suddenly fall into my lap. As it turns out, the saying is true: "Just because you want something really bad, that doesn't mean you deserve it."
• I found my limit of how many hours I can play guitar in a week. That limit is 35. Any more than that and I start to develop overuse injuries.
• Speaking of playing-related injuries: I have had to deal with ganglion cysts, numerous blisters, torn fingernails, numbing in my fingers, a back problem due to the uneven weight that the guitar puts on my spine for all those hours, etc. It really is amazing how my body starts to break down after that 35th hour or so. Maybe it's age...probably...
• I wasn't suddenly cooler to my friends and family. In fact, they were all worried about me. They still kind of are.
• I have re-learned something I knew a long time ago, but had forgotten: youth and looks can and do trump talent. A fucking LOT. That is to say, a younger, better-looking guitarist can sound half as good as I do and there is a very good chance that this dude is going to get picked over me for a gig or even SESSION WORK! Yes, I'm completely serious. It happens. Which leads me to my last, notable challenge...
• The money fucking sucks. To be fair, I'm saying this against a backdrop of a 16-year sales career that was very lucrative. Going from six figures to about $29,000 was...character buliding, as my dad would say.

And honestly, that's really it. I intentionally left out some of the more typical downsides that come with being self-employed - managing your own time, finding gigs, marketing yourself, etc.. All of that notwithstanding, I wouldn't change a thing about how my life has turned out. Even though I make a quarter of what I did in my prior career, I'm happier, more engaged, better connected with others, and I feel more aligned with what I was put on this earth to do. Compared to where I was this time two years ago - flying from client to client, working on Excel spreadsheets on the weekends, going to industry trade shows...UGH. I now wretch when I think about that life.

And so there's a lot thas gone RIGHT with all this. Here are just a few more things that I'll put in list format just because I like lists and this post needs at least three of them, right?

• I'm now the 'house guitarist' for two restaurants in Denver. It's steady work and my employers are fantastic people.
• I still play music on the street, only now it's even BETTER. Having the confidence that comes with being a full-time musician has spurred me to experiment with my playing, resulting in grooves and sounds that I never thought I was capable of producing.
• I can sleep at night. I'm kind of being hyperbolic...what I mean is that I feel good about what I'm doing with my work. It's a creative pursuit that is also a service to others - I think, at least. This feature of my life makes every day so much more...liveable.
• My old coworkers and business colleagues haven't gone anywhere. They've actually all expressed great curiosity in all this, and they'll be there if I ever decide to return to the corporate space again...something that is HIGHLY unlikely.
• I've found love. Since pursuing this dream, I've fell in love with an amazing woman. I genuinely don't think this would have happened if I had stayed in my soul-sucking, white-collar job. I was so miserable with myself and my 'professional trajectory' that I couldn't really love someone. Now I can and it's pretty damn liberating.

I set out to make a post that would offer a realistic view into the life of someone who took the risk to play guitar in lieu of chasing corporate success. My hope is that this gives you some food for thought if you've ever kicked around the idea of giving music a shot, like FOR REAL.

And you know, even if you don't throw yourself into it like I did, there is a middle way, as the Buddhists would term it. You don't have to cut-and-run like I did - do what you love and live a balanced life if that's your thing.

I just happen to like taking risks.

Stay true, guys.

• Agnostix

New video of me playing 'Canon' in Denver

Marijuana Madness! - The Colorado Pot Surge

Image credit: www.thedenverchannel.com

If you live anywhere even remotely close to the state of Colorado, then you've heard about the major waves being made by the booming marijuana business. Five years ago, it was unheard of to be able to walk into a brick-and-mortar marijuana dispensary - one built solely for recreational and not just medicinal purposes - plop down $20 and walk out with some of the highest-grade ganja available anywhere.

But now, it's become so commonplace that it seems impossible to drive more than a few city blocks in downtown Denver without seeing some advertisement or storefront showcasing deals on the many different strains of pot available through these new outlets. What was once a shadowy, black-market substance only attainable by those with a connection to a 'dealer' is now as pervasive as alcohol and tobacco. And, I would argue, it's just as accessible.

This new market is colossal. In fact, in August of 2015, recreational pot sales broke the 60 million dollar mark, and that's not even counting the revenue generated from medical sales of the drug. But it's not just the sale of the drug itself that is raking in fresh cash for Colorado businesses; there are newly-forming cottage industries surrounding weed that are cropping up (pun intended) seemingly everywhere.

There's Pyrex and glass smoking implements (pipes, bongs, hookahs).
There's rolling papers and blunt wraps.
There are marijuana grinders and custom-made storage containers.
There are cleaning products and even bong cleaning services available.

Image credit: MedicalMarijuanaBlog.com

And, the marijuana itself has been refined and reduced down to an extract known as 'wax' or 'shatter' (see image to the right). This is the newest advent in consuming the drug - the user subjects the marijuana extract to extreme heat using a red-hot prod in a process known as 'Dabbing', to produce smoke that contains much more THC than traditional methods of smoking pot.

In the wax or shatter form, the drug is much more concealable and less odorous, allowing for more covert methods of transporting and storing it.

What does all of this mean for the average Colorado resident, who may or may not himself indulge in marijuana? Well, one thing is for sure, it means a hell of a lot more state revenue for education and drug policy expenditures. It may take a few years, but eventually the public school systems in Colorado will start seeing some very real, tangible results from the legalization of pot.

It also means big-time increases in the tourism business that the state of Colorado has already enjoyed for decades.

There are cultural changes taking place, also. The typical 'stoner' stereotype that has long been associated with regular users of marijuana is changing. Now, it's not so unheard of for business professionals to relax by smoking a joint or two at the end of the day, in lieu of their few glasses of wine. Young, tech-savvy workers coming to Denver for jobs are bringing with them their progressive views of and penchants for enjoying marijuana. They're earning real money in a thriving city while being able to enjoy a pastime that is still wholly illegal in most other parts of the country.

I've personally been in Colorado for almost 10 years. I've never considered myself a 'pot-head', but I've enjoyed the occasional puff of pot every now and again. But anytime I decided to do so - up until now, that is - I was always paranoid about getting caught, or somehow being viewed as a lesser human being for enjoying the high afforded by marijuana.

Now with that tension gone, life in Colorado is all that much more enjoyable. I think I'll stick around for yet a while longer, still. :)

Ode to Following a Dream

The first time I played a guitar in a public place, I was about 16 years old. 

I remember taking my Epiphone acoustic to a local park next to a small lake just to see what kind of reaction I would have if I played fairly simple guitar songs for random strangers.

Nothing incredible happened. I didn't get any money from anyone. In fact, no one really even noticed me for the most part. 

Then life happened. I graduated high school, went on to college, got my degree and got a job in professional sales. Playing music in public took a back seat to board meetings, sales quotas, product presentations and closing the deal. At the time I thought that I was doing what I *should* be doing - earning lots of money, spending it on shiny things and ignoring this nagging voice in the back of my head that was telling me that I should be back at that park, making music. 

So, my bank and retirement accounts grew while my passion for playing guitar sat idle. This went on for about 10 years.

Then in 2008, I packed up all my things and moved from Atlanta to Denver. I had had enough of the south and I needed a change, and I figured Colorado was as good a place as any for a fresh start. Little did I know that upon arriving, I would rediscover the joy of public performance, in a very real - however unexpected - way. 

I suffer from clinical depression and during a particularly severe bout of it, I tore myself away from my one bedroom apartment, went into town and sat under a bridge, playing blues music on my electric guitar through a tiny, battery-powered amplifier. I remember closing my eyes and weeping as I played, letting my emotions spill out onto the fretboard. It was a genuinely cathartic experience.

I opened my eyes and what I saw dumbfounded me. 

There was money. Money everywhere. 

Singles, fives, and even a few tens. People were just dropping money all around me and I didn't even know it. It's at that moment when I realized I had discovered something truly magical. 

Ever since that fateful day, I have been playing blues and jazz-inspired guitar music on the street at least a few hours every week. This hobby turned into a full-time profession when, in February of 2015, I quit my salaried sales job to go on tour, playing my music in cities all across America.

This was a fairly risky venture. Sure, I had saved enough money to keep me fed and clothed, but to drive solo around the country with no real plan but to play music for strangers isn't the most calculated, conservative way to go about accomplishing a goal. But I didn't care. I was going to do it, and I did. 

My travels took me from Denver south to New Mexico, through Arizona, into Southern California and all the way up the western coast. I played guitar in a graveyard, in a cave (talk about killer acoustics!), at the beach, and in some of the most unexpected places you can think of. I collected so many incredible memories that it would be impossible to account for all of them here on this post. I will share with you just a few anecdotes here, but if you want the full story you'll have to wait until I publish my book about all this, which is forthcoming.

Monterrey, CA - I set up and played at a beach in this beautiful town, and as I was setting up a man approached me with his wife, and asked me what I was getting ready to do. I responded, "Well, I was going to play some music here," to which he replied, "Sounds good to me, let's hear it!" And so I began. About 20 minutes into my set, he stopped me and formally introduced himself. This guy was part of Herbie Hancock's band back in the 60's, and his percussion work is on more than one of HH's platinum-selling records from that era. I was stunned. I had just played music for a jazz legend and I didn't even know it.

Portland, OR - I picked a spot to play at a park in Portland. The rain seemed to have let up just for me, or so it seemed. I was feeling particularly romantic at the time, so I decided to play a tune very commonly heard at weddings: Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. Just as I was getting into my second or third trip through the chord progression, I look up to see a full bridal party walking straight toward me. I am not kidding...literally seconds after I started playing this song, a bride, her groom and all of the groomsmen/bridesmaids just SHOWED UP seemingly out of nowhere. I was totally gobsmacked, and so of course I just kept playing. After I was done, the groom came over and asked me if his wife had hired me. I told him no, and he refused to believe me. This is probably the most bizarre memory I have from the trip, and I still can't believe the timing.

I could go on here with at least another dozen or so stories about things that happened to me on the road. While it was an incredible experience, it did have to come to an end. And that end was in Seattle, where I did a capstone performance at Pikes Place market, to a huge crowd that paid me well over $500 in just over 4 hours time. It was an fantastic way to round out a glorious journey.

After defaulting back to Denver and still reeling from what I had just done, I knew that I had to settle back into the life I left. So, I began a job search and re-entered the workforce a few months later. Now, I'm back in the sales game with another full-time, salaried job, but things are different now. They're different because, in those few months I spent doing what I love, I learned more about life and love for music than I ever did in my prior 35 years on this planet. I learned about human connection, about serendipity and about courage.

In those short months, I put my soul on a platter for the entire western half of the US to see and I became a better human being for it.

I'd recommend it anyone. 

- Bret Dallas

New Rig Rundown video up!!

Check out my guitar rig for use in street performance:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbvAnhRPjn0

Ever dream of leaving your corporate job to follow your passion? This guy just did it.

I am a 35 year old male who, for the past 15 years, has worked a steady, salaried job for some company or another. I'm unmarried. I have a dog, a little savings and a slowly growing 401(k). Life is relatively easy. 

But that's about to change. 

You see, for the past 5 years I have been playing soothing, melodic guitar music on the streets of Denver, Colorado and the public response has been nothing short of overwhelming. People genuinely love my music; I know this. I make people happy doing this.

I have been asked more times than I can count, "Why don't you go to _______? You'd kill it there!"

Vegas. Nashville. New Orleans. LA. San Francisco. Chicago. New York...all of these incredible cities that would just love to embrace a musician like me, if only for a few days.

But as you probably know, having a salaried corporate job doesn't typically allow for more than a handful or two of paid vacation days in a year. Also, such a job typically isn't as fulfilling as a job that you are viciously passionate about - something that makes your heart sing every time you 'work'. 

But in America at least, most of us just do our jobs even at the expense of foregoing our true passions. After all, what kind of fool would do something as risky as quitting his cushy corporate job just to play guitar all day?

Well, I'm that kind of fool. 

I'm that kind of fool because I believe that if I truly do what I love to do, and if I work like an animal at it, I can positively change the world way more than I could behind a desk, making sales calls all day. 

I'm that kind of fool because I've realized that my purpose in life has nothing to do with meeting revenue quotas and it has everything to do with leveraging my creative talents to benefit others. 

Playing music had always been more of a hobby than anything else. But now, it's my life.

And I'm asking for your help.

The founder of social networking website SFX.IO, has contacted me about crowdsourcing a sponsorship to tour the United States, playing music in city streets everywhere. This is something that makes me weak in the knees with excitement just to even think about. I cannot even imagine the amount of joy that I would bring to public areas...city centers, parks, shopping malls, courtyards...the possibilities are endless!

But relying on the kindness of complete strangers to fund this? Could I actually, realistically hope for that?

This is where you come in. 

If you support the idea of pursuing a dream, if you yourself have dreams that inspire you to be more than just a corporate drone, consider sponsoring me on SFX.IO. $4.99/month is what I am asking. Here is the sponsor link. 

This kind of support will help me maintain my gear, provide food for me and Kulia (my dog), buy gas for my travels, and most importantly, it will help me give music to the people far and wide across this nation. If I get enough support, I might even consider a world tour!

If you simply want to keep up with me on this journey, feel free to follow me on Twitter and Facebook; I will be posting stories of my adventures as I pursue my true passion, and you'll be along for the ride.

You can learn more about me by visiting my main site. 

I want to be clear: I am not trying to get rich here. I am trying to build a way to bring great music to city streets everywhere, and I am putting my faith in the goodness of humankind to do so. 

Thanks for reading this, and I'll see you on the road!

- Bret Dallas (and Kulia)

A Near Death Experience in the Gym

Here's what just went down:

I picked a spot between two flat benches to do some dumbbell SLDL's. I started my set and - as I do - closed my eyes to focus on my movement.

Well, one of the benches beside which I was working was apparently already spoken for by a colossus of a lifter. I mean huge. This is the guy you stay away from for fear he'll spontaneously explode.

I didn't see him reacquire his bench until I finished up and noticed him lifting not inches from me. This was terribly awkward. I made nothing of it, however, and simply returned my weights and began walking off.

That is, until I heard him mutter something:

"Watch where you're lifting, bitch ass mark..."

He said this under his breath, and as I was wearing headphones, I don't think he intended for me to hear him. But I did.

What is a man to do?

I thought about his comment through the next few sets I had elsewhere in the gym...then I decided that I didn't want to just let this tension fester, so I confronted him about it.

"Hey man," I started, "I have a question for you."

He removed an earbud and gave me a look from the corner of one of his deep-set and bloodshot eyes.

"What?" he replied.

"Well, I just, you know, I saw you working out there I and I was just wondering - I had never heard the term before: bitch ass mark. What exactly does that mean?"

"It means a bitch," he replied, "You bumped me."

"I bumped you? Wait...what?" I said.

I had honestly no recollection whatsoever of coming into any sort of contact with this dude. Scouts honor. There was no bumping had, and I now found myself in a position where that needed to be understood.

He pulled out his other earbud and squared his look at me.

"You know, we can take this outside if you want," he said, "I will fucking fuck you up."

Adrenalin exploded into my system and I could tell that he himself was there already. This dude was right - he wouldfucking fuck me up. I felt like bolting...but I stayed myself.

"It's not about that," I returned, "I genuinely do not remember bumping you. If I had, trust me I would have immediately apologized."

At this point this beast of a man and I were gathering stares from others in the gym. The tension was pretty thick.

"You need to watch where you work out," he said.

"You're right. We all do - and if I bumped you I swear to god I don't remember it, and I apologize," I finished.

He mumbled something incoherent and began turning back to his weights.

"We good?" I asked, offering a hand for him to shake.

"Yea," he replied.

And with that we shook hands, he returned to his weights and I redeemed myself from being a bitch ass mark.

Positivity All Up In This Bitch

The wiser of us say that if you want something really badly, then present your wish to the universe.

"Put it out there," they'll say, "and the universe will provide it for you in time."

Upon first hearing this, my mind defaults to a skeptic's position, generating questions that never get satisfactory answers, even from the most vocal proponents of this 'universe wish granting service' they always seem so high on:

- "Put it out there" entails what, exactly? Saying an audible prayer of sorts? Writing it down, folding the paper into an airplane and launching it off a mountaintop? Scribbling my wish in lipstick across my bathroom mirror then chanting sacred words at it four times daily?

- What happens after I do this, mechanistically? Is there a god or tribunal which reviews my wish and deems it worthy or not of being answered?

- What happens to wishes of ill intention? If I were a madman and wished to burn the Earth, why should this wish be denied me? Who or what makes these judgments?

Etc...

Upon second hearing this, or maybe third or fourth, I stop asking so many questions and instead I grow curious about *why* such huge volumes of people ascribe to this when it's so obvious that it's steeped in faith unsupported in any way by hard evidence.

No one anywhere can prove this. There was a book written some years ago called The Secret which sort of attempted to prove it but let's be honest: this entire subject is way too amoebic and fluffy to fit into a compartment fit for studies, testing and produced data.

It's. Just. Wishful. Thinking. 

That's it. 

No numbers, no calculations, no statistics or trends, and - importantly - no guarantees. 

Proffering your wishes unto the universe promises nothing in return. You're not going to have any *real* degree of confidence that what you 'put out there' will come to you.

...or are you?

My thinking on this is changing now that I have reached a point in my life where I have exhausted every alternative at finding purpose and honest rhythm in my existence. Short of being in an existential crisis, I'm leaving nothing off the table. 

I have spent a lot of time in the past week experimenting with what I'll call a derivation of "The Secret". I would like to herein share how my opinion has changed.

My attempt at 'trying' this way of thinking (hoping, living) involves a very simple concept. Sure, it's ultra cliche' and worn out with every other self-help pamphlet you might find in a therapists waiting room. But here it is, anyway:

Positivity.

Here's what I have been trying; it's a very straightforward mantra - "Put positivity out there, make it your wish. Do this enough, and it will come back to you."

For very many years I have lived anathema to this business of living positively. Without getting into too many details, my brain has for decades been wired to be afraid, skeptical, anxious, reactive and - here's the kicker - negative. 

Who knows the myriad of factors that contributed to this. Thankfully, they're irrelevant to this post.

What does matter is that there is a *choice* involved here. Choosing to think differently about things. About every thing. All things. Because by definition, the universe is "all things", and if I'm going to put positivity out into the universe, then that necessarily has to mean putting positivity into all things. 

I put this into effect about 5 days ago and have been living it since.

Here is what I have noticed:

- I look strangers in the eye more often. 

- I smile more often. 

- I carry myself slightly taller, perhaps prouder. 

- I expect positive outcomes in the smallest of things (not spilling the gas from the nozzle when filling up, etc.)

- Conversations with people are easier, less forced. 

- I respond to negativity with its opposite, which is a massive departure from old habits. 

A good example of the last point is this: just yesterday I was driving out of a parking lot when I inadvertently took up a small part of the opposing lane of traffic. This was a very simple and honest mistake, however the driver of the oncoming pickup truck didn't think so. My window was down and as was his, and I heard him utter, "Asshole," while looking directly at me. 

Now. 

A few weeks ago I would have thrown my car into park, exited my vehicle and demanded that the gentleman and I resolve our obvious conflict right then and there. Because I simple cannot stand to allow another man insult me so outrageously and without defense of myself, right?

That is not what happened. 

Rather, I drew upon the return that the universe was owing me after my first few days of putting positivity out there - I smiled. 

That's right, I smiled. 

A grumpy dude in a truck looked me dead in the eye, called me an asshole and I smiled. 

I didn't even have to think twice about it; that's the odd thing. After having been thinking and acting positively for what was no more than 72 hours or so, I found that smiling back to an insult was almost instinctive. 

It felt truly bizarre. Never in my life have I reacted that way to such blatant disrespect. 

But it happened. And I am sure that because it happened, I was spared a long and painful internal dialogue, consisting at least of the following:

"How dare he. That douchebag. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
"I hope that this guy has good dental insurance because he's about to lose some teeth."

"Doesn't he understand that I made an honest, small mistake in judgement? Why can't he SEE that? I must make him see this or my honor will be forever diminished."

"No one calls me an asshole without some kind of retort. I am less of a man if I don't do anything about this."

...but none of these lines of thinking even entered my mind.

I had trained my brain to be positive about ALL THINGS. That includes being called an asshole in a parking lot. 

As it turns out, there is merit to putting positivity out into the universe. Whether or not all of my problems are solved because of this is yet to be seen, but if I'm only going to judge from the changes I've seen in these past few days, then I'd say there's good reason to continue this trend. 

Today is still Monday. 

There are still bills to be paid, struggles to endure and challenges to overcome. 

But in every small thing I do, with it will go a measure of positivity. 

And, I'm banking, this will make all the difference.