From the moment I was aware of other kids, I realized that I wasn't like them. Sure, I had the same two arms, two legs, a head, but the way they thought and the way I thought did not align.
Imagine going your entire childhood without a single meaningful conversation.
It wasn't until I discovered music and records that I began to not feel so fucking alone in this world. I probably felt the same way about my Kiss records that girls feel about their Barbie dolls and teddy bears, but I never slept with my records or held them tight in a thunder storm.
I mean, music may be my only friend, but this dude sleeps alone, get it?
At some point, my love for those records and the larger-than-life mythic creatures who made it led me to decide I wanted to be just like them when I grew up because, even at the age of 12, I knew that I wouldn't fit in anywhere else.
Funny thing is, I never fit in as a musician either. Any band I've ever been in, it has always been the rest of the band all clowning around with one another and me wishing that I could partake in the hi-jinx.
That's not to say that I was an outcast in my own band, but that there was always a sense of separation between myself and the rest of the band that wasn't just a figment of my imagination.
"Wait, you guys went out to see one of my favorite bands after practice and you didn't think to invite me along?"
"We just thought you had other things going on."
"I did, but I sure as fuck would have cancelled them to hang with you guys and see a band I loved."
"Well, next time we'll invite you along."
There would never be a next time.
In fact, if I ever hung out socially with my band, it was usually before or after a gig and only because we had to wait until the headliner had played to get paid or some reason along those lines.
Thing is, I never really minded being left alone because I suck at small-talk and the topics I might wish to talk about would bore the fuck out of most people.
In fact, the shit I write about here is probably the stuff I'd talk about if there had been anyone else to talk to back then.
Thing is, over the years, I've gotten to shoot the breeze with many well-known musicians and a lot of the biggest names have echoed my sentiments exactly.
Knowing that Paul Westerberg, Bruce Springsteen or David Bowie might each feel like a lone island in their own band takes away a little bit of the sting, but then I see a guy like Henry Rollins, who, despite being a self-professed loner, was fortunate enough to have had a friend like Joe Cole.
Back in the '80s when Henry was still singing for Black Flag, I'd read about his friendship with Cole because Rollins would mention him in the occasional interview. At the time, I thought that it was incredibly cool that Henry thought enough of his friend to mention Cole instead of keeping the interview focused only on himself or the band.
But when I heard the news of Cole's death in 1991 from a botched robbery outside the house that they shared in Venice Beach, I remember thinking about how cruel life can be sometimes.
I mean, just when you're resigned to feeling like half a person for the rest of your life, you manage to find that one person who gets you and you allow yourself to entertain the idea that life will always be this awesome.
Every minute you have with this person is such a fucking ball from start to finish that you don't even have time to think "What if?" before some freak incident takes them away forever and leaves you half a person again, only this time you're left to carry the full weight of unspeakable tragedy.
The worst part is that every awesome memory you have of this amazing person is stained forever by one horrible event. Sometimes you wish that it had been you instead, but then you realize it would have been them who would've been saddled with the guilt and loss, leaving you to wonder which is worse.
Then one day I find myself watching a completely random music documentary about cassette tapes ("Cassette: A Documentary Mixtape") only to see Henry Rollins among the handful of rock luminaries being interviewed about their extensive cassette collections. As he describes his love for the cassette tape, Rollins mentions that some of his most cherished tapes are the few left behind by his friend Joe Cole and, before you know it, you find yourself choking up over someone you never met, never knew, and couldn't pick out of a police line-up if your life depended on it.
You don't just feel for Joe Cole in that moment, but for Henry Rollins as well and you think to yourself how cool it would be if somebody dug you enough to keep your cheesy home-made cassette tapes around decades after you were gone just to keep your memory alive.