What follows is collection of memories that were pretty hard for me to recall. This may be difficult for some readers. It was difficult for me to write it. This is my tribute to PJ on his 30th birthday.
I used to spend a lot of time with Paul back in the day. I met Paul in January, 1996. I was living in a one bedroom apartment in Glendale across the street from GHS. Laura was six months pregnant with Danielle. I was really struggling in life, as I was prone to do in my early twenties. Paul had found his way to Lake Avenue where I was pretty deeply plugged into the college group at the time. I’m not sure how that worked out seeing as I wasn’t really in college at the time. But that’s neither here nor there.
I don’t remember the ocasion but Paul came over to the apartment and brought his guitar with him. We started tooling around together and after a while, we knew that we enjoyed playing together. We mainly were playing songs by bands that we liked. Paul had a singing voice at the time that sounded impecably like Hootie’s so we ended up playing a couple of their songs. We both liked the late, great Plankeye at the time so a couple of their tunes crept into our playlist. Flood by Jars of Clay was another one that we played a lot. Our harmonies were pretty good too.
It was the cool thing for aspiring musicians back then to head out to Old Town Pasadena, open our guitar cases on the sidewalks and play for hours and see what we could collect in the cases. There were some acts that were very good and actually went places. Paul and I had built up a fairly sold repertoire and decided to take our act to the streets. We actually did fairly well. We’d go out there and play hard…we didn’t have amps so in order to be heard, we’d beat the hell out of those guitars. Our fingers would bleed, but we were passionate about what we were doing so it didn’t matter. Besides, the blood stains on our guitars were cool as hell.
One Monday night in early April, 2001, PJ and I were out in Old Town rockin our mad cover-tune skills, donating blood to the city sidewalks and the manager for a pretty happenin’ bar in the area was part of the crowd that had collected around us. When we were done with our set, he came up to us introduced himself and let us know who he was. He told us that he had been looking for a musical act to perform on Tuesday nights at his bar for the college crowd to whome they were trying to cater. He gave us a bunch of VIP passes and invited us to come back to visit with him more in depth.
I was a broken down young man.
Laura who was now nearly at nine months had broken up with me, and I had pretty much given up on everything in my life (including, at one point, almost my life). There wasn’t much that I was able to find hope in, but that night, when we were asked to perform at that bar, there was something about that that gave me hope. I was ready to screw everyting and do whatever was necessary to do music and only music. Paul dropped me off that night at my cold, dark apartment (no electricity) and I fell asleep on the couch. We were planning on going back out to Pasadena the next day to do this all over again…and maybe go check out the bar that was scoping us out.
The next day started like the ones before it. I was hungry, had nothing to eat, and was looking forward to going back out to Old Town to do the music thing. Music equalled money. Money equalled dinner for a night…in most cases at the taco truck on the corner of Fair Oaks and Walnut. Things changed that day, though. That was the day that Danielle was born. That day was a wakeup call, to say the very least and needless to say, the delusions of musical grandeur that were set in motion the previous night were called to a skreetching halt.
I have no idea what anybody saw in me at that point in my life. To remember this stuff today while I write this pains me. But whatever it was, there were a few people that let me call them my friend. Paul was one of those people. At the time, I don’t think I had the capacity to appreciate that as much as I should have. But I do know this…
I had a few people in my life back in those days that continued to be a friend to me, through my brokenness and dysfunction. Despite the fact that I was unable to be a friend back to them. I could write long-winded tributes to each of them. One of the folks, though, that is at the pinacle of these friendships was Paul. We continued to be friends through a few more years, as I started to improve my situation in life, and we continued to be involved in music together, in a far more meaningful capacity…being lead worshippers for the Warehouse Service alongside the wonderful Dan Radmacher.
Life moves on and people move in different directions. The Good Lord has granted me the opportunity, though, to keep tabs with Paul through the years and with the invention of the weblog, get to reconnect with him on a regular basis. Back then I think I might have taken Paul’s loyalty for granted. I’m not sure…maybe I didn’t, but as I conjure up these memories, I feel like I did. But Paul, you do need to know this. Just the fact that you were there during those times, is something for which I will always be grateful. Your impact on my life is immeasureable.
The Almighty used you as a mighty tool in my life and I have to thank you for allowing yourself to be that, whether you knew that or not.
May the next ten years be as great as they should be. To Paul, on your thirtieth…happy birthday, brother.
Hey, Paul…tell Scott I said happy birthday also.