Black water in the middle of Puget Sound.
An uneasy December night. 1:50 a.m. The port-side deck on the last
ferry for Bainbridge was empty. I was standing by the railing watching
the city grow small. My cymbal bag was next to me, tied to my right
ankle, and there was a cinder block in it. I use the cinder block when
I play—it goes in front of my kick drum. It’s impossible to play
when the kick drum is unstable. The rope tied to my ankle was new and
triple-knotted on both ends. I’d go down in the Sound upright, maybe
see fish eyes. Jeweled fish eyes. But the cold would sting. And the
water pressure. Puget Sound is 900 feet deep in places.
I had become nothing. I was over. I was going over. I had come back
from a six-week tour with 40 dollars to show for it. My Sex in the
City–fed, man-eating girlfriend was done with me. According
to her, I was a womanizing asshole who spent all his time in bars. I
was scum and a failure. I was a waste. Exhausted from the touring and
weeks of nonsleep, I believed her. My shame had risen to a level I
couldn’t take anymore.
All I’d thought about for days was coming home to her and the
apartment we lived in. The Christmas lights in the little tile kitchen.
Getting to sit at our breakfast nook with toast and jam. It wasn’t
much, but the little things in the back of my mind were what kept me
going on that financial bust of a tour. But I didn’t come home to a
smiling face. I came home to a bunch of packed boxes. She was moving
out. She couldn’t “take it anymore.” She accused me of cheating on her
with her best friend. (I couldn’t stand her best friend and hadn’t seen
or talked to her in months.) She needed to be with someone who “wanted
more from life.” She needed to be with someone who could be financially
stable.
I stared at the water. The depth taunted. Would they find my body?
How would they break the news to my parents? I picked up the cinder
block and held it against my chest. A plane flew overhead, and I
thought about what the pilot dreamed the night before. I thought about
the spin of the earth. The time to jump came. Now, must jump. Must do
it.
We met at a Re-bar fashion show. I fell in
love from across the room. I snagged her business card off a table,
e-mailed her, and we met for tea at the Panama Hotel Tea House. We had
white tea. She had amber eyes. She didn’t tell me she was seeing
someone else until the end of our date. But I’d suspected. She said she
was trying to get out of her current relationship, and my feelings for
her made me oblivious to all that that meant. I was single as could be.
There were worlds in her eyes. They were all I saw. She told me she
wanted to see me again. Her boyfriend was out at sea running a fishing
business. Nothing wrong with getting to know her, right?
We started seeing each other regularly. Her boyfriend would be back
in six weeks, and she was going to break up with him so we could be
together. I was totally in love with her, and she seemed to feel the
same about me. We batted rocks with driftwood into Puget Sound. I met
her mom. I wouldn’t kiss her while she was in a relationship with
someone else, although I guess you could say what we were doing was
already, in a way, cheating.
She didn’t end it with her boyfriend when he came back in town. She
disappeared with him for 10 days. Then she told me she was going on a
business trip to L.A. But that was only a half-truth. After the
business trip, she went to Burning Man with him, which I found out from
other people. She finally fessed up to it. Needless to say, I was
devastated. She came back and after a few weeks started calling me. She
said she didn’t know what to do. I remember her telling me that she
loved me and that her boyfriend was controlling. She said she was
afraid of him, and I thought I could show her real love. One night, she
called and said he was out of the picture—that she had broken up
with him for good and wanted to be with me. I was happier than the
sun.
Most musicians are impossible to deal with, and I’m probably no
exception, but it seemed like our lives/careers/neuroses fit together
perfectly. She loved the music and the shows. She loved coming to see
me play. She ran a little fashion business, and I would wear her
outfits. She helped and donated her time and services to the band’s
music video. We made such a good match. She even talked about wanting
to come on tour with me and sell her clothing designs. We were each
other’s biggest fans. It all hummed along perfectly—until I would
leave for tour. Before I’d go, she would become accusatory and mean.
She was always apprehensive about it. I would tell her I loved her more
than anything and I would be back in a matter of weeks. I called and
texted her multiple times a day. The tours ended up being hell, and she
would cry half the time we spoke, and there was nothing I could do or
say to make her happy.
It would get to a point where she would stop taking my calls. And
when we did talk, she would accuse me of being with some girl. I’d get
defensive and we’d argue. It tortured us. I spent more energy worrying
about her than playing music, which I should have taken as a sign that
the relationship wasn’t working. The pressure that touring puts on a
relationship amplifies all the problems in the relationship—and
every relationship has problems. But then I’d make it home and things
would calm down.
How do other musicians do it—go on
tour while being in a relationship? It wasn’t just her who hated it. I
hated it, too. I was full of jealousy because of all the other guys
constantly calling her. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I said mean
things to her about them and cut down their sleazy,
cologne-
wearing, fashion-mogul ways. She had lots of men in her
life. Leaving for tour with them swarming all around her was hard for
me. She would start out supportive; she’d wish me luck. But three days
in, everything would devolve. I would miss her call, not return it
quickly enough—and the cycle of doubt would begin. She thought I
was with some 19-year-old college girl, doing my
Led-Zeppelin-on-tour-at-the-Edgewater imitation, when really I was
stuck driving in Cleveland rush hour, two hours late to a club. I tried
to show her I was faithful, but I don’t think she believed me. I told
her over and over that sloppy drunk girls at bars after shows aren’t
attractive, but she didn’t hear me.
On her side of things, she was turning down invitation after
invitation from other guys to go to Europe and Mexico for getaways. I
felt like I had to compete with these guys the entire time I was with
her. Her boyfriend before me kept at it, asking her out for Valentine’s
Day (for two years). I called them “the suitors”—guys who wanted
to bang her, who always seemed to be on the scene. It riddled me with
doubt.
And it was demoralizing to go on tours and not make money. To work
that hard at something and come home empty-handed. But it was an
investment—and like any other business, it takes money to make
money. I also desperately needed her acceptance of what I was doing,
which was never going to come. Touring was wrong. I was abandoning her,
and my being away made her really sad. I tried and tried to show her I
loved her, but it never worked. I could never prove it. I never had
enough money to fly her to Mexico. I wasn’t going to amount to
anything. She would flip me off in front of her friends when we went
out. Never once did I ask myself why I was with her. Never once did I
realize it wasn’t a good match. She was so beautiful, it intoxicated
me, owned me, and caused me to make wrong decisions at every turn.
I was too busy trying to prove I wasn’t a bad guy, too busy
competing with the suitors she constantly dangled in front of me. What
a mindfuck.
I was standing next to the railing on the
Bainbridge ferry, and I couldn’t move. Couldn’t jump. Yet another thing
I couldn’t do. I stared at the water. I stood there holding the cinder
block, and kept holding it until the boat pulled into the Bainbridge
terminal. A voice over the loudspeaker blared, “All passengers must
disembark the vessel.” So I did. I untied the rope and walked off. I
put the cinder block behind a Winslow Dumpster, sat down, and stared at
the boat I was too afraid to jump off of. I stared at it until the sun
rose. Then I reboarded, rode back to the city, and reentered my life as
a broke drummer scumbag who couldn’t do anything right.
I look back on that night and think: What the fuck was I doing? I
can’t believe I had become that low. I almost sank myself to the bottom
of Puget Sound because of some stupid relationship? A relationship that
was doomed from the moment it started? But this is what touring can do
to a person’s mind. Touring can wipe away common sense. Isolation in
the van gives you tunnel vision. Those endless hours on the freeway
heading home, my self-doubt and self-hatred grew and grew. I didn’t
want to be coming back broke. I didn’t want to lose the girl I loved,
or thought I loved.
Somehow though—even though I was too broke to impress her, too
broke to make her happy—I had paid her share of the rent
the month I was on tour. In fact, I’d been paying for half of her rent
since we moved in together, and the security deposit. And somehow I was
paying for her car insurance. And working for her business for free
every weekend. Somehow she had such huge issues with my financial situation.
Meanwhile, dudes would call at midnight, two in the morning. She
would never talk to them in front of me. I would ask why they were
calling at 2:00 a.m., and she would say it was work-related. I asked if
they knew she had a boyfriend, and she would say yes. Once, I picked
one of the calls up and asked the guy. He didn’t know about me. But the
call was totally work-related, at 2:00 a.m., on a Friday night. She
said I was abusive and controlling because I picked up her phone. If
that was going on while I was in town, I could only imagine what it was
like when I was gone. But I was the bad guy; I was the flirtatious
asshole. My sense of self was zero. I thought, This can’t be
happening to me. I know I’m better than this. Please tell me I’m not
really in a relationship like this.
It’s part of a touring musician’s job to flirt—to talk
to people, to hustle, to sell CDs and merch. Do I want to have sex with
every person I talk to at a show or sell a CD to? No. What I want to do
is make money, make a living, and meet people who come out to hear
music. Meeting nice people on the road when you’re far away from home
is golden. But I was losing my ability to do it. As soon as we finished
a set and it was my turn to man the merch booth, I felt ashamed. I
couldn’t talk to anyone—that would be flirting. I wanted to hide
in the greenroom.
We started going through each other’s phones and computers. It was
madness. I would ask her if she was talking to her ex-boyfriends and
hanging out with them. She would say no. Her phone showed they had
spoken five nights in a row. She’d pick up my phone and see a call from
my brother, not recognize the number, and say I was cheating on her.
She had forgotten my birthday, but we spent three counseling sessions
on my leaving for a two-week tour. I wanted it all to stop, but it kept
getting deeper.
It was embarrassing to look through her phone and e-mail. I never
got the sense she felt bad looking through mine. I looked because I had
to know. And sure enough, she was lying through her teeth. I found one
of the suitors on her MySpace page and wrote him to see if he knew she
had a boyfriend. He replied, “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, but I
would have probably act [sic] the same as you. 😉 Thanks for
getting back to me. Ciao.”
She would look through my phone to even the score, but there was
nothing to see. After being with her for a year, I had no more female
friends. She accused me of being sexual with every single one of them.
I wasn’t even allowed to hang out with my cousin. I sat there and took
the lies and felt lower and lower because of it.
I did the guy thing and thought I could make it better. I could show
her my love was real. Any money I had on tour, I spent on gifts for
her. There were no other women—just me trying to pay down a
student loan, play music, and make ends meet. For bands that aren’t on
a major label, touring is a grind. There’s no glamour whatsoever. Few
bands lead the Radiohead life. Touring for midlevel bands is like
working on a fishing boat. A typical day finds you crammed in a van,
rushing to get to the next city and venue. If you’re not driving,
you’re sleeping or trying to. Food is from Taco Bell and truck stops.
Once at the venue, you unload the gear and wait for a sound check.
After sound check, there may be a couple hours for dinner. Then you
come back, set up, play your set, wait until the last band is finished,
load out, pack up, and get paid. Nights end with you crashed on
someone’s floor next to spilled bong water. Sleep is maybe four hours.
You wake up and do it all again. Twenty nights in a row of this leads
to a strung-out headspace. There’s never privacy, there’s no place for
privacy, and the stress is gargantuan.
How could I have time to be intimate with someone while I was on the
road? I barely had time to microwave truck-stop breakfast burritos.
I think a lot about the mindfuck of it,
the jaws of contradiction, the paradox. She needed and wanted me to
make more money from touring—if I was going to do this with my
life, I did need to make more money from it. I got that. But in order
for that to happen, there would need to be more people at the shows,
which meant more girls, which was not okay, either. So I was screwed
both ways. Come to think of it, she wasn’t okay with me talking to guys
at shows, either. One time, a guy I had known for 10 years came to a
show and got really drunk. At the end of my set, he ran up and gave me
a hug and kiss on the cheek to congratulate me. He was shitfaced. I was
thankful he was there. I hadn’t seen him in forever, and he paid $12 to
see me play. She accused me of having a gay affair with him. He was
straight.
I begged for us to get couples counseling. And after months of my
begging, she relented. I wanted to establish trust and communication. I
wanted to hear her feelings and work things out. But the counseling
didn’t help. She dominated the sessions, and the counselor just enabled
her issues, never calling them out. I was “leaving” her when I toured,
I wasn’t “making enough money,” and I was “interacting with girls at
bars”—a huge fear of hers. I tried for two years to prove I
wasn’t a sinner, and never could. How do you prove that something that
didn’t happen didn’t happen? That is the crazy thing about a
relationship with a lot of built-in distance: You’re not around each
other. You just don’t know. Your worst suspicions grow and grow, and
you have no way of knowing what’s real.
What the hell was I doing with this girl? How pathetic was I? I was
too in love with her, or obsessed, or infatuated, to realize that deep
down I would never trust her. I couldn’t face it. My friends told me to
end it. But I thought it was love; I could show her, show them. I
wasn’t going to abandon her. Meanwhile, she had talked so much shit on
me around town, I’d pass people on the street who knew her and they
would practically spit on me. After one of these encounters with a
friend of hers, I e-mailed the friend asking what was up, and she
replied:
I thought you were bad-news due to what she told me (horrific
stuff!). I was just trying to support a friend at that time by
believing her stories. Sorry.
I was that asshole drummer who treated his girlfriend so bad. I
became extremely defensive and depressed. Toward the end, she had
stopped acknowledging we were together at all, even though we lived
together.
Then I started making money. We had toured
through places a few times by then, people knew us, and we were getting
some real money for the shows.
I was returning home from a 10-day run down the West Coast with
money and gifts, feeling proud, when I got a call from a friend who had
seen her with an ex-boyfriend. It crushed me back to nothing. I
confronted her about it when I got home, and she said she hadn’t seen
him. She denied it. That was my greeting. Welcome home, have a lie. I
said, “Let’s look at your phone; I know you’re lying.” She said, “Let’s
look at your phone.”
And then it happened. My lie. I handed her my phone, telling her I
had nothing to hide, and there was a text on it from “Mich” that said,
“I’m in boots and nothing else, get over here drummer boy.”
It was from a girl who was the promoter’s friend at a club in Vegas
we had played. Everyone had exchanged numbers at an afterparty. “Mich”
and I had exchanged stupid joking texts the day following the show. She
was a single mother, really nice, and had paid to come see my band,
which helped put a couple hundred dollars in my pocket. I never saw her
or spoke to her or had anything to do with her again, but my girlfriend
was on the offensive and I had a suspicious text on my phone. Never
mind her lie. I froze, did the dumbest thing possible, and told
her “Mich” was a guy in one of the bands we played with and we were
joking around. She pressed the green button. I grabbed the phone out of
her hand. Then I told her who “Mich” really was. She grabbed the phone
back and threw it against the wall, smashing it into pieces. She
screamed, “I knew it all along!” and ran out of the room.
We did the back-and-forth, off-and-on thing, until she eventually
started dating a younger model down in L.A. Which is funny, because she
had always told me that I was going to cheat on her with a 20-year-old
model from L.A. She had gone to L.A. to clear her head, she said. She
was dating this model guy but still telling me she loved me.
She came to two of my shows in Seattle and called me crying in the
middle of the night telling me she missed me and really wanted to see
me the next day. We met and talked about starting over, but when I
found out about her L.A. model, I was pissed. I found out he was coming
into town to stay with her. I sent her a text message or three telling
her to fuck off. Then I had to go on a tour down the West Coast. She
told Mr. Model about the ugly text messages I sent her, and he wrote me
a threatening e-mail that said, in part:
Trent, you should immediately stop this insane and stupid behavior.
I’m giving you a fair warning. You are creating a recipe for a very
bad situation. I have very little patience for what you are doing…
STOP THIS FUCKING SHIT NOW! I’m only going to say it once. The choice
is yours from here on. Also, never talk to her again. EVER. You
really don’t want to get me involved. Trust me. Take this very very
serious Trent. Continue writing and playing music and try to enjoy
life. NEVER EVER CONTACT HER AGAIN; EMAIL, CALLS, TEXT, MESSENGER
BIRDS. ERASE HER INFO. DON’T EVEN TELL HER ABOUT THIS MESSAGE. Its
your choice. Don’t get curious about me either. You don’t want to see
what happens. I never want to hear that she was contacted by you
again man. JUST WALK AWAY AND LIVE IN PEACE.
Don’t make me your enemy. I’m very serious. I cannot express how much
I mean it.
P.S. my friends said you did well at the silver lake lounge the other
night. keep up the good work. keep away from her. its a simple
request. you’ll be glad you did it.
she better not her about this message!!!!!!!!!
Thinking back on it, when she and I started dating, I’d basically
written the same macho, chest-puffing letter to her ex (minus the
threats of violence) telling him to stop contacting her and to leave us
alone. I see now that it was a textbook cycle of emotional abuse and
lies.
I didn’t feel comfortable having my tour schedule in the public
domain for her new boyfriend to see. He was obviously upset. Great, now
I was going to have to start wearing a Kevlar vest. I was already
freaked out enough as it was.
I texted her one last time telling her that lawyers had her new
boyfriend’s letter to me and that he should quit it with the threats.
She replied that I deserved whatever he said. That’s the last
communication we had.
Over time, the hardest thing for me to
accept was that this relationship never should have begun at all, that
those three years were a waste, that I’m that big of an idiot. I’d like
to say there are good times to remember, but they are hard to let in.
She did have nice pets. Her Chihuahua was a pleasant animal. But the
more I remember, the more I see how dumb I was. There are so many worse
things going on in the world than a drummer’s broken heart. I needed to
get a grip. And I did. Finally.
I’m in another relationship now, and we’re taking our time. We trust
each other and have our own lives. We don’t get bogged down in all the
worry and contempt. Texting seems to be the best way for us to
communicate when I’m on a tour. Texting is a way to stay in touch
without trying to have an impossible phone conversation in a crowded
van. We talk when we can. It’s been cool to tour and be able to put all
my energy into playing shows. Imagine that—touring and
concentrating on the music. It is possible to be in a relationship and
be on the road after all. We’ve been seeing each other for eight
months. 
Trent, you’re obviously a good soul. Let’s hope you’ve learned the identifying markers of Psycho Bitches so you can steer clear of ’em from now on.
And for what it’s worth, almost all of us have some version of this story in our pasts. Glad you lived through it, too.
Good mindfuck Stranger-boy Trent; real good yum like these kinds of stories make my day see how the other half lives good human interest wow so keep it up no pun intended gopher it Moorman Stranger traveller pilgrim
I saw the situation between Trent and this girl carry on from the beginning to its end.
This girl lied her way through the entire relationship. She lied and had no conscience. She lied without regret. She worked him and played with his heart and his mind from day one.
I for one am glad to see her called out. I was friends with one of her previous exes and she cheated on him. And did the same thing to the guy before that.
Man Eater is right.
Whoever ‘deslisla’ is, you are full of shit. Who’s the stalker? From your comments, you might want to look in the mirror. If there’s a restraining order that needs to be filed, it doesn’t need to be against him.
I’m glad you’re here Trent. Keep it coming.
It is interesting that the comments here have much in common with the relationship Trent writes about. A side taken, a preconceived notion whose bias is mostly a reflection on the commentor, not the article. No thought that things are usually some shade of grey, not black and white. No desire to learn anything or think openly but rather just verbiage to convince who (yourself) that yes, you are solid in your views, justified and obvious. But what the fuck does anyone know of Trent, the gf, or the relationship? Even the comments on the motive to write/publish the article are not so simple- a public literary bitchslap? A piece to help other folks floundering in their relationships? Catharsis? Publicity for the band? To have the final word, or to keep the dialogue with her going? Or what mixture of these things and others? The comments are so strong yet uninformed and perception is reality- the dangers of this being one of the points of the article, I think.
So Moorman is creating more new accounts to support himself. Classy.
#53 – another example of Trent making up stories/comments. That new chick better run! ha! and Dave Einmo should be embarrassed to have him in his band.
There are drummer jokes for a reason
Everyone has gone through this or will go through it at some point, which is why it was decidedly uninteresting. The biggest problem with the piece is that while he admits the petty jealousy of their arguments he still has a painful desire to be on the winning side, on the record, for everyone to see.
What with all the whining about whether this is worthy of being printed in The Stranger? I can’t tell you how many Stranger articles I’ve began to read but simply lost interest; this one I actually bothered to finish! And no I don’t really care if every word of it is “true” or “biased”, it’s written from one side’s perspective (duh!). If the ex-girlfriend cares enough to write about her side of it, we’d be happy to read that too.
Broken Hearts Are For Assholes…
keep the beats flowing and your head out of your ass drummerboy.
One of the worst long-form “features” the stranger has ever run. So totally lacking in wit, style or self-awareness.
Would you like to read an endless, pointless, entirely self-justifying diatribe about why I REALLY REALLY HATE my ex-girlfriend? And how I never did anything wrong EVER but she was a total lying bitch about it anyway? And, god, I bet she’s really (finally!) gonna feel bad when she reads it.
You wouldn’t? I can’t imagine why not…
#55, deslisla, you didn’t have to help illustrate my point by example, but thanks
What happened? Did the Weekly find this guy’s story too boring?
I’ve never Heard Head Like a Kite and I sure as shit won’t bother now. Listen to some Slayer and grow a pair.
One of the best long-form “features” The Stranger has ever run. This really hit home for me in many ways. Tough times right now for the music industry and the country at large. I applaud the musicians and the writers and the artist who keep doing what they are doing.
@ 50, Desisla: I’m late 30’s and don’t have my own place. Lost my job, and struggle for work to pay all my bills. I have a masters degree to pay for as well. Have you looked around? This author isn’t not the only one in that boat. (No pun intended, too soon?) Or are you too busy being a bitch and playing your victim card to realize how off you are?
And to that: I’ve been regularly reading Trent’s work in The Stranger for 2 years now and from what I can see online, he writes for multiple publications. I’ve seen and heard him play music in 4 or 5 separate projects and he’s got mad skills on the kit. Regular work? Damn, I wish I was this busy.
He’s a musician and a writer, doing it regularly and working hard. Fault him all you want, but you’re the one who ends up looking bad.
You stalk the comments then accuse someone of stalking. Your game is played and old. People like you need to realize other people aren’t there for you to just walk over.
I had a very similar GF to this one. So this is personal.
I can see the point of everyone claiming that this is a bit too whiny and personal and doesn’t deliver on the promise of measuring touring’s true impact on a relationship. All are valid criticisms.
But, taking it as read, it seems pretty obvious that Desisla is probably Trent’s ex’s current boyfriend, or a man in her life that she has worked up.
With a different title, or goal, the article could well have been about how certain women use guilt and paranoia to control the men in their lives. It is only a man in that state, whose emotions have been properly stoked, who can do pathetic things like write threatening emails or trash someone on a comment board with personal information, with that kind of abandon.
Anyone who can hop from one relationship to another without a re-group and recoup period alone is a red, red flag. Doesn’t matter what one is running from or running to. If someone can do that, it demonstrates a real lack of the kind of depth a healthy relationship must have.
There sure are a lot of people commenting on how pointless and stupid this piece was.
I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that they’re probably the ones who’ve never had an experience like this and think they’re too good to ever get involved in one. Ugh. Grow up.
Yeah, it’s kind of a trite story… but, you know, if it’s so trite, why does it keep happening, all the time, everywhere? There’s something valuable here, even if there is pettiness and self-pity.
I can’t comment on the relationship but I do know Trent left his previous band under some pretty… interesting circumstances because of his behavior.
Anyone that plays music and has toured can identify with this story. Great story btw.
Anyone who has been in a relationship with a liar can identify with this story.
Anyone who travels a lot for work and is away from their partner a lot can identify with this story.
The comments this girl is sending in and getting her friends to send in show her true colors. She sounds like she’s continuing to accuse and she sounds like she needs to get back into therapy. I have a couple guy friends who are with women like this – that punish them by having other guys. The answer is simple, they need to break up with the women. But they don’t! What’s wrong with you men?
The author was stupid and lame for staying in it, yes. However, he would have been an ‘abandoner’ if he had cut out.
Mindfuck is a great word for this!
I’d also like to say how much I love reading about how fucked up other relationships are. God it’s entertaining.
Trent left one of his previous bands because the singer was a wastoid pot head. They never toured and weren’t going anywhere. Where are they now? Nowhere.
Interesting circumstances because of his behavior? What like not wanting to be stuck in a basement doing bong hits for the rest of his life?
I wish he were my drummer!
Hey Trent… at least your ex isn’t like this drummers… LOL
http://seattle.craigslist.org/see/zip/13…
Someone mentioned This American Life. They did a great show on breakups, including a piece by a girl who was blindsided by the end of her relationship and decided she was going to learn to write the perfect break up song. THAT was a story. It took an experience that we could all relate to and elevated it to story level by putting an unusual twist on it.
What was the content of Trent’s piece? He meets a girl, she treats him badly, she leaves him, he contemplates suicide, gets angry letters from the new bf (who is the most interesting character in this article with the funny messenger birds line), and meets a new girlfriend. Excuse me, but big fucking deal. Where was the actual story here?
Trent certainly wasn’t a compelling character. His only flaws were being too naive, according to him. He described his ex in such stereotypical terms as “Sex in the City-fed” and the new boyfriend as “LA Model.” There was no depth or unique quality to any of these characters, or interesting outcome/ realization of any kind on the part of the author.
Nothing interesting or out of the ordinary happened here. So what was the point? This felt like something I’d read on Live Journal, not in a newspaper.
I’ve been the ex-girlfriend. Guess what, I had low self esteem and did not appreciate my boyfriend’s enabling. Subsequently, I lost someone I actually cared about, because I acted like such a fool, and he wouldn’t take it. I still respect him for that. Though we’ve since parted ways, he had the greatness of character to never make me feel like crap about it either. Sometimes there’s only one way to learn a hard lesson. The only thing that got me to change was wanting the good person I felt like inside to be the same as the person who interacted with everyone else. This came in handy when I met my love of now 8 years. I should feel lucky only the first boyfriend has tried to vilify me in my family’s eyes as opposed to the entirety of The Stranger’s readership. (This move resulted in me refusing to speak to my family for two years, after all where do you think I inherited my low self esteem?) I have no sympathy for that tool (BF#1), he was after all getting sex I didn’t have the self respect not to have. This guy was doing the same thing, thinking with his little head and whether he cares to admit it or not, reaping the sex. I was 18, no one felt sorry for me, nor does anyone feel sorry for the multitude of women who play the girl-version of Trent’s role. Therefore, it would be sexist to feel e/sympathy for Trent. Since he’s a musician, I think a song might have been more artistic than this particular read.
I saw Trent’s current girlfriend with some dude the other day. Oh shit hope that doesn’t make him write another Gone With the Wind and cry in the shower. Loser
I saw Trent’s current girlfriend with some dude the other day. Oh shit hope that doesn’t make him write another Gone With the Wind and cry in the shower. Loser
Anyone ever think that Trent doesn’t have it all? Was it really all her fault? I know this situation well. Guess how long it been over and done?…Over two years. Get over it. What the hell is he still crying for? He’s 38 and still a boy. Concentrate on getting your sorry life together.
Good news, she sounds like a controlling psycho bitch who plays the victim to make you feel like shit so she seems like a goddess in comparison. If I were her doctor I’d prescribe a daily dose of shut the fuck up and tell her to call me in a year.
Uh… Seriously???? and as the FRONT PAGE STORY?!?!….. boooooo f**king HOOOO… buck it up dude… shit happens, thats life.. ya can whine and whine or learn from the mistakes… but for CHRISSAKES on the front page of the stranger?!?!… dude thats what your freinds are for.. not a public smear like this.
Also this sounds AWEFULLY one sided… so you were a complete angel, never did anything wrong, it was ALLL her she was pure evil… wonder what her side is… like a VERYwise freind told me once.. there are THREE sides to evry story… his, hersa, and what actually happened.
And you seriously gave the letters to a lawyer?!?!…c’MON man up here. Tell him yer gonna do what ever the f**K ya want and he’s gonna like it or lump it.
I guess the REAL patheticness is that I am responding to this…. man am I bored… but dude… stop the whining, grow some and write a good country song about it!!
Don’t know how do this non anonimously so I’ll sign right here… William Blaak
To those of you who can’t do anything but call the writer a looser, and the like?
Tell us your life stories. Or do you have that courage?
What a poignant story. I’m sure there are so many men whose jobs require them to travel alot can relate to this dilemma; fisherman, truck drivers, band members, salesmen and the like. In the end it sounds like it was a win-win situation for both of you and it sucks that you had to go through all that drama. Thanks for sharing Trent.
All stories are one sided. Even “news” stories. You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to agree with it. You don’t have to give two shits about it, but guess what? Way more mother fucking people are gonna read his story than your whiny little comment about how you felt forced to read some story that you didn’t like JUST BECAUSE IT WAS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE STRANGER …
I dunno as far as pathetic goes …
thank you, trent. i, for one, thought it was a great article.
@65 – Sorry for your losing the job; but that’s not incompetence, you have proven yourself with the Master degree. Trent, however, was an irresponsible guy who couldn’t hold down a single job. Good entrepreneurs can start a business/band/whatever while keeping themselves afloat.
Regarding comment stalking, he laid it all out for himself. Moorman started this article himself, with TheStranger’s blessing for publication. If he is allowed to throw his diatribe out here, her friends (like me, and no, I am not the current bf, not even a boy) who know her are certainly going to call him out for what he is.
He started this. 2 years after the breakup. Doesn’t the existence of this article show his character by itself? If I were the head person/manager at Head like a kite (and I believe Dave had more than enough managerial experience at MS) to fire this person. This is bad for branding and their reputation. Trent’s skill is easily replaceable. It’s not like he is the 1st violin at Seattle Symphony.
Real men move on. But some boys never grow up. Good luck to his current girlfriend.
This guy should chuck his kit and replace it w/ a DEAD HORSE!
Irony: that the greatest and final testament to how pathologically and embarrassingly fucked-up was this situation/relationship and ALL those involved was the publication of the “article” itself. One could only redeem himself by disavowing any involvement and moving on, but no, we get a feature-length article dripping with tales and signs of rampant personality disorder.
It’s hard to wonder if Trent has a secret enemy at The Stranger who gave him the venue as “enough rope.”
@29 LOL! the cute lepers… lost a member in the last year…” tee-hee! Get it? How often?
And, YES, I’m busted: I admit I’m pathetic enough to have read the whole article AND all the comments ranging from 1 to 13 on the Lame Scale. You know who you are.
This is seriously fucked up.
Worst thing ever. Super super gross.
Anyone who has been in a band or a crew know’s the truth of all of this. If you can’t relate then you should consider yourself lucky.
That or you’re not in the industry and don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.
I guess no news is bad news for the stranger. Why else would they put this vomit on the site? This guy is pathetic for writing this…I guess all touring musicians go through this situation. I guess none of them can sustain relationships and all have jealous girlfriends. Then I guess all musicians should date each other on the road.
I don’t really believe my last statement just like I don’t believe this sorry excuse for a human being Trent. What a SOB. I hope the people you’re writing about (including your current girlfriend”) have more class than you. I guess you should watch behind your back when you’re performing when you pull these kind of putrid stunts. I know he better never have a show in my town.
What a great story. Heartfelt and well written.
And that psycho bitch is still stalking him in the comments. Probably has a substance abuse problem.
By the way, Sweetie, if you are reading these comments, no one believes you because you can’t fake what Trent wrote. Every word rings true to anyone who has dated someone like you.
This comment thread is a fucking work of art.
I don’t think it matters what the feature piece is like in The Stranger. People are always going to have good & bad comments.
Personally, I have been on both sides of this situation & really, it sucks. I took it as lessons learned rather than a waste of time.
People like her obviously have issues that need to be talked about in counseling. Something that she needs to take care of before getting into one relationship after another.
As far as Trent goes. Good for you realizing that you deserve different. And good for you for not being the stereotypical touring boyfriend who will cheat on his girlfriend. Better yet, congratulations on what seems like a more healthier relationship.
Hahaha. What a fuckin loser this guys is man. For every negative comment about his story he writes a comment under another name. Guess what dumb ass…some people know everyone you wrote about and they have lots of wonderful friends that care deeply about them. They are good and loving people. We know the situation. We know that you’re a liar, manipulative, pathetic, and a 38 year old no home having, jerking off under your panda suit, compulsive stalker and a waste of the little talent you have. So for you to write this means that you want to cause trouble in a small town. Those two are happy and forgot about you. I told them about this story and they laughed it off. Everyone else has a peaceful life and has forgotten about you. You put yourself out there as a target Trent. Good luck sleeping a night you idiot.
It never fails that a bunch of people will line up to crap on the person who shows some vulnerability. Really, the nasty comments are just boring.
Reading this, I felt old.
I think people get into these drama laden relationships because it feels exciting. A lot of people are sleepwalking and the emotional intensity of chaotic, unhealthy relationships wakes them up. They feel alive, at least at first. I don’t know if you can say that relationships can be addictive the way substances are (although a lot of people do say this), but there are similarities. The addrenaline rushes that come with intense fights or being furious with someone and about to leave, can be drug-like, particularly when they’re followed up by the redemption of making up which in turn is also drug-like.
The problem is that this stuff not only becomes a lot less exciting with repetition, but also aggravating and tedious. Still, one or both partners in the relationship might hang in there hoping to recover that original sense of excitement–just like that first high that addicts are always trying to recapture–or that eventual sense of relief when the drama stops. (Think meth or crack versus heroin or benzodiazepines.)
In reality, relationship are not all about excitement and peak experiences. People in long term relationships who say that they still feel that tingly, infatuation adrenaline high, every day when they think about their partners are full of shit. It doesn’t work that way. If it did, none of us would accomplish anything else. We’d all be self-obsessed and kind of dumb. Body chemistry even changes at relationships progress. People produce hormones that cause a sense of comfort and well-being instead of excitement.
Add all of the above to a relationship between two people involved in careers that thrive on adulation and breed insecurity–both (careers) depend on other people’s praise–and it’s just worse (i.e. more intense drama, deeper pain and loss, more risk of rejection: your career could end/never get started if people don’t like you).
Seems like a person could lose their sense of direction in life and get caught up in a lot of petty bullshit (e.g. the writer’s girlfriend leading a bunch of men around by their dicks just to feel attractive and loved, the writer wasting money on a woman who will never be satisfied with him for reasons that have nothing to do with him).
To the writer: Good luck with all this. I hope you find your balance.
I can’t believe a 38-year-old man wrote this.
And I’d just love to see the response if a woman had written it about an ex-boyfriend.
so, when is the stranger going to publish grown-up articles? who cares about this guy’s romance problems? there are about a thousand topics that would make for a more interesting and informative read, but i suppose when you are reading a glorified junior college paper, that’s too much to ask for.
Holy shit Trent. She dumped you over two years ago and you’re still not over this…dude. I thought you were an ok person but now I see you’re crazy. And as far as I know, she had to pay the rent for the three months you lived in that apartment together. Get a life fella.
I think I’m going to stop reading the Stranger. Completely irrelevant, self-absorbed, and boring. Someone needs to start a new paper in this town. Maybe I will.
I probably just would have written a song about it instead.