Paying Rent..

I hold a special hatred toward the phrase "couch potato." The visual strikes too close to home...

Shortly after my big hair band failure, I went into hiding. The spirit of doubt set in and carried me along a new path of peril.

It started on a Sunday morning. The knock on the apartment door got me off the couch. Expecting the start of the next day's party, I opened the door. The landlord was standing there with a new tenant. They both looked very agitated as the stench of rotting chicken, cheap beer, and ash trays filled the apartment hallway.

Bob, my roommate, had forgotten to inform me that his physical threat to the landlord a few days prior, along with the absence of our rent, had gotten us evicted. The landlord gave me that afternoon to get out with the apartment left clean. Bob had vanished.

I was on to the next adventure. I was determined to allude responsibility and keep the party alive. I planned to couch-hop.

I would emulate the true meaning of couch potato. The connotations run deeper than just the lazy mindless T.V. surfer. The identity belongs to a person who preys on the weak-willed enabler. This particular predator cares little for those that do the hard work to perpetuate his addictions and lifestyle. After he has exhausted their resources and generosity and it comes time to contribute his part, he becomes a phantom. In summary, to couch hop, is to party at another's expense.

I moved from one couch to another. Mayhem often followed my path. Other's would clean up the mess. I would party until I woke the next morning on the couch I partied on. Usually the sound of another life taking responsibility for their day would alert me to the fact that it was time to hit the road.

I woke up on many different couches. Some couches alone. Some not. Some were in completely foreign places. Some came with surprises.

One morning I awoke around 8 a.m. on a couch with my head pounding significantly. I opened one eye, still feeling the remnants of alcohol and half my face throbbing. When I sat up, I noticed my pillow was a blood-saturated towel. I knew something went terribly wrong the night before. I hobbled to the bathroom to find a stranger in the mirror. Looking back at me was a mangled face. One eye was black and blue and swelled shut, and half of my face was a ripe red from forehead to chin. I could not tell if I was beat up, dragged across the concrete, or mauled by an endangered animal. I had no memory.

Behind me, in the mirror, suddenly appeared Mike, my good friend at the time. Woken by my gasp, it was as if he was expecting to see my ghost. He looked relieved and somewhat surprised to see me conscious.

He walked me through the story of the night before. My insistence to take his BMX bike off a large ramp at 2 a.m. would leave me in a pool of blood. I had convinced him that I was a professional biker. He somehow believed I would make the landing even though I was likely 3 or 4 times the legal limit. I landed with only half the bike under me and half my face embedded in the concrete. They carried me into the house unconscious while his girlfriend held a towel to my head for some time to help stop the bleeding. The group that had gathered for the party that night were not sure whether to call an ambulance. They felt somewhat responsible for my condition having chanted, "Go Mark!"

Somehow their compassion enabled me to see yet another day. I was on to the next couch. Yet, in this case, one more stop would be my last.

The next night I set up camp on a new couch of a good friend's, Kaela. Night after night I piled empty beer cans in her living room with friends I invited over. Each night carried with it increasing havoc from drug trafficking to occasional violence. She would remind me each morning that her day care center was about to open, and that I needed to hide out. I fled the scene. Then unsuspecting parents dropped off their 3 and 4 year olds. It was daycare by day and party mansion by night.

A breaking point came. She started whispering into my ear at day break very softly.. "time to start paying rent..."
Somehow her soft whisper was easy to brush away in the abrupt start of a new day to survive. I continued to snake my way in and out for several months with my charm and phantom scheme. Then one morning she decided the party was over.

She came down the stairs. She pulled the blanket off my head. An authoritative voice hurled out, "Start paying rent now, or get out!"

Like a kid in the cookie jar, I was caught as the snake that I was.
After all of the mustard sandwiches, near death moments, and humiliating scenes, those words..., "Pay rent!"..."Get out!" found me. She didn't just say "get out." She went to the jugular. The words I heard translated, "Walk like a man and not like the dog you are." She demanded a new man to rise that morning. I didn't know where he would come from, but I became wiling to find him.

Mike and Kaela would be there when I most needed them. One couch to save me from the storm. One couch to hurl me into the sea where I would have to learn to swim.

I left that morning determined to never be caught couching again. A new will was birthed in my soul. Whatever the cost, I would find a new man. I would rise above.... I, would pay my rent.

Dying to Sing..

Waking up to a second chance in life means conquering fears of failure and daring to do what you always dreamed. Yet some dreams don't come without a long hard road of humiliation...

When I was eight years old, my brother asked me the classic childhood dream question on a trek down the railroad tracks behind our house. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"A song writer," I said with surety.

I really can't remember a day in my life when I did not sing. Of course only rearview mirrors and shower doors were witnesses back in the day. I often shut my bedroom door, and lip synched stretched out in front of a 5 ft. mirror for hours. I convinced myself I was subbing for Brian Johnson of AC/DC, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith, or even Axle Rose of Guns and Roses. Girls were screaming and I was simply dangerous. But then the stereo fan kicked on and reality set in, I was just a dreamer. I needed confirmation from someone other than the mirror guy.

My amazing twin sister, Alicia, was given the luxury of being begged to sing by my parents growing up. They even resorted to bribery to get her on stage, giving her no possible room to doubt her pure talent. I remember my Mom offering her a pecan pie to sing "Over the Rainbow" for my relatives at a family reunion. She stole the show.

Sure enough Alicia shined all the way from Glee club in high school to K-State singers and paid gigs inspired by audiences watching her performance at Worlds of Fun. Today she is still outstanding and sings for audiences of over 5,000. My parents knew her worth and shouted it from the roof tops. Somehow, I just got lost in her shadow growing up and could only see "The Twin," written across my forehead. I longed for more.

Yet, my confidence was crippled and the ability to sing before others would only come through the aide of alcohol. One night after plenty to drink I would find my first confirmation from an unexpected source. Cruising down the back roads of Topeka to the next keg party, Tom Petty's latest release was screaming on the radio. I screamed along with him out the window at my highest decibels for the car pool and neighborhood to hear.
"Well I'm freeeeee...Free fallin'.........Now I'm freeeeeee...Free fallin'...."

David, my 6' 5", 240 lb great friend and driver that night, looked over to me, grabbed my leg, squeezed it, and shouted over the blaring stereo, "YOU SOUND LIKE A ROCK STAR!"

I remembered those words the next morning and for days after. But somehow it turned into a question, "I sound like a rock star?" Being sober and hung over, doubt settled in. I knew I needed a more professional opinion. I started calling vocal teachers in the yellow pages. I found a former broadway performer, Clark, an excellent fellow and teacher, who actually lived with James Dean in New York once. He was Legit. He could definitely give me some confirmation whether or not I was just a dreamer. I set up my appointment, brought in the piano music for "Sweet Child of Mine," and asked, "Can we do this one?" He looked puzzled of course but was willing. The piano intro began, and I shouted in my best nasal grit,

"She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky..."

Really there could not have been a worse sound than attempting Axle Rose over a choppy, happy piano accompaniment. It was like a spoof movie scene, made to send the audience hurling in disgust. I just wanted it to be over it was so painful to hear.

Carl however, stops playing after the second chorus, turns from his piano bench and says, "Mark, you have a wonderful voice!"

I thought, "You can't be serious! That was awful! And, I don't know if I want 'A wonderful voice.' "

I continued coming for weeks after moving from rock and metal songs to broadway. He even convinced me to audition for a musical at The Civic Theater. I sang two songs petrified before an audience looking for talent they would pay for. I went a little more tame with Elton John. They told me, "Great job!" Yet, still I doubted, did not see myself in the broadway world, and left confused and lost.

I found a store in town called "Sing Aloud!" A tiny shop stacked with tapes of karaoke songs and a studio to record in. Wow!!. I started spending all my money recording every song I thought I could sing. Poison. The Stones. Guns and Roses. Elton John. U2. The Beatles. Styx. The Doors... I created my own pile of tapes that would serve as my audition selection for any opportunity that might come my way.

One night at a keg party, I noticed two really big hair band looking guys, Kenny and Eric. With enough alcohol, I wandered their way. I found out sure enough they were musicians in a band and vitally connected to the world I was looking for. I asked, "So who's your singer?" They said, "we are still looking."
This was it for sure. The moment of truth! I had three audition tapes with me ready for exposure to the two most powerful opinions that would settle it once and for all.

I said, "Guys, I think I may have your singer. Follow me." They followed me out to my car. I played "Come Sail Away," karaoke version with Mark Brende the lead vocal.......We listened in silence. I held my breath and braced myself for the truth. Then suddenly at the climax of the song, they laughed out loud, chuckling, "Awesome!"

They gave me their address, phone #, and the song I would need to learn to audition for real. Sober. I had to sing, "Where the Down Boys Go," by Warrant. I was ecstatic, giddy, and alcohol was beginning to take over. Looking me over one last time at the party, some question was in their eyes, as I began to create a drunken scene before a large crowd of their friends before I drove home again intoxicated.
Daylight came however. I was scared to death. I wasn't sure what really happened for sure. Whether I really could stand before them sober was still to be told.

Yet, I bought the tape. I practiced over and over. The time had come. I arrived to their house in the daylight, no alcohol, still a stranger. We journeyed to the basement where guitar amps, a drum kit, and microphone stands littered the room.

The drums kicked in. I grabbed the mic. One audience member, a drummer named Steve, who would later become my life long friend, was all it would take to make the final call. He leaned in, listened, and at the end shouted, "Kick Ass!"

Officially, I was in a rock band. My first rock band at age 19.

However, our first gig would be my doom. I was so locked up, I ended up secretly drinking well beyond the limit to find the nerve to sing. My speech became slurred. I was hobbling as I approached the stage. Before the audience of 20, mostly musicians, that had the power to butcher me, I attempted to sing. Sure enough, I flopped. I was ridiculous. I forgot the words. I was off key. I had to ask the band to start the song over to find my place. We couldn't even finish two songs. The band was humiliated and wanted no more of drunk Brende. I was out.

My short-lived dream left me stripped, searching, and struggling in a pit of unanswered questions. It would be back to the drawing board to find my rite of passage. Little did I know, David, Clark, Steve, Kenny, and Eric all had a role in saving me that year. But the journey would still be far from over.