"How much do you keep close to your chest?
How much to spill out on a cheap, magenta carpet?
Keep your eyes peeled for a train wreck of epic proportions."
-Edmond McLoch
30.8.06
20.8.06
(((DREAMSCAPE #Q)))
I was in a run down hotel room out on a desolate stretch of interstate. A C-shaped one, like a tumor, a blemish, branching off the interstate, a minor bump in an otherwise flawless, 200-mile dead straight stretch between two places that are of little consequence to the bigger scheme of things. It was the kind of place you go to kill yourself, some one else, or catch/give an STD from/to a hooker or your neighbor’s wife. No amenities to speak of, no cable, no HBO, no waterbeds. When there was water, it wasn’t recommended for drinking or bathing in. Really it was just something to marvel at if you were lucky enough to get it; like an ejaculating statue of Jesus (see you in hell, bitches). The pillows had knife holes in them, most of the doorjambs showed evidence of doors being kicked in, whether by amped up police or people with nothing but the worst of intentions. The carpets came up about 4 inches short from the wall, the crevice filled with dead flies, live cockroaches, cigarette butts, and mutated DNA. The ice machine had been converted into a rat’s nest, shored up with fallen hair extensions, yellowed scraps of abandoned porno magazines, and hardened, used condoms.
I walked past the office, loud tinny sounds of fucking screamed from the TV that the Pakistani desk clerk was zoning out on. He was blessed with selective hearing. Screams, gunshots, car crashes, questions– he heard none of it. Just the T.V. I walked over to a room at the back and entered without knocking. Gary Busey was lying on the bed in his underwear, coked out and aiming a shotgun a large tree that was inexplicably in the corner of the room. At the base of the tree was a wheelbarrow overflowing with quarters. A small black boy was taking the quarters one at a time, climbing up the tree, and putting them into the bulging pockets of a man who looked scared and was apparently cornered in the tree by Busey and his shotgun.
“Keep puttin’ th’ money in, Mamadou, ‘til the weight takes Mr. Big Winner down. When he falls, his buddy is gonna wish he’d never cracked wise wit’ the likes o’ me.” He chortled and did another blast of coke out of a bullet.
Next to the wheelbarrow I saw ‘Buddy.’ He was staked down to the ground like Gulliver, fallen by a 6' drug-addled and armed Lilleputian, and from the looks of it a swift blow to the head by what one could safely assume was the butt of a shotgun. Thin, cheap rope criss-crossed over his torso and legs, holding him down right where Tree Man will land when he can’t withstand the force of gravity any longer. I imagine it will inflict a bit of damage, as I could see that the Tree Man already was burdened with an ungodly amount of change. Pounds of government issued tokens were shoved into whatever part of clothing would accept them. It was amazing to me that the fabric of his suit was holding up.
Apparently, the Tree Man had won $1,000,000 from Busey in some bet and he was a bad winner. Unfortunately bad losers tend to be more dangerous than bad winners, and Busey was a bad loser. This was where we stood now, Tree Man run up a tree, ‘Buddy’ tied up, and Mamadou slowly adding to the already impossible weight of money in Tree Man’s pockets. At some point I saw that they were going to have to throw some feed bags around his neck as you could only force so many quarters into your average, every day 3 piece suit. Even the most high-end tailors tend to be ignorant of the fact that sometimes you need the space for four million quarters.
I’ve decided to stick around for the end game, curious to see if it played out until the end, or if Busey’s coke binge turns on him and he suddenly decides he needs to go kill Steven Segal for stealing his thunder in Under Siege (not actually true, but you know how actors are– no self-esteem, spiteful. You could tell him a million times that he clearly stole every scene out from under Segal’s ham-fisted, 1 dimensional ‘crafting’ but he’d never believe you).
To kill time between the now and later, I dump a small box of mine on the ground. It’s full of rich, black soil and tidbits from my past, some of them dirtied but intact, others cracked and irreparable. Mixed in with the debris is a small microphone, a clip-on type that plainly has no future in the recording industry. Busey sees it, jumps out of bed and snatches it from the mess.
“Yur fuckin’ bugged I knew it Take off yur shirt, mutherfucker, lit me see ”
I’m not scared, really just amused. I strip down to my boxers and turn in a slow circle, smiling, with arms outstretched.
“Take a look, psycho. You see anything?”
He sees I’m clean and tells me to put my clothes back on, looking at me out the corner of his eyes, a little embarrassed at his accusations, and I’m sensing not too comfy being in a hotel room, in his underwear, with another man in his underwear as well. If anyone saw, the tabloids would have a field day. Forget the coke, the shotgun, the hostages and wheelbarrow full of change, this was all par for the course, old news in the life of Gary Busey. But, stop the presses, Busey in a homosexual fling in a by-the-hour motel? That accusation hadn’t been leveled at him before and he was clearly unwilling to deal with that scenario, on top of everything else.
I’m enjoying his discomfort and regardless of the gun, coke, and the potential for sudden and uncontrollable violence, I decide to push him.
“You know, I could have a mic in my underwear. You wanna check?” I ask coyly.
“Nah, that’s fine. G’wan, put yur clothes back on. Stop foolin’.”
“No, we’re gonna settle this now. I don’t want you getting the idea in your coked-up head later that you should’ve checked and freak out on me again.”
He is clearly unhappy with this, and incredibly uncomfortable at the idea of seeing me, junks and all.
So I take off my underwear and he squeals, looking away with one eye, but that human curiosity dragging the other eye to jerky glances at my kibbles and bits. I grab my scrotum and pull in up over the... the.. frank? Yes, the beans over the franks. It’s unusually stretchy and I pull it all the way up to mid-stomach, making it look like I’m wearing some fleshy bikini bottom– stray hairs and follicle bumps give it an unappetizing appearance. I look like a smoothy.
Busey screams at this maneuver and I chased him around the room talking nonsense in a robot voice as Mamdou keeps adding quarters, one at a time.
17.8.06
A Quickie
As great as it would be, watch the film. It’s a fucking ostrich!
Well, I suppose that we’ll never get another City Slickers now. It’s a shame really. Through all of this, the deaths of William Burroughs, Syd Barrett, now Bruno Kirby, and a literal slew of other greats who’s names escape me as I sit here in this coffee shop, caffinated and in need of a urinal, and Kenny G. and Dolph Lungren continue to get work.
There truly is no God. He shall be lowercased, to convey his low standings in this phoney wordsmith’s view, to merely ‘god.’
If you’re over 18, and not eating, watch this trailer. I’m saving empty beer bottles as we speak to get myself a copy, as I’m pretty sure it won’t be hitting the shelves at the local Blockbuster any time soon.
13.8.06
Musical Miscellanea---Forgive the tidbits
* I indulged in a guilty pleasure yesterday, Hole’s Celebrity Skin. I heard Hole for the first time back in the day when their first album, Pretty on the Inside, came out. I was working at Tower Records with a bunch of noise punk kids and we all took great liberties with... well, you can imagine what happens when you work at a large record store when you’re 19.
Anyhoo, a friend, Jon (where the hell is Jon Lewis? Lurch? The Solid Gold Dancers? Massive amounts of pot brownies at your ex-girlfriend’s parent’s A-frame in Tahoe complete with throat singing and communications with the Dogstar?), turned me on to Hole and I also happened upon Babes in Toyland’s Fontanelle album at the same moment. I liked the Hole album but at the time my ear hadn’t developed enough to appreciate the grittiness of it. I was fonder of Babes, primarily because Kat sounded like such a badass and that made her hot.
Jon and his friends were into Hole, as well as Sonic Youth, Neurosis, No Means No, Steel Pole Bathtub; that whole echelon of late 80's to 90's punk/spazz/anger/grit core was their bacon and eggs. There was some crossover, some items we could agree on: KK Null, Schlong, Zeni Geva, Crash Worship, Buzzoven, to name a few. But that other scene they were into, well, they were the first to expose me to it and I was slow to adapt.
As far as Hole went, they ended up on some back burner. Sure, I shoplifted it as it was on a list of bands they would reference, and I knew enough upon hearing it to realize that something was there. I stuck with Babes in Toyland but eventually Hole came into focus for me and I started to dig it.
Everything past that first album though seemed, I don’t know, forced. I know that’s not true, there’s no doubt that Ms. Love had reason to be screaming and throwing fits, but compared to that first album it all sort of paled. Unfortunately, that happens a lot with me, I’m not sure why it is. I assume it has something to do with hearing something for the first time, the newness of it. It may not be groundbreaking or push any envelopes, but you know it fits nicely on the shelf and will be there to fulfill a mood that you know will surface someday.
Damn, these are a lot of words for a band that essentially exists in my peripheral vision. I don’t buy their albums when they come out, don’t go to see them if they come through town, don’t much care about them. Hell, I sold the first CD years ago, the one I like, and haven’t been compelled to buy it again. Sometimes I’d like to hear it but not so much so that I have to hunt it down.
But I did pick up Celebrity Skin at a pawn shop or something for 3 buck on one of those days when you’re digging with no agenda, just killing time and you want to buy something, HAVE to buy something (am I the only one who has those moods? Doubt it) and you just grab the best thing you find. I took it home and put it on and really liked it. It is a pretty damn good pop album, all of the grit of the early years had been sluiced from the studio and poured into the tabloids and Courtney’s extracurricular antics and tantrums. They were no longer the beast that I had encountered so long ago, they had aged, as we all had, and gotten softer around the edges. Your world view, if your lucky, changes, priorities shift, your ears get moody, the years can polish you or ruin you (unless you’re Slayer. How in the hell does Tom Araya stay so pissed off? He needs a hug). No, this album had been put through the studio wringer, and came out crisp, clean, and even a little sentimental. Courtney, at some point, learned how to sing. I’m sure Billy Corgan’s hand had something to do with it. As much as I don’t like the Smashing Pumpkins, you’ve got to give the guy credit for crafting a song, forming a good melody and knowing when and where to stay quiet, when and where to start screaming.
Celebrity Skin? I don’t want to say that it could be our generation’s Tapestry, but really, stranger things have been said.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* According to a blurb in the glossy 87-pound advertisement calling itself a magazine, Vanity Fair, Tom Waits is dropping a 3 CD set of songs he’s done for various tributes, soundtracks, and such. It’s currently titled “Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers and Bastards.” Rejoice! Now we can all get rid of our copies of the American Heart soundtrack.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Had a nice small gathering last night. A few folks, some hors d’oeuvres (that’s French for “Your Mom’s tongue tastes funny”), everyone going through the vinyl picking and choosing and putting on sounds. It was an all vinyl night, with everyone participating. The Clash, The Specials, Queen, Elton John, Tom Waits, Dexy’s Midnight Runners (I don’t care what anyone says, Dexy’s version of ‘Jackie Wilson Said’ kicks Van Morrison’s up and down the boulevard, like a pimp whose bitch don’t be having his money), X, Stevie Wonder. The only CD that got dropped was at the end of the night when I had to hear ELO. There were no protests once ‘Showdown’ kicked in, but we all agreed that we didn’t need to hear their version of ‘Roll Over Beethoven.’ Even Jeff Lynne dropped the ball every now and again. Along with the vinyl we plowed through two loud, vulgarity ridden games of Pictionary and a few rounds of Twister. A warning: Playing Twister while drinking heavily can cause serious injuries.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
* What is your best CD to get people out of your house, quickly, when you just get fed up or someone pukes all over your kitchen? I’d have to say Nurse with Wound’s 150 Murderous Passions or Controlled Bleeding’s Phlegm Bag Spattered. I’ve had both for about 10 years now and I’ve only succeeded in getting through them in one sitting maybe, and it’s a big maybe, once. They are albums you keep around for dares, or to shut someone up, or to counter when someone tries to tell you that Tiny Tim has recorded some of the most obnoxious and unlistenable music in the entire history of the universe. It’s music you play for your mom when she tells you that the Napalm Death you’ve been loving at high volumes is hellish noise. They are albums, in your judgmental and passionate youth, that you throw at black trench-coated, heavily made up goth dweebs who insist that Ministry is ‘industrial’ music.
Come to think of it, these words jog the memory and I recall one specific incident where I did get through one of them without cutting my own head off. Yes, 150 Murderous Passions I did pull off one night after spending the previous 12 hours laughing like a maniac and staring at the walls listening to Skinny Puppy with some friends under the watchful gaze of copious amounts of LSD. The sun was going to be putting in its daily appearance in an hour or so. I was sore and destroyed, tired but not able to sleep, and really didn’t want to toss about in a strange bed or couch, so I dragged my friend Scott up and we drove home, no words, no glances, both willing our crispy brains to heal themselves, hoping that this time wasn’t the one that put us over the edge into severe mental retardation, adult onset Down’s Syndrome. I put the album on and it sounded just like my brain felt: jagged, unnatural and unholy frequencies crashing about in an dumpster filled with glass bottles, sounds that were birthed with only one goal, to make your ears bleed. Under normal circumstances I would have been over it in seconds, but not tonight. It was as if it were resonating in my head, and the harmonies were, strangely enough, working to clear out all the shit that just piled up in my brain, flush all the bad chemicals I had just spackled onto it.
It’s a short album so it ended before we got home. I ended up putting on a static station and turning it all the way up. We pulled up to Scott’s house, somehow, the ride was a bit of a blur, and he got out without a word and walked away. The next time I saw him he mentioned that he would prefer to never hear that album again and that he thought I was mad at him and was punishing him for something, seriously, and he wanted to know what it was that he had done so he could apologize. I could only laugh.
One man’s treasure is another man’s torture.
Anyhoo, a friend, Jon (where the hell is Jon Lewis? Lurch? The Solid Gold Dancers? Massive amounts of pot brownies at your ex-girlfriend’s parent’s A-frame in Tahoe complete with throat singing and communications with the Dogstar?), turned me on to Hole and I also happened upon Babes in Toyland’s Fontanelle album at the same moment. I liked the Hole album but at the time my ear hadn’t developed enough to appreciate the grittiness of it. I was fonder of Babes, primarily because Kat sounded like such a badass and that made her hot.
Jon and his friends were into Hole, as well as Sonic Youth, Neurosis, No Means No, Steel Pole Bathtub; that whole echelon of late 80's to 90's punk/spazz/anger/grit core was their bacon and eggs. There was some crossover, some items we could agree on: KK Null, Schlong, Zeni Geva, Crash Worship, Buzzoven, to name a few. But that other scene they were into, well, they were the first to expose me to it and I was slow to adapt.
As far as Hole went, they ended up on some back burner. Sure, I shoplifted it as it was on a list of bands they would reference, and I knew enough upon hearing it to realize that something was there. I stuck with Babes in Toyland but eventually Hole came into focus for me and I started to dig it.
Everything past that first album though seemed, I don’t know, forced. I know that’s not true, there’s no doubt that Ms. Love had reason to be screaming and throwing fits, but compared to that first album it all sort of paled. Unfortunately, that happens a lot with me, I’m not sure why it is. I assume it has something to do with hearing something for the first time, the newness of it. It may not be groundbreaking or push any envelopes, but you know it fits nicely on the shelf and will be there to fulfill a mood that you know will surface someday.
Damn, these are a lot of words for a band that essentially exists in my peripheral vision. I don’t buy their albums when they come out, don’t go to see them if they come through town, don’t much care about them. Hell, I sold the first CD years ago, the one I like, and haven’t been compelled to buy it again. Sometimes I’d like to hear it but not so much so that I have to hunt it down.
But I did pick up Celebrity Skin at a pawn shop or something for 3 buck on one of those days when you’re digging with no agenda, just killing time and you want to buy something, HAVE to buy something (am I the only one who has those moods? Doubt it) and you just grab the best thing you find. I took it home and put it on and really liked it. It is a pretty damn good pop album, all of the grit of the early years had been sluiced from the studio and poured into the tabloids and Courtney’s extracurricular antics and tantrums. They were no longer the beast that I had encountered so long ago, they had aged, as we all had, and gotten softer around the edges. Your world view, if your lucky, changes, priorities shift, your ears get moody, the years can polish you or ruin you (unless you’re Slayer. How in the hell does Tom Araya stay so pissed off? He needs a hug). No, this album had been put through the studio wringer, and came out crisp, clean, and even a little sentimental. Courtney, at some point, learned how to sing. I’m sure Billy Corgan’s hand had something to do with it. As much as I don’t like the Smashing Pumpkins, you’ve got to give the guy credit for crafting a song, forming a good melody and knowing when and where to stay quiet, when and where to start screaming.
Celebrity Skin? I don’t want to say that it could be our generation’s Tapestry, but really, stranger things have been said.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* According to a blurb in the glossy 87-pound advertisement calling itself a magazine, Vanity Fair, Tom Waits is dropping a 3 CD set of songs he’s done for various tributes, soundtracks, and such. It’s currently titled “Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers and Bastards.” Rejoice! Now we can all get rid of our copies of the American Heart soundtrack.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Had a nice small gathering last night. A few folks, some hors d’oeuvres (that’s French for “Your Mom’s tongue tastes funny”), everyone going through the vinyl picking and choosing and putting on sounds. It was an all vinyl night, with everyone participating. The Clash, The Specials, Queen, Elton John, Tom Waits, Dexy’s Midnight Runners (I don’t care what anyone says, Dexy’s version of ‘Jackie Wilson Said’ kicks Van Morrison’s up and down the boulevard, like a pimp whose bitch don’t be having his money), X, Stevie Wonder. The only CD that got dropped was at the end of the night when I had to hear ELO. There were no protests once ‘Showdown’ kicked in, but we all agreed that we didn’t need to hear their version of ‘Roll Over Beethoven.’ Even Jeff Lynne dropped the ball every now and again. Along with the vinyl we plowed through two loud, vulgarity ridden games of Pictionary and a few rounds of Twister. A warning: Playing Twister while drinking heavily can cause serious injuries.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
* What is your best CD to get people out of your house, quickly, when you just get fed up or someone pukes all over your kitchen? I’d have to say Nurse with Wound’s 150 Murderous Passions or Controlled Bleeding’s Phlegm Bag Spattered. I’ve had both for about 10 years now and I’ve only succeeded in getting through them in one sitting maybe, and it’s a big maybe, once. They are albums you keep around for dares, or to shut someone up, or to counter when someone tries to tell you that Tiny Tim has recorded some of the most obnoxious and unlistenable music in the entire history of the universe. It’s music you play for your mom when she tells you that the Napalm Death you’ve been loving at high volumes is hellish noise. They are albums, in your judgmental and passionate youth, that you throw at black trench-coated, heavily made up goth dweebs who insist that Ministry is ‘industrial’ music.
Come to think of it, these words jog the memory and I recall one specific incident where I did get through one of them without cutting my own head off. Yes, 150 Murderous Passions I did pull off one night after spending the previous 12 hours laughing like a maniac and staring at the walls listening to Skinny Puppy with some friends under the watchful gaze of copious amounts of LSD. The sun was going to be putting in its daily appearance in an hour or so. I was sore and destroyed, tired but not able to sleep, and really didn’t want to toss about in a strange bed or couch, so I dragged my friend Scott up and we drove home, no words, no glances, both willing our crispy brains to heal themselves, hoping that this time wasn’t the one that put us over the edge into severe mental retardation, adult onset Down’s Syndrome. I put the album on and it sounded just like my brain felt: jagged, unnatural and unholy frequencies crashing about in an dumpster filled with glass bottles, sounds that were birthed with only one goal, to make your ears bleed. Under normal circumstances I would have been over it in seconds, but not tonight. It was as if it were resonating in my head, and the harmonies were, strangely enough, working to clear out all the shit that just piled up in my brain, flush all the bad chemicals I had just spackled onto it.
It’s a short album so it ended before we got home. I ended up putting on a static station and turning it all the way up. We pulled up to Scott’s house, somehow, the ride was a bit of a blur, and he got out without a word and walked away. The next time I saw him he mentioned that he would prefer to never hear that album again and that he thought I was mad at him and was punishing him for something, seriously, and he wanted to know what it was that he had done so he could apologize. I could only laugh.
One man’s treasure is another man’s torture.
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