2.6.07

It must be a Thursday (insert [sic]s wherever you want, as I had not the wherewithall for editing)

So we sit and spin and feel all things right, wrong, misguided and right on. The drinks come in quick succession and they go down like honey. That is to say, slowly, and mucousy, but it is OK as we feel no pain, demonstrated by the fact that for every drink absorbed, 87 cigarettes are activated by casual and non-smokers. What is it with alcohol that makes some people that rarely, in sober times, light up like chimneys? Have the scientists look at that.
But here I am in a new bar with old people that I still don’t know but are nice enough and try to yank me out of my shell. The jukebox is awesome, Master of puppets, early Suicidal Tendencies and Black Flag, I hear Slayer for a second, then some other stuff I don’t recognize so intensely that I don’t even hear it, then “Mother” by Danzig. I laugh as I haven’t heard this since sometime in the early 90’s. I still know the words and wish I could swap that information with all of the vital statistics of some small island nation like Tuvalu.
But that isn’t going to happen.
So we sit and chat about this and that, some of us are in casts, some of us are unhindered by Scotch-fueled skatepark mishaps on 37-year old bones. I know I am drunk because I notice some girl, some woman, through my less than stellar peripheral vision, looking at me. I make the occasional glance over and smile at the brief eye contact, receiving a small smile back, and this tells me that I am drunk.
Here it is: If I get to the point where I believe any female, especially one that is this high class, is looking at me, it is time to get home and go to bed because I am obviously hallucinating and ruinously twisted on cheap beer.
So we up and go. My driver tired on Stoli, Percaset, and a big cheeseburger that made my incredibly not-hungry stomach want to eat..
So we go, through a desperate rain fall, towards my house where I have notions of confronting the guy who is living in my basement to tell him that when my fingers are typing he needs to not talk to me. Maybe, if things get heated and drunk (he is always there, drunk that is, as far as I have seen since he has invaded the basement) I will tell him that I believe him to be a walking, talking douchebag… but my, that girl was cute and she was looking at me… SHUT IT!…
But he is on the garage with the other roommate and another person playing some D and D game that involves 20-sided dice and diet Coke. They are drunk, that is some consolation, but I can’t tell on what as there is nothing but diet soda cans scattered hither and yon.
So I get to the kitchen table, throw on Return to Cookie Mountain in a loud way, and type these words.
The night spins and I reel off vowels and consonants of no consequence until I up and fall into my sad a lonely bed, nothing more than a second-hand, strangely stained mat on the floor.

20.5.07

Beat Box Greatness!



I heard this song the other day at a coffee shop in SE. It first pricked my ears up cuz it is a Portishead song, and I really like Portishead. I asked the incredibly twee hipster behind the counter who it was and he told me then he pointed out that all of the sounds were created with a microphone, some lungs, a lot of air, and one intrigingly dexterious tongue.
I picked up the CD that afternoon and the other songs were throw away crisco tracks, only worth listening to for the fact that the man has taken beatboxing to a new level.
Ever since I first heard 'The Show' by Doug E. Fresh back in '85 or 86' I have been in awe of the art.
Hope you dig it.

16.5.07

Is there a musician in the house?

So, I write a lot of things that I want to be lyrics, but the writer in me overrides the musician and it (the Writer) gets carried away and pukes up something that, as far as I have been able to tell, absolutely can not be put to music. And I don't want to pull a King Missle thing. I want the lyrics to go with music. Something you could sing along with while having fun or hating yourself or driving or getting booked into an Alabama prison on consensual sodomy charges (a friend of a friend... yeah). So, here's a challenge to the two of you, if you play music. Help me out here. Put this to a song, I'll buy you a beer and we'll play it for old people in a rest home. Good luck, if you care. If not, well, yeah.
If you didn't notice, I am talking to myself here. Please disregard this post. All of it:
"YOU GOT THE PRETTIEST FUCKING EYES I’VE EVER SEEN,
AN…
huh? Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was screaming. It’s just that I got a little carried away and…
wha? Yeah, I know you don’t like the language. I’m sorry, it just came out. When I think of you…
whu? Yeah, I know. Yes, yelling and swearing aren’t good manners, I am aware of this, it’s just that…
yeah, I know but if you’d just give me a sec…
whu? Oh come on! Jesus, every time I try to compliment you you do this. Yes, every damned time. You don’t even acknowledge the fact that I’m trying to be nice, you just correct the presentation or change the subject. Yes, you most certainly do. I… no, it’s..
just wai…
you know what? I just wanted to tell you that you had pretty eyes, it’s as simple as that. And you couldn’t accept it. So now…no you listen to me…
you still have pretty eyes but enough is enough.
Go get fucked.
I’m outta here."

I'm thinking a simple G-C-D progression, a little twang, but like PW Long twang--greasy and untrustworthy. You know what I mean.
OK, I am done talking to myself. Move on to the Falwell post.

15.5.07

Jerry Falwell is Dead!


I am not typically one to celebrate someone’s death, and I am not celebrating this one. I offer my condolences to his family and friends, but at the same time I breath a big sigh of relief. This guy had way too much access to the White House for my comfort. Sadly, someone else just as militant and bigoted, preaching hate under the flag of a misrepresented God, will spring up and take his place.
Such is life.
That said, Jerry Falwell is dead. Fuck that guy.

Quotables:

“AIDS is not just God's punishment for homosexuals; it is God's punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals”

“If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being”

“I hope I live to see the day when, as in the early days of our country, we won't have any public schools. The churches will have taken them over again and Christians will be running them. What a happy day that will be!”

“I do not believe the homosexual community deserves minority status. One's misbehavior does not qualify him or her for minority status. Blacks, Hispanics, women, etc., are God-ordained minorities who do indeed deserve minority status.”
[I wasn’t aware that God himself… sorry, Himself... personally ordained minorities.]


And just to be fair, he said some good things:

“God created the family to provide the maximum love and support and morality and example that one can imagine.”

For all of the shit that spewed forth from his hate-filled mouth, he was bound to say a nice thing or two, but on a whole, he was a wicked, self-righteous bigot of a man who preached love but really was just a big fat dick. He called a Teletubby gay, for fuck's sake. Sure, call them evil, or responsible for the dumbing down of children, blame them for the death of the English language... but to call one gay?! What, are we on a playground here, calling names and shoving? It's about as ridiculous as Eminem taking a swing at a hand puppet (another low in the history of mankind).

Old Biddies and a Cute Butt


So, years ago, back in the Paleolithic era, I was young, small, tiny, a much more limited, though clean, vocabulary. Things were simple and magical and mysterious and all kinds of other things that slowly slip away as you get older and discover the answers to things, stop caring or forget all together the questions to other things.
Anyhoo, at certain times, when in the proper locale, and in the proper mood, with the proper amount of curiosity, I would go to my Granny’s house and spin through her giant record collection. She had this big, spinning square contraption that doubled as a coffee table. My memory tells me it held thousands of albums, but I was small, and it was larger, so my memory may be a little distorted. I loved to spin it and listen to the ball bearings…thrum? grate? roar?… we’ll just say “labor” and call it good-- I loved to spin it and listen to the ball bearings "labor" under the weight of wood and vinyl.
I would pick through randomly and study the 12” images of people and groups that I had never heard of and would never listen to. It was good times.
The only albums that stand out in my doomed and utterly useless memory are an orange-toned Halloween sounds record that I probably listened to a few times, and the reason for this post, Granny’s Tom Jones records. If I can recall correctly, she had a few. I just remember a afro-headed white man with a lot of chest hair, a lot of gold chains, and typically covered in a lot of sweat. Sometimes he had his shirt, collar up, unbuttoned down to his balls.
Had I known what sexy was at the time… I still wouldn’t have thought him sexy.
The Carly Simon albums, however. Well, that is a different story.
So, years and years (some would call them decades)later I decided to get my own Tom Jones album. I was going through a “Vocalists” phase, to use record shop categorizing parlance, and I picked up a Tom Jones greatest hits along with a Dean Martin greatest hits cd.
I loved them of course, as they filled a musical void that sorely needed a stuffing. I was blown away by the sheer excellence of “Chills and Fever” and I was also to discover that “What’s New, Pussycat?” leapt to the top of my “Worst Songs of All Time” list.
I had to let my Granny know that I had, partly due to her distant influence, purchased my first ever Tom Jones album. What follows is the story she sent back to me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

“I'm sure that in one of my numerous boxes of memorabilia I have a number of photos taken when attending his concerts 5 nights in a row (did that 2 or 3 times), and a couple of concerts in Tahoe. The latter was the height of middle-aged women hysteria - 5 or 6 of us old biddies rented a cabin for a week solely to see TJ. He was truly an entertainer who got his energy from audience response. The first night we went the crowd was subdued, and he was kind of 'flat.' The next night we thought we might get his juices flowing with the old ploy of throwing panties, room keys, etc. on the stage. We all searched our keyrings for keys we didn't need - my friend, Sydney, sacrificed a black lace bra (size at least 48 quadruple E cup) and we sewed the keys to it. We had a front row table for the dinner show - threw our offering onto the stage during his first song, (it made quite a clatter), and he was on fire!!! What fun! He did (and still does) have an incredible voice along with the cutest butt in maledom. Several of us went to a concert he did at Wente Winery in Livermore 5 or 6 years ago. Mistake..........some things are better left to memory.”

My Granny is awesome.

28.4.07

Eugene and Tom


Last weekend I took a road trip to lovely Eugene, Oregon to visit with some friends (who go to bed WAY too early) and to see a fella’ by the name of Tom Heinl.
I saw him open, quite accidentally, for the Meat Purveyors at the Dour Fir and I spent the whole time laughing at his Johnny Cash with a severely skewed sense of humor take on country music (Jesse, this may be something you want to check out).
He is from Eugene and I randomly saw that he was playing a free show there at a coffee shop. Couple that with me needing to get out of town for a spell and me having two good friends in the same town, and well, I was on the computer booking a bus ticket quicker than you can say “I can’t believe I just stapled my balls/left labia majora to the floor.”
So I went, and was met by friends outside of the bus station (the advent of the iPOD has made even the hell that is Greyhound tolerable). One was scattered and quick with the smiles as usual, and one had started drinking too early (he stopped making sense and fell into an internal babble dialogue that we could kind of hear at a soul food restaurant somewhere in the vicinity of midnight).
So, that night was quick and early (1 AM? My friends are Mormons, I suspect) and the next day E—and I made our way to a charming little place called the Wandering Goat to see Tom Heinl. G—made it, somewhat hungover but sociable.
The place was small and I tanked up on the caffeine while chatting with E—. It was a nice time.
This was going to be an intimate show. A coffee shop, a stage-like platform, Tom wandered in with his guitar, plugged in, and started talking.
Now, this is a funny guy. Not too many people make me laugh outloud, but he can do it. Apparently he hosts a stellar Bingo night on Mondays. He boasted that the next round’s prizes were going to be a mint-condition tube of Linkin’ Logs (“They’ve still got the directions, though I don’t know why you’d need directions”) and some binoculars. It would appear that they also were prone to giving out one of those talking fish plaques out as a prize, but he said that they kept finding it in the bushes at the end of the night, so it was off the list of things to play for.
He launched into his set and we all laughed and had a great time. His cover of Tom T. Hall’s “I Love” is spectacular… though it is more accurate to refer to it as a version rather than a cover as I’m sure Tom T. Hall never mentioned Play-Doh in his nose or “spankins’ that smarts.”
His song “Three Way” makes me cringe every damned time, as it is so fucking obvious that any guy who expresses an interest in trying a three way with his girl would be, more often that not, a little taken aback when she agrees and brings another guy home.
Country music… rarely a happy ending.
I can’t do the man justice here. You should check out his website, then buy his albums (start with “With or Without Me.” It’s genius!).
After the show there was, if I can recall correctly, a nap, a viewing of “Volver” which G— and I didn’t realize was a chick flick, more aptly named “Vulva,” and a great curry dinner. Then there was beer, and Boggle, and people talking in their sleep (“Crusty? Can we do Crusty?”) and a sound sleep.
Thanks G— and E— for your hospitality and thanks to Tom Heinl for being Tom Heinl. If I ever get fired I will be there on Monday for bingo night.

11.4.07

ROKY!

I have only gotten into Roky Erikson in the past year or two. He had a song on the Return of the Living Dead soundtrack (Burn the Flame) that I have always loved but I never knew anyone who had any of his albums so I could check it out the rest of his sounds. Finally one day here in town I found a few used CDs and grabbed them. The 13th Floor Elevators are amazing and Roky's solo stuff is a bit spotty, but fun. More like a Tales from the Crypt comic than music, but it has flashes of genius. I am drawn a lot more to the fact that he is nuts. Insane artists intrigue me. It's probably not healthy or nice, but I can't help it.
I read about this documentary awhile ago and finally there is a trailer. Check it out if you want.

7.4.07

Shameless Self-Promotion, Again...

Well, I have 2 more reviews posted at this metal magazine I hooked up with. Check them out if you want. Then be sure to look at pictures of black-clad girls with a lot of tattoos, and fire graphics, and... and... you know, just do what you are gonna do. I don't look at the damned thing. Why should you?
Here's a polite review of a crappy album
Here is an honest review of an awesome album
Here is a picture of a giant fucking jellyfish

Can't...seem...to...write...coherent...piece...


-Jesus comes back to life and demands “More Brains!”
-Cedric the Entertainer is sued for false advertising
-I can do 40 push-ups.
-My roommate claims “Lord of the Rings” is an excellent film and “Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas” is not, thereby adding yet another question to my growing list of things I should ask potential roommates.
-Jay, I meant to ask you this earlier, but if Seth McFarland curates an All Tomorrows Parties would you then give him some respect? You show your age by claiming the Family Guy is a cheap imitation of The Simpsons. You might as well claim that Ani DeFranco is just riding the coattails of Charo (“Cootchie, cootchie!”) or that Tim Conway should get a percentage of every paycheck that Adam Sandler pulls in because of that whole Dorf on Golf/Happy Gilmore thing. Geezer.
-Someone hates me.
-Someone doesn’t.
-Others straddle the border betwixt the two.
-Used CD scores late last night at Everyday Music (open ‘til midnight every night, bitches!): Pocket Symphonies by Air, Houdini by the Melvins, Enemy of the Sun by Neurosis, and Summer Make Good by Mum. All fine purchases so far. I went in looking for the Neurosis album, specifically because the apocalyptic sounds have been doing a lot for me these days. The others were just blessings from the Zombie Christ.
-With this new found and sporadic warm weather the really fucked up people are coming out at night. The tweekers, the doomed, the hookers that were in hibernation for the rain and cold are out in public again. Walking down Interstate at night is awesome. It’s a row of hotels and motels that are there for no other reason other than to house hookers, drug dealers, drug addicts, and that one poor family who actually has fallen on hard times and are trying to make it through a bad patch by staying in a shit hole to save money. Good luck to them and their children. Uncle Jesse, you should come and bring your sketch pad. Very Eureka-like.

25.3.07

Asshole



The sun is shining (I still am not fully convinced that it isn't merely a hallucination) but the mood is dour. It's been happening with unnerving frequency these days. Usually if I have too much time alone, which is par for the course, so really, yeah, I need a fucking distraction or 12. These things hit on and off and out of the blue and sometimes I just want to sit in the middle of the sidewalk I happen to be walking down and wait for it to pass no matter how long it takes-minutes, hours, decades-whatever. Just bring back my fucking smile.
The upside is that I actually have a lot of bullshit in my head so I know where it is coming from and can at least approach it from a reasonable angle. It's not some vaporous chemical imbalance that has no name and no obvious motivation for the hell it dumps on me...
But yeah, boo-hoo, peaks and valleys, "Everybody hurts," it's always darkest... I know all of these things and am fine with them. I know they are cliches, but cliches are cliches for a reason. In fact, I believe that 'cliche' is French for 'how things are.' I get a lot of comfort from them, personally.
And yeah, let's not look to close at my translating skills. Let's just stick with the gist of things.
So, I know that right now I am in a black, black space and that I will pull out of it in time. It's the human condition. We all go through down times, and with a bit of patience and perseverance we pull out of it. There is no other reasonable option.
My real problem is that I can't stop listening to music that exacerbates my bad moods. I turn to the iPOD at work or during one of my meandering, solitary walks through the city and all I want to listen to is Will Oldham or The One A.M. Radio or Sigur Ros or early Tom Waits. It is absurd and I know it does me no good but when I look at all my options I don't want anything but these moody artists. It's almost laughable the depth of my self-indulgence in regards to feeling like a ruined lump of shit. I just keep throwing gasoline on the fire, maybe in the hopes that the fuel will burn up quicker and this will be over with so that I can get on with things...well, more accurately figure out what the things are that I need to get on with.
On the rare occasions I can break out of these music ruts it is only to listen to the Locust or Unsane. But then after all of the noise and blasts and yelling, it is right back to something quiet and introspective. I wish I could stop in the M's of the iPOD and listen to Madness, but I invariably pass the M's by and end up, God forbid, at Sarah McLaughlin, and then it is truly all over my friends.

Holy Mountain?! Holy Shit!


The Clinton Street Theater crew, as they are prone to doing, has dredged up a print of some awesome yet little played gems from the cinema history vaults (Repo Man, The Goonies, Skidoo!). This town is no slouch when it comes to screening great films and it is occasionally difficult to choose between the limited run films that pop up in the various pub/cinemas that dot the landscape.
But, imagine my surprise when I saw that they had dug up a print of Alexando Jodorowsky’s 1973 hallucinogenic head-fuck Holy Mountain.
The first time I saw this film was in Eureka, California. I was woefully ill prepared for what I was getting into. If I remember the circumstances correctly, my roommate, a perpetually stoned jazz-hippie who had an obsession with all things Sun-Ra and Jaco Pastorius, brought it home one evening.
This roommate and I, we did not mesh musically (Sun-Ra? Jaco Pastorius? No. An emphatic “NO!”), at all, other than our mutual appreciation for Tom Waits. His seemingly endless Green-powered bass freak-outs were my arch nemesis, but other than that we got along. We stayed up all night drinking, playing gin rummy, and daring ourselves through bowls of this unholy habanero salsa he liked to make; it was more of an experience than an actual food. Never before have I eaten something so hot as to make my ear canal burn.
He also had his hands on quite a bit of LSD most of the time. Luckily I was beyond my attraction to the Beast, the fear had been planted in me a few years before and we had amicably gone our own ways. So long, thanks for the memories.
He had a habit of keeping a vial (or three) of liquid LSD in the freezer and I, in turn, developed a habit of not buy anything that needed to be frozen as I had a largely irrational terror of the thing falling out of the freezer and blowing up all over my hands and chest as I fumbled about trying to catch it.
“Terror” is not a strong enough word in regards to this scenario. I wondered if I would just ride it out, constantly reminding myself that it was just a peculiar chemical reaction as the planet melted around me—into me. My other option, the more feasible one, had me jumping for the nearest knife in a panic and doing myself in before the drugs took hold.
But getting on with this, he brought Holy Mountain home one day from the beacon of hope that is Video Experience. I had nothing to do but drink or sleep or write shitty metal songs so I opted to spend a cozy night watching a movie with this strange, tittery creature that was my roomie.
Well, if you have seen the film, then you probably remember your first time. It’s up there with your first sex or the first time you get caught masturbating or the first time you get your ass kicked so bad you literally shit your pants. Your first time with this film may have been your last time. Regardless, I believe that one and all sat through the spectacle wondering something along the lines of, “What the fuck…?” as a parade of amputees, midgets, hookers, penises, castrations, shit, alchemy, head shavings, executions, platform shoes, exploding frogs, naked children (hello NAMBLA? Have I got a film for you!), a tasty boil lancing, blasphemy, exorcisms, and a whole slew of other visuals which scrolled by leaving the viewer more than just a little numb.
Plot be damned the first time. It was like walking through an art gallery in some obscure South American branch of the Illuminati, a defrocked splinter group that got so far into the mysticism as to become totally impractical in this dimension.
I loved it.
I watched it another time and was just as disturbed, amazed, confused.
Then I went on with my life. It was always in the back of my head and when people would talk about fucked-up movies they had seen, chances were I could trump them with Holy Mountain.
Years later, that being now, I saw that the Clinton Street is doing a four night run with Holy Mountain. I couldn’t believe it. I remember reading an interview with Jodorowsky and him claiming that some pseudo-authority in Mexico had destroyed the prints. I must have read it wrong, cuz here it was, and I had to go. So I rounded up a dear friend and off we went, and let me tell you, some things take on a whole different meaning on the big screen.
It was epic.
In all of its glory, up there a bruised and battered print all speckled and geriatric, but none the less amazing in an old theater that smelled of ancient books and had no heating, the ancient projector flickering in the back of the room like an old set of wind-up teeth.
If anything the film has to be worshipped for the set-designs alone. I can’t even begin to comprehend how this was all put together. Combine that with some spectacular cinematography, otherworldly costumes (who knew giant pilgrim hats and platform shoes could present such an arresting image?) and one is left with a stream of images that I would tattoo across my body if I had the space and the money.
I was left wondering what zoo he pilfered for all of the animals in the movie. It was like Noah’s ark up there, and I was wondering, knowing what I know now about hippos, how unnerving it was to have your asshole washed by a 6’ black woman covered in Arabic text while a baby hippo frolicked around you. Even a little one could snap a person in half and I don’t know how tame they can get, regardless of how cute they are.
Anyway, I left the film understanding it more. And I learned that the only way to wake up a drunken Jesus up is to tie him to a cross and throw rocks at him.
Practical information that one can use on a daily basis.
And there’s a great jab at Tim Leary. I laughed, as did a large chunk of the audience. Fuck that guy.
Well, the next day upon waking at 9 AM I decided that I had to experience it again. I might as well see it while I can since I don’t know when I’ll get the opportunity again. My friend opted out to go see Fulci’s The Beyond instead. It is a fine film indeed, one of my favorite Italian Splatter-Fests, but I knew that this was a rare opportunity. So, her being the only person within 800 miles that would go see this with me, I struck out alone.
And it was no less awesome.
So much could be said, but I don’t really know where to start, and if I did, I wouldn’t know where to end.
And yeah, I’ve read tidbits from various scholars, critics, and out and out dicks, but really I could care less about references to spaghetti westerns and other filmmakers who he may have cribbed from, all I know is that this film is most excellent.
If you get the chance, and are into such things (hyper-mystical, drug induced forays into the controlling mechanisms of our planet… and tall toilets) you should hunt Holy Mountain down and subject yourself to it.

19.3.07

An utter waste of everyone's time, mine included

A list of crap, for no good reason:

Crash- a handful of shitty people all run into one another. Hilarity ensues while you drink beer and hope that everyone dies.

The Departed- more headshots than a Barbizon catalogue. Fuck Boston.

Coffee- if it was heroin, I would be dead. If it were God I would be in church every day at 5AM. If it were a bathhouse, my ass would be ruined. If it were a papercut I would have bled to death long ago. If it was tofu… well, I might have to consider cutting back.

Stranger than Fiction- why does Hollywood continuously expect me to believe that hot women fall for boring and/or utterly shitty men (Bad Santa, The Cooler, The Wizard of Oz)? That means that there is hope for me.

Stewie and Brian- the greatest comedy team on the planet. Great dancers, great singers, totally hot together. If you don’t know, then you don’t deserve to.

24: Season One (SPOILER ALERT!)- JACK BAUER!! Who knew that TV could be awesome? Nina is hot, and tough! And then she goes and fucks it all up. I could make excuses for her being a turncoat, though, if pressed.

Boondock Saints- Once again, Boston. The mafia. Irish accents. The best cat killing scene in cinema history. Willem DeFoe is on top of his game. I am afraid of Boston.

Low-Fat Cottage Cheese and Pineapple Chunks- the perfect, low-effort breakfast. Tastes good, may even be good for me. Go figure.

24: Season Two (SPOILER ALERT!)- JACK FUCKING BAUER!!! I would totally kick Shari Palmer in the mouth. Twice. With vigor. Nina! With a gun! Conjugal visits? I’ll be there in 12 minutes with a box of condoms.

The Goonies- Not one nanosecond of ambient silence. It’s all yelling and stuttering and things crashing. Makes Top Gun look (sound) like a silent movie. If it wasn’t for Data (Booty trap!) this film could be flushed. Who would have thought Sean Austin would be the one to make it out alive?

Naps- I am a master. Dead asleep in 45 seconds. Five minutes and I am good for at least 10 more hours.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Prequel- Don’t even bother.

"Chosen One" by Smog- the most level-headed yet heart-stabbing breakup song ever recorded.

Micron .005mm Pens- as fragile as a soap bubble, but they make anyone’s handwriting look great. And none of that bullshit you get with ball-points.

Saw III- the only thing worse than the movie was that it is wide open for a sequel. Jigsaw is perhaps the most annoying, self-righteous, idiotic, and resourceful movie villain ever. Fuck that guy. I totally had a crush on Shawnee Smith back when she was in that Blob remake and Who is Harry Crumb?

Umlauts- Makes all vowels look bright eyed and bushy tailed. ‘Nuff said.

24: Season Three (SPOILER ALERT!)- Just started it. JACK BAUER!!!! SHOOTING UP?!!! Tony Almeida gets shot in the neck?! Tony Almeida looks like a young Tom Waits! Fucking Nina is back again. SO HOT!!! I realized why it is that male preying mantis’ and black widows continue to mate knowing full well that they are doomed. Cuz’ nature is a bitch. And men are stupid.

(24 Side Note: If Kim Bauer just went away, Jack could get on with being awesome and not be distracted with her glaring stupidity. In fact, she is such a hindrance that I am compelled to believe she may not actually be his. DNA tests prove it in Season Eight! Jack shoots her in the head, after torturing her of course.)

Top Ramen, The Square Packets- not really a favorite but I feel it deserves a mention as it is the only thing I have eaten for lunch for the past 3 months. I prefer ‘chicken’ ‘flavor.’ Some have expressed concern over possible MSG poisoning. They know nothing.

Emeril’s Essence- put this shit on anything-eggs, potatoes, in fried chicken breading- and it makes it taste fancy.

The MAX- gets me from here to there with no hassle, I can sleep on it, listen to lunatics, and once paid a kid one dollar to rap for me. Cars are for chumps.

The Platypus- hairy, with a beak, and claws. AND it swims, and walks, AND, get this, the damned thing is venomous!

18.3.07

The Locust!!!


OK, you can officially see anything, ANYTHING, on YouTube. And no offense to anyone who may be reading this but I personally consider them lazy posts, for ME. Other people do it and I love it (Jay, Jessie, take no offense!) but for what I am trying (aka NOT trying) to do here it just doesn't fit. That said I can offer small commercial breaks or sounds and sights to things I post about. Earlier (last year) I posted about the excellence of the Locust. So, as a follow up for those who don't want to buy them or steal them off the internet, here is a sample. Enjoy.
I will only post YouTube clips after every 3 real posts. That is my promise to myself.
I lie to myself all the damned time.

Not Quite an Epiphany

What is better than waking up next to a pretty girl and sharing a fresh pot of coffee together, cool morning air dancing over satisfied bodies and longing skin, a lazy Sunday when all things are in bloom and smelling fresh, alive, like newly cut grass and sunshine, birds flitting and doing decidedly bird-like things, dew glistening on tomato plants and rose petals, the sun overtaking a deep blue sky that is smattered with stray puffy white clouds, one that looks in turns like a Volkswagen beetle, Africa, Jerry Reed’s profile c. 1963, and an umlaut… and both of you are mildly chilly , sitting hip to hip on a cool cement porch talking quietly, the language of lovers and friends, watching all things come to life, full of hope and smiles and confident that barring any unseen catastrophes within the next 18 hours you’ll be back in bed together all spoons and nuzzles and exploring hands?
What could possibly be better than that, you foolishly ask?
I’ll tell you.
Journey’s Greatest Hits at 6 AM, LOUD, all “midnight trains” and “lights in the city” as you rabbit punch a 2,000 pound copy machine and call it a cunt as it jams for the 30th time in 10 minutes as some idiotic paper stock from World Vision, that was in no way made to be printed on, tries to navigate through the various twists, turns and fusers of a DT6135.
That is what is better, my friends. And don’t let anyone tell you different.

5.3.07

Real Quick

The new issue of Harper's has a great article by Ken Silverstein called "Parties of God: The Bush Doctrine and the Rise of Islamic Democracy." It is a refreshingly level-headed look at Islam and how it fits into world politics. I am not typically into political business but after living in a Muslim country for 2 years I have a better understanding of it. Yeah, I don't have any particular affinity for it, I won't be fasting any time soon, but I do have a problem with the demonization of it by our government and our media. Moderate Muslims, and this is a guess that I will defend until someone presents solid evidence to the contrary, are a majority that are sadly overlooked by an increasingly blood-thirsty and sensationalistic public and media.
Really, and we all know this, all religions are fucking insane when taken to fundamentalist levels.
My thoughts aren't too clear on this. Well, they are, but I have hard time voicing them as my pen is more adept at recounting drunken debacles and heartbreak rather than totally legitimate fears of an all out and totally unnecessary holy war. I just know that I would like my parents and aunts and uncles and co-workers and anyone else who will quickly and without thought drop a blanket label of 'insane' over all of Islam to read this article with an open mind and hopefully... fuck, I don't know. Learn something?
Whatever.
This link is only a tidbit of the article, but if you are interested you should go to a book store or a library and read the whole thing.
--------------------

Oh, and on a totally unrelated note:
I decided today that I could never trust that an individual was truly human if they did not like--love, even-- Otis Redding.

26.2.07

A flurry of crap...

I knew it would suck, but it surpassed even my expectations. The only improvement, if you will, was the addition of the testing village. But the mutants were a joke (did Sloth get tired of living with the Goonies in Astoria and move to the New Mexico desert, become homicidal in the face of a lack of Babe Ruths). The burning Dad alive scene was a sorry attempt at gore overload (CGI makes EVERYTHING look like shit, with the exception of things that aren’t supposed to look real, as with the upcoming 300 or other fantastical geek bombs) when the original was perfect. And why, WHY did they feel the need to include a rape scene? I absolutely hate rape scenes and loathe any film that includes one (even when Ned Beatty is the victim). This was just a sorry attempt to ramp up the terror-element in an originally creepy movie that now is nothing more than an obvious cash grab for Wes Craven.

I have a friend who latches onto a song ("Summer Breeze" by Seals and Crofts) or an album (You in Reverse by Built to Spill) (have you heard it, friend? This band, Built to Spill? Put out a new album? It’s really good!) and listen to it quite literally a million times in a row. I make fun of her for it but I happens to all of us. Something hits in a special way that you may or may not be able to explain and you run with it. I was like that with Jesu’s Silver album for a while, but the other day at work I listened to Ewan McGregor doing Elton John’s "My Song" from the Moulan Rouge soundtrack about 5,000 times. It is awesome! No, awesome isn’t good enough.
Coincidentally I learned of this song from the aforementioned friend and we share a love for old Elton John. An obsession even. She said that she had been listening to it over and over again and that she was sad to say that it kicked the hell out of the original. Even loving this friend dearly, and wanting no harm to come to her for the duration of her life on this planet and beyond, my reflex upon hearing her say this was to kick her in the side of the head and punch her kidney. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and goddamn if she wasn’t spot on. Who would have thought that Renton from Trainspotting could just OWN a song like that. Sorry Elton, you got served.
Also, I can’t seem to stop listening to "We're Not Alone" off of Mike Patton’s Peeping Tom album. I have always liked Mike Patton and even when he does a shit song (this album is 5 shit songs, 5 OK songs, and this one) he always has a knack for nailing a good chorus. I noticed this a lot on the Tomahawk albums (the shit/awesome ratio more in favor towards the ‘awesome’ side of the spectrum on these) where he would come in and just hit something right, but only do it once, thereby rendering the rest of the song good, but really just leaving me wanting another run through the chorus.

I forgot, on my list of ridiculous celebrity crushes, to include Naomi Watts. Totally hot, hands down. And I am pretty sure that it is only partly due to her ferocious masturbation scene in Mulholland Drive.

“How ya’ doin’, snickerface?”

I got a review of TV on the Radio’s Welcome to Cookie Mountain published in a smut magazine! How ‘bout that? It’s called His Quarterly and it originates east of here in Sandy, OR. I sent it as a sample writing for a call for writers on Craigslist and they said that they wanted it. I didn’t mention that I had already published it on my widely read and respected blog, I thanked them, then I promptly forgot about it. Then a few weeks ago I get an e-mail asking for my address so they can send a contributors copy and lo and behold, I open the thing up and there is a blandly attractive blond girl with no shirt on the cover. Inside are more blandly attractive women with shaved beavers and breasts, plus some articles on the great outdoors, my review, some other reviews that only handled a bunch of seemingly terrible music from a local label. It reminded me of the old gentleman's mags like TAB and Jaguar--mildly cheesy, mildly alluring, not long for this world. The clincher though, was that there was a small interview with Dirk Benedict. That blew my mind. I get published in a nudie mag, AND Dirk Benedict is in it?! I feel like I have succeeded as a writer and I have no where else to go, so I am hanging up the carpal tunnel syndrome and becoming a hobo. Thanks everyone, it has been a wild ride.
PS- the review isn't on the website. It is a 'magazine only' review. Now if I could only get paid to do this.
PS- I just found out, and this is a little spooky, that the editor of Him Quarterly is the drummer in my roommate's robot-themed band. Creepy goddamned world.

Oh, while I am promoting myself (you didn’t think I’d actually quit, did you?) here are a few more reviews from some terrible, terrible/ OK albums that I reviewed for a local free metal magazine that is glossy, has a black background on all of its pages, likes girls in cowboy hats with a lot of tattoos, and is really nothing I would read. But it scored me the new Unsane album to review (pending) and a great coffee table book on Django Reinhardt (out of character, no doubt, for the mag. Review also pending). These, my first ones for the site, are for crap.

23.2.07

Date Night and Unrealistic Crushes

It has become a habit that every Thursday I take myself out on a date to the Laurelhurst theater and see a $3 movie, eat a slice of pizza and drink a (baby) pitcher of Pabst (the blood of Little Baby Jesus Spider Monkey) (another story in itself. Just know that Joseph and that one Wise Man from Tunisia lost a lot of blood in the manger that night).
Anyway, my date night came about primarily because Thursday nights is when my four roommates and a few of their friends stay up until 3 AM playing Dungeons and Dragons and drinking beer. On temperate nights they indulge in the separate garage, and on cold nights, REALLY cold nights they play in the living room.
I am glad that they have this hobby and that they enjoy themselves. That said, I do not understand... at all. I had figured that the Tom Hanks made for TV movie had successfully put a nail through the head of the D & D movement back in the day.
I was wrong.
So, rather than hide in my room listening to people yell about arrow hits and chasing errant 20-sided die across the hardwood floor, I have started going out. It’s a good excuse for me to get out of the house, actually, and treat myself to something other than the work/home/nap/surf the net for Ukranian porn cycle that I have fallen into.
So, the D & D is the main reason I have started these auto-dates, but another reason, if I am to be honest, is that, well, I am single, so I am going out with myself in the hopes of getting myself drunk and taking advantage of myself.
I am without morals these days.
But not really. It’s not like I’d throw myself out into the cold, all naked and confused post-orgasm and slide $20 under the door for myself to take a cab home. No, I’d cuddle myself, nuzzle the back of my neck with my nose and I’d spoon me through a cold and anonymous night.
I would cook myself some breakfast and/or a cup of coffee in the morning if I so desired and give a hug and a thanks and depending on how things went say something like,
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” or
“You know, if you get the hankering, I’ll be saving a place in my bed for you tonight as well,” or
“If you leave I will kill myself in a truly horrendous manner,” or
“If I ever see you again I may be tempted to kick you in the neck,” or
“Sorry about last night. The ol’ Brewer’s Droop. You understand, right? It wasn’t you. It was me. It was just that I met you late on in the night and I really had no intention of going home with anyone. No, honestly. Had I even suspected, even for a moment, that something like this was going to happen I would have been drinking orange juice all night.”
Anyway, last night I went to see Stranger than Fiction with Will Farrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal. It was a cute film; tender. A quirky love story. I liked it and it may get added to my list of best love movies of all time (along with Punch Drunk Love, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Lost in Translation).
So, I was sitting there and, this doesn’t happen often, I totally fell for Maggie Gyllenhaal. I thought she was completely adorable in Secretary, but now... I was smitten. Utterly distracted, I couldn’t even keep up the witty banter I was running with me on my date. I dropped the ball.

Her smile, her laugh, her eyes, her weird-shaped head... she is totally cute. Stunning. I envy Peter Sarsgaard, and that Deadly Sin will no doubt land me in hell, but is worth it.
As I say, my celebrity crushes are few and far between. My first was during puberty, thereby excusable, and it was on Alyssa Milano. Then, it was Parker Posey, then it was Janeane Garofalo. Now, Maggie Gyllenhaal. Totally doomed attractions, just the kind I like.
As this dawned on me, this love (?) for someone I would never meet, I looked over at myself and realized that I paled in comparison to Mrs. Gyllenhaal, that I could totally do better. Me with my shitty attitude and utter lack of fashion sense. My musical tastes alone were enough of a forewarning that this wasn’t going to work out, but hell, I was lonely and desperate and just grabbed myself one night, hoping for, well, not excellence, but at least a pleasant distraction.
But to no avail. Here I was, on a date with this me that I didn’t loathe, but didn’t really see any type of future with. And yeah, sometimes you just go out, hang out, no expectations for a future. You both are just out for a good time, a break in the lull. But as I was looking at myself, I looked back at myself and I saw the same realization flash across my eyes, and a soft blink, I squeezed my hand, mouthed a “It’s OK,” with a sad/resigned/relived/totally serene and knowing blink and got up from my seat. I swayed a little bit, tipsy from the beer, and made my way out of the row, only stepping squarely on 4 people’s feet, almost falling face first into the aisle. I recovered from my stumble and walked out of the room.
I watched myself stumble with little to no grace out of the room, saddened only the slightest bit, but happy that we simultaneously and telepathically came to the conclusion that this was going no where. A clean and mutual break, I was amazed. How often did those happen? I counted myself lucky for that.
I sat back, beer in hand, and watched the rest of the film, wondering if Dustin Hoffman chewed with his mouth open. Don’t ask why.
Through the lobby, pushing through the glass doors and into a cold and grey night, unforgiving yet full of possibilities. A whole world for me to explore, to learn, to love and to loathe.
This was yet another beginning, one in a long line of them. Not the first, surely not the last. All I could do was stoke the fires of hope and set off down the street, going where the days took me.

17.2.07

Poetry on the MAX


TEACHING THE APE TO WRITE POEMS

They didn't have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
First they strapped him into the chair,
then they tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down)
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
"You look like a God sitting there.
Why don't you try to write something?"
- James Tate

4.2.07

(((dreamscape #5)))


I’m the new kid in school. I realize quickly that I am Kevin Bacon, and things are gonna get weird. There’s a school dance, I’m dressed up in a tux, hanging out with the Russian Dancer Kid from the end of the movie. He’s wearing a pink bow tie. We dance to Kenny Loggins, have good time, and then we drive home with a few friends. I’m wowing them with stories about Illinois, J.D. Salinger, and seeing Men at Work live, and they are noticeably impressed even though they don’t really know who Men at Work are. Ariel is with us and I’m enjoying myself, regardless of the fact that I know that knuckles will be thrown soon, cuz Chet is lurking around somewhere, and he is not a very happy hick.
We stop at a big empty parking lot, all sparse and well lit. Ariel and I get out; our cars are the only two in the place. Ariel has an old black VW bug, and my car… I don’t know yet. I go into the bushes to piss, and while I’m doing that Chet drives up into the parking lot as Ariel is about to get into her car—“Ya little cunt! Git yur ass home! Fuck ‘dat, ya thank ya cun do whutever ya want? Huh? Ah’ll show yew I treated yew deesunt, bitch!”—she just looks at him, a little scared but also slightly amused by his infantile behavior. He roars around in his truck, stops about 20 feet away, aimed at her car, and yells—“See how ya lahk ‘dis!”—and floors it, smoke and rubber filling the air, stinking up the place and making a horrible shrieking sound as his tires get hot enough to grip the asphalt. The truck rockets forward and rams into the front driver side of her car.
At about this time I come out of the bushes zipping myself up, noticing with a little irritation that there are some visible drips of pee on the front of my slacks. What the hell is going on? I walk up to Ariel and her car, which is a little dented but still capable if driving. I quickly assess the situation and decide that it’d be best if she takes off and leaves this for Chet and me to settle on our own—“You’d better get home. I’ll see if I can’t fix this.”—She looks at Chet, then me, then gets into her car and limps away.
Now I seem to have his full attention. I notice a small trickle of blood coming from his forehead, right at the hairline. He hit his head on his steering wheel when he rammed Ariel’s car. I decide not to point out that he should’ve been wearing his seatbelt, but the idea makes me smirk. There’s nothing funnier than someone getting hurt while trying to be a badass.
—“Oh, Mr Dance Fever. What yew smahlin’ at? Huh? Yew wunt some too, faggit?”—I just look at him. What do you say to something like that? My car is a long convertible thing, obviously on its last legs, top down, Quiet Riot cassette in the player. He backs his truck at full speed into my car and t-bones it. I don’t really care, as it seems to have done more damage to his truck that to my car. My Russian dancer friend comes running up and stands next to me, breathless and hair slightly mussed—“What the hell is this? I saw Ariel and she said Chet was going nuts”—I nod towards the car to confirm his information, his eyes widen—“Shit, what a dolt.”—“Yup.”—
—““So, thur a 2 of ya faggots now. Well, I’ll fuck both a y’all Ya lahk ‘dat? Huh? YA LAHK ‘DAT?”—again, what do you say? We just stand there, a brake light cover falls off the back of his idling truck, clatters quietly on the ground.
I realize that I need to leave this fucking town.
“Jest y’all wait thur, faggits. Gunna put some oil in mah truck, then AH’M A GUNNA FUCK Y’ALL!!”—as he screams this last part, he rises up on his tippy-toes with the force of his threat (Or was it a come-on? A proposition?). He reaches behind his seat for some oil and pops the hood. While he’s out of sight, I pick up a fist-sized rock and hold it down at my side, a little behind so he can’t really see it. I’m pretty much fed up with his shit; the amusement is gone from the scene. I’m hungry, tired and I want to go home.
He slams his hood shut, throws the oil can aside, and climbs into his truck again—“OK faggits, gunna do y’all N’GOOD!”—he turns his truck around and is getting ready to ram my car with the front of his truck, in the same side. I’m hoping that I can at least salvage my tapes out of the mess. Just try getting a new Boston tape in this town, it’s near impossible.
We’re on the other side of the car, about 8 feet away. My plan is to throw the rock through his windshield right when he’s about to collide, at the very least shattering his windshield, and, at the very most, if there is a God, and mind you any fucking God will do, maybe cracking his fucking skull and killing him. He’s not really doing the world any good. I doubt anyone will get all weepy over his passing.
He roars towards my car, and I get ready to throw, and then he screeches to a halt about a foot from contact—“Yur gunna git it now!”—and he hoots like a hillbilly. There’s movement in my peripherals. I look around and see about 10 people running out of the bushes from all sides. This was a set up, we’re gonna get a beating. I notice that 4 of the guys are my friends from The Hitch (R.I.P.), and I know they can kick some dick, so as irritated as I am by the fact that this cock-sucker got my friends to beat me up, I’m also scared cuz I know that this is gonna hurt. Me and Russian Boy don’t even need to consult, we run, in 2 different directions. I make my way out of the parking lot, shiny shoes sliding on the asphalt, and end up charging down a dirt alley way that bisects a rutted and forgotten block of run-down houses. Garbage and weeds and half-fallen fences line the path.

I look back and notice that the Hitch guys took off after the other guy, so that’s a little bit of a relief. Then I see that the 2 guys that are chasing me are Rerun and Dwayne Wayne from What’s Happenin’. The surreal qualities of this aspect are not lost on me, even in a dream state, and at the same time it really pisses me off.


Rerun is sweating but keeping up, doing surprisingly good for a guy his size. My anger gets on top of me and I pull to a halt. The guys stop too, and I’m done—“OK, fuck this It’s bad enough that this Chet bitch got my friends to jump me, but you guys? C’mon, I’m not gonna have my favorite TV show ruined by this cock-swallower, too! So stop, truce, time-out and what the fuck?! I love you guys, I watched What’s Happenin’ all the fuckin’ time, now you’re gonna kick my ass cuz some redneck piece of baby shit can’t do it himself? Huh?”—they look at each other and back at me. Rerun speaks—“Hell man, we ain’t got no beef with you. Chet just said he’d buy us a hamburger if we beat up some cracker for him. But now that we’re in this mess, it does seem a little dumb”—A hamburger?—“Hamburger? Shit man, you come to my house, we’ll cook a whole pig! We’ll eat pork roast, pork ribs, fuckin’ bacon [author’s note: do you think Kevin Bacon eats bacon? Could Kevin Bacon be a Muslim or a Jew? Would he have to change his name]! Tomorrow night head on over, we’ll eat like Gods!”—they look at one another, Dwayne nods meekly at Rerun, he nods back–“Alright man, that’s cool. Look sorry about this. No hard feelings? You understand, right? It was a burger, double patty with cheese and onions and mayo and tomatoes and …”—he started getting a dazed look in his eyes, silver drool on the corners of his mouth. I decided to take off before the lure of a big juicy burger got him back on track to stomp me—“OK guys, tomorrow, 7 PM, I’ll see you then.”—“Yeah, cool. See you then.”—and we went off in our separate directions.
I ended up back at the high school, and I had to piss. Though it was late, one of the restrooms was open, a dull yellow light pouring out. I walked in, ticked off and fed up with this small town, this hillbilly, kicking the garbage can—“Fuckin’ Chet! Got my friends, The Hitch, fuckin’ Dwayne and Rerun to kick my ass? Shit!”—I had to move out of this town, and quick, before I killed someone.
I took off my tux jacket and tossed it into a sink, and noticed that an M-16 was in the sink at the end of the row. In the last stall, one of the night guards was going pee, or trying to from the sounds of it. He was a huge black guy, about 7 feet tall, 450 pounds, both his sides touched the stall walls, he was squeezed in like a baby in a birth canal, unable to shift in any direction, and berating to his penis, oblivious to the fact that he was no longer alone in the bathroom—“C’mon, gimmie a little. I know there’s piss in there, just let it out.”—he was getting more and more impatient with his penile constipation—“C’mon, bitch! Just let it out! What, you think its gold? Gonna open up a bank account? Save some piss and try to buy your own place with it? Huh? Gonna get a little condo on the beach with my piss?! Fuck you!”—he started squirming around, the walls of the stall bulging out. I was pretty sure that if his dick didn’t release its grip on his piss then the stall would not live to see the morning and he’d end up shooting his cock off with his gun. I went into the stall farthest from him to pee—“Goddammnit! I’m gonna kill you! Let it out! LET IT OUT!! ARRRGHH!!! You sumbitch!!!”—I hoped that the sound of me being able to pee didn’t send him over the edge, though it sounded like he was already over the edge. Not everyone had long, violent arguments with their penis. I peed into a toilet that seemed too far away from where I was standing, zipped up and left to the sounds of his inhuman wailing and the sound of a bathroom stall being viciously ripped to pieces.

3.2.07

“The body is a temple and I have defiled it.” -P.W. Long



Wine and cheese party with a few friends, a few strangers, a lot of wine and food but I can’t drink the wine without serious and dire repercussions. Coincidentally, or unfortunately, or a little bit of both, I have been looking for an excuse to drink Night Train. I saw it in a beer store a week or three ago and it has been quietly egging me on in uneventful moments since then. Should I do it? If I do it’ll be the first time since roughly 1989 that I have drank the stuff. Junior year in high school? We had a friend whose parents were perpetually out of town. His friend worked at a liquor store and for some reason all he would let us buy was Night Train. We didn’t care, we were young and the price guaranteed that we could always have some whenever we wanted it. This devil brew was the catalyst for the first and last time I drank and drove. How we got from point A to B and eventually point Q still confounds me and is one of the few things that I have done in this life that I still mildly loathe myself for.
But I don’t have a car these days, therefore the danger of that happening again is virtually nil so I grab a bottle of the noxious concoction (“Vinted in Modesto”! More of a warning in my book than a boasting point) and head over. We eat and laugh and say terrible things and vow to play hopscotch in Hell together. Every strata of our meandering world is attacked with much glee and ferocity. The sides hurt as the 3 of us who are on this high-velocity Train ride are totally ruined, quite quickly, and jammed up into a corner of the room in hysterics. It is as if we have head-fulls of acid in a roomful of alcoholics. Technically we are all torqued within the same biological/chemical parameters but our behavior hints that we are someplace far less grounded than the other people who are in the room.
A tongue tattoo is brought out and we hypothesize as to whether or not it is some new form of acid so we ache to pass it around, absorb a bit to the tongue, give it to the person on your left. At our ages, and with the experiences we have under our collective belts, all we really want is a little taste... ABC LSD. Turns out to be, thankfully, only a fruit flavored decal for the tongue. Innocence prevails... in that area. But we roll on, faces covered, cracking up, teeth aching from the unholy amounts of sugar that goes into the making of this stuff, only mildly wondering about the price that will be paid in the morning.
And then I yawn at midnight-ish and need to get home cuz it’s a long-ish walk.
“Will you be OK?” and it is a valid question as I have been conducting this Train at quite a clip and with less than stellar amounts of reserve and dignity and it is a long walk through neighborhoods that some parents would find sketchy.
“No, I’ve got a digital camera, a cell phone, $16 and an iPOD on me... I’ll totally be fine.”
“You’re a dead man.”
And I smile and am off. The iPOD dies 2 minutes into a 40-minute walk but I keep the head phones on cuz it is cold as hell outside. I field a few texts concerning alcohol snobbery and the carcinogenic properties of milk and take one short phone call where a dear friend throws 2 perfect punches at my head and then leaves me pickled and wondering what it is in me that adores abuse. All I can do is laugh at it.
I pass a few wandering souls in the night and I fear nothing, regardless of my blood alcohol level. There are dangers out, for sure, but they are about at any time of the day or night. All I see on this particular evening are similar beings, solitary, cast aside, wanting more than they have, needing certain things that are currently unattainable... we are all in this thing together, they pose no danger... well, they pose about as much danger as I do. Of course, considering the shit that is flooding through my system one could become incredibly violent at the drop of a hat and for no good reason. One could also collapse behind a dumpster in a sweeping and unexpected fit of heart-breaking nostalgia for a childhood pet that has been dead for 25 years.

I cut down through a well-manicured North Portland neighborhood and it is quiet and calm and save for a few pines, the trees are ancient and without leaves, skeletons looming overhead all black but not threatening. I come up on a large dumpster full of treasures, more than the standard fare of 2x4's and busted up sheet rock, intertwined tubes and wires and cast-away lighting fixtures that accompany a standard remodeling job, but I have no desire, energy, or curiosity for a dumpster dive ... then I notice, well, I step on one and slip about a foot and half flailing wildly in a desperate attempt to not break my back in the middle of the street, the middle of the night. I regain my composure and all around me are 7-inch records. A closer look redefines them as mere 45's. 7-inches are more for the indy/punk/metal/eastern European noise set... 45's are more of these things, RCA Victor Christmas hymns that no one ever cared about to begin with. I pick up a few on this wide and seemingly endless street, all bare of cars and wide enough for a 4-lane highway, giant, potentially haunted houses stretching off into the darkness, an old, monied neighborhood.


The shape and weight of the discs are reassuring in my hands... they are already garbage and them being on colored vinyl don’t up their intrinsic value... Christmas records rarely accumulate value, well some do, but they don’t deserve it (yes, I hate Christmas music) and regardless they are all over the street and I am drunk and alone and they feel so good as they fly from my hands and into the sky, some catching in those ancient trees that intersect over the middle yellow and faded line, reaching from opposite sides of the road to touch their thousands of bare fingers together in patient acts of love and lust. Other records sail gracefully and without incident off into the distance only to explode on the asphalt with a reassuring thud, like a baby being dropped off of a building (not really an accurate representation of the sound, I just wanted to use that line).
And I look to the sky on this cold clear night, the moon is full and proud and the sky is crisp, a somber indigo and against it streaks a pale grey contrail and a white light flashing at its head as a jet heads off for other places, me wanting to be on it to go no where in particular, looking for nothing, just relishing the momentum... this night is perfect.
And I stop by the 7-11 and get a sixer of tall Pabst because the distance and the cold and the Zen have taken away my high and I long to pass out in a haze, not able to remember the exact moment I let go of the now and fade off into alcohol sweats and dreams that may be blood-soaked and horrible, may be full of hope with a beautiful creature all legs and arms and warm breath in close quarters at the end of a rainbow...
Either way I will be happy, content, ready to accept any and all possibilities as this is life and through the beauty, through the terror, this is what we have to work with and all of it makes us who we are. It all hinges, the outcome, the sum total of who we are, on how we assemble the components and regard them.

EPILOGUE...no–AFTERMATH...yes, totally, this is an AFTERMATH

I wake up to a pain that is strangely familiar, like a face you see in a crowd and know, but not sure why exactly. Oh this is wretched. Is this 1988? There appears to be a vice clenched unnecessarily around my gigantic and throbbing head...the pressure in my skull...needles jammed into my eyes... it feels as if some wicked bastard has injected 300cc’s of molten lead into my brain, coating it, weighing it down, ruining it, I’ll never be able to spell “Misisssisppiissii” again. There is no ibuprofen in this house, one of the rare times when I would take the stuff... this is so wrong.
What happened? Why this terrible pain, this misery, this shit-stained gym sock jammed into my mouth, this puckered, ruined feeling?
...
...
Oh, that’s right.
Something about a train conductor.
Night Train, Express.
...
I need biscuits and gravy, or chicken fried steak. Something heavy and sponge-like to absorb this hell that is in me.
17.5% alcohol content. What was I thinking? Why do I do this to myself? Thank God no one wanted to go with me to get a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 when the Train was finished (we kept it in the freezer, it turned to a murderous Slurpee, a Slush Puppie with a mean streak). I remember this small blessing that seemed a curse at the time. Me trying to get someone to go with me so we could “get as fucking ghetto as hunanly [sic] possible, you püzzies [also sic]!” This is why I hang out with people smarter than myself. Not a difficult feat as you can all gather by now. I could hang out with a box of nose hair and still be the dumb one.
Jesus, this Night Train is like Kool Aid. I remember wanting to brush and floss after every swig, it was so sweet. Spiked Kool Aid. Damn, that was how Jonestown went down... this is how I’m gonna go down... Jim was right,
“Those who don’t remember history are condemned to repeat it.”
Loose translation:
Pay attention or else you are fucked.
I have to get to a diner, stat. Coffee, gravy, starch... oh God.

29.1.07

John Moe Cracks My Shit Up


You know, I love a good jab at KISS as much as the next person... which is why this is pretty close to genius. Oh Cat Man, you really are a total pussy.
Thank you John Moe.
I recommend reading the "Sweet Child O' Mine" piece if you follow the link.