Haunted Trailer Park- The Geography of Desolation

[I wrote this for an artist who was having a show in Joshua Tree, featuring his paintings about Joshua Tree. These weren't some Georgia O' Keefe nature images, but pictures of abandoned shops, ruined and forgotten cars, and the weathered faces of the desert dwellers. He opted not to use it, and I can see why. The people of Joshua Tree don't need some anti-desert rant knocking them down. The Desert throws enough low blows at them, they don't need some hack running up and kicking them when they're down. Anyhoo, here's the piece. No hard feelings, Jesse]

The Geography of Desolation—all across the desert miniature End Times are taking place, laying waste to random intersections of theoretical latitude and longitude lines—The flash of hope that gave birth to this place has long since died out—the beauty that high-falutin’ East Coast artists flout gets old quick when you have no options other than basic human survival, murder, suicide, or high desert evangelism—
It’s hard to believe that these cars ever ran, that they were once more than just rattlesnake nests and dented tableaus for sloppy graffiti—it’s impossible to accept that these ruins of a single-wide ever housed a person or a family, what with its rusted ribcages and tattered plastics, faux woods and shitty cabinet latches that never worked in the first place—it is utterly unfathomable that anything even close to a good idea was ever birthed here, nurtured, and allowed to blossom from a dream into a reality—the empty storefronts and shattered signage are testaments to that…
What breaks steel can just as well break flesh, break the mind, and it does so, slowly, with great patience and skill—look around, it is no accident that all of the plant life is covered in spines, and the wildlife hates you and will kill you if you insist on pestering it with your presence—this is no place for the soft bellies and tender blinking eyes of our species—we need love and affection to thrive, and there is nothing that is able to be hugged in these parts that will not result is massive injuries and discomfort…
But we have hope, and tenacity, and this thing called perseverance, and we believe we can, if not tame, at the very least co-exist within this harsh environment, but time and time again we loose to the desert—it does not want to live in harmony with us, and we are not worthy adversaries—so it happens, in the dead of night Hope leaves town—in the hell of the afternoon Sun ideas wither and die—the skin wrinkles and cracks, harsh lines Spackled over with the dust of 50’s era atomic tests that are widely remembered but rarely discussed—why do you think you can get 100 acres for $15 around here?—the toll is taken and glances become glares, chemicals become routines, our soft and rounded edges become hard and brittle, we become cacti, all unapproachable and only suitable for black and white photography—the Now is nothing more than a waiting game: Sun comes up, Sun goes down, and in between someone is murdered in a flash of insanity, someone takes themselves out of the game for good with a single shotgun blast to the face, someone drinks themselves to death in a busted-up Airstream, and yet another someone blows themselves up while trying to blow something else up—Time becomes a curse, dragging it all out, but it is also a blessing, albeit a delusional one, because in a Sun-baked mind it is easy to think that if one waits long enough…only if…only if…
And that is what you are left with, a stream of dot, dot, dots stretching off into the Horizon, down a lonely and forgotten highway.

Scotch/ Whisky Review: Kilbeggan

I was all about the Kilbeggan for a year or so until I decided to start paying money for whisky/ scotch.
I went to a scotch tasting at the Pearl Liquor Store cuz it was free booze (hammered, I got. Yes, so much so as to make me speak backwards like Yoda) and the guy that was hosting it was Scottish and wearing a kilt, which gives him cred (it wasn’t a utili-kilt, which would have made him a bag of soggy dicks instead of the Johnny Appleseed of DUIs). I credit his as the guy who introduced me to scotch. My friend and I were also there to get a bottle to kill for the weekend and he steered us away from the cheap CRAP (Rogue whisky which is something I would never consider touching now, and some other shit in a mason jar) and turned us towards us some cheap GOOD stuff, namely, Kilbeggan.
Simply put: it’s good shit. If you like Jameson or Maker’s, it’ll fit the bill. I mean, I haven’t done a side-by-side comparison but as far as I’m concerned it’s the bee’s knees when it comes to affordable but ‘licious whisky. It goes on sale occasionally for around $18, but when it’s not discounted you can grab a bottle for around $20 which is four-ish bones cheaper than Maker’s and about seven less than Jameson (don't quote me on that). Those two are my go-to drinks at a bar cuz, let’s face it, Tony’s or the Speakeasy aren’t gonna carry this little-known Scottish prize. But for home drinking, or if I’m going through a flask stage (Goodfoot= yes, you could get a bazooka into that place… Crown Room= NO! I can barely get my eyebrows into that place since the OLCC cracked down in them. Props to them, though: they took my Krink at the door but returned it five hours later when I left. Though they gave a look like I was lucky to get it back. Still, that’s a pretty cool move), this is where it’s at. Hearty, strong, it’s got a good bite on the pallet but only a gentle nibble on the wallet. It’s what a good whisky is supposed to be.
That said, doing a side-by-side in my den of sadness and failure with my previously reviewed Balvenie, I found it, comparatively speaking, a little watery. It still had the kick of a good whisky and lacked the shitiness of anything shat out by Kentucky (sorry Asseline Netherton, your bourbon leaves me feeling neglected). It didn’t have the brute force and viscosity of a low-level yet formidable whiskey. That may be like comparing apples to abortions but I’m not a pro, so I’m sticking to that until someone sets me straight with a fistful of brass knuckles and a branding iron.
All that said, Kilbeggan is usually on hand at the hovel for guests. But the expensive stuff is out of view in a cabinet somewhere for SPECIAL occasions…like when I have guests… which means there isn’t really any reason for me to hide it I suppose.
Damn, I gotta recalibrate my shit.
OK, new rule: Guests get the first glass of good stuff (usually, if they are a friend, or have a vagina, or eyes, or are wearing clothes, or aren’t, or are cops asking about the domestic violence next door, or have more than zero fingers, or less than zero fingers, or … OK, anyone who comes into my house gets a taste) and after that we tear through the Kilbeggan. That way you get cred for having good whisky in the house AND cred for going outside the norm when you drop down into the lower ranks as the night goes on.
It’s the equivalent of having Rachels on your iPOD (System/ Layers (2003) or Selenography (1999)) for normal times, but when things get green or chemically, you also have the Rachels/ Matmos collab Full on Night (2000) to say, “Yeah, I got good stuff, and I also got the SHIT! And you are a valuable enough guest to get a taste of the real shit… that’s hidden behind the bulk polenta.”
I don't know why I have bulk polenta. I don't know what it is or how to cook it. It just sits there, hiding the good stuff.


Avalanche’s one-sentence review: “Like trying to River Dance in a bathroom stall.” [Ed- I have no idea what this means] [Author- I too am not clear on what this means. I also didn’t know I had an Ed.]

Scotch/ Whisky Review, Volume 1: The Balvenie

I decided to go for some kinda big money booze because my palate is getting picky and fonder of things that I hated in my younger years. I mean, back in the day if you told me I’d like beets and brussels sprouts I would have thrown a lamp at you, but now a days, beets and brussels sprouts are good, cuz they FEEL healthy, and considering my lifestyle, even if it’s not healthy, if it FEELS healthy I’m gonna jump on it.
OK, that doesn’t really apply here. What I’m getting at is that taste buds evolve with age, and as I get older my tastes are growing into new dimensions. Every girl I’ve been involved with since 1998 has been into whisky. And while that beverage has become a more prevalent presence in my life as time goes on, those ladies, much to my own foolishness, keep on fading away leaving me with nothing but this whisky. It’s my own fault, and I own it with tears and loneliness.
A year or three ago there were free tastings in one of our liquor stores (idiotically controlled by the OLCC. Oh how I miss California, where, like an adult, you can buy condoms, chips, a light bulb, two pounds of apples, and a gallon of vodka all in the same store… at 1 in the A.M.). It was a scotch thing, which I knew nothing of, but soon discovered was an alcohol that occasionally tastes a lot like a mouthful of peat moss. Kind of like how beets taste like dirt. Even if you hadn’t actually had the privilege of experiencing a mouthful of dirt, you can imagine ex-ACTLY how it tastes. And with that, if you tasted some hard-core scotch for the first time and said, “WHOA! What the fuck does THAT taste like?!” and someone said “peat moss” you’d be like, “Oh, OK. I can see that.”
So, this is a twelve-year, price-prohibitive (compared to what I usually drink) scotch whisky (which, I'll tell you since I didn't know, the difference twixt scotch and whisky is that scotch is whisky that comes from Scotland I felt dumb when I learned that). Two casks, hand-turned barley or some shit on the floor, old Scottish distiller keeping it old school. Point being, this is a good entry into the world of scotch. I have no vocabulary for this business, so bear with me whilst I drop some layman’s terms on your face.
The smell is of a heady caramel with a slight kerosene burn that people who like whisky have come to love. It’s also more viscous than Makers or Jameson. If you take a small bit and hold it in your mouth you can feel it being thicker than water or the cheaper stuff. I mean, it’s not like motor oil or (so I’ve been told) semen, but it’s definitely thicker than other things I usually drink (like motor oil… or semen… WHOA! Wait…)
The up front taste, right when it hits your tongue is whisky, but when it flows to the back it gets a slight peat moss flair. Not enough to put one off, like some hardcore shit where you’re like “Dude! Who just dropped a shovelful of dirt into my face?!”, but enough to help you swagger some baby steps into the scene.
All in all, I’d say I dig it and it is a perfect entry into scotch for those of you who enjoy whisky but are looking to get deeper into the… brown alcohol scene (hey Amaretto, go fuck yourself). Once I save up enough extra cash I’ll get deeper into the scotch scene and fill you in. But for now, if you’re on the same curious path as I am and have and extra (gulp) fifty bucks to drop, this is a good beginning lesson. Just do as I do and keep some cheap shit on the shelves for when alcoholic friends drop by. Keep this in the cabinet behind the bulk flour, rice, and almonds.

Dr. Avalanche’s off the cuff review: “Tastes like licking an oak tree.”
To be clear, Avalanche has weakly proclaimed that he refuses to be a snob. But tell me, does pretending that Southern Comfort and The Cure’s “Seventeen Seconds” are the pinnacles of existence make you a man of the people; a veritable Bruce Springsteen of the degenerate set? I say it makes you a twat who is slumming with a grimace just to earn street cred.
But he is entitled to his own opinion… even though “Head on the Door” has ALWAYS kicked “Seventeen Seconds” ass and, to quote an amazing person:
Dear Southern Comfort,
You aren’t very comforting!

Food Night, Volume 2: Chicken Burrito

Chicken Burrito Review

Again, trying to be healthier. Tonight was burrito night! A boneless, skinless chicken breast cooked in its own sadness and fear, with a light sprinkling of salt, pepper, and garlic salt.
Throw in a half of a Roma Tomato (I like their firmness but out of season, like now, they aren’t as awesome. Heirlooms are the shit, but when I’m preoccupied with buying $50 bottles of scotch and cans that rattle, I can’t really be expected to drop two bucks on a tomato… I know, fucked up priorities. Get in line to wag a finger), a half of an avocado (lightly salt it, along with any other veggie, about fifteen minutes before eating. This is a really good thing to do if you’re making a pizza. TRUST IT!), a few slivers of yellow bell pepper, a few bits of the cheese of your choice (I prefer the sharp cheddar. I like my cheese to have a bite, like my booze or my wasabi or my women… OK, I have no women, but if I did, a wee nibble here and there would be nice [insert solitary, lonely tear rolling down solitary, lonely cheek] ), some multi-whole grain tortilla that feels like that rubber mat shit you stick under a throw rug to keep it from slipping out from under you, and, my downfall, some sour cream. Not fat free, not low fat—the real deal. Some things you gotta go whole with, like sour cream, and half and half. Have you had fat free half and half? Shit is GROSS! Half and half IS fat. So how it’s made, I have no idea. All I know is that it’ll ruin a cup of coffee quick snap.
Throw that in with HTRK’s Work (Work, Work) album and the new issue if Vice (which, and feel free to argue with me on this, has kinda sucked since Gavin left the fold) and you’ve got yourself a pleasant evening of food, sounds, and reading.
Side note: I did NOT get taken advantage of this evening, unlike pork chop and salad night. My game was slipping and I tried to talk politics and religion with myself, which is ALWAYS a terrible idea on a first date. I realized quickly that this was a no go, a dry night, another night of meeting with the Band of the Hand, so I started dropping the baby-rape jokes. If you’re gonna blow it, do it big and loud.
At least I had some good food. And that HTRK album is really good.

Food Night: Volume 1

I’ve been feeling too fat from beer these days and at some point I developed a serious addiction to frozen pizzas so finally I had a moment of clarity and decided to (temporarily) clean up my act and start eating healthy. Vegetables, small portions of fresh meat, home-cooked shit. Contrary to popular misconception (Suzie Q, lookin’ at YOU!) I can cook some shit up. So here is where I am.
Yes, I’m writing about food I’ve made. These are truly the end times. Anyhoo:
Salad consisted of butter lettuce (washed to avoid e.coli), broccoli (ditto), a half of a Roma tomato (purposely covered in e. coli that I bought in bulk from Winco), one-third of a cucumber (skinned cuz the skin was a little too intense), some mushroom slices (I’d bet that most people who loathe mushrooms because they’re “grown in shit” regularly use catsup… and the things that go down in a catsup factory (Tracy, CA!) makes mere shit seem like a box of See’s Candies, so zip it!), some orange bell pepper slices (not grown in shit or a catsup factory), kidney and garbanzo beans (legume protein!), a sprinkling of gorgonzola (OK, I can never be truly healthy because I am addicted to cheese), and (in the blue Andy and Bax camping shot glass) some balsamic vinegar mixed with a dash of extra virgin (three hymens!) olive oil and two cloves of diced garlic.
Pork chop was salted, peppered, garlic salted, lightly paprikaed on a whim, and cooked in a quarter-sized dollop of butter.
Red wine was on hand (and in liver).I realize that white goes better with pork but I can’t stand the stuff. Deal with it.
Tom Waits’ Closing Time was on the iPOD (CD used for demonstration purposes only). By the time “Martha” rolled around I had finished eating (OK, I was actually done halfway through “I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You” (track #2 for those of you who, for SHAME, don’t know). I eat fast. I was raised in a den of wolves and if I didn’t eat quickly, I didn’t eat).
I retired to the creaky couch/bed that keeps my chiropractor in business. The food was great and I was dropping my A-game on myself, talking about puppy dogs and ice cream cones and shit . The wine flowed, I kept chatting, kept making myself laugh, the music played, and much like Tom Waits said on Nitehawks at the Diner, before I knew it I had taken advantage of myself.
It was a good night.
I called myself up six weeks later and told myself that I had missed my period. Shortly after that phone call I changed my phone number and stopped hanging out in the places that I had met myself (so long, Victory Bar and Star Bar, I’ll miss your heavy-handed pours and hamburgers, respectively).