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.

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.

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

(((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.

“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.

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.

Never Call a Man With a Gun a Cocksucker, and Other Pearls of Wisdom

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"You’re like two jerks pushed together"

I am my own worst enemy...
I had every intention of going to bed at a decent hour, but for whatever reason, and as is the norm, it didn’t really work out. I was going to write a bit, have a gin and Sprite, a couple beers, keep it mellow (yes, it’s a little sad as to what I consider "Keeping it mellow" on these harsh, cold, and lonely nights), then hit the hay by 11:00 PM or so. So I had a drink with my roommate Y– and as my drink disappeared rather quickly she asked if I was trying to destroy myself.
Was I?
No, not really. I just drink fast, which is why I try to stick with Pabst as the alcohol content is negligible, and I can pound it for awhile and still remain relatively safe and about my wits.
She finished her drink and went upstairs to paint and I turned on the stereo, made a quick On the Go mix on the iPOD that suited my mildly intoxicated brain, and set off to write.
As usual, I just ended up sending off a few e-mails that probably had no business being sent off. Then my other roommate, R– came home with some friends and they were off to the bar across the street, "Hey, you wanna come along?"–"No. Sounds fun and thanks for the invite but I have to get to bed early tonight. You kids have a good time though" is said through an uncoordinated tongue.
So they took off and I sent off some more e-mails, checked the news, all the things I usually end up doing when I am supposed to be writing.
Then my other roommate, D– came home and I have no idea how it happened but suddenly there was beer everywhere. We were facing off across the table, pounding beers, him berating me for being a douchebag, trying to motivate me to do something with my life, asking me to justify my currently-held belief that I am quite possibly doomed (I only half believe it. Honestly, I just like the way it rolls off of the tongue) . He got no answers from me but kept digging, and along with the 20 questions (more accurately 2700 questions) we talked music and other things... and it was probably the music subject, or something else, that prompted him to pay me the greatest compliment I have ever received... I just wish I could remember what exactly prompted it... but he said, out the corner of his mouth:
"You’re like two jerks pushed together."
All I could do was laugh, and hard, and write it down, because of all the things I assumed I would be forgetting on this wicked and polluted night, this was not one that I was willing to let go of. We kept on and I occasionally glanced at the clock on the microwave, crudely calculating the amount of beer I had consumed against the amount of time it was until I had to get up and go to work and how many more beers I calculated I could still down without being totally destroyed in the morning.
Unfortunately the only math I was capable of doing was the figuring out the difference between the time it was as I looked at the clock and the time I had to be at the bus stop, still in the dark of early morning. That whole part about factoring in sobriety and time to become sober and maintaining at work was lost to me, so I kept going. Sliding unopened beers across the table as D– was getting as drunk and sloppy as I was, cursing every time another beer manifested in front of him.
Then my roommate who went out earlier to drink came home, not too sturdy on the legs, and the next day I wondered if it looked funny that I said I was going to bed and then she shows up at 2AM and here I am drunk and flopping all over the table like a beached dolphin.
She disappeared into her bed to pass out and after the Tom Waits album ended I had to stop playing the music because her head only has about 4" of sheet rock between it and the speakers. Even drunken double-jerks like me have hearts.
So we kept on at each other, and honestly I have no idea what was said. I do recall noticing that it was 3 AM and me springing out of my chair like drunk people have a habit of doing, and saying something along the lines of, "Fuck... I have to sleep" and collapsing in my bed.
Two hours later my alarm went off and it was like a little slice of hell showed up in my room. I argued with myself over whether or not to call in sick, but I would feel like a chump for calling in a false sick day because I was drunk. If there was a pretty girl in my bed, that would be a whole different story, but the sad bed of mine was deserted and soaked in lousy beer sweat.
Had I been pulled over driving I suspect I would get a DUI, but I wasn’t driving so I sucked it up and took a shower in the dark. At some point, one of those 10 gallon jugs of shampoo that one can acquire at Costco or some such warehouse store fell on my foot. What can one do but swear? So I did. For a second I was sure I had broken the damned thing, the pain was unbelievable, but I could still move it. I squinted through the dark though and saw that I was bleeding nicely. It had hit that vein that runs right across the top of the foot and popped it.
A little more swearing, without much energy of course. Then I toweled off and got dressed and barely made my bus while listening to absolutely nothing on my big padded headphones. Some times I just like the muffling effect they have on the atmosphere and considering the weather they make a nice pair of ear muffs.
The whole day at work was pretty easy. It was a slow day, and I was moving even slower but I didn’t suffer a hangover, just a wee, lingering buzz that rose up occasionally as a dizzy spell that had me snickering at my incompetence.
I am my own worst enemy.

Procrastination...

So I am in the process of reading a semi-coffee table book on Django Reinhardt. I have been at it for awhile. I am finding that I am too finicky to review books, but this will get done when I finally run out of other things to do (mop, drink coffee, bake some cookies... blink, breathe).

Anyway, I came across this great quote. My second quote post in a row. I will try to avoid making this a habit.

"In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs, and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen--follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow, and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something--give pain, give death what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization..."

-Zora Neale Hurston

"How It Feels to Be Colored Me"

1928

McLoch Resurfaces, Drunk and Lost Somewhere on the Yucatan Penninsula...

"All is Beautiful, no matter how Tragic, cuz All is of the Now and the Now is driven by the Living and the Living have an upper hand over the Dead. Life is Quick, Brutal, and Unflinching and it is for the Now... hesitation breeds Insanity and Regret... that is for the Dead...
This is the Now...

We are the Living."

-Edwin McLoch

WTF?!

It's funny. I went to bed in Portland, Oregon and woke up in North Dakota. I don't know how it happened, and frankly I am not too thrilled about it. See, Snow is pretty and all, and I really like the effect it has on the ambient sound of the outdoors, all muffled and strapped together with pillows, but I was under the impression that we had an unspoken agreement-- that Snow would only put in appearances on the periphreals of wherever it was that I happened to be operating at the time. If I wanted a rendevous, got a hankering for frostbite and wet shoes, numb feet and a frozen nose, then I would drive the 1 hour to where Snow had its place. Today, Snow crossed the line.

So, forgive me while I become juvenile for a moment or two.

I give you the Fleshy Bird of "Go Back to North Dakota!" Snow!

I sully your Virginal Whiteness with the Urine of Cheap Beer and Spite, Snow. This is my town!


I Poop on you, Snow! You must leave me in Peace, for this is no place for you!

Now that that is out of my system, well, I suppose I have to find something else to curse. Sorry for the ass shot, everyone. You know the Donner Party would have done the same thing had they digital cameras and a blog as well.

I promise, next time, something a little more relevant to the Bigger Picture, if you will.

(Photos: David F.)
(Stunt ass: Will Conquest)
(Special thanks to Pabst Blue Ribbon, Polaroid, and my Uvula)

A small poem...

Actually, it wasn't meant to be a poem. Just something I jotted down on the fly. But I have yet to find a home for it so I offer it up as a sacrifice to the Demons of the Writer's Block.

(the following has no grounds in reality...)

("dot, dot, dots" hold a lot of weight in my reality)

(take that as you will)

Occasionally A Sentimental and Mildly Cliche Moment in the

Night Time is a Flash of Well Deserved Violence in Disguise, Delivered by a Girl Who

May Not Actually, Considering Recent Developments, Be Receiving that $4,000 Diamond Ring that Is Nestled Warmly in Your Coat Pocket

I thought I saw a shooting star,
but it was just your fist,

all pale and small

in the moonlight
arcing towards my head.
That’s the last thing I remember.

Thank you...

Thank you very much.

Is it wrong for a title to be longer than the actual piece?