Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The Wilderness Years - Raskolnikov's Blues Pt. 1

I had never seen a more wretched hive of fucking sycophants in my life, it was a well groomed and well fed and well cared for collection of bootlickers and asslickers, this was the future of second-rate academia at it's finest, half-wit and talent-less buffoons in boat shoes with an overweight play write and slutty actress thrown in for good measure, call it a well rounded class, hell i wish i was making it up, i wish i hadn't actually spent money to be trapped in a room with these asshats, apparently my adman-journo degree didn't count for shit with the high and mighty doling out the grants of this esteemed state university English dept., i had wagered as much but looking at these studious bores was like a slap in one nut, not devastating but more that sick feeling where one testicle ascends into you pelvis bringing a strange and nauseous ache, so here i sat paying for it and suddenly all that bright-eyed stoned optimism that took place the previous year at the White Trash Pleasuredome was evaporating faster than cocaine at a strip club...

The first day of graduate level lit class i must have looked like a slack-jawed junkie, sitting in our circle like the good kindergartners we were, waiting for the arrival of our master, i had a head full of nappy dreads and a beat up pair of Vans on, cut off shorts, i could tell that if any of these fucking squares was hip enough to watch Fast Times behind their parents backs on cable back in 8th grade that they'd be clocking me for a certain Mr. J. Spicouli... and that's not to say they would have been entirely wrong except for the accent of course, mine involved a bit more midwestern skateboard slang, fresh off a year of slinging bagels and smoke and another summer on the migrant service worker tourism circuit i had walked back into the hallowed halls of higher education with hope and aspirations, what can i say i was young and though i was of the firm belief that humanity was a gigantic shit-pile i guess one could say i still had this youthful idealism that i thought i could make things better? fuck if i know? like i said i was young, something akin to an optimistic nihilist... but back to the classroom...

The door of the classroom swings open, a bit of stumbling and bumbling and in walks a rather fey, butch lesbian... from the outset one can tell she's not the most confident of sorts but also not cocky or pretentious like some of the profs, she had a PHD in Russian Literature and i'm almost giddy with excitement cuz at the time i was all about the Rooskies and the Frogs, she smiles and welcomes us to grad school and makes a joke about us being real people now (which i will come to find is less of a joke and more of a factual statement among the faculty) and proceeds to pass out the syllabus and state that this semester we would be studying Victorian literature... now you might have heard the yougottabefuckingkiddingme escape from my mouth if not for the shrieks of glee among my fellow classmates who like a gaggle of ADHD kids at Chuck E. Cheese begin chirping and chattering about their love of all things Victorian, in fact when we start circle time and begin introducing ourselves i'm stifling laughter as one after the next, the future of second-rate academia, a group which by my very presence here means i'm contemplating joining, fall all over themselves professing their love, a love they've been cultivating since the time they were in diapers, of Victorian literature...

In a perfect world i would've stood up right at that moment and launched my desk at the window or better yet announced to the class that they were all fucking assholes and that i was leaving for fear of becoming a fucking asshole like them, alas my friend it is not a perfect world and so i stayed in my seat and feigned interest as the time for me to speak crept closer... and when it finally got there, when i finally became the center of circle time, it just sort of came blurting out, i hate Victorian lit, this class is gonna be a nightmare, with all the eras to choose from, with the Russians and French writing things so much more compelling and pertinent and thought provoking... and then i trailed off as i stared into a dozen or so open mouths, my gobsmacked classmates (except for a guy named John) who couldn't believe i could be so blasphemous as to disparage the single greatest era of the written word in their eyes... and hell i know that some scathing social commentary was hidden in the language, still, reading Dickens and Austen and Hardy? it makes me eyes bleed, it's physically painful and i know among the literati i'm in the minority but what can i do? i'd rather eat the book than read it...

And so my career as a professional student was off and running... straight into a wall head first, by the time the leaves were brown and crispy i was losing my mind, i decided to drop acid one day at break just to see if i could make Victorian Lit more interesting, it was my Thursday night class and last of the week, my weekend would be off to a flying start and since i lived and hung out with undergrads it would be a well and good drinking night... of course i had to get through the rest of the class but i figured it would take a bit to kick in and i'd only have half hour tops of winding my way down the rabbit hole, ah those best laid plans, the gear was strong and came on quick and as shit went haywire i attempted to sit and focus just in case i was asked a question, inside my head was like an amusement park and i felt that if called upon i would start spouting gibberish or talking in ye olde English thus tipping my fellow pro-students off to the most definite fact that i was not on the up and up with this advanced degree bullshit.. and of course that night class went five minutes longer cuz what do these fucking squares have to do tonight? go to the library? study group? make some dinner, read, watch a dvd and fret about their paper? i needed a fucking a drink and a bong hit, some female companionship, some good tunes and the damp, cold apartments of my Podunk U. friends...

And yet i had to give it a shot, i'm pig-headed and stubborn and maybe i wanted to show all these well fed and well washed faces that even us derelicts crawling up from the underbelly had some fucking sense and so i put my head down and got on with it, dare i say even excelled in certain areas, there was a writing theory teacher who loved me for my out there approach to teaching and grading and railing against the rest of the class, at one point she even stopped and defended my position one night saying that it was a "highly progressive method but one that had gained approval in certain academic circles", exactly how i would've put it, score another point for the fearless freak, yet i was glad we didn't have to work in groups often cuz when we did you could see the kiddies all trying to get it figured out before they were forced to be with the weirdo, hell a couple of the guys i wanted to just plain throttle, the only one who talked to me at all was a guy named John, now and then we'd meet at the bar and discuss shit, we got to talking books one day and discussing William Burroughs, seemed John had been given the green light on his paper for the semester on Bill, i had all kinds of tapes and articles and books by William S. so i invited him over to look at some things, he asked if you could make some copies and i said sure and we bullshitted some more and he gazed at the book shelf and smiled...

So the days grew shorter and the old house i lived in grew a bit colder, the brilliant color of a Pennsyltucky fall came and went and it was then that i found out that the bankers and gatekeepers and whatever other shadow organization was involved in these types of decisions had not granted me in-state status meaning i was not only a man without a state but a fucking broke man without a state, suddenly that loan i took out slipped like smoke from my account and into Podunk U.'s coffers, my choice being to try and get more money or figure out a way to generate some in order to survive, it felt a bit like strike two, first the naive optimism dissipating as i realized the i was the square peg theory and the fact that they wanted original thinking with references and the last thing i saw coming out of this place was anything close to original fucking thinking... and now second the money was fucked, was it my fault? probably, i'm sure i didn't read the rules close enough but either way i was pissing in the wind and i wasn't about to put myself in any more hock to the man than i already was, i needed a plan...



Tuesday, October 21, 2014

The Wildnerness Years - Rental Cars

Looking back now if i was that guy's supervisor and he let me drive off the lot in a fat ass Crown Vic i would have fired him on the fucking spot... you see i had spent the previous few weeks sliding down an ever beautiful and treacherous slope of desperation, rampant boozing and copious drug use, in fact thinking back to the poor old man who drew the short straw and had to pick me up (because that's what their ad says they do) he must have been smirking at my wastedness or high on my fumes, i was oblivious to it all, i thought it was perfectly normal to be sitting shotgun in a minivan on my way to rent a car, the waves of booze emanating off of me like waves of heat shimmering off the sun, so potent you could actually see them and i just sat there and smiled and made a little small talk and tried to get my bearing and stop the world from spinning so much...

The office was in West Ocean City which is akin to left hind tit geographically speaking, hot and shitty and the wonderful ocean breeze nowhere to be fucking found, i sat in what felt like a small airplane hangar but was really one of those weird half-tubes of corrugated metal slapped on top of a few cinder blocks, i sat and watched the puke yellow and light blue walls move and breath and buck and bend, i smiled at the young man booking my auto, he stated there was a problem and i wondered whatever could it be? it couldn't be the gentleman if front of him with the long natty hair, pinned out eyes and reeking of Jagermeister could it? he said he needed to speak to someone and i smiled politely and asked if it would be alright if i stepped outside while he did? sure he said and gave a wink and i quickly made for the door where i immediately high-tailed it around the corner and began throwing up whatever i had been drinking the night before which judging by the smell, contents and color of the Pollock painting taking shape in the grass was Jager and beer and who knows what else, there was definitely no food involved and i'm quite sure my liver was none to happy and i realized i was still in the same clothes i had on from the night before and could feel the little, empty bag in my pocket containing the weak brown that had been my new favorite pal to hang with every few days, i spit and shook my head and nonchalantly as i could for a guy who just got done tossing his cookies, ambled towards and trash can and clandestinely tossed the bag in the garbage, after a quick inspection of course to make sure it was empty, then headed back inside...

It was at this point that the bright- eyed recent graduate of Salisbury State University came wandering back over beaming from ear to ear, it began to dawn on me that i looked like a skid row derelict and most likely smelled like one as well as the temp and humidity picked up and i began to sweat and realize that there was more than a hint of boozevomit in my aura, luckily this kid was undaunted and must have really wanted to rent this car and score a commission or some such shit cuz he looks at me and explains that they didn't have the mid-sized sedan that i was looking for but because they didn't have such a vehicle on site that he had given me a free upgrade and would a Crown Vic be alright, i almost burst out laughing but didn't want to risk puking in my lap, i felt the sweat dripping down my back and my ass crack and forming stains around my armpits and smiled, saying sure that would be just fine... it wasn't until we were out inspecting the car with his co-worker that my boy began to get the feeling something was amiss, i believe his co-worker, who was looking at me in what one would call a horrified manner, was whispering to him that the aroma coming from my direction was not after-shave and that he was about to let someone who still smelled legally drunk and most likely under the influence of narcotics drive off the lot in a rather new Crown Vic... another five minutes and i smiled as i took the keys from his hand, opened the door of the car, rolled the windows down and cranked the AC up and headed back over the Rt. 50 bridge...

So as our hero rolled back over the Rt. 50 Bridge and towards that cesspool of downtown OCMD we might ask ourselves as David Byrne once did, how did we get here? and the honest answer would be i don't fucking know but i did know, sometimes late in the summer exhausted and staring at the ceiling and listening to the gulls and the traffic and the random drunks screaming for their mothers it would come creeping in, this life was a fucking mess at the moment but that didn't seem to phase me, shit turns you know but at the moment? well it was a fucking mess, after dropping out of grad school and at one point being down to my last four bucks, finding out the building i was living in was condemned, having numb-nut neighbors attracting the attention of John Q. Law, which wasn't all that hard to attract with a bunch of over-zealous work study criminal justice majors all with painful hard-ons to kick ass and almost giddy to use their clubs-pepper spray-handcuffs-sucker punches on any summer local they could collar, a relationship falling apart, a cat getting lost (and then found after a 16 hour work day), one concussion, a cast of roommates doing their best to make sure i never spoke to them again, hell it was damn near the perfect plate of shit sandwiches, working like mad just to get my head above water, so even though the pad was paid up until Labor Day i jumped at the chance to move down to 2nd St. near the bay just for some fucking sanity, even if i had to pay rent again...

But let's not start the violins just yet, you see that move was brilliant and refreshing, it was a bit of a fresh start, i knew i wouldn't be there long but i had a room and it was quiet, i worked with the new roomie and he liked to get as fucked up as i did, i had spent most of the summer gobbling acid and drinking and smoking dope, i worked that way, of course one advantage was the Fry Hut damn near encouraged drinking, it being the closest thing to a factory job you could ever get on a boardwalk, surrounded by cookers and fryers and sweating out the booze every other hour and paid for the one in between which when it was the evening shift was spent at the bar drinking and playing foosball and during the day was spent reading or sleeping or at the bar drinking and playing foosball, it was a simple life and yet it seemed all the people around me were making it complicated, i obviously had nothing to do with it, i spent the few off hours i had typing out short stories on an old electric typewriter, somehow producing page after page of drivel and heartache and insanity, i typed out shitty poems, then i moved into this new room and set the typer on a chest and gazed out the window at the Big Assawoman and typed some more when i had the chance...

Still, let's be honest, even reading it now i'm a little surprised i navigated my way through, you see it's at this new place i met a kindred spirit, a friend of the new roomie's, and he'd come down on weekends with his girl and we took to having long booze and ganja filled conversations about all kinds of shit, music and art and the like, i mentioned my appreciation of one William S. Burroughs and he mentioned he could score, i told him that would be swell and the next weekend i took a walk in the park but never actually left my room, just another bad habit to add to an ever growing list but this one actually made me adhere to a regimen, there were rules and no matter how much i wanted to break them i knew not to, i had the utmost respect for Mr. Brownstone and at one point i had to lecture my new friend on the dangers of every day use, which was funny coming from a guy who only sobered up every few days just to indulge in the same, until of course i figured out how to mix and match and get even more out of my head, a few weeks shy of 25 it's amazing how invincible one can believe they are... but there i was and the summer was winding down and things just kept on getting stranger...

I was vaguely aware that my career as a migrant tourism service worker was coming to it's end, it was my fourth season and it was cruel and punishing and yet it seemed at times as such a sweet, dirty and beautiful existence, hand to mouth, working months on end without a day off and yet still finding the time to write and drink and trip and fuck... and as i stared down the end of August and everything after (see old post of said title) i continued dropping quarters in the jukebox, one night being asked point blank "if i liked to eat pussy" and myself nodding and the woman standing there asking me if i'd like another drink cuz if i like to eat pussy she'd love to take me home but to not tell her friend who had some sort of school girl crush on me and what could i do but shrug and smile, there were the nights in my dimly lit apartment, pinned out and listening to the birds on the bay, music playing softly behind me, my bottle of water leaving wet rings on the floor, there was a visit from the letter writer and an injection of passion into an exhausted man-child to help him stumble towards the finish line, an all-nighter as the boys of the Fry Hut said their goodbyes, a night of powder and pills and grass and liquor, a night spent shooting the shit until the sun came up and some of us went straight to work and a few lucky ones slept away the heat of the day... and then the last night, the night they took Captain Cock to the psych ward while i sat doing bumps and drinking Jager and beer, i should have probably ended up in the hospital but instead i wandered the alleys toward my place, stopping occasionally to spit up, gazing up towards the lights and sounds of the boardwalk and then it all faded to black...

That morning i woke up in my room with my bags all packed and my trunk locked, there was a pounding at the door and a friendly old eastern shore geezer stood there asking if El Kono was here cuz he was here to pick him up, seems he had rented a car, i squinted and smiled and said i'd be out in a minute, in the bathroom i threw some water on my face and chuckled and then made my way down the wooden steps, past where i tried to woo the girl who threaded hair and reminded me of Audrey (see the post Marriage Proposal) and towards the mini-van which would take me across the Rt. 50 bridge heading west for the second to last time, just a day shy of my 25th birthday, how the world was my fucking oyster...

Monday, October 6, 2014

Interloodz

I've always loved quiet bars, a gray day and some time in the pub, preferably with a few windows to gaze out of and traffic to watch and a killer fucking jukebox if the need strikes... these days i love the fucking lounge cuz it's quite like my favorite dives, it's quiet and empty and allows me the room to think, no need to answer comments (there aren't any), no need to worry about an audience or offending, not that i ever did anyway, it's just funny when i stroll through the vast wasteland that is the blogosphere that i see the games that are played, i've seen places with so many comments (hundreds) and the author answering back that i'm amazed they have time to write anything at all, comments are for the ego, talent just sits and fucking does shit, fuck the reward, unless someone wants to give me some money of course, i can always use that, there's always a beer to be drunk or gear to be scored and i don't give a fuck, and what my imaginary friend are you smirking at? my claim of talent? well hell fucking yes, if i don't believe who's gonna but i make believers every now and then cuz i can spin a good yarn, a bit like this motherfucker, another Ohioan who talks shit and writes songs and plays guitar and fucking does his thing and isn't worried about being polite or politically correct and if you don't like it he don' give a fuck, me neither, these the fucking rules man, like fuck the MFA's and slam poetry is dogshit perpetrated by hacks who can't rap or write poesy and do i give a shit what you think or if you think or why you think? fuck no, as Hank said this ain't about entertaining you it's about entertaining me and while i'm at it fuck Hank too, he knew as much as i do that he was blowing smoke and perpetuating his own myth but then again ain't that what this writing gig is all about? i'm just here to document the shit, i'm here to leave a record that no one will find or read and if someone does than so be it, i hope they enjoy it, maybe they'll get a good laugh or break down and cry, maybe they'll be indifferent or think it's the worst fucking atrocity put upon mankind since the atomic bomb, what's the difference?, there is none son and so i'll just keep on with it, walking and talking and grinning with a quick and wicked right uppercut, truth and justice and talent and fame are all just words, words used to often by hacks like you and me and your mom and your aunt and the slam poets and the MFA's but in the end they don't mean shit, they are defined by white-haired old men in gray pinstripe suits and their language is not mine, their paradigm's are not mine, their society is not mine, their truth and justice and talent and fame and slam poets and MFAs are not mine, nothing is mine but this space and this time and i intend to use it whichever way i see fit, be it cock in hand or finger in the nose, smoke rising towards the ceiling and a garbage can full of false starts and empties... and now that the Guinness has settled sweetly into the glass i'm off, to stare at the traffic and the years, to think that i was in a bar when OJ drove down the highway, that i was in a bar when Princess Diana drove into a tunnel, that i was in a bar when my nephew was born a few months to early, that i was scoring on my birthday circa 2001, that i was fucking in the backseat of a Mercury the night my family dissolved, that i was drunk in the blizzard of '93, drunk when she unbuckled my belt and unzipped my fly and led me down to a stained and soiled mattress, that i was hungover the day my son was born, that they are all just days upon days upon days upon days and there is no use in counting only living it as hard and as fast and as long as i can pull it off... and now the Guinness has settled sweetly into the glass i'm off but you know cuz i've already said so, off to read more Gombrowicz and Knausgaard and Steinbeck and Mutis and Burroughs and Bolano, off to do nothing and everything but mainly off to enjoy this drink and this toke and not give a fuck about the rising tides or the setting suns...

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Delmarva

I was addicted to her... I know this now because i'm much more intimate with addiction than what i used to be, but it was a gorgeous feeling this addiction, somewhat like the first high of an opium addict, so soft and intense, it seemed as if every part of the universe was expanding and that universe was buried deep inside and every nerve was being overloaded with pleasure and lust and sensation, it was smiling with teeth bared and knowing it would come cascading down in the most glorious of flames... oh but while it was happening it was a fucking beautiful binge, an all out ball, like standing in Valhalla with the sun blaring down and waves crashing and her walking towards you and every cell on your body suddenly comes to attention and as she nears you can sense that she's right there with you and it's like an electrical storm, the room fucking charged, and the world could or could not exist it didn't matter, it was as if before time, nothing but chemicals, water and carbon and iron and it was a fucking beautiful thing to behold...

Years would go by... then one day a letter sent... Letters.  Good old-fashioned letters, pen put to paper, scribbled out on park benches or in quiet afternoons at the bar, sitting at the window of an apartment, didn't matter if we were miles apart or in the next room... those letters, practically from the day we met the fucking letters, i have no idea who wrote the first one, maybe me, i was supposed to be the writer but she was the artist, oozing passion and fire and serenity all at once, maybe it was her that wrote the first one, page upon page of letters, i remember it hurt to finish them, like coming down, i'd re-read it and re-read it, skip to my favorite bits, hit the mailbox like the junky looking for his dealer all in the hopes of a letter... and then there was the days of salt and sand and roaring surf, days where i'd come back to my rooming house and find one lying on the bed, on my trunk next to the stained and dirty mattress, knowing i'd read it and be waiting for her, her standing at work daydreaming about the look in my eyes as i scanned the lines, knowing that later she'd show up, the lights low in the old whorehouse i now called home, people talking and laughing and drinking and drugging and i'd be standing in the door of my sweltering, dimly lit room, shirtless in cut-off work pants, her in her navy blue skirt with the white flowers, a white T-shirt, making her way through the bodies, accepting a drink and grinning up at the silhouette standing up the stairs on the second floor... on finding out the place was a whorehouse a friend of mine said "if walls could talk" and by the time that summer was over i would look at those walls and hold up my finger, keep my secrets i'd whisper, they may be the most beautiful ones i'll ever have...

Now even years later i don't how to tackle it, it still seems molten, it still shifts and moves, she once told me of another letter she had written, it was written to another lover and in it she explained to him much better than i ever could the state of things and how the events of those months would shape her life, how the intensity of it would become the litmus test for every other relationship, knowing full well that something that burns that white hot was something to touch but no place to attempt to live, it would have been impossible to sustain and in doing so would have been the greatest tragedy of  all, because even once it was over it took on a life of it's own, mythologized into our beings and sown into the tapestry of our stories, as if we could not be where we are now if not for what happened then, that had it not happened things would have been completely different and had it lasted, had it out-lived itself by some cosmic accident that the magic and mystery of it would have all been lost...

And what sort of ramshackle narrative is this? what am i getting at? somewhere in here is the story, a major chapter in a minor play... and i intend to tell it, one of these days of course, every so often someone shows you the truth and in it you find your faults and heroics, in it you catch a glimpse of the soul... and here is a secret, a moment in time that i've never talked about, that moment when she left, it was not because it was over but somehow both of us knew it was, we couldn't stop time and the change of the seasons would move us, the winds shift us in different directions, and so i stood on her wooden porch and let her sob in my arms, her whole body shaking, my shirt soaked in her tears,  promises of letters and visits and lies...

And then it happened, she got in the car and drove away, the mere thought of not being able to touch her, to kiss her, to wake up next to her buckled my knees, i walked the six blocks home dazed, hat pulled low over my eyes, pulled low so no one could see the tears welling, pulled low because i couldn't look at the streets the same way without her, suddenly i was lost in my own barrio, it was now foreign and desolate, i wanted to wretch looking at the filthy streets that i once loved so much because without her there was nothing, ah yes to be young, to be sad, to be high as the song goes, i walked those streets and slowly climbed the wooden steps to the rooming house, the ex-whorehouse, i climbed those same steps trodden by so many johns and girls, except this time i could feel all the pain and loneliness, i unlocked my room and stepped in, i sat down on the bed and then i cried like a fucking baby, torrents of tears streaming down my face, i cried in silence as my shoulders heaved, back then it was the most painful thing in the universe, now it just seems beautiful... and until i typed this no one had ever known... not even her.

Monday, September 15, 2014

State of the Nation Sept. Version

It's been almost two years since i left what is commonly referred to as the Rat Race, it's a proposition that many would seemingly jump at if say you were independently wealthy and didn't need to work, in my case i've just never been that much of a success in the straight world, fucking shady dealings? i'm like the Warren Buffet of that shit but in the legal and above the board shit i've always been nothing more than a laborer, never made shit as far as wages and since these days the corporations want to suck the soul outta you and bleed you dry i didn't have to think twice about what to do next so i took to taking caring of the boyos and these days i'm getting pretty good at it, toughest job i've ever held but easily the most rewarding...

But you see i was born on Patriot Day, a day i didn't even know existed until just recently but on this last one i was summoned by the courts to appear for my civic duty and do my best to get out of sitting on some jury... and so it was that i got in the car early and headed towards my old stomping grounds of dahntahn, now it's been a while since i've sat in the morning commute clusterfuck and as i sat there i began to wonder how people did this every day, this soul sucking existence and i understand that most probably had families or ambitions and the former i understand perfectly and the latter not so much but as i looked around i could not help think of that lyric from Synchronicity? i believe, "packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes/ contestants in a suicidal race..." it seemed to me it was the face of capitalist slavery everywhere i turned, spurned on to earn more and buy more and be more though i think that none of it makes sense and i'm not naive enough to buy all the hippy-dippy bullshit and hell i'm just as guilty as anyone of capitalist impulse buying and hoarding when it comes to vinyl records and literature i just believe there has got to be a simpler way of getting on with life and living it instead of wasting it in the pursuit of what? i don't know and though this may sound like somewhere along that commute i found the Jesus i can assure that i have not, though if i ever do i hope he has a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and is riding a unicorn...

And so i spent the next 5 odd hours sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers, Nick Disaster told me later that he was sad that i had to spend my birthday downtown and stated he hoped i didn't get picked, the I-mac of course chimed in that he agreed and added that he hoped we could eat some cake soon, lovely those boyos, so i sat and studied that faces round me, a very butch lesbian who looked like the Bob's Big Boy mascot, a closet hipster in a cheap suit and pierced lip, the young urban professionals, the old ladies and angry old men, i brought along a book of Hemingway's short stories that was given to me in college by a friend, inscribed that she'd hoped i went far with the writing thing and of course i could do nothing but laugh when i saw it, sat and read Up In Michigan, A Big Two-Hearted River pt. 1, A Clean, Well-lighted Place (which is still one of my favorite stories of all time and only grows in importance as i get older) and a few others and when i had dodged the bullet and was released from my civic duty i walked over to the courthouse and collected my $11.38 and bought a sandwich and a soda from a street vendor and sat in the park and ate it, the sun shining and not a care in the fucking world, watched the worker bees flit back and forth and talk of office drama, shoo-ed pigeons away, listened to taxi drivers honk and holler as they fought for space at the hotel across the street and when i was finished i sat a bit longer, thought about grabbing a beer but instead strolled through the city in a round-a-bout fashion on the way to my car, all in all it was not a bad way to spend the first half of Patriot Day...

And later that day i would finally eat the cake that Nick D. picked out and open my present as the boyos danced around me smiling and giving me hugs and telling me they loved me and even an old bastard like me could do nothing but grin like an idiot, and so i put them to bed, each with a story and then headed off to the new local where i drank some strong coffee and oatmeal stout before switching back to the cheap and easy to drink PBR, watched a shit football game of the local heroes getting waxed by the most hated team in the league to us ex-Clevelanders and then i ambled home, looked in on the boyos and listened to the sweet sound of their sleep and then sat in silene and gazed out the window at the stars, a fine day indeed if ever there was one...

Of course a couple of weeks before this i had the yearly trip to the doc, i always find it fun what questions they ask as you get older and though i don't feel that old i guess i am, still closer to 40 than 50 but not by much, he asked how my erections where to which i replied rock solid which got the good doc chuckling, i almost told him that sometimes i'm a bit of a teenager in that department and can manage to pop random boners but i figured i'd save that info for the lounge, he told me he crunched some numbers and ran some tests and stated that since i'm "getting up there" he analyzed my risk of heart attack and stroke for the next ten years and put my risk at exactly 1.3%, to which i replied that i'd most likely keel over on the way to my car then right? he laughed once again and was amazed at  how much i'd changed since i first walked in his office many moons ago, and i almost told him that many moons ago i didn't care if i made it this far but now i have a couple of reasons to keep on getting out of bed... and so who knows? with any luck i might be writing another one of these posts next year, i won't worry about it to much but i'll keep my fingers crossed, besides i still have some more shit to get written down...

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Mother and the Misfits

I was in the car tonight between CD's which is a rare thing, i usually never hear the radio long enough to even stop and listen and here in Iron City we have this new age/alterna-indie/lesbian folk/ public radio station which since i don't have satellite radio is the only station i ever really listen to... that said they play some good shit and the World Cafe was on and Ryan Adams was on and anyone who's ever been to the lounge knows that Ryan's a favorite around here, the host brought up something about his cover of Mother by Danzig, which got them to talking, which got Ryan to doing the song, which in turn got me to put on my best fucking Glenn Danzig voice and belt out the lyrics over the mellower albeit great version that Ryan Adams was playing...

Nick Disaster sat in the back seat on his was to the first class of hockey school taking it all in, the little dude has a sly way of absorbing shit and storing it, he feels no need to brag or boast or let you know what he knows until it becomes beneficial to him in some way,  he reminds a bit of this guy i know but i digress, Nick has been on a huge Kiss kick lately, all 5 years old of him, he's been really getting into early to mid 70's Kiss, of course he started with the popular one, Rock N' Roll All Night and has since expanded his repertoire, he was fascinated to learn that his Old Man's first concert was Kiss at the Richfield Coliseum on the Dynasty Tour, the first record he ever bought with his own money was Love Gun, remembered seeing them on the telly (The Paul Lynde Show) when he was around Nick's age and being fascinated himself, of course now the old man didn't want to tell him he hadn't listened to them in 30 years and maybe i should be worrying cuz maybe just maybe Kiss is the gateway band to a lifetime of sex, drugs and rock and roll but again it's rolling out of control, so back to my singing in the car on the way to hockey school, Nick wanted to know who the real guy who sang Mother was and thus began Nick Disaster introduction to Danzig and the Misfits, he couldn't wait to get home and see the video cuz he wanted to hear the song and see these guys, he wanted to know if it was loud and fast, i believe he's at the stage where any rock band in make-up will do...

And so he did his hockey thing and then we drove home and we ran in and sat down at the computer to bring up some old video and good ole' Nick just sat there watching Glenn tear through Mother and then he wanted to see The Misfits so we brought up their old stuff and he looked at the pictures, sometimes telling me to be quiet or stop singing cuz he wanted to hear the words, those big blue eyes soaking it all in, his daddio sat there with him beaming as he watched him absorb the sights and sounds and i couldn't help but shake my head and wonder what this could/would lead to in 20 some odd years from now... and then the videos were over and i told him to head upstairs and get ready for his bath and he turned and flashed me a wicked grin, did a bit of air guitar and bolted up the steps... thus creating another entry in the ever evolving daddy blog that is the lounge...

Monday, September 8, 2014

My Morning Jacket - I Will Be There When You Die





Quite simply one of my favorite songs ever recorded... i could say more but i'd just fuck it up...