The Mushroom Diaries - thinking about my brother

 I lost my brother... no we weren't brothers by blood, we were brothers by soul and by mind and in saying that maybe were we brothers because we were lost souls trying to make sense of this fucking merry go round we just happen to be on... for those who've been around the lounge you might recognize the name Gulfboot Johnson or The Limey... the former his moniker and the latter given by me as a joke many moons ago... to say my head's been swimming since the Saturday (May 2) i got the news would be putting it mildly... i wasn't ready for my brother to go... though what i want really has fuck-all to do with how the universe operates but the fact was that over the last few months we had gotten back to our old selves, the way we once were, trading ideas and quick-wit and enjoying the way our minds worked when we were communicating with each other, be it in person, on the phone, in the modern day method of texting... in fact it was this last one that we had began to really enjoy, the ability to be able to be sit in our respective rooms on different continents and take our time as we thought about our responses, conversations that would extend off an on throughout the night... and there were still things i wanted to tell him, needed to tell him... 

And so as i'm apt to do i took a dose and sat in a dark room to think about my friend... to ponder our almost thirty years of friendship and the ups and downs that came along with it... it's difficult for a relationship spanning decades to avoid conflict or disagreements and Gulfboot and i butted heads on many an occasion for various reasons that all seem rather trivial now... i guess the beauty of it was that before he was gone we had gotten back to where we started... two brothers who loved each other unconditionally and had come, through years of experience one could say, to understand each other better... though the tough part for me is i realize i may have missed some things... and having missed those things i wish i could call my brother up and tell him how much i loved him one last time... 

It's been hard to write anything since he passed but there have been numerous conversations with his friends and family and the thing that hits home the most, that gets me every time i dare to think about, that makes my eyes well with tears, is the fact i may have missed just how much my friend loved me, how much he, in a way, looked up to me as this big brother, this male figure who accepted him for who and what he was, that he never really got in his life... to be clear he was a far superior writer than i, a talented  painter, managed to turn one of his manuscripts into a movie and is the reason i'm typing here at the lounge at all... he was the one who set this site up as i think he got tired of reading my long emails filled with stories, many of which now populate the back catalog of the lounge... but that's misleading... way back in those mid-aughts, the time when the "blog" was gonna make us all rich and famous writer types, Gulfboot had said the emails i had sent were too good to for just him to see and so he set this up, oddly enough I had no idea what a fucking blog was but almost twenty years later here we are... and what he really told me without saying it was that he believed in my ability to write... the one thing we both wanted to do... and honestly how precious is it to find someone who believes in your ability? yes some will say we have to believe in ourselves first and foremost but the truth is nothing bolsters the spirits more than the belief in those you respect in your chosen medium... it was his gift to me and in some ways i never realized it until he was gone... 

In speaking to his cousin, one our other friends and most importantly his ex-wife (the two were still friends and though the marriage had dissolved they still cared deeply for each other) i realized just how much i had meant to him and couldn't help but wonder if i hadn't failed in my holding up of my end of the friendship... thought it's really not as cut and dry as that... and if there is one thing the mushroom does it guides you, gets you to look at things from a different perspective and can lead to insights one may not have thought of otherwise... and taking all the things i'd learned from those conversations it did...

His cousin had gotten a hold of me through social media and then we connected on the phone... he said that i was one of the first people they tried to reach as they knew how important i had been to him... our old friend, now living down under, had said to me that he remembered way back when he had first met Gulfboot and how the first person he had ever heard about was this tall, ex-weed dealing Yank who was half nutter half sensitive lug... but it was his ex-wife who really had me thinking and made me go back to dwell on the things i may have missed... don't get me wrong, she had no idea as we were just talking about a person we both loved dearly and i was glad i got her to laugh a few times as her grief was fucking overwhelming but she gave me some insight into my brother that i may have missed or been too wrapped up in my own shit to see... so what did i learn.. 

The relationship that Gulfboot had with his father was a complicated one... on some levels they were very much alike, both highly intelligent, both strong-headed (see stubborn) with convictions and opinions that they defended and argued passionately... but there was a tension between the two and sitting in the dark and thinking back i realized just how much my friend just wanted his father to accept him for who he was which i understand completely... i was lucky, Pops let me be exactly who i wanted to be as he explained it wasn't his life it was mine... and i also understand how parents sometimes who want "what's best for their children" really mean they want their kid to do what they want and what they think is right for them while forgetting the kid has a say... that said i realized how much mental and at times physical abuse my friend had to endure, particularly the psychological part... on speaking with his Ex she told me how his mother had called her recently and asked for help, asked to talk to him about therapy to try and heal the wounds inflicted by his father... what stuck with me most was she talked about how much pain he was in, not so much in the physical aspect, but in the mental aspect, pain that stemmed i feel from never being truly accepted or really loved by his father... his old man always seemed to be ridiculing, criticizing, disparaging even when Gulfboot did something worthy of praise... fucking two books and a movie later you'd think he could at least get some respect but these wounds ran deeper than that, his father was a tradesman and i think a lot of what was hurled at my brother was aimed at his "manhood" so to speak, that he was soft and not tough or rough enough in his father's eyes, i know from our conversations over the years that there were physical altercations that took place and his old man was bigger and stronger and usually got the better of it but it was the psychological damage that really took its toll... 

Enter his friend, aka El Kono... when he met me i was this weed slinging hood who worked manual labor, and in some respects there were elements of his father and i that overlapped... i guess one could say i'm physically imposing in a sense, back then i was slinging boxes in warehouses, it kept me strong and in shape, i went home and became a criminal and ran a business where being physically bigger than most people helped my cause... when we began hanging out it didn't take long for us to become good friends though Gulfboot would say it was my first trip to England that really cemented what he thought of me... but in the beginning there was Bukowski and the Stone Roses, my love of the whole Madchester scene and my Anglophile bent on music, back before the internet one needed to be a real nerd to find this stuff and he was a bit taken aback by my love and knowledge of such, then when he saw my bookshelf he was stunned, built of stolen cinder blocks and lifted lumber there were two shelves dedicated to Bukowski, there was Burroughs and Celine and Orwell, there was Hunter Thompson and John Kennedy Toole... a veritable list of madmen and weirdos... what i came to realize is that, consciously or more likely subconsciously, i in some ways reminded him of his father... a laborer (albeit one whose real job was selling contraband), a rough around the edges hard partying maniac who seemed to have a somewhat intelligent head on his shoulders... the difference was that i accepted him for who he was, enjoyed who he was, even the parts that could be less than enjoyable at times and hence loved my friend unconditionally which is something he never got from his father... i realized in a way that i had somewhat supplanted the male acceptance he so longed for from his dad that he never got... which hurt cuz i know there was a stretch where our communication was sporadic and strained and i realized how that must have hurt him, how that feeling of rejection could have crept back in from the one guy who had always accepted and loved him for who he was... i won't say i was a father figure to him, more a big brother who in some respects he looked up to and who gave him what his father never did... 

Sitting there in the dark all these things were in my head and it was then that i opened the phone and looked back through our texts... and then one of those texts practically knocked me over, we were discussing the state of the world and the way we didn't understand certain aspects of it and he wrote this... "thank you for making me not feel alone in the world for the last thirty years..." i must have read it a dozen times... i repeatedly wiped the tears from my eyes... how is it that sometimes we miss what is right in front of us? how do we not realize how much someone might look to us for acceptance or approval or love? knowing what i know now, how he was doing his own research on his health and he understood that he was not long for this world, that he knew his time was shorter than he let any of us who loved him know, that in a way he was telling me how much i'd meant to him and maybe, just maybe, he was telling me goodbye... he was thanking me for my friendship, for the love, for the wonderful cosmic accident of meeting someone who thought and looked and felt about this madhouse in much the same way he did... there is part of me that is incredibly sad i didn't realize this sooner, though i did realize it but i just figured that's how shit was... and i think my friend understood that, it's one of the things he loved about his fucked up friend, his brother (me) didn't worry or analyze shit too much he just got on with it, he accepted and loved you for who you were and didn't worry about it, didn't worry if people told him his friend was a pain in the ass or out of hand, the big lug just loved him anyway... 

And what really struck me there in the dark was something that i had talked to him about before but didn't really grasp the root cause of ... as i've said Gulfboot was a ridiculously talented individual who did accomplish more than the average bear... yet he never seemed happy, sitting back and thinking about my friend i realize now, the antics and drinking and clowning were his defense mechanism, his shield to hide the pain he felt from a childhood, a lifetime, of being told he was a failure by one of the people he looked to, maybe the one he most looked to, for some semblance of approval and support... he seemed to always want to be famous and while i understand that's a popular dream among this particular type of primate known as the modern human i feel it had more to do with his father than anything else... if he somehow had achieved some sort of fame or notoriety for his art, or any of his other endeavors (like managing bands and such) that his old man would finally accept him, show him the love that he so longingly craved... and while i could go into the Freudian bullshit of how his father felt he was competing with his son for his wife's affections (Gulf was extremely close to his mum) there was obviously more layers to it than that... maybe it's as simple as some people just aren't built to be parents... and while there's nothing wrong with that the fact is those same people become parents and fuck up the poor kid who doesn't have a say in the matter and is stuck with someone who doesn't want to fulfill their obligation... 

I know in his passing i've thought about all this... i've thought about how Gulfboot looked at my father and i and saw the type of relationship he wished he had (though to be fair many of my friends over the years have spoken about the same thing) and about how we'd talk about our fathers, about the things passed on to me from mine, the wisdom of my life being mine and i had to live it the way i wanted regardless of what anyone else thought... it was the freedom my father gave me, the unconditional love that came with it, and while he wasn't saying go out and be a complete fuck-up what he was saying was go out and be a decent human and do what you want... it's something Gulfboot never got from his old man... and it's a fucking shame cuz his father missed out on an absolutely brilliant son... luckily his friend did not... and even in his passing my friend is helping me, teaching me, getting me to think about the relationship i have with my own sons and how i understand they both look to me for approval, for love, for knowledge... and i try, i fucking do, they're both different and while i worry about them both i worry about them in different ways... but that is for another time, what really matters is that i'm aware and think about it and think about how much damage a father can cause to his son... and so i try to do the best job i can... 

So what now? as the esteemed and wise Kid said the other day about the passing of Gulfboot, he's gonna write for all those who can write no more... that statement helped to shake me out of my stupor... helped me to realize that i need to do the same, hell maybe even send out some of these stories into the world, maybe sit down like Gulfboot and crank out the book that is already there, not for some long shot at fame or money but for my friend, for my friend who is gone and can't do it anymore, can't spin his weird and wonderful tales into the world and so in order to keep our little band of weirdos creating i'll do it... in a way it's the best way for me to honor the memory of my friend, of my brother... because though i may have lost sight of it he never did... so to Gulfboot, wherever you are, thank you for making me not feel alone for the last thirty years... i love you brother. 

(above painting by Gulfboot Johnson from l-r Kono, Gulfboot, Paddy... that Oasis song sung many moons again in the back alleys of North Oakland)

The Addict/Swim Club

 While sitting around the other day and pondering the ceiling it dawned on me that it's been awhile since i'd posted anything new here at the old lounge, these days i've been going back through the Veronica Chronicles and working them into a longer, singular piece... mind you not in any quick or efficient way but in my usual haphazard half-assed way but i'm getting there... i'll admit i'm not the fondest of going back through the stuff i've written and working on it, there are things i really like about it and things i absolutely loathe about it but the fact is it needs done... the stories on the lounge are pretty much first drafts ripped straight from the skull of a derelict houseboy known as the Big Hairy Carol Brady and since i've not really worked on the next Wilderness Years pieces (though i'm hopefully gonna crank out a bunch as the Big World Bank Machine days come into focus and start clamoring in my head to be written, in fact at times i have so much shit i want to write a strange paralysis sets in and i do fuck all but once again the guy with most likely undiagnosed ADHD has digressed...)

Having walked the fine line of the addict most of my life one must always be cognizant that the trouble with the straight and the narrow is it's easy to slip off to the side (as J. Spaceman once said)... but that's not necessarily true in my sense... having walked that line in my younger days of powder and pills i have no desire whatsoever to dabble in that shit anymore... in my youth there was much worry about my love of booze but the fact is i've never really loved booze, it was just the most readily available and hence easiest way to get fucked up... fact is i don't have the stamina to be an alcoholic, never have and also realized how the older i got the worse the hangover and the less i felt like dealing with it so the booze was effectively sidelined to the point i rarely drink and when i do i rarely drink more than 2-3 beers tops... of course there is the cannabis and the psilocybin but that's medicinal, nudge nudge wink wink... 

So what happens when one with a personality prone to what the shrinks call addiction decides to clean up his act? one of my favorite musicians for the last thirty odd years is one Jeff Tweedy, the man behind Wilco, a founding member of Uncle Tupelo, a brilliant solo artist and a one time addict who wrote a great book about his life... in the book he talks about his struggles with certain substances and how once he kicked those he replaced it with something else... in Jeff's case it was running and so when Jeff wanted to occupy his time and keep his mind off the shit he used to do he'd go for a run... which in turn became his new addiction... in fact he ran so much that he ended up with stress fractures in both feet... which brings us to our (anti) hero here... 

As has been well documented, in 2018 after the night of the living back spasm, i remembered what my old doctor said when i was a kid battling scoliosis and how swimming was absolutely great for the back not to mention the whole body as well, add in the fact the aging ex-athlete with not only a shit back but creaky knees and some wonky ankles (the ankles mostly due to my bouts with gout in my booze guzzling past) and i made the decision to start swimming in order to take care of not only the back but the whole body... little did i know how fucking wonderful it would be for my mind as well but it is and being in the pool has become my zen moment... thinking back to where i started and where i am sorta blows my mind... in the beginning it was swim 25yds and take a break (which is one length) then it became swim 50yds and take a break (one lap), these days the first set is usually 500yds, sometimes 800, sometimes 1000 and sometimes i just don't stop at all... i've now gone over a mile without stopping and while i'm not setting any records i'm exactly dog-paddling my way to that mile either... so i'm doing  good (for a guy my age) for the mind and the body... sorta... 

Lying in bed on fine evening i noticed that the inside of my right ankle, particularly the ball of the ankle was extremely sore... of course the first reaction of the aging stoner is... i'm dying... but alas i was not and since the world is at my fingertips i searched up what could cause this feeling and when getting more specific in my search meaning, can swimming cause pain on the inside of the ankle guess what came up? while yes in fact it can! a condition usually caused by improper form of locking the ankle (which i'm guilty of at times) and overuse (also guilty)... or in my case maybe both... so what's a guy to do? well keep fucking swimming that's what... though i have now made a concerted effort to work on my form, vary my strokes more and for the time being dial back the long swims in order to maintain while rehabbing the ankle while not entirely giving up the activity i love to do most... so while my new favorite addictions are super smoothies (fucking hell i love those things) and swimming, they are not without risks... albeit a little better for me than what i was so fond of in the past... which brings me back to swim club... 

Lest we forget the first rule of Swim Club is we don't talk about Swim Club... though it's been some time since i wrote about Swim Club as we can see from above i'm still at it, for better or worse, the back being (sorta) better and the ankle, shoulder and neck being somewhat worse... i suck at breathing to my left so i tend to only breath to my right so i get a fucking kink in my damn neck when i go overboard which lately seems to be every time i'm in the pool, hence dialing it back a little while trying to rest and not rest at the same time while working on the aforementioned form to varying degrees of results... meaning my ankle still fucking hurts...

These days it appears i've graduated to "real" swimmer though i most definitely am not but i have had people ask me for advice on things pertaining to swimming which i try and help with but then freely admit i'm a half-ass swimmer who is really an ex-basketball player who can't run anymore... but hey i guess it's nice to be recognized as someone who looks like they might know shit when the reality is i know jack shit... of course Swim Club is really about my fellow swimmers and there is a core group of us who are always there... a new one is an elderly woman with the most amazing ice blue eyes i've ever seen, she's the sweetest lady and always says hello and asked me for advice on her car the other day to which i told her i'm pretty useless in that department... needless to say she's in her 70s and in fantastic shape much like this other guy who when he told me he was turning 70 i couldn't believe it... i thought he was a few years older than me but 15? no fucking way... so barring me doing fucking more damage to myself i'm gonna keep this shit up... 

And while this post is more to let the masses (or handful of readers) know i haven't been hauled in for my views by the new brown shirts here in Dumbfuckistan i'd be remiss if i didn't mention Patrick Bateman... if we recall Bateman had all the makings of a top notch weirdo and reminded me of the main character (played by Christian Bale) in the movie American Psycho... to probably no ones surprise Bateman and i are boys... he struck up a conversation one day and since them i am one of the rare people Bateman talks to... we bullshit about sports and music and i have to admit i like Bateman, he's a peculiar dude but once you get through the icy weirdness he's actually alright... he's actually come in and told me he's checked out some of the bands i've mentioned and tells me the ones he liked... even funnier was the day he hopped in the lane next to me and said, i was just thinking about you the other day, he then paused and said, that sounded weird but then explained that he was in a coffeeshop when he heard a Father John Misty song and realized it was the guy i had gone to see and had talked about, i then asked how he liked and he said it was pretty good and had checked out more on his streaming service... once again it's the old don't judge a book by it's cover theory... though i don't think i'll be stopping by his place for beers as there is still this part of me that sees that scene where Bateman talks about the new Huey Lewis record while donning a raincoat and grabbing an axe... the first rule of Swim Club is... 

XIX

 What the fuck am i doing here? what exactly is this nonsense i've been prattling on about for fucking nineteen years? was it a lark? was it a (not so) interesting experiment into the dribbling and droolings of this lumpen-prole who over the last nineteen years has bobbed and weaved his way through the dirty and dark back alleys of the interwebs? what kind of lonely shut-in works at something for nineteen years for no other reason because they want to? or need to? for no pay? understanding that said shut-in has never understood the game, never liked rules or authority, can't seem to get through one fucking story in a proper lit mag without wanting to vomit, the MFAs all writing like fucking MFAs, which to this uncultured and unrefined now aging man is dull and boring, there are some things that my old mentor Buk instilled in me that have stuck even as his influence has faded but one of them is just that.... those trained in poesy and prose tend to taste like vanilla ice cream or Wonder Bread... meaning there is no taste, can't even call it substance or style as it seems to lack both... now one could argue that this is just the bitter ramblings of a failed writer which could be valid if this writer (or whatever i am) gave two shits about such things as failure but maybe it's my slight and undiagnosed ADHD that keeps me moving, which hampers my ability to go backwards with any sort of consistency in order to rework and reshape things into a palatable form for the public at large... then again fuck the public at large as i'm not much interested in them either... in fact the contrarian in me would most likely feel shame if i somehow managed to produce something widely accepted and approved of by the wider reading audience (whatever the hell that may be i have no idea as in order to have an audience like that these days i'd have to read blurbs on Tik Tok to get anyone's attention)... is it nothing more than a divine stubbornness and antisocial tendencies that have me constantly waving the flying V into the wind, at passersby, at the soccer moms and golfing dads of a strange and foreign suburban world that i currently inhabit... 

Nineteen years in and still pissing joyously into a stiff wind while watching the remnants of a once civilized world smolder around me... started in the year of our Dude Aught Seven the lounge hasn't received so much as a new coat of paint, like that favorite dive bar of mine it's been horribly consistent with layout and design while being horribly inconsistent with quality and quantity... but that's fucking life now innit? the ebb and flow of things and the working out of that dreaded "process", and in those nineteen years what happened? oddly enough i'm better shape and dare i say healthier than when this shit started, having navigated various substances (some better than others) and come out the other side squarely on the shoulders of plant medicine as they say, the drinking curbed, the pills and powders put away for good, an addiction to swimming and super-smoothies my new found favorite vices... and all of it documented for the world to see if they could ever find the clandestine entrance to this sad, old lounge... the I-mac was just over six months old when this project started, he'll be twenty in July, Disaster would come along two and a half years in, he just got his license yesterday, i'd say good bye to six of my best friends known as my cats (Sylvia, Pablo, Louie, Claudia, Sydney and Pedro) as well one hamster (Waffles), i'd ride shotgun with my father as he stared down the void, spend a month in my old hometown and drink a Guinness on my back porch on that spring afternoon when word came down that my father was gone... even though i knew that he was gone physically a large part of him lived on in that wayward and once wild son of his... i'd make friends and lose friends both figuratively and literally, losing two this year to suicide, reconnecting with old ones because of those losses... i'd piss and moan about a domestic plight that isn't exactly the most loving or caring but still find myself living in a cave and coming to terms with things, basically understanding that shit ain't gonna be perfect so i do the best i can by being kind and empathetic and self contained... maybe i'm just trying to be a more decent human being in the face of a society that increasingly places little value on being such a thing... and of course there is the ever present state of the nation... 

When i hit post for the first time all those years ago i thought, naively, that i was in the midst of the dumbest man ever to ascend to the throne, Dubya... fucking hell, how is it one could pine for the good old days of this blithering idiot? obviously the answer is find what may be the most horrible excuse for a human, a grown toddler in a full diaper and budding dementia to go along with being a raging narcissist and a pathological liar... and not only did he get "elected" (i use that term loosely on both occasions) once but the fine fucking racist, homophobic, misogynist shitbags of this shithole country rocketing towards the bottom of humanity felt it appropriate to elect this fucking monstrosity twice... as Bill Hicks said, we are a virus with shoes, particularly the species known as Americanus Horibblus Dumbfuckis... of which roughly 35% of this place is inhabited by (give or take) but which yell the loudest and have worked tirelessly to rig the game in the name of whiteness... these lowest common denominators can be seen wearing "swag" from said monstrosity and often smell of nicotine and Aqua Net with a predilection for gun stickers on their automobiles and are most frequently found inhabiting the parking lots of Wal-Marts and Sam's Clubs since that Costco place is too fucking woke... yes i live in a place that now openly scoffs at things like learning... reading, critical thinking, being able to debate without screaming, kindness, empathy, basic human decency and minding your own fucking business about who people love or like to fuck is now anathema to the AHD knuckeldragging set...  a group that hates trees, renewable energy, rainbows, common sense and most of all anyone who doesn't look like them (meaning white) while at the same time loving fossil fuels, christian nationalism, politicians who wear makeup and last but not least, their shiny metal phallus known as guns... (mainly to make up for their lack of masculinity due to MPS aka micropenis syndrome)... it's a fucking shit show if ever there was and now we have a dear leader and a cabal of jackasses giving us the Big Brother treatment, don't believe your eyes and ears but only what dear leader and his minions tell you... of course this all started with that shitbag Ronnie and this guy Milty and his "neoliberal economic theory" meaning the top 1%  reap the benefits of corporate guvment welfare while us commoners can suck a sweaty fat dick from the back all while being told how lucky we are to live in such a loving capitalist "democracy" where all one has to do is pull themselves up with those bootstraps to be "successful"... that is of course if one can afford the fucking boots... and be advised, don't mention that S world or you may need a hazmat suit from all the fucking magat type heads bursting... and don't try to explain that the highway system, public libraries, fucking sidewalks, Social Security, regulatory bodies (that used) to keep the air and water somewhat livable all fall under that word cuz then you're just some freeloading commie pig who needs to get the fuck out... yes all very rational from a crowd that is the Dunning Kruger personified so no use wasting time trying to logically argue with them, they ain't big on that logic shit... 

So happy 19th to the lounge... can't say we're in a better place than when we started this exercise but hell? how many "bloggers" are still doing this shit who started way back when? i remember when there were "blogging conferences" and shit like that and every would be genius was hoping to parlay this platform into some sort of monetary success and fame type shit (Diablo Cody anyone?) while some of us or maybe just this sad bastard, have done it for no other reason than i'm fucking lazy and it's convenient? fuck if i know, i just like typing stories and my warped philosophical ramblings... who knows, if the inteweb survives the lounge may be the gospel to some demented tribe of weirdos who survive the apocalypse ala Will Self's Book of Dave... most likely not but dad-gummit this here is Merica and we gotta have fucking ambition right? here's to another year, maybe if this fucking place doesn't do itself in or i get snatched up by the fuckwads at the local protest we'll make the big Two Zero... but honestly looking at the state of things that's a big fucking if... so for those who still stop in and read this shit, thank you... it's cool to know some people actually dig this shit and this shut-in for one appreciates it... now i gotta get to the pool so i can have my smoothie... au revoir til the next time... (the lounge was launched Jan. 16, 2007)

Maybe the Kids are Alright

 Every so often i stumble upon something that somewhat restores my ever-dwindling faith in humanity, granted these days the credits far outpace the debits when it comes to this account but i try to remember while the world is chock full of raging shitbags there is also a place for beauty, for art, for people putting their head down and creating whatever it may be, music, short stories, paintings, clothing or food, or maybe like The Man aka The Father, the nameless protagonist in McCarthy's The Road i'm still trying to see some good in a world run amok, a horror show bought and paid for by a system hellbent on destroying the planet, the people and anything else it can get it's hands on all in the name of the almighty dollar... which brings me to a band that i recently stumbled upon though i had been reading about them in the various indie-hipster web sites i so often peruse but for some reason i never got around to checking them out... until i did... and then i was fucking sold, full on, by what one music writer described at the first great band from those kids known as Gen Z, a guitar band in a world that wasn't supposed to give a shit about guitar bands, some twentysomethings who grew up friends in Brooklyn, actual New Yorkers and not transplants... (in my younger days having sold weed to about half the musicians in the Burgh all the talk was always about "moving to New York"...) the band is Geese and the record Getting Killed and in my opinion it's the best fucking "rock" record i've heard in a decade? yeah i think it's that good... 

Being the quintessential music (and book) nerd i immediately dove into my research on the band to see what the deal was and what i saw i liked... the most interesting observation from a certain music writer was the fact the band has come up organically, not manufactured or put together but a group of high school friends who started playing together and put out a record right about the time they graduated from high school... in a world that doesn't give new bands much opportunity, they need a hit or some internet generated buzz or whatnot here we have a band that went out and played shows and kept practicing and studying the influences and absorbing them into their music while making something distinctly their own culminating in the latest record which as stated is fucking brilliant... yeah one may not like singer/guitarist Cameron Winter's voice but Mr. Zimmerman wasn't exactly the most melodious crooner either, but they both knew what they were working with and understand how to get the desired effects out of it and the truth is the more i listen to Geese the more i dig the vocals... it's also been pointed out that young Cameron is a bit like Dylan in the fact he seems to get bored quickly with arrangements and likes to change things up live... how can one not like that? the kid ain't worried about playing it perfect he's interested in playing it interesting... 

Being old and jaded i often have to remind myself not to scoff at what the kids are doing, to not be the old guy in white knee high compression socks screaming get off my fucking lawn! and remember that it's every generations right to interpret the world how it sees fit and what not... but this band, and Cameron Winter in particular, don't seem to be all that interested in the shit their brethren are down with... they're making music and playing shows and all the itinerant bullshit that goes along with it seems more of a hassle whereas there are many "bands" out there more into the fame than the art, these kids are the opposite... Mr. Winter seldom gives interviews, likes to toss in fake backstories while also being blatantly honest about shit... he doesn't hide the fact he's not some poor kid from a Yugoslavian ghetto (to paraphrase him) but a guy who grew up comfortably in a nice neighborhood in Brooklyn with a composer father and a mother whose claim to fame is writing a piece about how opening up her marriage was the best thing she ever did... he's wise enough to add that he understands that comfort and security has given him the license to take risks that some might not be able to afford to take and he's cognizant he has a bit of a safety net... instead of ridicule i give him credit for being self aware enough and honest enough not to toss out some bullshit (though as stated he'll toss in lies in interviews due to his disdain for the hype machine which also reminds me of one Bobby Zimmerman)... 

What i like even more is the fact Mr. Winter here takes risks... he put out a solo record at the end of last year, something a bit different than what his band was doing and he stated that when he showed it to certain people the response was usually negative, people wondering if he should really put it out, he did anyway saying that he felt he needed to because if he didn't when he looked back in 20 years he'd regret not putting it out there... the kid has confidence... and he should... in my opinion the record is fucking excellent but what i find more intriguing is watching an artist come into his own... i bought all three Geese records and while the first two are good they're nowhere near the third (or his solo record which is also fantastic) but one can see the progression, the learning, the digesting of influences and how to take those and create something of your own, it's interesting to see someone who the evidence says is on a hot streak, in a moment of very fertile creativity and to watch how it progresses... yes there will be some misses and it's brilliant to see a guy and a band who don't seem all that worried about failing but all signs point to this group being something special, for lack of a better term, the band as a whole are all excellent musicians who are open to experimentation which is refreshing in world where artists are more worried about pushing product than creating something of substance while worrying about the "market"... 

What's more while Winter seems to be the savant so to speak behind the band, the main songwriter and lyricist, they have a secret weapon, much like my beloved Protomartyr and guitarist Greg Ahee, Geese have a brilliant guitarist in Emily Green, a trans-woman who lays down incredibly gorgeous and melodic guitar lines while also being the rarity, a female lead guitarist in a field dominated by men... i also dig the fact that Winter is tall, 6'3 or so which leads to an unusual stage presence... my rather unscientific research has often had me marveling at the fact most of the bands i've enjoyed have been fronted by guys who aren't that tall, which brought me to the theory that shorter guys started bands as a way to get girls... and there is no scientific evidence of it other than i know of very few taller front men (Eric Bachman of Arhers of Loaf/ Crooked Fingers being one of the few)... toss in the fact they got a hot-shit drummer (the most important part of any good band in my humble opinion) and an excellent bass player and what one has is the makings of a great fucking band... as long as they can hold it together and i'm really hoping they can... 

So this band of Gen Z kids gets the stamp of approval from this Gen X guy... in a world that's increasingly manufactured and bordering on AI generated slop it's refreshing to see a young band emerge from the garage, digesting the influences of the past and making something new and different out of it, no one in any artistic discipline is really reinventing the wheel these days but i admire those who put time and effort into their craft, who work and create because it's what they want to do, not out of some dream of riches and fame but out of that need to create something and share it, fucking hell we all know that's a pretty thankless endeavor so here's to these kids and where they go from here... now if they could only tour and play that lovely place so i can ride trains and eat boomers... 

The Donut Thief

 I'm a derelict... always have been... and if there's one thing i like it's fucking over the system, getting over on the man as we like to say, obviously anyone who has perused the Wilderness Years understands this, my whole young adult life was spent living outside the "system" or as Peter Tosh would say outside of the Shit-stem, slinging weed to survive and then, for lack of a better term, thrive all while happily flipping the bird to the cops, the tax man, the guvment... of course now i'm an upstanding citizen, at least on paper, the not so proud denizen of a lily white suburb filled with affluent wankers who i have almost nothing in common with... i've stated before it's almost a badge of honor as i drive Disaster to school in the morning that i drive the Shitmobile, the car i work in, an old beat up Nissan that now has the passenger side front wheel well molding taped up with Gorilla Tape to go along with the minor damage incurred when the I-mac got in a minor accident... (and of course it totally wasn't his fault turning left in front of someone as according to the boyo that person was speeding, the boy shuns accountability like fat man shunning salad)... the beauty being that when jockeying for position in the cue to drop off Disaster those with the high-end precision autos seem to think i'd have no problem trading paint as the gearheads would say... and they may be right... 

The beloved Shitmobile is the fucking third car around here... yeah man it's all white people problems in Dumbfuckistan, i keep the damn thing running mainly so the boyos have something to drive and i can work a couple days a week to keep in weed and shrooms as well as concert tickets, books, records, yes the plight of the suburban dad is such a struggle and i know i don't have much to piss and moan about so i try to keep it to a minimum, the whole gig economy serf thing is ostensibly so i'm not at the benevolence of the BW because we all know how that would go... though with Chrimbo recently passed and the amount of shit the boyos got i often wonder about things around here (and i won't even get into the entitlement of the eldest boyo as it fucking infuriates me to know end) plus there's the ever present solar debacle which i'll address someday as the tree hugging hippie i am tries to help out Mother Earth (and in the end as energy prices rise i'll think i'll be proven right, fingers crossed) which bring me around to the title of this here missive, The Donut Thief...

I've always been good with money, understood how to budget, how to save, i reworked my gig hours with the BW to maximize my earnings while freeing time up to do more around the old homestead which means she won't have to hire workers, painters, etc and will ostensibly save us (see her) money... (as we know it's been well documented around here that it's her money) while actually allowing me to save a bit more while still enjoying myself... the BW now seems fully invested in getting my stuff out of the master bedroom (see hers) in order to have more closet space for herself while i am officially moved into the downstairs cave... the unspoken "uncoupling" as Gwyneth would say... (i often wonder what her family thinks as they now know we sleep in different rooms and if one paid attention have no physical contact, show no affection, in fact i laughed during the holidays when she said "why don't you hug me like that" as she watched her older brother hug his wife to which i replied, if you noticed my dear she hugged him first, got pretty quiet after that...) 

Humping groceries for the bourgeoisie is a bit physically demanding, which i like... one races around the store to get shit done, checks out, bags the stuff, loads the car, drives to destination, unloads car, usually up steps or long driveways or worse yet apartment buildings, then gets back on the app for the next batch... the obvious plus sides is i work alone and get to listen to tunes or footie matches or talk radio that ranges from the progressive political station to the futbol station to Conan O' Brien radio which is usually fucking hilarious... i tend to work in the morning and usually eat a quick breakfast before heading out with my giant bottle of water... hence during my workday i sometimes get a bit hungry...  (i'd be remiss if i didn't mention Zygmunt Bauman here for a minute, a writer and theorist who uses the term liquid modernity to describe the current shit show we live in, a theory based on the eroding stability of our culture both economically and socially as we all skip down the yellow brick road of technocracy and environmental destruction, with the gig economy being a prime example of the horror show we now live in, a place which is no longer stable but "fluid", where jobs can appear and vanish within days or weeks it seems, some soon to be replaced with AI yet with no plan on redistributing the wealth as a certain Ketamine loving dipshit often speaks of but never really plans to advocate or work to implement, this being only one aspect of liquid modernity but which the gig economy is a prime example of, it's not really stable, could fold at anytime, is reliant on people using it while also having enough serfs to keep it running, the veritable house of cards so to speak...) which brings me to what to do when hunger sets in and i need something to eat... 

Being a derelict one tends to find derelict solutions... the fact is this gig is based on speed and efficiency or what i call the ability to sort through the bullshit in order to minimize work and maximize earnings, something which i've become rather adept at over the last five years... so how does one get a little sustenance while serfing? i don't really want to sit in a drive thru or eat fast food though my solution is equally as unhealthy but also provides me with a modicum of joy... my life is something of one large conundrum, i can be incredibly disciplined while also being incredibly undisciplined all at the same time... i swim on a rigid and strict schedule mainly because i love it even when i'm tired and don't really feel like dragging myself to the pool i do... and always feel better for it... when it comes to my eating habits though i try to eat healthier i'll admit i often fall short... one of my weaknesses has always been maple donuts... now when one works in grocery stores there are certain large chains where the donuts are self serve and when one is a gig economy serf going through the self checkouts with a shit ton of items it's not as if anyone is really paying attention, in fact when the employees see me on my phone scanning and taking pictures of receipts they know i'm a gig economy serf... which in turn makes it very conducive and easy to lift donuts... and yes, guilty as charged... 

I'm not sure when the idea struck me or even when it started though it's really been in the last year or so that my donut thieving has taken off, mainly i think it stemmed from the fact i usually didn't have any cash on me and didn't want to use a credit/debit card to buy a donut for a $1.39 hence i realized that there was no way to know if i lifted my maple donut and if for some reason i was stopped and asked if i paid for my donut i'd of course feign horror and say, oh geez i forgot let me pay for that right now... criminals, even petty ones, always have backup plans, at least the good ones do... and so while i know they're not the healthiest thing for me they are so damn tasty it's hard to resist the temptation to get over on the man (in my own little way) and enjoy a delicious snack while i'm out humping groceries for the Bougies'... 

A side story to this tale is that one day while in the local mega-chain grocery store for some reason it wouldn't let me use the self checkout and so i realized i would actually have to buy my donut... the fuckwits who run and update the app are easily the most inept career wonks who probably spend an inordinate amount of their life worrying about the importance of their job but know pretty much fuck all about the actual shit we serfs do in making it work... so i went to the open lane next to me where a trans kid was working and checked out, i explained i was a gig serf but that the donut at the end was mine and needed to be rung up separately to which the Trans Kid and i struck up a lovely conversation about donuts where we discovered we were both lovers of the maple donut... let's just say this probably isn't the most enlightened area of suburban sprawl (the pool/gym i go to is a plaza over and chock full of red hat assholes aka entitled white guys) and not only is this kid trans but also not white... hence i'm sure they get their fair share of mumbled shitty comments or stares or called "dude" and whatnot... to me they're just a nice person ringing me out... so it was funny when the next time in that store the app for some reason made me use the full serve checkout (one never knows what the app is going to do) and i was hoping to lift a donut but realized i would have to shell out for it... after ringing out my orders i mentioned the donut and the Trans Kid smiled at me and said, it's free today honey, i smiled knowingly back and said thank you, hope you have a lovely day to which the Trans Kid smiled as i made my way to the exit... 

So yes... i'm a donut thief... granted i'm too old to be doing this shit but for some reason i chalk it up to some warped sense of civil disobedience, i had a short lived stint of employment working for this local mega-chain so i'm well aware of how shit they are, granted i hope the pay and benefits are better now but i don't know... one could call me a kleptomaniac or a derelict but i tend to think of myself as democratic socialist looking to redistribute the wealth one fucking donut at a time... one could say that's just me justifying my criminal impulses but i say fuck all that, man's gotta eat and since i'm here helping to add to their coffers i'm lifting my donut... fuck the capitalists... a one man revolution fighting against the hegemony one stolen donut at at time... 

Off the Couch

 I've never read Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again, i once had a copy and believe i still do sitting in a large bin of books in the old garage, truth is i have a shit ton of books and while i've read most of them some do sit and sit and seemingly never get read... but there was an article i once read by an author (whose name escapes me at the moment) about the books we have lying about that we don't read are just as vital as the books that we do read... interesting theory and one that brings a bit of solace to this philosophical loner as he paces the room and ponders all the while fending off the BW's admonishments to get rid of some of these books... problem is i can't... they're the only friends i have that are still local... 

It's said that as you get older it's harder to make friends, at least any meaningful friends and i now find myself in the position where all three of my best friends live in other cities... two of which who have moved in the last year... granted it's not like the old days where i ran the streets and met a bunch of people, now a night out means the next day i go to bed early and i do still regularly spend a night in with the mushrooms and the cats which is a bit like a night out... of course i was always one to do shit on my own, i have the advantage of one, being male, two being 6'4, three being perfectly okay with my own company... still i wouldn't mind a place to sit and toke and booze and wax philosophical, bullshit about the futbol, spin dub records or have the occasional night out at my favorite local boozer while not looking like the sad and lonely old man in a Clean, Well-lighted Place, though the more apt title might be A Dark and Smoky Dive... 

So what is our hero here to do? well under the current regime i've veritably thrown myself into "my studies", reading books by philosophers, critical theorists and political thinkers as well as some new fiction to just to keep my head from fucking exploding due to the aforementioned regimen of texts... it's like my own personal curriculum, my own degree, the self-educated human is the most dangerous to the hegemony so i figured fuck it, be as dangerous as possible, when out being a gig economy serf talk to people and hip them to books and ideas they may not be exposed to, drop the knowledge of Fred Hampton and others and explain we shouldn't be fighting each other over race or religion or sexual orientation but over the fucking class war that's currently taking place... don't look left, right or down, look up, those are the bastards...

In an effort to still get out of the house i've taken to perusing the web to see what sort of things are happening in my fair city and doing shit... one of which was stumbling upon a DJ set by the Channel One Soundsystem with Mikey Dread... better yet it was in some new spot i'd never been to, the kind of place that reminded me of my early years in the Burgh, basically a small, old warehouse repurposed to hold shows as well as teaching the local youth about production, sound and lights and staging and what not, community run and i'll just say fucking lovely... on this night there was Jamaican food, a bar where you had to donate for booze (they didn't have a liquor license so the way around this is "donations" instead of actually charging, i fucking love it) where i drank a shite beer of my youth, Hamm's, and a great set up where they had couches along with high tables and chairs towards the back but still in a place where one could see the stage... perfect for an aging stoner with a shite back... 

After enquiring about the smoking policy i planned my activity accordingly... the first DJ was a bit of an odd choice, not reggae or dub but a bit of house but more the poppy house side and so i made my way outside to smoke a special, a fine indica flower (GMO) sprinkled with some finer indica hash (Northern Lights)... i asked my compatriots outside if anyone would like to partake and once i mentioned the word "hash" a few ears perked up... one bloke took one hit, coughed, said damn that's strong, thanked me and went back inside... another guy hung in a bit longer and much like those bygone days i got a dose of the Hipster Yinzer, a species native to my fair city and one i hadn't encountered in quite some time... 

The Hipster Yinzer is an interesting species and one could go as far as having sub-species of this animal based on the neighborhood in which they grew up as the Hipster Yinzer is quite protective of their habitat, not being a native but having lived here long enough even i could be deemed a member of this species but believe i fall under the title Ersatz-Hipster Yinzer and since i didn't live in one specific neighborhood but more like an area, the East End (where i lived in North Oakland, Bloomfield, Friendship and Shadyside, hung out in Polish Hill and Lawrenceville)...and while i won't say i don't have that same level of emotional attachment to my old habitats it's slightly different... of course this is about the native Hipster Yinzer so let me get back on track..  some characteristics of the Hipster Yinzer are of course their undying love of the local sports teams or conversely the fact they don't care about the sports teams cuz that's "fucking lame", the aforementioned devout and religious levels of feelings towards their neighborhood (which i'll add is not a bad thing), a pride in having rarely if ever left the city, an exotic locale being at worst Erie or at best some eastern seaboard tourist town (like the one i used to work in...) these are just a few of the things as well as their own special accent and dialect called Pittsburghese... 

In this instance the Hipster Yinzer was from Carrick, what one might call a gritty part of town, a sorta non-descript neighborhood in the city with a mixed population so CHY (Carrick Hipster Yinzer) was fluent in both hip-hop, indie rawk, DJs and whatever other genre of music one might throw out at him, mainly because Hipster Yinzers tend to be experts in everything...  he walked over when i mentioned the hash and so i proceeded to pass him the joint and he and i and an African American gentleman began talking... there is a defining characteristic of the "i think i'm cool as fuck" Hipster Yinzer and that is this... they speak as if they are the UN, talking about how they're cool with everything (and some might be but it's also known some talk this shit but are not)... at one point my smoking buddy felt the need to express the fact that he was down with everyone- black, brown,, gay, straight, trans and anything else he could think to throw in, why? because our CHY was giving a  diatribe on the opening DJ set and while ostensibly i agreed with him, it was a bit of an odd choice, there was really no need to go into an in-depth critique in the manner our guy did here, in fact it was in his soliloquoy that he saw the Black Dude sorta look at him which lead to the diversion into how he was "down" with everyone... certain Hipster Yinzers have this strange talent of simultaneously praising something while at the same time shitting all over it and then trying smooth over the mess... sorta like what he did... 

Now being one of the fucking original hipsters i can't say i'm not a raging fucking dipshit as well, in fact i think it's almost part of the territory, we Gen X wankers who take some sort of strange pride in our Gen X-ness due to the fact we were the last of the feral children raised without tracking devices in our pockets, the internet, social media... the bright side? when one got their ass kicked we didn't have to relive it endlessly with fucking Tik Tok videos... lately as we Gen Xers skip towards the void i've noticed the pissing contest about age, and call me guilty as charged though i don't try to bring it up but on this night as we stood outside smoking a spliff the CHY brought up the fact that he was 47 and something something something, Black Dude stated he was 45 and i laughed and said i remember those days (told you i'm not immune) and after stating my age Black Dude said really? apparently i look younger than i am and then stated i believe it's my love of psychedelics and swimming that help maintain my youthful vigor... what a fucking laugh... shortly thereafter we said our goodbyes and i wandered back in and grabbed a seat at a high table and waited for the music to start... 

I found a seat at one of the tables that gave me a good view of the stage and settled in with my cheap beer ($3 can of Hamm's) and creaky back feeling much better after the hash-infused joint... the first song played was a hymn... at least to those of us who are what one might call devout followers and fans of this music... Selassie in the Chapel... fucking blinder, granted some of the crowd wondered how you dance to it but you don't dance to it you listen and appreciate the song and it's meaning... it was followed by a couple more Bob tunes, dubbed out effects tossed in here and there, Mikey Dread and Ras Sherby taking turns talking to the crowd between songs with Ras Sherby adding in some vocals during certain songs, the kids started dancing... it was heavy into the roots vibe which of course is right up my alley, i sat and grooved along enjoying the music and being out of the house... but as usual, even when i'm not off my head, strange things happen... 

As i was sitting at my table a young man came over, mid-20s, and asked if i knew anyone who was smoking weed? as this seemed like the kind of event which would be conducive to getting stoned, i smiled and pulled my pen from my pocket, his eyes light up and i handed it to him and said have at it... he took a few hits, turned and looked at me and stated, "that's fire" as the kids like to say... i told him i'm a lover of heavy indica strains and that this was one, Pre-98 Bubba Kush... though i still have no idea why it's called that and have never seen a Post 98 Bubba Kush... my new pal handed my pen back and asked about a notebook sitting on the table and i said i had no idea where it came from to which he grabbed it and the pen and started drawing, he said he was a pro skateboarder but that there was no money in it and that he had been in Europe for a bit, asked if i'd ever been to Barcelona and a few other  places and i explained i hadn't been across the pond for 25 years now but did make it twice in my youth, it being loud it was tough to carry on a conversation but my new friend tried but i really just wanted to listen to the tunes... 

It was around this time that an older gentleman wandered over, roughly around my age, he sheepishly waved hello and then began talking to Skate Rat... except it was a lot more touchy feely than one would expect, i could tell Skate Rat wanted his friend to keep it cool and so the older guy walked off and Skate Rat turned to me and smiled... then the older guy came back with a couple beers and took up, for lack of a better word, more canoodling, all over the Skate Rat, a few nibbles on his neck and such and at this point Skate Rat stood up and they had a brief conversation before the older guy walked away again but not before looking back at me with what one could call an almost pleading look... it was pure comedy and i wanted to inquire if Skate Rat didn't just happen to be a rent boy? it was quite obvious the older guy was smitten while Skate Rat was doing his best to downplay the fact there was more going on here than friendly banter... it was clear there was some sort of coupling taking place and after the older guy came over again, looking at me imploringly i almost leaned over and said, listen man i'm not trying to steal your boy here he just asked me for weed and being a kind and generous stoner i hooked him up, there is nothing to worry about as he is all yours as you two make a lovely couple... needless to say it was amusing to say the least and i slipped away as they canoodled some more... 

Granted i wouldn't have minded getting out on the old dancefloor as there were some rather fetching lasses out there (age appropriate mind you, Gen X girls out for the night and tearing it up and ridiculously attractive to the shut in) but alas i didn't want to do my Fred Sanford imitation as i limped and lurched with a bad back... of course a few more hits of the old Bubba Kush and i probably wouldn't have felt much, truth be told the super-joint did a swell number on any pain but i also realized i might actually hurt myself due to the medicinal effects... getting old is fucking grand! 

As the show wound down i stood near the door and when it ended i slipped out and into the cool November air, took in the city neighborhood and felt that pang i sometimes get realizing how i much i miss the city proper, walked around the block to my car and made my way home... another fine night out, never a dull moment and a reminder as to why i like to get out and do shit, yes predominantly on my own as part social misanthrope and part cultural anthropologist... 

Goodbye V. - a denouement

 And so here we are... is it the final scene? a final chapter? it seems to be but the truth is we never know when that final chapter is really written... and though this feels like it fits the description what has been resolved or explained? anything? everything? can both be true at the same time? and what happens when one chases ghosts only to actually catch one? the reality is we can't catch one as they will slide through our grasp just like the apparition the are... and so goes Veronica... the haunting sound of her voice through a phone line like an old recording, a cassette tape left in a box, dug out in the midst of cleaning out the spaces in my head, the old photographs, taken on disposable cameras, photos that have began to fade just a little as they recede into a private history once scribbled out in forgotten yellow-paged notebooks and found in those same old and dusty boxes... and then comes the hardest part, where one has to look back and understand the past while living with it in the present, where i have to look back and give a brutally honest assessment of the person who lived those things... which poses the question, what happens if the ghost you are chasing turns out to be you? 

As those final conversations took place and texts were exchanged i said i hoped that we would keep in touch from time to time... who knows if that will happen... and should it happen? one of the things that had popped into my mind once the waves of different emotions had rolled over me was this... how much damage had i done? not just to Veronica but to everyone around me? back when i was known as El Kono and now as the Big Hairy Carol Brady... what sort of destruction have i left in my wake? and can i correct it? 

I felt it was best to let things lie... we said our goodbyes in so many words and i explained that i would work on getting her a copy of that story, to give me some time but that i would let her know when i sent it... five or so days after she got back i received a text simply saying, "i can't wait to read our story", and of course the "our" in that sentence stuck, words being one of the most haunting things humans have created... then a week after that came another text, out of the blue that said, "can you explain to me why, in my entire life, everyone wants me to be the other woman and never just the woman?" followed by her apologizing and that she was just having a sleepless night... it arrived at 5am my time... laying there alone there was a sadness that blanketed me... again, how much fucking damage did i do to this poor girl? and how do i tell her i have no idea? that her intelligence, independence, fearlessness (not to mention her physical beauty) made her ridiculously attractive yet frightening at the same time? that it would take a fucking helluva man to handle her? i've never been one to believe in the "true love" bullshit, relationships all require work, have peaks and valleys, but maybe that guy, the guy, had stumbled into her life but was too wrapped up in his own little world to recognize it? and once again that quote came drifting back in... 

The question arose in my mind... had those brief few months in her life being involved with me fucked her up to this day? yes she said i was the first and only person to not only see her but hear her but what did that mean? had appearing out of thin air again fucking two and half decades later done it again? as we hear the music begin to drift in and the credits begin to roll i'll let the audience decide on that... the answer is probably yes and no with valid arguments for both sides... so to steal a stolen line from that last song posted, here we are... 

While there was a bit of selfishness in the act of tracking her down and contacting her there were no ulterior motives in it other than to see how she has been, to hope that she was healthy and happy and all that greeting card bullshit we wish upon those we have loved, it's not the first time i've done this... there is a curiosity to see how the people who have affected my life have been... there are things learned from those interactions and this is no different... the fact that she so close changed the dynamic of the situation and there is a part of me that wishes she would have been in Hawaii, that maybe it would have been better... yet the fact she was this close was probably the best thing that could happen, maybe the way to heal old wounds is to open them back up and let them heal properly so to speak, to reach a point where one can be brutally honest and lay down those cards and accept the outcome... 

Distance provides perspective when painting the canvas of our lives... after the initial rush of blood, of the longing and lust and love, the infatuation and daydreams, there comes the point of sobering reality, the point where the high wears off and one realizes that high may be detrimental to the person as a whole... ask any addict, we understand that feeling acutely yet it won't stop us from chasing that high and if/when the moment of clarity comes and we grasp it, roll it around in our minds and with any luck learn from it and move on... we don't forget it, we don't ignore it, we just understand it a little better, the world isn't going to stop spinning and so we move through days... 

And so what have i gained from this foray into chasing ghosts? extraordinarily enough it has reminded me, given me the opportunity to go back through the vaults so to speak, to re-write and revise these stories from the lounge, from my life, it gives me the impetus to possibly send them out into more than just the blogosphere, like i said earlier what happens if the ghost you're chasing turns out to be you? and the you reminds you of what you really wanted to do? the circular thinking of the half-ass philosophical stoner, the social misanthrope navigating a world that seems entirely absurd and writing about it for better or worse, not under the illusion of money or fame but because it's what he (i) does to make sense of things... and because it's the only work i enjoy doing, in fact it's not really work at all... printing off the pages, re-reading, re-writing, those acts spurring new writing, in a way i need to thank Veronica again as the history of her and i seems to be that she has always given me much more than i have given her... 

The epilogue... once again it was a beautiful foray into living... and being life it wasn't perfect, it was part comedy and part tragedy, there was beauty and love, there was pain and heartache, it was that beautiful mess which we call existence if we are brave and daring enough to attempt to live it... in the end, amidst all the back and forth between Veronica and i, i realized there is one thing i had never told her... and so while i toiled and tinkered with a dying printer in hopes of putting it in a letter i finally succumbed to the easy and modern way and texted it to her... it stated very simply that i had told her a lot of things over the past couple of weeks but the one thing i had never told was that i was sorry... sorry that i made her feel despicable, sorry for making what she termed, convenient choices, sorry that i was so wrapped up in my own world that i was unable to see anyone else's... and yet even then i was lying... because i would not trade those times for anything... 

So once again, here we are... the last words of a tale that i needed to tell... but this time she'll get those last words, that when it came to love she stated simply, always have and always will, there is no doubt that what happened between the two of us has had a lasting impact on both of us... but as Veronica so aptly put it... it needs to be buried, again... and this time it will be buried... for good... Goodbye V.   

cue the music... roll the credits...