0
[6/30/2005 08:09:00 PM]

I Mean Really



Jude Law, as Alfie


My 300$ blazer is too big. I figured that out after watching Jude Law sport some of the best male fashion I have seen in a film since I watched The Life Aquatic last spring. I was lying in bed last night, eating a 200g bag of chips, drinking a 1.3L Super Big Gulp, and watching the critically detested remake of Alfie. I wanted to watch the old one starring Michael Caine, but of course the video store that I go to, the only one that will still rent to my delinquent ass, has little respect for classic cinema. So it was Jude Law or nothing, and it was well worth whatever shortfalls the film may or may not have had. Besides, I was too busy drooling over Alfie's perfectly tailored 2000$ jackets and Paul Smith shoes to really care if the movie was good or not. The credits rolled around 10:30, and I felt so inspired by all that dandy behavior that I brushed all the potato chip crumbs off my bed, hopped in the shower, put on my best shirt, and rode my bike out to the nearest bar. And just who should be sitting there, but Leroy, Remington, Eliza, Saturnino, and Velda.

It was Saturnino's birthday, and shots of Jagermeister were consumed at a dizzying pace, along with double whisky sodas, my drink of choice this summer. Leroy had mentioned that he had read my blog, and had looked at some of my online profiles; I love online profiles. He then proceeded to launch into a passionate, sobering, and eloquent soliloquy about how online culture is simply another vehicle for the spectacular nature of mass consumerism, and pop culture references that are based on elitism rather than actual experience. He seemed particularly amazed and disgusted by the story of my meeting, and eventually having sex with, a woman who was taken with one of my profiles on the net; in which I stated that I like to ride my bike with flip flops on.

Leroy was right, and it launched an intense debate as to where the real begins, and the fronted persona ends. I countered with the point that online culture emulates life, that meeting people online is no different than meeting people in the real world. You create a persona, one that is designed to attract,
and it's a vicious game of constant assessment. I make no bones about the power pop culture wields in my life, but I do accept and understand its evils. I would rather play with it, rather than fight it. The masses consume, and they will always win.

So there I was, I had just watched Alfie, and was sipping my whiskey, minding the blonde across the room in my outfit that was designed to impress, but the blonde wasn't biting. Instead, her older friend looked over and smiled, and I turned the other way. It's a nasty game.

Know what I mean?



[6/26/2005 10:33:00 PM]

Bus Stop





And I miss the bus as it swerved from us
and almost came crashing to its side
-Okkervil River


Waiting for a bus at the side of an eight lane avenue. Things couldn't have looked more dreadful. A thunderous sound of cars whooshing past, filled with families, or lonely men. Faces pressed against glass trying to judge you at sixty kilometers an hour. Trucks carrying tired workers to six packs waiting in the fridge. Egomaniacs with chrome wheels, pounding stereos, and exceptionally bad haircuts rip the inside lanes. Back and forth, never ending. It's a river with unpredictable current, following a path cut straight through the landscape on a bed of concrete surrounded by dust and litter. I would much rather be swimming in it, than have to see it this way.

To drive is to forget. I would like to join the legions of the ignorant, but I am stuck on the side of this road, fodder for all to see.



[6/24/2005 04:51:00 PM]

That's Rock n' Roll


Don't try and fight it
Just get excited
-Shaun Cassidy


we now return to our regular programming.

I have to get my guitar back. I played at a small club in the south end of town last friday and haven't seen it since. I was singing a song, a slow crooner type song, when a pair of pink panties hit the mic stand and landed at my feet. The woman that threw them gave me a wink, and then sat down laughing with all her friends. Unfazed by her obvious display of affection, at least I hope that's what it was, I continued on with my song, clutching at my chest and clenching my fists into a grande finale. It's really the only part of the show I remember. The entire band was wasted. We all arrived way too early as we thought we were to play first, but eventually we were slotted last, and racked up a 200.00 whiskey bill before getting on stage close to 1am.

It was a pretty high energy set, or so I was told by the pink panty throwing brunette of about 26 years of age. I introduced myself, and had a drink with her party. One was hot, the rest were not, and before I knew it I was smoking a cigarette in the middle of the street, guitar in hand, and the hot one in tow. Which felt much more rock n' roll than taking a packed bus to the venue earlier in the evening with Leroy. We climbed into the back of a cab and I tried to get the driver to keep the meter off and take 5$ for a lift about 8 blocks north. He informed me that it was illegal to do such a thing.

Before she could unlock her door on the 5th floor, we were kissing. The courage one can muster from a fifth of whiskey in one gulp, it really is something. We flopped around on her couch yelling at each other over the new Electralane album. She poured me wine, and I drank it. I didn't need it.

I woke up to her blurry face looking me in the eye from above. Her apartment was the brightest of whites, and in the light of the morning sun she looked like an angel staring down at me. Her name was Vernice. She was fully dressed, and I was on her couch with my pants half undone. She kissed me on the forehead, and instructed me to slip the key under the door when I left. I slept most of the day, trying to raise myself every so often, but was unable to do so. It's amazing how a fifth of whiskey in one gulp can really fuck you up the next day. Finally, I made it into Vernice's bathtub where I read my book for a half hour, got dressed, and landed on the sidewalk downstairs sometime around 4. The band was due to play another club around seven, and I was happy to realize that I was only three blocks from Eliza's place, where everyone would surely be waiting for me. I spent the remainder of the evening on Eliza's couch in my underwear, while Remington got out the sewing machine and made me another pair of skinny pants out of the black dickies I was wearing.

It was so cozy at Eliza's, with the tv on and the suburban smell of barbecue floating in through the window. I was so exhausted that the thought of stepping up to another mic seemed impossible. Eliza popped into the living room every so often to get an opinion on what she should wear. "Skirt, or pants?" I said skirt, and she went with the skirt. "Flats or All-Star high tops?" I said flats, but she wore the high tops. Just then, my memory served up a delicious vision of Vernice rushing past the couch in black panties, fixing her earings and swearing under her breath about missing the train. I have always thought a woman getting dressed is much sexier than a woman undressing. In my younger days, when I used to sit in strip clubs on saturday afternoons, trying to score coke from aspiring bikers, I had always thought the dancer getting dressed at the side of the stage to be the most intriguing part of the whole experience. I guess it was more revealing than seeing them nude in such a tasteless environment. It just seemed more real.

I have to get my guitar back, I left it at a ladies house last friday when I passed out on her couch. Her name is Vernice, she's out there somewhere. It's all I can think about.



[6/20/2005 11:13:00 PM]

The Damage Done



Roots and Tree Trunks, Auvers 1890 - Vincent Van Gogh



you've seen me dance here alone before
is it tough to watch
friday after friday?
--xiu xiu


The day started out quite lovely, but inevitably it turned as dark as the buildings on a horizon blackened by the shade of the setting sun. Anger is generational, passed down to impressionable children by crying mothers and fathers. The cycle repeats itself, like a fan blowing hot air on the naked backs of the naive. Pushing an endless supply of hurt all over the place, ugly, and pathetic. You can trace rot all the way to the root of a dying tree, and despite the urge to pick up an axe and chop it down, it will live on forever. Surviving as a stump if it has to, unwilling to give up its place in the ground. You need a bulldozer to do away with it, but who can afford that?

Tonight my knuckles are white at the edges. The sun sets on a sad day, and history repeats itself, over, and over again.



[6/16/2005 10:31:00 PM]

Close the Window




No, no, no, no
--Smog

I see my end has been here from the start
--Her Space Holiday


The blinds on my large windows have been shut for sometime now. I didn't notice until I was digging through the leftovers in the fridge after a night of drunken contemplation with Remington at the bar downstairs. I haven't answered the phone in days, and all I seem to do lately is spin my dvd player. I am banned from every movie store in the hometown, except a Blockbuster in the west side that I got a membership at when I went to Ananta's for dinner so long ago now. We watched Closer, then had sex on her living room floor, and I never felt so far away from the normalcy that has alluded me for longer than I can remember. That Blockbuster is the last place that will rent to me, if I mess up my account there, by keeping movies longer than I can afford, I will have exhausted every video store in the hometown within a reasonable distance. I am a bad renter.

I have gotten more emails than I care to mention telling me that I am a fucking loser, and that my writing is shit. The only response I seem to be able to muster is, what took you so long to notice? Sometimes when I am dancing alone on my concrete floor with my favorite shoes on, or when a pretty girl walks by and I can smell her slipstream of loveliness for at least three or four steps after she has passed; words fill my head, but it's all too brief. What you are reading are my attempts to get some of those words back. People seem to like me, I sound really smart at parties when I am stuffing olives in my face and slurping back someone else's drink I assure you, but it all falls apart, right here, right now. I can never recreate the moments when emotion fills me, and tears form in the corners of my eyes. But perhaps there is something to be said for failure in the grandest sense. I am here to entertain you gentle reader. To make a fool of myself, to live in a constant state of excess, to have drinks thrown in my face, to fall in love three times a week, and to live reader, LIVE! Please treat me kindly, I am a lost soul. I don't know who I am anymore.

The blinds are closed, and the movie is about to start. Last night I watched The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, and found it very unsettling. Sellers' endless cast of characters hid his family and friends from who he really was. The concept is terrifying and enticing all at the same time. Tonight, I am about to watch Jacob's Ladder, a film about alternate realities, fear of death, and the reluctance to let go of the past.

When I am in bed, staring out at my empty home, I often feel like I am caught in a dream I do not understand, and that I could awake any moment to the smell of bacon and eggs and singing in the kitchen. But my slumber continues, and all the windows are wide open.



[6/13/2005 03:15:00 PM]

I'm Lovin It (2003)



McDonald's is Your Kind of Place (1967)
You Deserve a Break Today (1971)
We Do it All for You (1975)
Twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun (1975)
You, You're The One (1976)
Nobody Can Do It Like McDonald's Can (1979)
Renewed: You Deserve a Break Today (1980 & 1981)
Nobody Makes Your Day Like McDonald's Can (1981)
McDonald's and You (1983)
It's a Good Time for the Great Taste of McDonald's (1984)
Good Time, Great Taste, That's Why This is My Place (1988)
Food, Folks and Fun (1990)
McDonald's Today (1991)
What You Want is What You Get (1992)
Have you Had your Break Today? (1995)
My McDonald's (1997)
Did Somebody Say McDonald's (1997)
We Love to See You Smile (2000)
There's a little McDonald's in Everyone (2001)
-- A history of McDonald's theme phrases.


Friday night, after crawling through the dirty part of town, and stopping along the way at all the art galleries for three dollar cans of beer, Julia and I wound up at Mcdonald's at about 3am. The line was long; full of drunks, stinky people, dirty people, and of course, lovers. Contemplating a decision to go with a Big Mac, or to branch out and try something different, like Chicken Tenders, Julia got too close to me, and I just couldn't help myself. All night I had been careening towards her, and now, with her brunette hair calling out to me over a symphony of french fry racks being dropped into baths of hot grease, beeps instructing the disenchanted workers that it was time to flip the patties, and shouts for extra pickles, I took my chance and buried my face into her waiting neck. Three or four people deep, in a lineup to get to a counter with coke spilled all over it, we were enveloped in a full on make-out. I bit her ear, kissed her neck, and ran my lips along the ridge made by the line of her jaw, and finally arrived at her open mouth. I took hold of her Citizens of Humanity jeans and pulled her hips closer towards mine. I couldn't believe what was happening, sometimes I really love McDonald's. All the tension of traveling together to Quincy, but not being able to touch each other, because of my involvement with her friend Unice, unloaded in a lineup of impatient and hungry people. We were finally interrupted by the call for the "next guest," and I decided to stick to the Big Mac after all. Julia ordered the Chicken Tenders.

We threw the drinks from our value meals into the trash, and I got out the last can of beer from my knapsack. There was a two seater bicycle rickshaw just outside the McDonald's, and I hired the driver to pedal us up and down the main drag of the hometown so we could eat and drink. All the night clubs had just let out, and Julia and I were pedaled through the late night pandemonium at a snails pace with a beer in one hand, and some fries in the other. After running the length of the entire street we stopped so Julia could get a cab, and I instructed my driver to take me the rest of the way home, which incidentally, was all downhill.



[6/08/2005 11:51:00 PM]

15 Percent




Sick from the city
It burns in my side
- The Veils

Lord knows i've been trying
- Destroyer



Busses and bridges brought me to a strange end of town last night. I was looking for a party in a park just after I finished a big mac on the west side. I got off at the wrong stop, and I wound up lost in one of the hometowns priciest neighborhoods. I felt like I was the only person on earth as I zigzagged through the avenues and streets. The whole place was void of movement, except for a lone skunk sniffing the tires of a gigantic SUV parked along the side of the road. The houses were impressive, huge, and well manicured, but they all seemed so cold and empty. All the windows were black and impenetrable. The only sound I could hear was the light rain trying to fall through the massive umbrella of foliage above me. Such a disgusting display of decadence I had found myself in.

This neighborhood sits its fat ass in the middle of the city, casting a watchful glance at all that pass through its attempts at perfection. I thought I was walking through that maze made of hedges in the movie The Shining. With each step I grew more angry. Each wrong turn, another gorgeous home, and another replay of the events that have transpired over the past few days. Another empty driveway, paired with yet another life assessment in the rain, and I assure you not much had changed in the fifteen minutes since my last one. My fists were clenched as I thought of the smiles, the laughter, the icing on cakes, the movies, the sundays, the drives, the smell of bbq mixed with the sounds of children playing. It all bled away from me with each step I took in that supposed suburban perfection. I finally found my way out of that place, but its erie, quiet complacency, is still with me. I hate being lost.



[6/03/2005 05:26:00 PM]

Upon Arrival


Your power is turning our darkness to dawn
So roll on, Columbia, roll on.
-- Woody Guthrie

They gave me home made wine,
but it was not enough, the cold had made me numb
-- Frank black, Manitoba


I just spent 6 days in an alternate reality, one of 2$ well whiskey, 4$ packages of cigarettes, bikini clad girls floating along the river in inflatable tubes, open plain vistas with blinding sunsets, and cozy long drives along unknown highways with lots of touching and feeling.

As you know I was in Quincy, WA, to see Arcade Fire, The Dears, The Pixies, Wilco, and Modest Mouse. I saw them all, the standout being Arcade Fire's powerful entrance onto the stage after arriving from Barcelona only hours beforehand, Wilco's performance with the sun setting over the Columbia River, and Frank Blacks ability to hold 20,000 people in the palm of his hand.

I had arrived in Quincy with a ride from Julia, and her friend Gina. I sat in the back seat of the car with a view of their lovely black hair lapping at the head rests in front of me from the rush of wind coming in through the open windows. After crossing over the border into America, I walked into a road side gas station to buy a 12 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes. Total cost: $10.40. The party had only just started, and I knew then that it was going to be a good one. We were on our way to meet Unice, who had arrived from Portland, and was waiting for us in a hotel room on the outskirts of Quincy, population 5 341. Although Unice was nowhere to be found when we got to the hotel, the desk manager let us into the room anyway. He did the honors of opening the door, and was not by the state of room 206. It wreaked like pot, was littered with beer bottles, and was empty. Unice had been having a party with some friends that were staying at a camp site close by. We got rid of the desk clerk as quickly as possible, found a note from Unice saying that they would return from dinner shortly, and crashed on the beds, Gina, Julia, and I. Our rest was soon interupted by the door being unlocked, laughter, and the rippling sound of brown paper bags full of beer. Unice always has an entourage of friends whenever she is out, and tonight was no different. There was Mitch, a steel worker who had just gotten back from a 3 month stay in mexico, Mitch's girlfriend Joette who had just moved to Portland from LA, Joette's sister Quiana, who was a marathon runner and our future host in portland, Percy, a photographer for a large commercial studio in Portland, Percy's wife Laletta, an artist, and of course there was Unice.

Unice sat in the open window of the hotel with an eggshell blue cotton dress on that had three seam folds that ran the entire length of her dress, but only on the left side. She had cut her hair shorter, and had dyed it in such a manner that it looked like she had carefully poured platinum blonde all over her jet black hair. She had gotten more tattoos as well, this time adding hot rod flames that started at her left wrist which crawled all the way up her forearm. Watching her sit in the open hotel room window with one leg crossed over the other, sipping her drink when we were alone in the hotel room, when everyone else was outside smoking, is still one of my favorite visions of the entire adventure I was about to embark on.

The Sasquatch festival was 12 hours of intense sun, 24oz cans of bud light, and a steady procession of cigarettes and joints at the Gorge, a natural amphitheater just outside of Quincy. The venue itself was as dramatic as the action on stage, which used as its backdrop the most incredible view of the Columbia River, which lay beneath impressively eroded hillsides that it had created with its powerful current thousands of years beforehand. Imagine lying on your back in the blazing heat of a cloudless sky, while watching the best bands that popular music has to offer right now. I spent the whole day in some kind of heat induced trance. After awhile it was all about survival as casualties were passed out all along the perimeter fence, just by the stage. Arms outstretched, and mouths open, they were oblivious to the fact that a massive horde of drunken sun crazed music fans loomed dangerously close by. Luckily, because one of my friends was playing on one of the smaller stages, I was allowed access to the VIP tent where there was free water, booze, and a stellar patio beside the stage which overlooked the Columbia River. Unice was chatting up Jeff Tweedy from Wilco, while I concentrated on keeping my head from hitting the white plastic of the table I was sitting at. No wonder I eventually lose all my ladies.

Before leaving Quincy everyone that had hung out with us over the weekend met beside the Yakima river for an afternoon swim before we all dispersed to our regular lives. Julia and Gina had to head back to the hometown, so I arranged a ride with Percy, for Unice, Quiana, and I, while we were floating on our backs in the swift cold current of the Yakima. Down stream there was a large metal staircase that you could grab on to as you floated by. We would climb out, walk back, get a beer, and repeat the process. It was fantastic. I spent most of my time with Julia though, who looked lovely in her brown and green paisley bikini. It was so wonderful to be having such a great time with people I had only met just yesterday. We said our goodbyes knowing full well we would never see each other again, got into our cars, and headed south to Oregon.

Unice, who know lives in LA, had been in Portland for sometime shooting some teen angst TV pilot, and was staying with Quiana, who lived in a small house with a pretty back yard. We arrived in Portland shortly after 10pm, and I met Quiana's roommates who were a group of performance artists that owned an ice cream truck, and among other mail art projects, would blend performance art with ice cream sales in and around Portland. Leigh seemed to be the leader of the whole troupe, and his paintings covered the walls of the small house he shared with Quiana. Leigh had wild hair that loomed dangerously close to an afro, and he beamed with infectious enthusiasm. We opened a bottle of wine, and I played Roll on Columbia on Quiana's guitar. I had been transfixed by the view of the Columbia all along the way to Portland, and by the stories Quiana shared with me about Woody Guthrie being commissioned by the Oregon power authority to write inspirational songs about the damns that were being built up and down the Columbia River. Quiana said there was a man that was still alive in Portland, and he recently shared his story with the local newspaper, of how he was hired by the state government to drive Woody around Oregon in a brand new black government issued sedan. Woody was driven up and down the Columbia, while he sat in the back of the car, plucking out songs on his guitar, rarely speaking a word. According to his driver, he seemed depressed.

Quiana and Leigh worked at a small restaurant in Portland, so the next day we did some shopping and were then treated to a free lunch, and all the beer we could drink, which took us to happy hour. I was completely transfixed by the American bar. They are often similar in appearance, with dark wood, neon signs and such, but they each have their own unique aura. The whole concept of happy hour governed my entire time in Portland. Where else can you drink double whiskey sodas for $2.00 a round? Well, anywhere in America at 5:30pm really, but this was new to me, and dangerous as well. Quiana had to work, so Unice and I were left to our own devices in a small hotel bar, with a bartender that looked like a retired member of ZZ Top. I drank double whiskies, and Unice drank gin. We talked, we laughed, and Unice cried when I told her how our bodies are vessels, carrying us in an unstoppable journey towards death, and that we must jump into rivers at any given chance when the opportunity presents itself. She hadn't swam the day before, saying it was too cold. Then she told me how she had started to see another guy in LA, some actor of course, and more tears followed, the whole bar seemed to watch us, but we could care less. I told her that was fine, that given our geographical location, it was pretty pointless to think we could be anything other than friends. The hours flew by and before we knew it we were almost three hours late to meet back with Quiana. By this point we didn't have a clue where we were, and were too drunk to concentrate on getting anywhere else, so we called Quiana to come and get us. Quiana, along with the pub she worked at with Leigh, also worked at a trendy downtown bar in Portland, so she took us there. We sat at the bar, and were promptly poured free shots of Makers Mark whiskey, which despite our earlier declaration as friends, caused me to kiss Unice's shoulder, and run cocktail straws laden with ringlets of ice up and down her arm.

When I awoke on Quiana's couch the next morning, I had one American dollar left in my pocket, and I still had a day and a half left in Portland. I couldn't figure out if I had lost my money, or had given it all to the cab driver as he was cleaning Unice's vomit off the back seat of the cab while Unice and Quiana were lying on the grass beside the driveway. Then I remembered how Unice and Quiana were passed out in the back of the taxi, and I spent close to a half hour with the cab driver, who was incredibly patient given the situation, trying to find out where exactly Quiana lived. We all eventually made it back into the house, and I grabbed a guitar and launched into some song about trendy cabbies, being lost and drunk in the city, and jumping into cold rivers. Once Leigh had gotten over the shock at the state of his roommates, he grabbed a banjo and played along.

We spent all next day recovering, and by the time we were feeling well enough to venture out, it was happy hour again. We had dinner at a high end mexican tapas restaurant, and despite the pricey menu, Pabst was available for $2.00 a bottle. After dinner there was some great bars on the strip shared by the restaurant, so we met with some of Quiana's friends, and had drinks, bar hopping our way to the Baghdad theatre.

Seeing a movie in Portland is a unique experience because most of the theaters there are a cross between a cinema and a bar, the Baghdad being the flagship of this concept. It's huge, each row of seats has a long table in front of it. The theatre was empty, and Fever Pitch was playing. Romantic comedies are my favorite kind of movies, they are terrible, I know this, but there is something intoxicating about watching people fall in love, especially movie stars. It's all so perfect. I can lust after the lead female, and pretend I am the lead male in a 90 minute affair with a guaranteed happy ending. It's unhealthy, as it leaves me with a feeling of loss and emptiness as I leave the theatre, because I realize it's all just a fantasy. I walked home in a light rain with Unice and Quiana. In the morning we would say goodbye and I would be alone again. We made such a great trio, never once feeling like being on our own, always willing to pursue the others agenda, or singing each other songs on the couch before we would fall asleep.

The following morning came all too quickly, I hugged Quiana goodbye, gave Unice one last lustful kiss, and boarded my train for Seattle. I quickly found the bar car, and took a seat that faced the window, which featured the pacific northwest rolling by. I sat there for the whole trip, drinking cans of Budweiser beside some overweight woman jamming chips into her mouth, while talking to me in some trashy dialect I could not comprehend. I got rid off her pretty quickly by mentioning that I had just gotten out of jail for pimping young girls, which was actually a pretty stupid thing to do, especially once I saw the size of her husband, and the hate in his eyes for city slickers such as myself.

I arrived in Seattle, sometime around, you guessed it, happy hour. I walked across the street to the closest bar, and reality began to set in, that in three short hours I would be back in the hometown. Before I had left, I had slept with Nymphalidae, Ananta, and was now having lustful feelings for Julia, but probably only because I know she's not interested in me. Disinterest, or even being hurt, seems to be the only thing that I can feel these days. It was the whiskey soaked words of Unice, from two nights earlier, that formed the largest cloud of doom in my mind during happy hour in Seattle. She said that I was damaged, and that any woman with half a brain would never come near me. How ironic to be thinking this in Seattle, a city of so many fond memories that have since tarnished under the darkness of the past. I drank, and I thought about my future. It was bleak, gentle reader, so fucking bleak. My inability to lay the past to rest has fueled within me a selfish, cold, numbness that seems insurmountable. Sitting in the bar, I could see out the window that the bus was beginning to board. I finished my last drink, grabbed my bag, climbed the bus to an empty row of seats, and began the very short journey which would take me back to a place I know all too well.