as you can see below, I've finally put in some new entries.
This is my way of saying, "I've been busy and neglected you...here are some things to make up for it."
The zine I had spoken of on here last summer is on what we call a "hiatus".
What I've done is taken some of the pieces that would have been in the zine and put them up for your reading pleasure(?).
Not that I haven't been writing, but more because all spare time in the last two months has been spent on my little book project.
Handwriting just one of these 100 page books, including the painting, etc. comes down to about fifteen hours per book.
Now, multiply that by 100 copies.
Yeah.....fuck.
Between what I pay for the books, how much I spend on shipping them to those that purchase a copy and the supplies needed, I did the math the other day and I'm paying myself about $4.25 an hour to make these.
To make matters more interesting, I had an obnoxious outburst by myself two weeks ago where I punched a beureau with, of course, my writing hand....I'm brilliant like that.
Now, every time I take a pause from putting utensil to book, my right pinkie finger will not uncramp and uncurl.
I spent most of the holiday season with my head down in those books, planted on my fouton / bed, listening to made for television christmas movies. I love that time of year. Everyone seems busy and stressed, happy and on the go. Just because I have depression flowing through these veins doesn't mean I'm hoping the rest feel the same way...I wouldn't wish that on most.
Sometimes it was four hours a day.
Sometimes it was fifteen.
This is also what they call a "labor of love".
I've also had time to read some books,
I had the pleasure of being present here in Seattle at one of Eugene Robinson's spoken word dates to promote his new book, where he spent forty five minutes captivating every muscle in my body. The man can tell a tale...
I've done only a small amount of painting since december....more on that in the weeks to come.
And, last of the updates, Trap Them will be on tour(s) very soon. Early march to be exact.
One will be on the east coast for eleven days, followed directly by a trip overseas for three weeks and then will be followed up five days later back here in these united states on the west coast....more to come on that one very soon. I'd like to get excited and spill the beans, but I can't until it's all set.
This will be followed by exactly one month off.....and then, the big one:
Siezures.
thank you for reading these.
and, for fuck's sake....buy a copy of the book.
Friday, January 11, 2008
the sickened traveliers
for anyone looking for info on ordering a copy of "failgivers, volume one", please go to the november 7th, 2007 entry
...............................................................................................
4/02/07
Four thousand miles and about twenty pictures.
Not even of anything that exciting.
A couple shots of a store called "crazy woman liquors" and some random glimpses of a boy walking a dinosaur, a devil's head peaking out of a vast field of nothing, and some mountains.
That's it.
I guess that's all you really need when the most important moment was the very point you headed onto I-90 in Mass. and got the fuck out of there.
We spent the first twenty four hours exchanging spots behind the wheel with occassional moments of nap-time, distortion on eleven and about fifty bags of chips.
I'm not sure whether or not a bitter mother nature had anything to do with it, but every time I drove there somehow needed to be a snowstorm. It was almost comical by the third time it happened if it wasn't so goddamn annoying.
Seriously.....that's it.
That's the trip.
I'm not sure whether or not a bitter mother nature had anything to do with it, but every time I drove there somehow needed to be a snowstorm. It was almost comical by the third time it happened if it wasn't so goddamn annoying.
Seriously.....that's it.
That's the trip.
I could go on in detail about the nothingness of driving through the midwest, or the fact that once you leave new england and you are hungry past ten o'clock, vegan-wise you're fucked.
I could go on about my bewilderment of tractor trailers flying past us at 70 mph on a steep incline while we were nestled deep in the heart of the cascade mountains. I could go on about being on those mountains and the snow falling so hard i couldn't see two feet ahead of me. I could go on about how hard I panicked at one particular piece of time while said tractor trailers were both blinding me and taking away any sort of notion I had of myself as being a strong individual, causing me to envision us tumbling down the side of the mountains in an avalanche where we'd be buried under mounds of snow and no one would find us for two weeks. I could go on about how all I wanted to do at that point was find a hotel so that I could not miss an episode of LOST.
I could go on about my bewilderment of tractor trailers flying past us at 70 mph on a steep incline while we were nestled deep in the heart of the cascade mountains. I could go on about being on those mountains and the snow falling so hard i couldn't see two feet ahead of me. I could go on about how hard I panicked at one particular piece of time while said tractor trailers were both blinding me and taking away any sort of notion I had of myself as being a strong individual, causing me to envision us tumbling down the side of the mountains in an avalanche where we'd be buried under mounds of snow and no one would find us for two weeks. I could go on about how all I wanted to do at that point was find a hotel so that I could not miss an episode of LOST.
But, I won't.
Instead, I'll go on about the moment we came up over the mounds and caught the first glimpse of our new home on the total opposite side of the country. Within the first fifteen minutes of parking our car, I must have said "I live here...." to myself a good hundred times. This may not be what could be considered a big deal to some people, but when you have lived in the same state for the first thirty years of your life, this is the biggest fucking deal that could possibly happen.
Fuck the lotto. Fuck a raise.
You put things off for the sake of nothing in hoping for everything that ends up being that nothing.
After the first few days in a new world (which this very much was.....from the roads and trees of new hapshire to the streets and breathing life of seattle is about as new a world as you can get...) you find your routine. It's a new routine and it feels much better than you could have ever hoped for.
And then you taste a vegan donut that brings tears to your eyes as if you've found the holy grail.
You go to a show in a venue you've never been to and drink coffee at a new spot.
You go to a show in a venue you've never been to and drink coffee at a new spot.
These things matter.
Everyone wants to "start over", or have some sort of "new beginning", and it makes no sense. Why bother? There's no such thing....no fucking rebirths are ever going to take place, son.
What you can actually work for is to do what you want to do. That doesn't involve erasing all impact ever made or not made.
It means, "let's do something....."
What you can actually work for is to do what you want to do. That doesn't involve erasing all impact ever made or not made.
It means, "let's do something....."
Figuring out what you want out of anything takes a damn near infinite amount of time for most of us lost-at-first-chancers. The worst part is that the odds are against you that when you finally figure shit out, you won't have the means to make good on your new discovery and/or revelation.
I'm okay with this.
I'm okay with trainwrecks.....as long as that wreck is where I want it to be.
I'm okay with trainwrecks.....as long as that wreck is where I want it to be.
I'm good.
You're good.
We're good.
You're good.
We're good.
Fuck it.
Let's get damaged
Let's get damaged
Rest stops
for anyone looking for info on ordering a copy of "failgivers, volume one", please go to the november 7th, 2007 entry
...............................................................................................
7/02/07
For me, getting in a van to begin a tour is almost as if you dropped a child at the open gates of disneyworld and just said, "have at it....go get 'em tiger."
It's that awesome.
It's even more awesomer (yes, i know....deal with it) when you haven't been on tour in a good four years. And, for it being the first tour in four years, the short, ten day stint ended up being a perfect amount of time. I could have gone twenty days more once we started, but I was just happy to do it again.
You forget that feeling of driving up to a club / house / space, etc. That moment of watching the haggards standing outside that kind of give you the eyes of judgement. You forget starting to load in and having to say, "excuse me" in repetition with every cab brought in, trying to make someone listen and move slowly like cattle out of the way because you are holding a very heavy item and you'd rather your arm not fall off.
And, you forget all of those glorious, glorious rest stops and travel marts.
These momentary (and probably unintentional) amusement visits are priceless.
There's no real way to describe it....everything is much more exciting when you can park, take a piss, refill on coffee, and do the time-honored rest stop tradition of people watching. Believe me, there is a rest stop culture and code of honor. It involves babies crying, school buses of random college sports teams stopping for lunch / dinner, and families on road trips on the brink of breakdowns (my favorite).
You also have to walk into these places knowing full well that if you are dressed all in black, with neck and throat tattooes about six people deep, you will have one of two reactions from every person in there.
1- disgust and slight fear
2-overuse of cheerful interaction to show you are okay with them.
really.....this is true.
It may be personal experience, but that sums up the two most memorable responses.
Unless, of course, it's new york and new jersey.
In NY and NJ, they don't give a fuck who you are, they hate you and want you to leave.
So, anyways, rest stops.
There are quite a few vivid memories I have of certain stops, but the best are the following:
- On a particularly long drive inbetween shows (okay, particularly long doesn't even cut it....we drove from houston, texas to san diego, california.......straight. straight straight. except for blowing a tire....we stopped for that.) we had the chance to visit many a rest stop and mart ourselves up with said ridiculous snacks all for the sake of eating to pass the time. This was in the dead southern heat of august we were in a battered grey van. The driver's side window did not roll down. There was no AC. There was, however, a leaky sun roof that managed to completely drench the driver whenever the brakes were pressed. It was, by any explanation, a piece of shit. I'm not sure how we survived almost six weeks in that fucking sardine can.
So, on this long drive we stopped at one particular backwoods texas chainsaw massacre looking gas station. One by one, piss breaks were taken, and you would hear one person say to the next,
"you should really go to the bathroom now....".
Fuck that. I was tired and heat wrecked...this was at about three in the morning. Finally, after everyone had gone on thier bathroom trip, I was told again, "dude....just go to the bathroom."
me: "i don't want to....i'm good."
them: "no, really.....you NEED to go to this bathroom"
If I had any will to argue left, I probably would have. But I didn't, so I went.
Inside the stop there was that old, twangy country music you would expect to hear right before your arm gets cut off by a mutant wearing overalls and weilding a butcher's knife. I think that's why I liked it so much. It gave me that grindhouse feeling.....to die amongst jars of pickles and aisles of beef jerky on a wooden floor of an unfrequented deathhouse deep in the south just sounds so brutal / intriguing.
I ask the elderly woman behind the counter politely to point me in the direction of the restroom. She heads me to the door and lets me go do my thing.
The door is fine. It's a door. Great.
So, i step in......and there, in the mirror, I see the reflection of a women fully clothed, sitting in a bathtub. This, expectedly, scared the living shit out of me. My eyes focus, and then I realize that there is a propped, full size mannequin in the bathtub, basically put there to scare the living shit out of idiots like me.
It was amazing.
Even trying to go to the bathroom next to this plastic human was frightening.
And that's when I came to the revelation that I needed something to remember this by.....something concrete.
Or, in this case, something synthetic.
I took her wig.
Without even thinking, I grabbed that wig off of her head and stuffed it down my pants. Thinking back, i"m not sure where that wig had been, and I'd rather not know. I left the bathroom and said my thank you to my elderly escort and briskly walked outside so that we could leave before I'm accused of stealing a nasty wig off of a fake body in a bathroom in the dead of wherever the fuck we were. Though, if I did get arrested for something as ludicrous as that, it'd almost be worth it.
I got in the van, wig still in my pants, and we all laughed for a good five minutes while driving away about the sight we had just seen.
I waited about fifteen minutes before I finally said, "hey guys....guess what I got?..."
At this time, everyone had had the excitement wear off and had settled back in thier seats.....
no one really cared.
That's when I pulled the wig from my pants, and for a brief minute or two, I was treated as if I had masterminded the ultimate heist and was holding the mona lisa. There was an unsaid, but much needed, moment of jubilation and hysteria as we realized we had ourselves a token of appreciation from the road hell gods.
The wig made it's rounds the rest of the tour....we all took turns wearing it at the most inopportune moments.
I'm not sure where it ended up.
I'm hoping I end up back at that stop at some point (i have no memory of exactly where it was....) and that there's a fresh new piece of fake hair for me to shove down my pants.
-The other memory is not so much a story as just moment. On that same long drive, we pulled over drunk on road travel and wandered into another store. This one was more a neccessity....gas and new beverages not warmed to room temperature by the microwave we called a van. We bought our dumb shit....one of us travelers felt the need for a new mesh hat and found himself with a camouflage cap that said something along the lines of "texas is fantastic". I bought my jalepeno potato chips. That was it. We got back in the van, and one of my favoite partners in crime was heard saying,
"pecan pie......pecan pie. I bought a fucking pecan pie. WHY did I buy a pecan pie?....."
long pause.
".....I don't even LIKE pecans."
Five years later, and it still is considered one of the funniest things I have ever heard said in my life.
...............................................................................................
7/02/07
For me, getting in a van to begin a tour is almost as if you dropped a child at the open gates of disneyworld and just said, "have at it....go get 'em tiger."
It's that awesome.
It's even more awesomer (yes, i know....deal with it) when you haven't been on tour in a good four years. And, for it being the first tour in four years, the short, ten day stint ended up being a perfect amount of time. I could have gone twenty days more once we started, but I was just happy to do it again.
You forget that feeling of driving up to a club / house / space, etc. That moment of watching the haggards standing outside that kind of give you the eyes of judgement. You forget starting to load in and having to say, "excuse me" in repetition with every cab brought in, trying to make someone listen and move slowly like cattle out of the way because you are holding a very heavy item and you'd rather your arm not fall off.
And, you forget all of those glorious, glorious rest stops and travel marts.
These momentary (and probably unintentional) amusement visits are priceless.
There's no real way to describe it....everything is much more exciting when you can park, take a piss, refill on coffee, and do the time-honored rest stop tradition of people watching. Believe me, there is a rest stop culture and code of honor. It involves babies crying, school buses of random college sports teams stopping for lunch / dinner, and families on road trips on the brink of breakdowns (my favorite).
You also have to walk into these places knowing full well that if you are dressed all in black, with neck and throat tattooes about six people deep, you will have one of two reactions from every person in there.
1- disgust and slight fear
2-overuse of cheerful interaction to show you are okay with them.
really.....this is true.
It may be personal experience, but that sums up the two most memorable responses.
Unless, of course, it's new york and new jersey.
In NY and NJ, they don't give a fuck who you are, they hate you and want you to leave.
So, anyways, rest stops.
There are quite a few vivid memories I have of certain stops, but the best are the following:
- On a particularly long drive inbetween shows (okay, particularly long doesn't even cut it....we drove from houston, texas to san diego, california.......straight. straight straight. except for blowing a tire....we stopped for that.) we had the chance to visit many a rest stop and mart ourselves up with said ridiculous snacks all for the sake of eating to pass the time. This was in the dead southern heat of august we were in a battered grey van. The driver's side window did not roll down. There was no AC. There was, however, a leaky sun roof that managed to completely drench the driver whenever the brakes were pressed. It was, by any explanation, a piece of shit. I'm not sure how we survived almost six weeks in that fucking sardine can.
So, on this long drive we stopped at one particular backwoods texas chainsaw massacre looking gas station. One by one, piss breaks were taken, and you would hear one person say to the next,
"you should really go to the bathroom now....".
Fuck that. I was tired and heat wrecked...this was at about three in the morning. Finally, after everyone had gone on thier bathroom trip, I was told again, "dude....just go to the bathroom."
me: "i don't want to....i'm good."
them: "no, really.....you NEED to go to this bathroom"
If I had any will to argue left, I probably would have. But I didn't, so I went.
Inside the stop there was that old, twangy country music you would expect to hear right before your arm gets cut off by a mutant wearing overalls and weilding a butcher's knife. I think that's why I liked it so much. It gave me that grindhouse feeling.....to die amongst jars of pickles and aisles of beef jerky on a wooden floor of an unfrequented deathhouse deep in the south just sounds so brutal / intriguing.
I ask the elderly woman behind the counter politely to point me in the direction of the restroom. She heads me to the door and lets me go do my thing.
The door is fine. It's a door. Great.
So, i step in......and there, in the mirror, I see the reflection of a women fully clothed, sitting in a bathtub. This, expectedly, scared the living shit out of me. My eyes focus, and then I realize that there is a propped, full size mannequin in the bathtub, basically put there to scare the living shit out of idiots like me.
It was amazing.
Even trying to go to the bathroom next to this plastic human was frightening.
And that's when I came to the revelation that I needed something to remember this by.....something concrete.
Or, in this case, something synthetic.
I took her wig.
Without even thinking, I grabbed that wig off of her head and stuffed it down my pants. Thinking back, i"m not sure where that wig had been, and I'd rather not know. I left the bathroom and said my thank you to my elderly escort and briskly walked outside so that we could leave before I'm accused of stealing a nasty wig off of a fake body in a bathroom in the dead of wherever the fuck we were. Though, if I did get arrested for something as ludicrous as that, it'd almost be worth it.
I got in the van, wig still in my pants, and we all laughed for a good five minutes while driving away about the sight we had just seen.
I waited about fifteen minutes before I finally said, "hey guys....guess what I got?..."
At this time, everyone had had the excitement wear off and had settled back in thier seats.....
no one really cared.
That's when I pulled the wig from my pants, and for a brief minute or two, I was treated as if I had masterminded the ultimate heist and was holding the mona lisa. There was an unsaid, but much needed, moment of jubilation and hysteria as we realized we had ourselves a token of appreciation from the road hell gods.
The wig made it's rounds the rest of the tour....we all took turns wearing it at the most inopportune moments.
I'm not sure where it ended up.
I'm hoping I end up back at that stop at some point (i have no memory of exactly where it was....) and that there's a fresh new piece of fake hair for me to shove down my pants.
-The other memory is not so much a story as just moment. On that same long drive, we pulled over drunk on road travel and wandered into another store. This one was more a neccessity....gas and new beverages not warmed to room temperature by the microwave we called a van. We bought our dumb shit....one of us travelers felt the need for a new mesh hat and found himself with a camouflage cap that said something along the lines of "texas is fantastic". I bought my jalepeno potato chips. That was it. We got back in the van, and one of my favoite partners in crime was heard saying,
"pecan pie......pecan pie. I bought a fucking pecan pie. WHY did I buy a pecan pie?....."
long pause.
".....I don't even LIKE pecans."
Five years later, and it still is considered one of the funniest things I have ever heard said in my life.
quiet.
for anyone looking for info on ordering a copy of "failgivers, volume one", please go to the november 7th, 2007 entry.
..............................................................................................
"have it go unbridled....have it make it's way through time.
it carried straw hats filled with cherry mints that dipped and fell to earth every time she leaned over and gave the spectators a kiss.
we painted special banners just for this, with solid gold eviction notes and an ounce of tattered bliss.
she looked over our way, looked well beyond all the things that we would say and just raised her stapled hand and waived a greeting meant to last for a hundred days.
.....and i made action mount for all of us in line, and lifted up my skinny arms to grace her notes with a passion nailed to mine.
we attached our everything.....sung a song without a sound, and painted parks of bliss and sanitation that we knew in our hearts would never live past design.
when she kept the walk in steady stride, though the horse and carraige followed in the case of collapse of more than just the night, the smells and heights fell below the aches and pains that brought us all to bring ourselves to meet the message guide.
....flowers wilted back to soil sights, leaves all but blacked their sour veins and fell to dirt that rearranged the seasons in our dreams of cold and kind.
she had me for the hours without bright, and she had the rest just looking on, looking down, and licked beyond the fault they'd admit to making more than versions sold for grains and wheats and nuts and bolts and all the like.
i had her take my fingerprints, i had her take my scent and hide it all inside the cherry mints that gave the patrons wide open stings on sleeves they'd rather shake.
once she reached the last station, the last hand of quiet wars gave her the last line of a thousand poems and told her that she did her time.....that she lasted longer than the others had and that she's free to run until she's caught and tried.
and this, my son of listening hints, my son of punishment to all the fastened wrists......this is why we cut our tounges to block the speech, because none of us will be the spawn of what tracks her scent to jaws of roads beneath."
This is how he talked to me, with his hands folded in his lap and a look of anticipation from his lips, as if he himself had no idea what was to come out next. But he kept going, kept letting the wheels turn and the gums flap, though every once in a great while there would be a slight pause, making me think i should have been paying more attention because he was bound to slip up and give actual bits and pieces of the story that would wind up being the truth.
He had no shirt on, revealing a large potbelly full of scars that each had a story behind them. I'd been given a virtual tour the moment I stepped into his apartment where he stripped from the waist up and would point to a specific area, take a deep breath and begin a haunted tale involving everything from russian mafia run-ins, sadistic games of truth or dare, or periods of boredom that took his self mutilation creativity to unfathomable heights. Quite impressive if it wasn't so goddamn nauseating. Even as he sat here in front of me in a large, orange plastic beach chair, those folded hands had a large kitchen knife underneath them and it wasn't difficult to assume that blade had done more time on the man's skin than it had ever done in food prep.
"I'm not sure what you want me to say to that...."
I partially trailed off, and partially became fixated on the realization that besides the two beach chairs, the man's studio was filled with books.....books and nothing else. There was a light in the dead center of the ceiling (no cover) housing one bright bulb, but that was it. There were books stacked together in various corners of the room masquerading themselves as couches or coffee tables......some even stacked together to make bookshelves for more books. No trash, no clutter, no food. Just.......books.
"Have you read all of these?" I asked, and motioned with a nod around the room, though he would have been hard pressed to be confused by the question. There was a good twenty second pause before his sunken blue eyes lit, he sat up in his chair and scratched his balding crown.
"Absolutely! Well, no....not all of them. But I will! Mark my words, you come 'round here next year about this time, and i'll be as good as done. Ain't got nothin' else to do.....I like books. they're 'bout my best of friends.....keep me entertained. When I get bored, bad shit happens...."
he said while tracing his left hand over a bed of thick skin on his lower torso.
".....yep, more pages means less trouble. Ain't never been good with conversation, but I always been a good listener. That's kinda the relationship we've got....'cept i don't listen to what they've got to say, I read it."
Brilliant. We've made it past nonsensical diatribes and progressed into a nonsensical Q and A forum.
Five minutes pass, and I let him sit and think.
"Do you know where she is?" I asked, point blank.
"Who?"
"You know who....I wouldn't be here, otherwise...."
"I know. It's just......" he paused again, letting the the question sink and float, sink and float.
"Gone. Dead and gone.....for quite a while."
"I don't buy that. Not at all." I shot back without hesitation, and making sure my eyes met his the entire time.
"Neither do I......'s just what I've been told to say whenever one of you bastards come 'round looking for her....for answers."
"What's it going to cost to get me some answers?" I've played the game for years. The cat and mouse, the connect the dots, the hide and seek.....
"Not sure....you're different. You seem to give a shit. The rest just come and go....come and go" another deep, deep breath and he finishes
"....and most don't last in this room for more than a minute or two before they've all but given up. Makes it easy on me.....I don't give a fuck whether or not there's an end to all this stuff. Ain't my girl. Ain't my daughter....my wife. I'm just involved, and truth be told, I'd rather not ever have to go through another one of these half-assed interrogations ever again. Got too many pages to read....too many stories to hear."
I sat and stared right through him for another couple of minutes. Watched his eyes blink more every passing moment, and figured he was about to snap unless I made a move, or at least an effort. So, I put on my hat, and rose out of the uncomfortable plastic seat.
"Put on a shirt....we're going out...." I declared, hoping to not have any further discussion within the studio walls.
"What makes you think I'm going to leave with you? What the fuck do you think this is?" he shot back, with a look on the fence of either pure agitation or pure panic. His expressions never really gave him away, which was great for him, but made my work even harder than it's already become.
I started my walk to the door, and gave him an answer that both impressed him and bought me another round of chance slip-ups on his part.
"Just put on your shirt......we're going book shopping."
..............................................................................................
"have it go unbridled....have it make it's way through time.
it carried straw hats filled with cherry mints that dipped and fell to earth every time she leaned over and gave the spectators a kiss.
we painted special banners just for this, with solid gold eviction notes and an ounce of tattered bliss.
she looked over our way, looked well beyond all the things that we would say and just raised her stapled hand and waived a greeting meant to last for a hundred days.
.....and i made action mount for all of us in line, and lifted up my skinny arms to grace her notes with a passion nailed to mine.
we attached our everything.....sung a song without a sound, and painted parks of bliss and sanitation that we knew in our hearts would never live past design.
when she kept the walk in steady stride, though the horse and carraige followed in the case of collapse of more than just the night, the smells and heights fell below the aches and pains that brought us all to bring ourselves to meet the message guide.
....flowers wilted back to soil sights, leaves all but blacked their sour veins and fell to dirt that rearranged the seasons in our dreams of cold and kind.
she had me for the hours without bright, and she had the rest just looking on, looking down, and licked beyond the fault they'd admit to making more than versions sold for grains and wheats and nuts and bolts and all the like.
i had her take my fingerprints, i had her take my scent and hide it all inside the cherry mints that gave the patrons wide open stings on sleeves they'd rather shake.
once she reached the last station, the last hand of quiet wars gave her the last line of a thousand poems and told her that she did her time.....that she lasted longer than the others had and that she's free to run until she's caught and tried.
and this, my son of listening hints, my son of punishment to all the fastened wrists......this is why we cut our tounges to block the speech, because none of us will be the spawn of what tracks her scent to jaws of roads beneath."
This is how he talked to me, with his hands folded in his lap and a look of anticipation from his lips, as if he himself had no idea what was to come out next. But he kept going, kept letting the wheels turn and the gums flap, though every once in a great while there would be a slight pause, making me think i should have been paying more attention because he was bound to slip up and give actual bits and pieces of the story that would wind up being the truth.
He had no shirt on, revealing a large potbelly full of scars that each had a story behind them. I'd been given a virtual tour the moment I stepped into his apartment where he stripped from the waist up and would point to a specific area, take a deep breath and begin a haunted tale involving everything from russian mafia run-ins, sadistic games of truth or dare, or periods of boredom that took his self mutilation creativity to unfathomable heights. Quite impressive if it wasn't so goddamn nauseating. Even as he sat here in front of me in a large, orange plastic beach chair, those folded hands had a large kitchen knife underneath them and it wasn't difficult to assume that blade had done more time on the man's skin than it had ever done in food prep.
"I'm not sure what you want me to say to that...."
I partially trailed off, and partially became fixated on the realization that besides the two beach chairs, the man's studio was filled with books.....books and nothing else. There was a light in the dead center of the ceiling (no cover) housing one bright bulb, but that was it. There were books stacked together in various corners of the room masquerading themselves as couches or coffee tables......some even stacked together to make bookshelves for more books. No trash, no clutter, no food. Just.......books.
"Have you read all of these?" I asked, and motioned with a nod around the room, though he would have been hard pressed to be confused by the question. There was a good twenty second pause before his sunken blue eyes lit, he sat up in his chair and scratched his balding crown.
"Absolutely! Well, no....not all of them. But I will! Mark my words, you come 'round here next year about this time, and i'll be as good as done. Ain't got nothin' else to do.....I like books. they're 'bout my best of friends.....keep me entertained. When I get bored, bad shit happens...."
he said while tracing his left hand over a bed of thick skin on his lower torso.
".....yep, more pages means less trouble. Ain't never been good with conversation, but I always been a good listener. That's kinda the relationship we've got....'cept i don't listen to what they've got to say, I read it."
Brilliant. We've made it past nonsensical diatribes and progressed into a nonsensical Q and A forum.
Five minutes pass, and I let him sit and think.
"Do you know where she is?" I asked, point blank.
"Who?"
"You know who....I wouldn't be here, otherwise...."
"I know. It's just......" he paused again, letting the the question sink and float, sink and float.
"Gone. Dead and gone.....for quite a while."
"I don't buy that. Not at all." I shot back without hesitation, and making sure my eyes met his the entire time.
"Neither do I......'s just what I've been told to say whenever one of you bastards come 'round looking for her....for answers."
"What's it going to cost to get me some answers?" I've played the game for years. The cat and mouse, the connect the dots, the hide and seek.....
"Not sure....you're different. You seem to give a shit. The rest just come and go....come and go" another deep, deep breath and he finishes
"....and most don't last in this room for more than a minute or two before they've all but given up. Makes it easy on me.....I don't give a fuck whether or not there's an end to all this stuff. Ain't my girl. Ain't my daughter....my wife. I'm just involved, and truth be told, I'd rather not ever have to go through another one of these half-assed interrogations ever again. Got too many pages to read....too many stories to hear."
I sat and stared right through him for another couple of minutes. Watched his eyes blink more every passing moment, and figured he was about to snap unless I made a move, or at least an effort. So, I put on my hat, and rose out of the uncomfortable plastic seat.
"Put on a shirt....we're going out...." I declared, hoping to not have any further discussion within the studio walls.
"What makes you think I'm going to leave with you? What the fuck do you think this is?" he shot back, with a look on the fence of either pure agitation or pure panic. His expressions never really gave him away, which was great for him, but made my work even harder than it's already become.
I started my walk to the door, and gave him an answer that both impressed him and bought me another round of chance slip-ups on his part.
"Just put on your shirt......we're going book shopping."
Black Friday
for anyone looking for info on ordering a copy of "failgivers, volume one", please go to the november 7th, 2007 entry.
..............................................................................................
11/20/07
I could go about explaining this is some overglorified, self-gratifying way but I'd rather just stick to the basics. Even that in itself is fun enough for me. I've been awake for the last twenty four hours with not much to show for it, other than the following:
1-I spent four hours finishing reading a book.
2-watched a total of three films during said awakeness.
3-listened to multiple records by the usual cast in my regular rotation.
All of these collective instances were good enough to consider this bout of insomnia a success. The thing is, as I sit and type this, I am consuming my fifth pot of coffee, so the chances are I will be awake until the sun sets in another eight hours. For most people, this would be a problem, but considering I am now what I would like to consider a semi-proffessional (and dare i say soon-to-be international?) man of leisure, all of this falls under the category of "all in a day's work".
Since my special ladyfriend has now changed to overnight shifts at her job, there is even less reason to sleep. Of course, I'll still take in the sporadic five hour nap but I'm not exactly hovering over the pillows stashed in the corner of our bedroom, waiting for the next slumber session.
I'm gearing myself up for something much more intense....much more crucial.
This can be described in only two words....Black Friday (cue spooky echo and thunder clapping).
Yes...for real. The day after thanksgiving....also known as the busiest shopping day of the year besides the last two days before christmas.
A day where (almost) everyone falls into two categories.
You are either stuck in traffic because you are:
A) waking up at the crack of dawn to go shopping....making a feeble attempt at catching every sale item advertised in over glossy pull out flyers stashed in every day-before-thanksgiving newspaper, causing many a paperboy to wrench his shoulder while trying to carry his usual load with an extra two pounds tacked onto each delivery. Type A is usually reserved for overzealous holiday mothers...it sometimes also includes kids excited about the long weekend out of school, college, etc.
OR
B) you are on your way to your retail-hell location of employment, where you will spend the next eight to ten hours fielding questions from burnt out housewives and/or large groups of college kids that are "home for the holidays".
I spent the last six black fridays doing the latter, working at a larger independant music store chain that sold every possible cd, dvd and toy that every child (in age or at heart) wanted to open from various degrees of santas on christmas morning. I didn't mind it that much. I knew enough to head into the day knowing full well what was about to happen. I was always prepared...a cup of coffee on the way in, a pot of coffee as soon as I clocked in, etc. I also made it my personal duty to find the most frightened of christmas help employees and tell them that if at any point in the day the coffee pot had no coffee in it, they would see a side of me that is only reserved for extreme circumstances. I would give them the serious eye, which somehow seemed more intimidating because of my off and on lazy eye that tends to shake violently when I focus in on something. Say what you want, but it worked. I would spend the day listening to every soul christmas album we had in the store and would be told over and over how i've "saved christmas" because I knew where to find the new 50 cent cd and hand it to another soccer mom hoping to score points with her little ghetto king of a son that couldn't figure out how to get a job and buy it for himself.
Now, I know I said that I am currently a semi-proffessional man of leisure, but this last 12 months is the first time in my thirty years on this mudball that I have not had a job or jobs, so I'm completely within my right to laugh at all the unemployed highschoolers who think they have it rough.
Anyways, this is what I did. I actually really liked working in retail during the holiday season. People were happy. It's the one time of year where you are able to actually leave your job and feel like you got to do something worth showing up for. I mean, of course, you will most definitely "ruin christmas" at least four times because you run out of something that someone wants, but fuck it....not your problem. I've "ruined christmas" hundreds of times and it's safe to say I grew increasingly numb to the guilt.
So, I've decided that in this year of man-of-liesureness I am going to fall under the A category. I want to see the insanity through the eyes of an everyday consumer. I'm going to start my day at five in the morning, cup of coffee in hand.
......and I am going straight to the mall.
yes...straight to the mall.
I'm planning on not buying one thing. I will spend the day walking in and out of the hoardes of people. I'm not very social, so there's a very good chance I will not have to say one word to anyone and will, instead, peoplewatch on the day of all peoplewatching.
I want to see it all....the joy of the early bird shoppers, the horror of eveyone who thinks they will find a playstation 3 or Wii for thier little brats. I want to sit in the food courts and listen to the war stories told from consumers surrounded by ten shopping bags filled with every popular culture item that was given a five star rating in the NY times.
and, the most important of them all....I want to see those three in the afternoon breakdowns supplied by every child under the age of ten that has been involutarily dragged out for the day. They don't last....they never will and when they finally crash, they crash hard. I find it fascinating and highly entertaining...especially because they aren't my children.
Being as this is my first year living in Seattle as opposed to New Hampshire, I may spend the later part of the day walking in and around my new neighborhood in Capital Hill. I'm two blocks from Broadway and about a ten minute walk to the downtown area that will supply me with even more shopping extravegenza visuals.
It may be wrong to hope for this, but I want to come out of this day with stories of near riots. I know I'm stretching but, hey, I don't have to punch a clock on the busiest shopping day of the year for the first time since I can remember....I'm aiming high.
..............................................................................................
11/20/07
I could go about explaining this is some overglorified, self-gratifying way but I'd rather just stick to the basics. Even that in itself is fun enough for me. I've been awake for the last twenty four hours with not much to show for it, other than the following:
1-I spent four hours finishing reading a book.
2-watched a total of three films during said awakeness.
3-listened to multiple records by the usual cast in my regular rotation.
All of these collective instances were good enough to consider this bout of insomnia a success. The thing is, as I sit and type this, I am consuming my fifth pot of coffee, so the chances are I will be awake until the sun sets in another eight hours. For most people, this would be a problem, but considering I am now what I would like to consider a semi-proffessional (and dare i say soon-to-be international?) man of leisure, all of this falls under the category of "all in a day's work".
Since my special ladyfriend has now changed to overnight shifts at her job, there is even less reason to sleep. Of course, I'll still take in the sporadic five hour nap but I'm not exactly hovering over the pillows stashed in the corner of our bedroom, waiting for the next slumber session.
I'm gearing myself up for something much more intense....much more crucial.
This can be described in only two words....Black Friday (cue spooky echo and thunder clapping).
Yes...for real. The day after thanksgiving....also known as the busiest shopping day of the year besides the last two days before christmas.
A day where (almost) everyone falls into two categories.
You are either stuck in traffic because you are:
A) waking up at the crack of dawn to go shopping....making a feeble attempt at catching every sale item advertised in over glossy pull out flyers stashed in every day-before-thanksgiving newspaper, causing many a paperboy to wrench his shoulder while trying to carry his usual load with an extra two pounds tacked onto each delivery. Type A is usually reserved for overzealous holiday mothers...it sometimes also includes kids excited about the long weekend out of school, college, etc.
OR
B) you are on your way to your retail-hell location of employment, where you will spend the next eight to ten hours fielding questions from burnt out housewives and/or large groups of college kids that are "home for the holidays".
I spent the last six black fridays doing the latter, working at a larger independant music store chain that sold every possible cd, dvd and toy that every child (in age or at heart) wanted to open from various degrees of santas on christmas morning. I didn't mind it that much. I knew enough to head into the day knowing full well what was about to happen. I was always prepared...a cup of coffee on the way in, a pot of coffee as soon as I clocked in, etc. I also made it my personal duty to find the most frightened of christmas help employees and tell them that if at any point in the day the coffee pot had no coffee in it, they would see a side of me that is only reserved for extreme circumstances. I would give them the serious eye, which somehow seemed more intimidating because of my off and on lazy eye that tends to shake violently when I focus in on something. Say what you want, but it worked. I would spend the day listening to every soul christmas album we had in the store and would be told over and over how i've "saved christmas" because I knew where to find the new 50 cent cd and hand it to another soccer mom hoping to score points with her little ghetto king of a son that couldn't figure out how to get a job and buy it for himself.
Now, I know I said that I am currently a semi-proffessional man of leisure, but this last 12 months is the first time in my thirty years on this mudball that I have not had a job or jobs, so I'm completely within my right to laugh at all the unemployed highschoolers who think they have it rough.
Anyways, this is what I did. I actually really liked working in retail during the holiday season. People were happy. It's the one time of year where you are able to actually leave your job and feel like you got to do something worth showing up for. I mean, of course, you will most definitely "ruin christmas" at least four times because you run out of something that someone wants, but fuck it....not your problem. I've "ruined christmas" hundreds of times and it's safe to say I grew increasingly numb to the guilt.
So, I've decided that in this year of man-of-liesureness I am going to fall under the A category. I want to see the insanity through the eyes of an everyday consumer. I'm going to start my day at five in the morning, cup of coffee in hand.
......and I am going straight to the mall.
yes...straight to the mall.
I'm planning on not buying one thing. I will spend the day walking in and out of the hoardes of people. I'm not very social, so there's a very good chance I will not have to say one word to anyone and will, instead, peoplewatch on the day of all peoplewatching.
I want to see it all....the joy of the early bird shoppers, the horror of eveyone who thinks they will find a playstation 3 or Wii for thier little brats. I want to sit in the food courts and listen to the war stories told from consumers surrounded by ten shopping bags filled with every popular culture item that was given a five star rating in the NY times.
and, the most important of them all....I want to see those three in the afternoon breakdowns supplied by every child under the age of ten that has been involutarily dragged out for the day. They don't last....they never will and when they finally crash, they crash hard. I find it fascinating and highly entertaining...especially because they aren't my children.
Being as this is my first year living in Seattle as opposed to New Hampshire, I may spend the later part of the day walking in and around my new neighborhood in Capital Hill. I'm two blocks from Broadway and about a ten minute walk to the downtown area that will supply me with even more shopping extravegenza visuals.
It may be wrong to hope for this, but I want to come out of this day with stories of near riots. I know I'm stretching but, hey, I don't have to punch a clock on the busiest shopping day of the year for the first time since I can remember....I'm aiming high.
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