Brain Tornado

I'm taking too much in. I'm sitting at the table, and the greas'n sausage just keeps coming, I keep eating, too much, much too much. I'm not putting anything out, not contributing, feeding, but not reciprocating. Nothing happens, a standstill. I have ceased learning. Ceased the mind-growth. So we break it. We smash it and come up with something new.

The world spins on an ever-decaying cycle, and because of that, our human brains grow less and less agile, fertile, fluid. We settle. We establish our framework within to take knowledge, and then everything passes through this system; these doors only access a limited portion of the Human Database, and we only allow small amounts in. And then even when it's in, we process it in our own way, our simplified, lazy way. And it worsens over time. Every year we lose more and more of the ability to learn new methods, to discover opposing viewpoints, rationalize, re-think, re-focus. It's there, that ability, but it dies. That's why people become more stable, I suppose. That fire becomes a boring candle, that spark - a meaningless current. Those languages that we hear, we yearn not to learn them, only to put them down. That idea, that painting, more and more pieces fail to punch through our Brain Wall, the loop-ed dome protecting us from head-cram and Too Much Information.

We do this because we're lazy, and goddamnit, that's the way it has always been. Eventually, we figure out what we want to accomplish in Life, and we go about our plans and dreams and realities to make it to that point. The entire system is a lie, a big mystery, an unsolvable crime, and supposedly we were all present at the scene, with no alibi. What the christ can be accomplished if your goal is material in nature? The only good ideas are those that push, that innovate, that conquer and crush the malaise. We're not meant for the life we live. We're not meant to wear shoes everywhere, or eat food at specific times of the day. We're not meant to read stories we can never write, or watch television programs about situations we can never encounter. Ah, fuck, hell, that's just me up on the ol' box again. Pay it no mind. The slime will always take you down, you can try to fight against it, but it wins. Gravity gives it breath, makes it squirm. Decay is so fucking natural, even Nature decays.

So we battle against it, some sort of lost army amongst the sea of low expectations and wasteful rats. Debate can never rise - we're speaking different languages. The vast majority of us contents itself to those cute little human - excuse me, American - idiosyncrasies, those tiny little insignificant moments, interactions, knick-knacks, personality traits, likes and dislikes that all amount to absolutely zero. They toss these back and forth, bandying them about on the front pages of news network websites, because hey, THEY are now the audience. And us, the forgotten few, the ones who repel the laziness, we stand witness to it. They outbreed, they move in greater numbers. They behave like gas, trapped, violent, gaining energy.

And their sickening swirl creates gravity. And this gravity draws us all in. Until there is nothing, and it collapses on itself.

Jesus fucking Christ. Where did I learn that? 4th grade science class?

Or the Bible?

We've Finally Reached The Summit

Sometimes shit pops off. Sometimes we get into things we should be in. Sometimes some things cannot be avoided, no matter what advice I’ve been given by my lawyer. And sometimes we aim for the stars and shoot the shit out of everything just because we God-damned well can!

This was one of those times. We never meant to let it get out of control but, with the way it started, I can’t believe we didn’t see it coming. First, we need to back up a little bit here.



Saturday 9 A.M.

I get a call from my lawyer and he’s quite upset. Something about getting thrown out of Mayslack’s for starting a fight with a glass of whiskey and a midget hooker – I didn’t ask any questions, as I was already eight fingers into a whiskey skank of my own. “Johnny, Johnny, calm down, what do you need?” His old lady is in the bar and needs to be exited before she “gets into some serious God-damned shit.” “What the Sam Fuck Hell do you need me for!?” He tells me he’s in the back of a car – cab, cop, or otherwise – and he’s making his way back to The Palace, but he’s being followed, and she can’t be caught. “By who?” He doesn’t know, but he makes it very clear to me that they mean fucking business and he needs some help. Fine, I say, I’ll head over there in a bit. After I get done fingering this eight-ball of Jameson. “Make it fucking quick,” he tells me, “and get The Chief on your way.” Oh fuck, now this really must be some serious shit. I chased down some uppers with the rest of my glass, and flashed out the door. I hope The Chief has some hash.

Saturday 9:30 A.M.


“Which one of you prostitutes stole my fucking car!?”

Jesus Christ.

The problem with going on dates with six and seven fingers of whiskey is that you have a tendency to lose track of where you put shit. My car being one of those things. Then again, when you’ve gone out and repainted it and left it crashed into the tree in your front fucking yard, it’s bound to take awhile to pull that memory out of your drowning brain.

Fuck, finally. Off to see The Chief


Saturday 11:30 A.M.

After stopping to grab a carton of smokes, I’m on the road again. Hey, it’s gonna be a long fucking ride. I called The Chief on the way and he was as dumbfounded as I was, “The fuck you use that shit-head lawyer for anyways?” I reminded him that, while a good question, he’s gotten me out of more jams that I care to remember and frankly, I owe the man. On the way back over to Mayslack’s, God damn I could use some wings, sitting at a stoplight, Biggy lights up the airwaves. The Chief and I are swayin’ it gangster-style when he reminds me that he’s not on the radio, “unless this is an Elton John remix of Big Poppa and Rocket Man.” Fuck, he’s right, it’s my God damn phone. It’s Johnny again, he’s clear of the fucking swine and has gotten himself in some deeper shit. “I need to meet you. Somewhere safe.” I ask him about his old lady. “Fuck that bag, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Where the fuck are you?” We’re in Northeast, headed to where he said we should go, where the fuck else would we be? “Get the fuck to St. Paul, on the fucking double. Go where God makes piss.” What the fuck? What’s he talking about. “You God-damned idiot, Gods piss. God’s. Fucking. Piss!”

It clicks, we’re gone.

Saturday Afternoon-ish?

Consciously, I didn’t really know where we were going, but my mind figured out where we needed to be by the sound of desperation in the man’s voice. So I let my subconscious do the driving. I just chain smoked until the car was too smoked out to see. Then I opened the window, and we were there.

“Pull around back, it’s not safe here.”

The Chief, when he’s on a mission, gives orders, and doesn’t give a shit who takes them, just as long as someone does. So I listened.

“Where fuck is that asshole!?”

It’s an eerie feeling when you get to where you’re supposed to meet someone and they’re not there, but you’re almost too drunk to notice where or why you’re there. It’s confusing, I know, but trust me, it’s rough.

We lose our patience and break for the door, but it’s locked! Son of a Bitch left us out do dry!!

‘CLICK’

“Oh thank God Johnny, you’re here.”

The three of us go in. Triple bolt that son of a bitch to keep the fucking ghosts out!

We sidle up to the bar, but it’s not quite right. There’s the bar, that’s okay. There’s plenty of variety of beer on tap, and the lighting seems right. So what the fuck is wrong?

“Hey Chief, I think something is seriously fucking wrong.”

“Jesus Dave, slow down. Here, drink this, it’ll calm you the fuck down!”

After taking down a few glasses of The Chief’s magic drink, I’m able to get my thoughts straight. “Hey Johnny, why did we mee..” As I turned, I realized for the first time that Johnny was not the man that had opened the door for us, rescuing us from The Ghosts. It turns out that this saint among men is neither my confidant or my lawyer. But he saved us nonetheless. Before I can get an explanation of who this mystery man is, he wisks The Chief and I into the back.

“Holy Sh – Where the fuck are we!?”



“This, my friends, is where God’s piss comes from.”

The Chief was lost in a state of awe and wonder – and drunkenness. Me? I was just confused.

“But fine sir, how the fuck does God piss into these things?”


He looks at me, shakes his head in that poor-little-unknowing-child kind of way and walks out of the room. I’m dumbfounded, I can’t wrap my simple-fuck of a mind around this whole thing. I slap The Chief, “We need to be back at the bar, NOW!”

We’re head back towards the bar, when a small door busts open right behind us. Jesus man, I really do need another drink. It’s our helpful little friend. “Get in here!”

He slams the door behind us and tells us to be quiet, “The fucking ghosts got in and we’ve got to flush those bastards out!” Now, as he’s yelling this, he’s nervously looking over a control panel that has so many knobs, switches, lights, and words, that I wasn’t really sure if I was seeing double or not. Or triple.

That’s when The Chief takes over. “Get the fuck out of my way!”

He’s sprinting up and down along the wall, reading and rereading instructions, manuals, and for Christ sake, the Bible. I’ve never seen a man, not on handfuls of pills, so possessed. Then he stops, and begins to cackle. Oh fuck, he’s lost it.

“I’ve got you beat you stupid fuck! Get ready to say hi to the bad guy!”

And then he does it,

And all shit breaks loose.

There’s a rumbling deep from within the ground, and we run! Door after door, we fly away from the giant beasts we’d awoken – The Ghosts forgotten, for now. The noise is getting louder and louder, and I’m running blindly for my life at this point. We’ve got the Devil’s attention now motherfuckers! One second I’m running, the next I’m flat on my back, head ringing, room spinning like it does the mornings I wake up after spending a night swimming in whiskey. What the fuck just happened!? I stand up and see my mysterious new friend standing next to me, staring in amazement. I look to see what he’s lost in.



“Holy fucking Christ!”

I leave my new friend to behold his wonder and continue on my escape from The Beast. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Hey, where’s The Chief? I pelt down a long hallway, surrounded by doors, I can only hope and pray that I choose the right one. The first three are dark. Only evil sits alone in the dark. The last door on the right is lit up, so I’ve found my exit – I hope. The contents of the room bring me to a halt.




Before I have time to register what I’m seeing, I hear a noise. It sounds like something that ‘s smacking it’s lips, or eating it’s prey. Oh Christ, I’ve found The Beast! As I slowly make my way around the corner, the noise becomes louder and more intense. Jesus, it sound like The Beast drinks it’s prey. I come around the last corner and peer into the dimly lit corner.




“Holy fuck! What the fuck are you doing!?” It’s The Chief!



“It tastes so good, when it hits your lips!”


Oh fuck it all...

I grab The Chief by the collar and race towards the door – the one that say ‘Exit,’ smash it open, and we’re blinded by white light.

The next thing I know we’re in the Gorilla Lounge, the Twins on the television, and we’re soaking wet. But we’re safe. It was a long climb, but we survived The Summit Assault and made it back safely.

I think...

Sometimes Thinking Makes My Brain Hurt

It’s amazing how quickly life can change. One minute you’re sitting at the bar pouring Tall Gingers down your throat, the next minute you’re sifting through the back of your garage looking for some paint to huff. Heeeere Krylon, Krylon, Krylon. I’ve been sitting around drinking Mojitos, next thing I know I’ve got a bottle of Wal-Mart mouthwash. It’s like time travel, except the clock hasn’t moved very much. It’s more like I’ve traveled between parallel worlds. Yeah, I’m in my backyard, but instead of sitting in a chair sipping Johnny Jump-ups, I’m digging through my dumpster in a hunt for the rotten gas can I tossed out last week. Ha HA! I’ve got you now!

It’s hard to explain, I’ve had many meetings with my lawyer regarding the subject and I still don’t have it all down, but I’ll try to explain.

We’re all layered people. On one level, I’m a nice guy who pays his taxes, brushes his teeth, even showers regularly. Fuck you guys who don’t believe me! But on the level next to that one, I’m the scumbag who’s licking gas off the pump and shitting in your front yard. On yet another level, I’m a truck driver snorting White, just to stay awake so I don’t run over your daughter on the highway, or I’m the guy who rapes your dog. There’s also one of those “personalities” that really stands out – like I’m mostly the guy who drinks and smokes too much, drives drunk, and doesn’t always wash his hands after pissing. It’s mostly liquor anyways. Of course every one of us has those times when you get stuck thinking on something much darker than you normally do – like drinking gas and raping your neighbors’ cat. You can deny it all you want, but that will only make that thought grow in your mind, as you mentally mutate it into something much uglier and brutal. I could throw numerous examples out there, but then again, I don’t want to go to jail.

Those thoughts, those actions that you take in your mind, those are your way of venturing into that other worldly-self. That’s the evil in your soul coming to the surface, to show you its face. Johnny, is that you? Like I said, you’re in trouble if you ignore those thoughts because they’ll mutate, but could be in even more trouble if you reach out to those ideas, especially if you don’t know how to control them. There are the ones that reach so far for those ideas that they can’t get back to their own world, their own mind. Instead of drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper, they’re gulping sulfur and molesting collies. Stop talking about my uncle, assholes. Or worse. The good ones simply end up in an asylum because their propensity for good keeps battling the evil and eventually they become bystanders in the war for their own mind. The other end of that spectrum, well, we call those ones serial killers. Those are the ones that embrace their evil undersides and end up enveloping themselves in those thoughts. They don’t care to get help because, in their minds, they don’t need it. They’ve been awoken by the demons and move to their beats, dance their dance, no longer in service to this world.

There is another group as well. Those are the folks that know how to harness the evil thoughts and use them, for better or worse. They can transition between worlds and use them to their benefit and still keep grasp on their own mind. They know the rules, the lines they can cross, and can, more often than not, make it back. Some can control when they delve into those other words, go todash if you will, but most cannot. They’ll find themselves switching between them, almost subconsciously. I am one of the latter. I can harness the power when it comes but cannot control when I come or go. At least consciously. My mind forces me either way and, if I get into trouble, it forces me back. It’s like being on a rollercoaster wearing a blindfold. You feel it happen, but you can’t see when. Or when you wake up from a dream and don’t realize it was, in fact, a dream. Your mind turns it into a story, relating as much as it can to your right here and right now. Those who cannot go todash are unable to believe that those little trips were anything but dreams. They are disturbed by those trips so much that their minds cannot wrap themselves around the idea that it was actually happening and forces the belief that they were imagined. Even when it’s so real, they’ll call it a “waking dream.”

One must be very comfortable with their mental state to believe and embrace these trips because the mind has trouble hanging on. Imagination and acceptance are the keys to success, but one must be very careful as to how much of each one has. Too much imagination can lead to going over the edge and not enough can leave you out, no matter how badly you try to accept it.

Oh Christ, I’m supposed to be in an AA meeting right now!

If This Seems Racist, It Probably Has Something To Do With How You Were Raised

These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain.

This ecclectic combination of the corners of the human race befuddle and confuse, but I guess that's their goal. Well, maybe not. Their goal likely is something like deals or contacts, not some dropout sporting a 2.4. My attorney once advised me the only way to couter-attack this nonsense was to shave and wear shoes, there-by vaulting us to status known as "passing". "In a world filled with solid F's", he would say "we only have to be a C minus". Wise words from a prophet bereaved of pants long ago.

It's 7 goddamned thirty in the morning, central time, so you know that we've had about enough of the talk. Strong coffee and sweets will kickstart this day, and possibly some violence. Some ragged thoughts to bounce around the old noggin, some twisted memories peeking through the time curtain. We will walk towards the convention center, oh yes, we will. The hippie place, the meeting frenzy of sharks and wanderers. The deal Machine, kicking into full grip, its pistons lubing up and expending on the sweat of volunteers and the Cleaning Crew. The huddled masses, they belong here. They catch NWA flights (staight outta locash!) from all corners, twist and churn their way through the Hyatt lobby and end up here, in my fucking way.

It's hard to handicap the convention center. There are, in a matter of speaking, all types. At this hour, there are too many to count. Their numbers mean little; it's their faces I focus on. The red blazers and make-up.... and a gigantic sign that reads "Lifetouch - Celebrating 75 Years!" drawn in ragged strokes the color of blood. It gives me pause. What the fuck is Lifetouch anyway? I get to the safety of work, and I look it up. Photography. Well, right. Of course. A version of Glamour Shots, but with no glamour, and stocked full of white women who walk too fast and talk too loud. What the christ? The booths are full, and guys who used to roadie for the Pointer Sisters are setting up the grand display. It's goddamned mayhem, and the stock market hasn't even opened yet. Let's fast forward.

I walk through the abandoned caverns, with only a few scumbags floating by me. It's 5:15, and it's quiet and still all around, except not. There is a reverberation, a sickening murmur from the heart of this mausoleum. Just what the fuck is going on? There isn't a soul to be seen, but it sounds like a thousand police officers beating a drunkard outside Stand Up Frank's. Whistles and noise, bouncing and bumping, I can't keep up with it. It grows louder as I approach the main auditorium. Rounding the corner, it hits me like the smoke from the Lounge on a rainy night: a violent display of noise and vibration not unlike a tornado. Twisting and turning in the widening gyre and so forth, I see and hear what I have been missing. Over a thousand 12 year old girls, decked in knee pads and jerseys that profess their sponsers' virtues. Parents, 14 deep behind benches, cheering not-too-loudly, and checking cell phones. The demon has descended upon Murderapolis, and this time, he's dressed as a volleyball tournament.

It's too much to handle when you've got a bag full of half-price sushi. Let's move on.

"Creative Memories"? Now, who in fuck thought this up? There are all manner of booths and giveaways, large women and larger men cavorting around the stalls looking for the elusive oat bag, all clutching plastic bags adorned with Medtronic's logo and stuffed with free bandaids and some sort of lotion. What the fuck is this all about? I see things that don't make any sense. A booth constructed to look like a New York newsstand. A clothing store, with racks and everything. A booth for health insurance. And then, in the middle of this drug-infused trauma, a gigantic goddamned red phone, looming like a sunset through the clouds of square people. Wait a minute. I take another look at those around me. Uh oh. That one's wearing a helmet of sorts. There's a booth giving away "photo business cards". Many, MANY people are confused. This isn't the kind of show you pay money to get into. Nope, they get here by bus. I have to get out of here, even if it means running through the "Office Supplies" tent to the nearest exit.

Finally, christ bless it, on a Friday, I find some matter of interest. As the escalator drops me into the maelstrom, I see women and men of all shapes, colors and ages walking around, and some of them are wearing hospital scrubs. They are dressed well, and don't appear to have been herded recently. As I round the corner, I see a sign... something that goes by too fast and I only have a chance to catch the part about "nurses" and "association" and "welcome". Well, that's just great. At least these people wear belts. It isn't until I hit the main floor that I see my first exhibit, a full size color picture of a bleeding bed sore. And there's more. Yes, this convention is for nurses who deal with wounds. Yes, wounds. "Hey, dog, where you at now?" "I'm up at HCMC, I'm working in the wound department." I see a sign informing me that just around this corner is the place for "fungal wounds".

I'll be going out the other exit.

Such a strange monster, these gatherings, and such a violent display of humanity, shoehorned into an expansive place and sprinkled with Minnesota charm like you can't get anywhere else. And you bastards from Ohio love this, don't you? The work that's done here benefits only a few. Me? Hell, jesus christ, I use it for the air conditioning.

Everybody knows they keep it under 70 in there. They have to.

There's too many people.

Picnic '76

It was August 6th, 1976, and all my friends in Cincinnati knew I was going to be in town for the weekend. We kept going back and forth on what exactly we should do for my visit...some people said we should rent a boat. Others said we should have a swinging party (not a lot of winners in the pool, if you grasp the concept). After all this haranguing I said fuck it, let's get the grill in the wagon and we'll have a picnic. YES. That'll do.

The photo is the usual gang and even a kid from Taylor High School who was getting high with his girlfriend inside a dense pine tree. That guy smoking is Gene Rhodes, who knew a lot of these people but is not much of a talker. In fact, I remember this day to be a warm one, but for him it was his usual denim outfit. Crazy old Gene. His girlfriend is in front of him...was she a loose cannon. If we all didn't know Gene was packing heat (a point we'd kid him about constantly, especially since he couldn't bring the gun into work anyway) his girl would have acted like a nympho that just figured out how to pick a lock. To her left is Shelia, a cute number who became friendly with me in the WMGK Magic Bus Chevy Van later on while "Moonlight Feels Right" played. Can't remember the name of the girl that's standing behind her, but the one on the end was that girl's mother, who kept asking why we were drinking beer so early in the day. I could complain about that but then she was a friend of Gene and she worked at Channel 19, so I couldn't get her out of the picnic and still accomplish the goals of the work trip.

The guy next to the teen is Steve Kurk, who owned his own Coast to Coast hardware. I figured, being an owner of such a store, he'd have tons of cool outdoor grilling stuff or whatever. But that dunce didn't bring a thing. He also drank all of the Dr. Pepper. But he was all smiles so you couldn't really get upset with the guy.

So, the long cool woman on the bench? Oh sure, she made the trip. Those teens who shared their stash were really friendly, and were more than happy to take some brew as a trade. Of course, they didn't convince anyone with a phony baloney deep voice while holding a can of Stroh's. But that shit happens. The burgers were fantastic - so were the corn and the fresh melon that the mom on the end cut. We had a good time watching a wandering dog have some trouble with the melon rind; I've got to find those pictures. All in all, a great afternoon to get away from business. Shit, that was 30 years ago?