When the world was created, it would be an awful comfortable thought that it was done with prudence, each to its place and all that. I suppose it would fit with our base level of understanding to see some order, some reason, and above all, some purpose. It's comforting, us as children, something to cozy up to and to reassure in times of intense physical distress. But reason was invented by us. Logic, thought up in the human brain. The natural world spins and wheels without any intelligence, and further, no magic stop sign. No, the truth is that survival drives everything, nothing wants to go down to the sunset, the totality of nature driving towards procreation, continuation, the circular rainbow.
It's not anything to despair over, in fact it's liberating. As you gaze in wonder at all this static, all of these straight and bent lines making shapes and revealing themselves in pleasing forms, it's nice to have a blank mind, to have it play out like a school of fish flitting to and fro, taking position and breaking up, always the show. After all, it's really all subjective, you only ever paint a picture of yourself (thanks, Chuck). I guess it's a struggle, in some ways, to knock down that sense of self, to observe this natural phenomenon and have no previous experience with which to relate to it, to search for meaning or structure and find none, and then to just sit, dumb, staring at the world working.
Adventure masks itself in this way, experience sometimes simply watering down all of the moments of self-awareness, knowledge gained in its purest form, without anything to build it upon. The basic element of experience is that learning, that acquisition of first-hand knowledge, something to store away in the Grey, perhaps to relate over pints some day. Somewhere along the line, however, experience was co-opted and became commercial, a package, something quantifiable. And then it became a numbers game. How much, places visited, things seen, rating systems, upgrades and super sizes.
The thing is that we're too small to do this. There are still corners of this earth where the right temperatures and tidal shifts create entire galaxies of biological activity that put our complexity-of-life to shame. Order it is not, more like layered opportunism, a sort of time-halted evolution. This coral universe starts with vegetation, and eventually it builds entire islands, civilizations to compete with one another, never dying, simply building and shifting, riding the tide and climate shifts. Such a world exists here, not for our eyes, nay for our excitement, a human-free zone, where exploration ends at observation. Why does it grow? Why does it change? Where is the form in it all? Questions volleyed to the depths, never resounding, lost to the creatures of the black.
I suppose in some ways this is that "draw to the sea" that Melville talks about, that yearning to discover and be amazed by the opposite of our natural home, the darkness to our light. And yes, there's truth in there, but I think the truth is simpler, something with a name. It's called progressive ignorance, forced dumbness and wonder, without words nor expressions with which to process the sights and sounds. It drove the space-men, and it drives us, although in smaller doses, and always with the element of safety looming. But to stare at that sun, those stars, this underwater fantasy, to stare into it is to accept that we know nothing, and that all we can do is see and feel.
It may make you feel less human to do this. But that's probably a good thing.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
She Ran Calling Wildfire
I was already surrounded by warmth. "Maybe it wasn't a good idea to get the shrimp Po'Boy. Oh shit, the place got a 'B' from the health department? I'm really gambling with my innards now." Whatever... deep breaths. It will pass. But it wasn't long returning to the monitoring cell to find large plume from just a mile away.
Moments later, this plume had already crossed the top of the hills and was threatening both the Hollywood sign and Burbank itself. Dry timber and old wolf carcass was igniting faster than a wrapped seed backstage. Already, a thick, dank smell was enveloping the building. And as I look left to the Hollywood Mortuary, I'm reminded of a question asked of me just 2 hours earlier. "Has there ever been a fire there?"
It would seem strange to implicate a size zero in an arson scam, so I chalked it up to a coincidence and tried to continue my gold mining when an urgent call came through.
"Get your gear. We're going in."
Now, when someone calls and tells you that it could mean a lot of things. Bring the cups, the dippin' sauce truck overturned. Bring a straw, the party is beginning. Bring your headphones, I have a new record. But this time, I didn't even get a chance for a second thought. The Filthy Mutha immediately called back.
"You'd better get to NBC quick. I've got a bulldozer and the smoke is aiming this way. The Valley could go down at this minute. Get your camera."
I'm no photographer. I don't own a camera. But I had only 60 seconds to guess what he meant. Problem with this situation was that the whiskey had to stay home (we didn't need to help this thing). A few other dry weeds (used for evidence, naturally) and some brown shades were along with me when I arrived at the Peacock. And what I saw was not a bulldozer. It was a helicopter. It was about to take off. And there was Filthy Mutha, a Coleman cooler in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. "You got the supplies?" I had to set him straight.
"You dirty falk. If you think you're going to put out this fire with a 12 pack of Coors, you're dead wrong." I guess I was being too patriotic because that wasn't the mission at all.
"Put it out? That ain't our job. We gotta get shots of this now. We're going live right after Days of Our Lives." Of course, can't keep the large sows away from their stories. And of course, I really should have been in the job's chopper, but it wasn't considered a news story there. If you're going to die, you're going to die watching General Hospital. So, up we went. Going off of instruction, we took off north and circled back around.
"Trip, I'm going to have him drop us off at Mount Lee. We're going to save our sign. In the honor of all those who view it. For those who changed it to read "Hollyweed" for the filming of Hollywood Hot Tubs. For Dealville."
We touched down and before a word otherwise the copter was gone. Armed with the bullhorn, Coors beer, and a handheld extinguisher stolen from the copter, we stood. And we waited. And saw the fire move downhill, toward Burbank. More and more helicopters landed to get water and continue the fight. Just as it seemed the sign would never see fire and the blaze controlled, I saw Filthy Mutha eating a plant.
"Check it out, Blood. Raspberries."
They weren't Raspberries. He's not actually a bird. That's not an apostrophe on the Hollywood sign. That's a man who lacked a mission, and still won. The hills are saved thanks to the brave and the insane.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Warrant Of Fitness Is Bullshit
Did you get all that Google? Route them all to right here.
Progressive ideals and a socialistic mentality rise to the surface here, coating it like a gel, settling over this population like invisible anthrax. The Right Thing To Do undebated, no time wasted on the pursuit of money and power, morals not based on 2000 year old scriptures, but on common human understanding, positive nature, Workable Solutions. And for all of that, you have to stand back and applaud. Shitting hell, they're light years ahead of us in that regard. At least they'll be first picked for the good jobs when the Chinese are carving up the planet like colonial Africa in a matter of decades.
Pulled over the eyes, though, a government dead as the church that supported it - a monarchy and parliament gone sour and meaningless with time, leaving the people crying out for the mother figure to set it all right, yet lacking provisions to rebel against this old order. Socialism bent by traditions. Marxism it's not. Progressive ideals being boiled by too much state involvement, burning off the fragile, essential meanings, leaving the only the Procedural.
And so it happens that you would like to institute a governmental policy to keep safe cars on the road, forcing drivers to repair their vehicles every six months to a standard set by the state. And so it happens that the hammer falls hard on the drivers of the sketchier vehicles. And so it happens that the drivers seek out the sketchier mechanics, and vice versa, and the cracks open, and the entire operation is exposed as meaningless and trivial, not solving the problem at all, never stopping a crime, only inventing an infraction, taking it away from its goal. The state saying to us that it is not necessary to carry insurance, and if you hit someone else, figure it out in court. But drive with a bald tire and you can get a fine.
I suppose it makes a small bit of sense in a country where you drive south to get to the colder temps, and mountains hold snow in the summer.
The thing is, the ideal itself stands up to reason, and the underlying force, that of socialism, drives our humanness in an essential direction, it connects us and creates more good than bad. It sees our flaws, asks and answers, bathing itself in our own human foolishness and ability to amaze. But it's never pure. By its own definition it isn't white, it isn't 24 karat. It can never be. I suppose the call for common sense in this system disappears down the well, into an abyss, echoing back like an unanswerable riddle. So you don't use heat to regulate the temps of the buildings, you just let the bodies do their work. You don't tax purchases, you tax income. You don't instigate wars, you don't overspend, overtax, you do it fairly and equally, you cut the fat and lean the pigs. Well, it's a nice feeling, but there's too much that hides, too much invisible. Behind it, rearing its face when most inconvenient, is a system lousy with old-world problems, the monarchy praised, silently sacrificed to. Like platelets, small components of the nation's blood too measurable to quantify, too essential to change.
And so, National Identity achieved. Borne of old colonial attitudes, the Empire standing tall, the Union Jack with the ever watchful eye. Yet reared with native culture, mixed, mashed, a child growing slowly, never rebelling, not making much noise, the people rising to be the most precious commodity.
Look, I come from the Land of Guns. I'm too familiar with shit going on behind the curtain, and I guess that's what pisses me off the most. That I would find it going on in a pure land such as this. That I could find a taint, a thumb print on the pristine paint. If it's here, it's everywhere, and that means it's everyone, and that's not the news I hoped to deliver.
So, essentially, give a government a chance, and it will eventually balls-up a simple concept. That's not a civics lesson, that's shit you already knew.
Progressive ideals and a socialistic mentality rise to the surface here, coating it like a gel, settling over this population like invisible anthrax. The Right Thing To Do undebated, no time wasted on the pursuit of money and power, morals not based on 2000 year old scriptures, but on common human understanding, positive nature, Workable Solutions. And for all of that, you have to stand back and applaud. Shitting hell, they're light years ahead of us in that regard. At least they'll be first picked for the good jobs when the Chinese are carving up the planet like colonial Africa in a matter of decades.
Pulled over the eyes, though, a government dead as the church that supported it - a monarchy and parliament gone sour and meaningless with time, leaving the people crying out for the mother figure to set it all right, yet lacking provisions to rebel against this old order. Socialism bent by traditions. Marxism it's not. Progressive ideals being boiled by too much state involvement, burning off the fragile, essential meanings, leaving the only the Procedural.
And so it happens that you would like to institute a governmental policy to keep safe cars on the road, forcing drivers to repair their vehicles every six months to a standard set by the state. And so it happens that the hammer falls hard on the drivers of the sketchier vehicles. And so it happens that the drivers seek out the sketchier mechanics, and vice versa, and the cracks open, and the entire operation is exposed as meaningless and trivial, not solving the problem at all, never stopping a crime, only inventing an infraction, taking it away from its goal. The state saying to us that it is not necessary to carry insurance, and if you hit someone else, figure it out in court. But drive with a bald tire and you can get a fine.
I suppose it makes a small bit of sense in a country where you drive south to get to the colder temps, and mountains hold snow in the summer.
The thing is, the ideal itself stands up to reason, and the underlying force, that of socialism, drives our humanness in an essential direction, it connects us and creates more good than bad. It sees our flaws, asks and answers, bathing itself in our own human foolishness and ability to amaze. But it's never pure. By its own definition it isn't white, it isn't 24 karat. It can never be. I suppose the call for common sense in this system disappears down the well, into an abyss, echoing back like an unanswerable riddle. So you don't use heat to regulate the temps of the buildings, you just let the bodies do their work. You don't tax purchases, you tax income. You don't instigate wars, you don't overspend, overtax, you do it fairly and equally, you cut the fat and lean the pigs. Well, it's a nice feeling, but there's too much that hides, too much invisible. Behind it, rearing its face when most inconvenient, is a system lousy with old-world problems, the monarchy praised, silently sacrificed to. Like platelets, small components of the nation's blood too measurable to quantify, too essential to change.
And so, National Identity achieved. Borne of old colonial attitudes, the Empire standing tall, the Union Jack with the ever watchful eye. Yet reared with native culture, mixed, mashed, a child growing slowly, never rebelling, not making much noise, the people rising to be the most precious commodity.
Look, I come from the Land of Guns. I'm too familiar with shit going on behind the curtain, and I guess that's what pisses me off the most. That I would find it going on in a pure land such as this. That I could find a taint, a thumb print on the pristine paint. If it's here, it's everywhere, and that means it's everyone, and that's not the news I hoped to deliver.
So, essentially, give a government a chance, and it will eventually balls-up a simple concept. That's not a civics lesson, that's shit you already knew.
Friday, February 16, 2007
I Coulda Been A Contender, Instead Of A Bum, Which Is What I Am, I Mean Let's Face It
What follows is the tale of a night spent working on the docks in Nelson Port, New Zealand.
The sun's going down and the tide's coming up, but the shifts of nature have no pragmatic purpose to the people in this place. The earth may be spinning, the darkness may blanket us all, and the cold Tasman breeze may kick up a few more knots, but regardless, those sacks of meal aren't going to move themselves. It's time for work.
8pm. Talley's Wharf. Nelson, New Zealand. I walk through a gigantic gate and down an immense docking zone, towards central base. Shadows in the distance, huge hulking figures like statues, some spitting, most smoking. As I arrive at the smoko, I see men young and old, some frail, some built like tanks, nearly every one of them very, very intimidating. The little ones are the talkers: young Maori boys for the most part, cussing and gesturing, constantly running their mouths about all manner of activities in their lives - legal and not. The big ones are just goddamned huge, big enough to play professional sports, me thinks. They stay quiet, only fixing me with their eyes, seemingly sizing me up. I just look at the ground. If one of them talks to me, I'll just turn around and walk out of here. It feels like a prison work release program because I'm surrounded by insanely large and very, very pissed-off-looking men, and nobody has smiled once since I got here. I think it's going to be a long night.
My contact told me to ask for Bull or Wattie, so I bite the bullet and ask the biggest guy I can find if he knows where I can find Bull, hoping he'll say "Yeah, that's me" and we will both smile and I will have a moment to share with him later when I'm on the stand testifying against one of the workers. No dice. The man just points to the door and says what I figure out 4 minutes later is "He's through there". Most of the time in this country, I have no problem cutting through the accent, but that's because I've been dealing primarily with New Zealanders involved in travel and hospitality. These aren't them. They curse non-stop, and use almost exclusively slang. So as I stand trying to figure out what "Aye, Bully's frough dere, eh?" means, I take a leave and throw my lunch in the fridge.
A few moments later, Bull steps out from the "office" (I suppose there's a desk in there somewhere, but it looks like a bar urinal with pictures of ships on the wall). I know he's Bull with one look. Easily topping 350, decked in an extremely tight tank top and sweat pants gone rotten with sea salt, he's got a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he's fishing another one out of the pack (no pun intended). He labors to the picnic table that doubles as "office furniture" and sits down breathing alarmingly heavy. He begins giving out assignments to everyone, usually with one or two words, sometimes with simple grunts and gestures. One of the talkative kids he tells to "gear up for meal", to which the kid screams out profanity and saunters to the booth to get his overalls. He turns to me, asks me my name, says "Ok, Brew, you're Team 3, with this guy." Before I can point out his mistake, a wiry, scruffed, middle-aged man walks up next to me and introduces himself as Stephen. He rolls a cigarette, looking up at the fading night sky. Bull glances around and says "Alright. Now who's got wheels?"
We load into whatever transport we can find and drive to the other end of the port, a wharf revealing a towering ship packed to the gills with frozen foods. The sun is down now, purple light reflecting off the clouds and seagulls chattering and screeching, growing impatient. We're shown to a truck-sized container and are told we have to fit 650 sacks into it. We wait in silence, and soon enough, the forklift arrives, driven by Ben Kingsley himself. Completely bald, with a very small patch of beard, and cursing every other word, I find it strange that Don Logan from Sexy Beast has gone on to drive lifts on the docks in Nelson, but before I can comment, he asks me where I'm from. "Aye, a bloody fookin American, getting a bit rough in there, in't it?" I drop a sack of fish meal on Stephen's foot. "Must be all that fookin wrestlin' yous got over there!" Later, after discovering he hasn't had a break for over 2 hours, he proclaims to us "Aye, Dougie's taken 2 fookin smokos, I'm sittin here bloody fooked with nay a smoko in 2 hours, waitin on him takin his sweet time, and fook it all, I'll just fook off and the fook with all of them, I'll be right down the road straightaway, know what I mean?" He explains to us that he used to do what we are doing - lifting 66 pound bags of dried fish meal and stacking them to the ceiling of the container - but he then decided it would be easier to just drive the forklift around instead. Stephen acknowledges this by falling into a violent coughing fit that doubles him over. Later, he tells me that a few years ago, he injured his back so bad on the job that the surgeon told him he was never going to walk again. Stephen replied "Fookin watch me" and walked out of the hospital 2 months later. He works without a back brace, explaining that if he gets hurt again, "the boss men are going to have bloody hell to pay".
We work for an hour, then we get a half hour break (dubbed a "smoko" here, for reasons unknown), then we're back on, and repeat. It sounds like a nice rotation, but the half hour break is absolutely needed. By the end of the first hour of work, I'm already wasted. We unload an average of 8 containers of sacks every hour, each with around 25 sacks. That equates to 100 a piece, which means I'm pretty much constantly lifting 30kg bags of nasty fish meal and positioning them so we can fit more into the truck. When smoko comes, it comes with huge relief. We head to the trailer for some Milo drink and whatever food we brought with us. A huge sign above the garbage can proclaims "If you don't want to use this rubbish bin, DON'T use this smoko!" I glance around the tiny room and every table is littered with trash. Half eaten chicken bones, empty McDonald's wrappers, sandwiches unwrapped and attracting flies, chipbags and soda cans literally cover every square inch. I look at the nearly-empty garbage can, 9 feet away. It stands at the entrance to the trailer, meaning these men must've just finished whatever they were eating, dropped it on the table without a second thought, and walked out the door for their shift. No wonder the seagulls are going crazy. They know that just through this door, it's paradise.
"Fook these bloody fookin overalls!!" An old man has stumbled into the trailer and proclaims this to no one in particular. He strips off the one piece suit - designed with Hannibal Lecter in mind - and throws it to the ground. He turns to me. "THIS is how I want to work!" He is standing there before me, dressed in a filthy undershirt (a size too small, naturally) and a New Zealand knock-off of Umbro soccer shorts. He's about two quick awkward movements away from giving us all a peep show. He flies towards the door yelling "And if the boss men don't like it they can take a hard shit!" The whole encounter has lasted 25 seconds, but it will burn my brain for weeks to come.
We throw sacks of fish meal all night, one container after the other, moving around the wharf and loading them into whatever they tell us to. Bull oversees the whole operation, and like he's in the Usual Suspects, he's smoking every single time I see him. The work that we do depends on a lot of different steps and people, so if the kids in the hole don't load the sacks faster than we can unload them, we've got heaps of down time. If the driver accidentally runs over a brick and has to get another forklift to lift his forklift off of it, then more down time. When the crane operator nearly takes an entire pallet over the edge and into the yawning sea, even more down time. All of it provides an opportunity to watch the sun rise behind the mountains. It shows itself briefly, then disappears beneath the clouds, the day waking under an overcast sky covered with ominous black spots. It's 7am. We have an hour and a half left.
Towards the end, we've separated the men from the beasts, as it were. Stephen and I are demolished, now leaning against anything we can between containers - which are being delivered faster than we can keep up with. However, at 8:00, a gigantic man emerges from the hole. He strides down the ladder like he just got to work, and proceeds to more than triple the pace of both Stephen and I. He lifts sacks like they are pillows, tossing them 5 feet, one on top of the other, at an unending pace. He's an absolute machine. He's spent the entire night inside the ship without a whisp of fresh air, picking these huge hulking bags off the floor and tossing them up onto the deck, and now he's down here loading them off as if he's just going through the motions. At times, I just want to stand back and watch him go, but I feel compelled to at least help a tiny bit, so every now and again I grab a sack and set it down, trying to not get in his way. He sees me nearly defeated with exhaustion and says "Take a small break bro, you've been doing this all night, no worries." Yeah, but so have you. "Aye, no bother to me though, is it?"
Quitting time comes at 8:30am, and we all shuffle towards the trailer to grab our stuff and catch a ride back to the carpark on the other side of the port. Bull gets everyone around, thanks them for the work, and tells us that there is going to be a second shift that afternoon, at 2pm. God in heaven above. As we split up, he comes around asking us if we're going to be there. Almost unanimously, these men agree to come back in 5 and a half hours to do this again. When Bull gets near, he looks at me and sees a broken man covered in sweat and fish meal, arms cut through from the vinyl coverings, hunched and panting. He just raises his eyebrows in questioning. I say "I can't". He nods. I've never seen someone less surprised.
We go our separate ways, gathering up our things and heading back home. To most, that means a short nap and then back at it again. To me, I'm going down for the count, a 10 hour day sleep in which you could fire a shotgun in the room and I wouldn't be bothered to even turn over. The shift is over, the day has begun, and the clouds start to burn off. Soon, sunshine beams off the Tasman, and I stare out towards the wharf, hoping to holy hell I never find myself back there, but wondering just how far I could push myself if I absolutely had to.
Then sleep comes, and I dream of fish meal.
The sun's going down and the tide's coming up, but the shifts of nature have no pragmatic purpose to the people in this place. The earth may be spinning, the darkness may blanket us all, and the cold Tasman breeze may kick up a few more knots, but regardless, those sacks of meal aren't going to move themselves. It's time for work.
8pm. Talley's Wharf. Nelson, New Zealand. I walk through a gigantic gate and down an immense docking zone, towards central base. Shadows in the distance, huge hulking figures like statues, some spitting, most smoking. As I arrive at the smoko, I see men young and old, some frail, some built like tanks, nearly every one of them very, very intimidating. The little ones are the talkers: young Maori boys for the most part, cussing and gesturing, constantly running their mouths about all manner of activities in their lives - legal and not. The big ones are just goddamned huge, big enough to play professional sports, me thinks. They stay quiet, only fixing me with their eyes, seemingly sizing me up. I just look at the ground. If one of them talks to me, I'll just turn around and walk out of here. It feels like a prison work release program because I'm surrounded by insanely large and very, very pissed-off-looking men, and nobody has smiled once since I got here. I think it's going to be a long night.
My contact told me to ask for Bull or Wattie, so I bite the bullet and ask the biggest guy I can find if he knows where I can find Bull, hoping he'll say "Yeah, that's me" and we will both smile and I will have a moment to share with him later when I'm on the stand testifying against one of the workers. No dice. The man just points to the door and says what I figure out 4 minutes later is "He's through there". Most of the time in this country, I have no problem cutting through the accent, but that's because I've been dealing primarily with New Zealanders involved in travel and hospitality. These aren't them. They curse non-stop, and use almost exclusively slang. So as I stand trying to figure out what "Aye, Bully's frough dere, eh?" means, I take a leave and throw my lunch in the fridge.
A few moments later, Bull steps out from the "office" (I suppose there's a desk in there somewhere, but it looks like a bar urinal with pictures of ships on the wall). I know he's Bull with one look. Easily topping 350, decked in an extremely tight tank top and sweat pants gone rotten with sea salt, he's got a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he's fishing another one out of the pack (no pun intended). He labors to the picnic table that doubles as "office furniture" and sits down breathing alarmingly heavy. He begins giving out assignments to everyone, usually with one or two words, sometimes with simple grunts and gestures. One of the talkative kids he tells to "gear up for meal", to which the kid screams out profanity and saunters to the booth to get his overalls. He turns to me, asks me my name, says "Ok, Brew, you're Team 3, with this guy." Before I can point out his mistake, a wiry, scruffed, middle-aged man walks up next to me and introduces himself as Stephen. He rolls a cigarette, looking up at the fading night sky. Bull glances around and says "Alright. Now who's got wheels?"
We load into whatever transport we can find and drive to the other end of the port, a wharf revealing a towering ship packed to the gills with frozen foods. The sun is down now, purple light reflecting off the clouds and seagulls chattering and screeching, growing impatient. We're shown to a truck-sized container and are told we have to fit 650 sacks into it. We wait in silence, and soon enough, the forklift arrives, driven by Ben Kingsley himself. Completely bald, with a very small patch of beard, and cursing every other word, I find it strange that Don Logan from Sexy Beast has gone on to drive lifts on the docks in Nelson, but before I can comment, he asks me where I'm from. "Aye, a bloody fookin American, getting a bit rough in there, in't it?" I drop a sack of fish meal on Stephen's foot. "Must be all that fookin wrestlin' yous got over there!" Later, after discovering he hasn't had a break for over 2 hours, he proclaims to us "Aye, Dougie's taken 2 fookin smokos, I'm sittin here bloody fooked with nay a smoko in 2 hours, waitin on him takin his sweet time, and fook it all, I'll just fook off and the fook with all of them, I'll be right down the road straightaway, know what I mean?" He explains to us that he used to do what we are doing - lifting 66 pound bags of dried fish meal and stacking them to the ceiling of the container - but he then decided it would be easier to just drive the forklift around instead. Stephen acknowledges this by falling into a violent coughing fit that doubles him over. Later, he tells me that a few years ago, he injured his back so bad on the job that the surgeon told him he was never going to walk again. Stephen replied "Fookin watch me" and walked out of the hospital 2 months later. He works without a back brace, explaining that if he gets hurt again, "the boss men are going to have bloody hell to pay".
We work for an hour, then we get a half hour break (dubbed a "smoko" here, for reasons unknown), then we're back on, and repeat. It sounds like a nice rotation, but the half hour break is absolutely needed. By the end of the first hour of work, I'm already wasted. We unload an average of 8 containers of sacks every hour, each with around 25 sacks. That equates to 100 a piece, which means I'm pretty much constantly lifting 30kg bags of nasty fish meal and positioning them so we can fit more into the truck. When smoko comes, it comes with huge relief. We head to the trailer for some Milo drink and whatever food we brought with us. A huge sign above the garbage can proclaims "If you don't want to use this rubbish bin, DON'T use this smoko!" I glance around the tiny room and every table is littered with trash. Half eaten chicken bones, empty McDonald's wrappers, sandwiches unwrapped and attracting flies, chipbags and soda cans literally cover every square inch. I look at the nearly-empty garbage can, 9 feet away. It stands at the entrance to the trailer, meaning these men must've just finished whatever they were eating, dropped it on the table without a second thought, and walked out the door for their shift. No wonder the seagulls are going crazy. They know that just through this door, it's paradise.
"Fook these bloody fookin overalls!!" An old man has stumbled into the trailer and proclaims this to no one in particular. He strips off the one piece suit - designed with Hannibal Lecter in mind - and throws it to the ground. He turns to me. "THIS is how I want to work!" He is standing there before me, dressed in a filthy undershirt (a size too small, naturally) and a New Zealand knock-off of Umbro soccer shorts. He's about two quick awkward movements away from giving us all a peep show. He flies towards the door yelling "And if the boss men don't like it they can take a hard shit!" The whole encounter has lasted 25 seconds, but it will burn my brain for weeks to come.
We throw sacks of fish meal all night, one container after the other, moving around the wharf and loading them into whatever they tell us to. Bull oversees the whole operation, and like he's in the Usual Suspects, he's smoking every single time I see him. The work that we do depends on a lot of different steps and people, so if the kids in the hole don't load the sacks faster than we can unload them, we've got heaps of down time. If the driver accidentally runs over a brick and has to get another forklift to lift his forklift off of it, then more down time. When the crane operator nearly takes an entire pallet over the edge and into the yawning sea, even more down time. All of it provides an opportunity to watch the sun rise behind the mountains. It shows itself briefly, then disappears beneath the clouds, the day waking under an overcast sky covered with ominous black spots. It's 7am. We have an hour and a half left.
Towards the end, we've separated the men from the beasts, as it were. Stephen and I are demolished, now leaning against anything we can between containers - which are being delivered faster than we can keep up with. However, at 8:00, a gigantic man emerges from the hole. He strides down the ladder like he just got to work, and proceeds to more than triple the pace of both Stephen and I. He lifts sacks like they are pillows, tossing them 5 feet, one on top of the other, at an unending pace. He's an absolute machine. He's spent the entire night inside the ship without a whisp of fresh air, picking these huge hulking bags off the floor and tossing them up onto the deck, and now he's down here loading them off as if he's just going through the motions. At times, I just want to stand back and watch him go, but I feel compelled to at least help a tiny bit, so every now and again I grab a sack and set it down, trying to not get in his way. He sees me nearly defeated with exhaustion and says "Take a small break bro, you've been doing this all night, no worries." Yeah, but so have you. "Aye, no bother to me though, is it?"
Quitting time comes at 8:30am, and we all shuffle towards the trailer to grab our stuff and catch a ride back to the carpark on the other side of the port. Bull gets everyone around, thanks them for the work, and tells us that there is going to be a second shift that afternoon, at 2pm. God in heaven above. As we split up, he comes around asking us if we're going to be there. Almost unanimously, these men agree to come back in 5 and a half hours to do this again. When Bull gets near, he looks at me and sees a broken man covered in sweat and fish meal, arms cut through from the vinyl coverings, hunched and panting. He just raises his eyebrows in questioning. I say "I can't". He nods. I've never seen someone less surprised.
We go our separate ways, gathering up our things and heading back home. To most, that means a short nap and then back at it again. To me, I'm going down for the count, a 10 hour day sleep in which you could fire a shotgun in the room and I wouldn't be bothered to even turn over. The shift is over, the day has begun, and the clouds start to burn off. Soon, sunshine beams off the Tasman, and I stare out towards the wharf, hoping to holy hell I never find myself back there, but wondering just how far I could push myself if I absolutely had to.
Then sleep comes, and I dream of fish meal.
Friday, February 09, 2007
The wheelbarrow is full
When you mine for gold in Dealville, sometimes you get lucky. Sure, skill plays a large part, but sometimes you just find gold even when you're not looking for it. And that's California Gold right there, surrounding you like an ocean breeze, wandering runaway or discarded can of spray paint.
This evening, DZA and I will attend a television show taping in Hollywood. The content of this show is not something that deserves elaboration. But one of the guests does: Tenacious D. Yes, the most rocking band in history will take the stage. We will watch them play many songs. We will rock out to the songs while girls will get pregnant just by listening to them rock.
Of course, that's what I think will happen. I am not aware of the actuality of my evening. I was once told a story from someone who's name is of no consequence. He was a teen at the time, and was joining a friend at a twi-night doubleheader at Met Stadium in August of 1979. A's vs. Twins. Unbeknownst to him, his friend convinced his dad to drop him off at the stadium instead of staying with them. The pair made some fast friends amongst the empty seats, and next thing you know, they are in someone's van, driving to the new Eden Prairie mall to see a midnight showing of "The Song Remains the Same." So, in a haze, you can't fault the guy for calling his father at 3AM from a gas station asking for a ride because; let's face it, would YOU want to walk 10 miles down a highway to get home? Shit, you'd be lucky if you even knew your name.
Point being: if, later on, I'm at an all-night Chinese restaurant singing songs from the Pretenders, sitting on a sidewalk eating terrible pizza, or trying to pick up a radio station from Mexico, know that I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But it's all gold.
This evening, DZA and I will attend a television show taping in Hollywood. The content of this show is not something that deserves elaboration. But one of the guests does: Tenacious D. Yes, the most rocking band in history will take the stage. We will watch them play many songs. We will rock out to the songs while girls will get pregnant just by listening to them rock.
Of course, that's what I think will happen. I am not aware of the actuality of my evening. I was once told a story from someone who's name is of no consequence. He was a teen at the time, and was joining a friend at a twi-night doubleheader at Met Stadium in August of 1979. A's vs. Twins. Unbeknownst to him, his friend convinced his dad to drop him off at the stadium instead of staying with them. The pair made some fast friends amongst the empty seats, and next thing you know, they are in someone's van, driving to the new Eden Prairie mall to see a midnight showing of "The Song Remains the Same." So, in a haze, you can't fault the guy for calling his father at 3AM from a gas station asking for a ride because; let's face it, would YOU want to walk 10 miles down a highway to get home? Shit, you'd be lucky if you even knew your name.
Point being: if, later on, I'm at an all-night Chinese restaurant singing songs from the Pretenders, sitting on a sidewalk eating terrible pizza, or trying to pick up a radio station from Mexico, know that I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But it's all gold.
Friday, February 02, 2007
If You Get That Big Score, Then You Never Have To Wake Up Early
(Editor's Note: We've had only intermittant contact with Dee Louis as he has progressed further into the dredges of the southernmost places of the earth. As he teeters on the edge, we provide this dispatch, looking more like a cry for help than informed literature. The title is quoted from a particularly sauce-drenched conversation with Ms. Shady, his muse)
A long time ago, I visited the state of my birth, Arkansas. A hot, dusty place inhabited by hair and empty wallets, universities and hippie communes, somehow both lost AND forgotten. I thought of the sun-parched earth "How could any roots take hold here?" Folks drift through towns like Eureka Springs and Ballmer like ditchweeds. The past seemingly unable to get a grip, stories and generations flying away in the singing sand. I do specifically remember ordering a footlong and seeing the confusing sign reading "Absolutely NO SHARING!", so it wasn't all bad I guess.
I suppose that lack of permanence, that shifting sands and winds feel, it concentrates strongly in a place like this. We're operating without a chute now, totally floating from place to place and slowly are losing our sense of home. That word never lends itself to any positive thought. Home is too entrenched, too constricting. I'd much prefer "Sleep Hole". Nah, but without that pull, without much to bother and complain about, life becomes something of an oddity. Honestly, how can you get down about anything in a situation like this? The only thing that is amplified to an extreme negative is the lazy behavior, but that's just because there's nothing else to focus on. It's easy to sit and talk about shit you ain't gonna do when rent's coming up and your car's in the shit house.
Another thing you must understand is that - like the pull of the tide - this place turns my writing to a convoluted fucking mess. So bear with me.
They tumble through this place and others, worshipping at the feet of this particular buddha, holding out for that dying candle, that flicker of permanence, letting it slip away and facing themselves in the reflection. Cut loose with 25,000 frequent flyer miles, lives wedged into people-sized luggage, eyes ever wide and sponge-like. True warriors, I suppose. Fighting against ideals that in the place where I now call home - The Great White - are suffocating and all-encompassing. To witness a backpacker in Minny is like meeting a Turkish German. Once in a lifetime if you're lucky, and thanks to christ, not once more.
This wave of temporary people, they crash through and recede and another arrives with stunning regularity and sameness, but the personalities behind the numbers are insanely different. The stories are filling up like a hard drive, and we're going to have to begin dumping. The situations, the backgrounds, never in my life have I come across this hodge-podge of humanity, and that includes 8 trips to Vegas. Hell, there, you're just looking at 3 million different versions of the same sad story. Here, you're tasting the corners, licking the salt as it were.
There's something burning in them, something like a booster always giving them movement, if not always direction. As the sign says, "The best plan is no plan". This coming from the mouth of a German who parked a mile away from a vineyard to hear Eric Clapton make it talk. It's just natural, a way of life to them. Just as you would parrot back a list of your values and hopes, they would rifle off Capitals, Culture, and Time Spent. It really makes for good talk, all of this stimuli like nothing you've ever heard, sentences presented in semi-english that you wouldn't even understand if the Queen herself spoke them. The home fires burn out, but the soul is wealthy in fuel.
I figure that wealth must be something unmeasurable, something that not many from back in The White have a sense of, something not to be revered but bottled up and mocked. I figure, also, that I would've been one to do that as well, so it stands to reason that I should be here, now looking through the mirror, forced into a change brought on by 19 hours of travel. Payment for my past transgressions - pennance for my former prejudices. The only ignorance I have ever so knowingly nurtured, so expressly embraced, is one of Isolation. That's the big bear in the room, the swinging left turn that lives hinge on. You can't go back from either direction... once you're here, you have no steps to retrace. Thinking about it only deepens the resolve, only further smashes your previous actions, only swims you out, beyond the chop.
And, like I said, once you take off, sever those roots, start treading on hollowed ground, well that's when it starts to make more sense. I guess it's not knowledge per se - something parallel to that, something words only dramatize.
You could call it soul, and you wouldn't get much argument.
The past lingers in memories stored in caverns of The Grey, and likely will never relenquish its grip on unconscious thought. Burn the home down, but it just keeps right on blazing in your mind. Fight like hell to get out of it, and like me, you'll end up making the memory stronger, feeling your roots like appendages, unable to shake what feels unnecessary. The only solution is to force it. The only way you cut the ties is with a violent jerk, something so strong mere electrical brain power can't keep up. A flight lasting almost an entire day to a place where shadow is in sunlight, and you meet a guy on a beach with two dogs that are part dingo. This is how it happens, how you change.
This is how you start to understand these travellers. How friendship and Good Contact takes the place of ignorance and apathy.
You look through the one way mirror, and it only strengthens your sight, only sharpens your rods and cones.
Then you can recognize yourself when it turns around.
A long time ago, I visited the state of my birth, Arkansas. A hot, dusty place inhabited by hair and empty wallets, universities and hippie communes, somehow both lost AND forgotten. I thought of the sun-parched earth "How could any roots take hold here?" Folks drift through towns like Eureka Springs and Ballmer like ditchweeds. The past seemingly unable to get a grip, stories and generations flying away in the singing sand. I do specifically remember ordering a footlong and seeing the confusing sign reading "Absolutely NO SHARING!", so it wasn't all bad I guess.
I suppose that lack of permanence, that shifting sands and winds feel, it concentrates strongly in a place like this. We're operating without a chute now, totally floating from place to place and slowly are losing our sense of home. That word never lends itself to any positive thought. Home is too entrenched, too constricting. I'd much prefer "Sleep Hole". Nah, but without that pull, without much to bother and complain about, life becomes something of an oddity. Honestly, how can you get down about anything in a situation like this? The only thing that is amplified to an extreme negative is the lazy behavior, but that's just because there's nothing else to focus on. It's easy to sit and talk about shit you ain't gonna do when rent's coming up and your car's in the shit house.
Another thing you must understand is that - like the pull of the tide - this place turns my writing to a convoluted fucking mess. So bear with me.
They tumble through this place and others, worshipping at the feet of this particular buddha, holding out for that dying candle, that flicker of permanence, letting it slip away and facing themselves in the reflection. Cut loose with 25,000 frequent flyer miles, lives wedged into people-sized luggage, eyes ever wide and sponge-like. True warriors, I suppose. Fighting against ideals that in the place where I now call home - The Great White - are suffocating and all-encompassing. To witness a backpacker in Minny is like meeting a Turkish German. Once in a lifetime if you're lucky, and thanks to christ, not once more.
This wave of temporary people, they crash through and recede and another arrives with stunning regularity and sameness, but the personalities behind the numbers are insanely different. The stories are filling up like a hard drive, and we're going to have to begin dumping. The situations, the backgrounds, never in my life have I come across this hodge-podge of humanity, and that includes 8 trips to Vegas. Hell, there, you're just looking at 3 million different versions of the same sad story. Here, you're tasting the corners, licking the salt as it were.
There's something burning in them, something like a booster always giving them movement, if not always direction. As the sign says, "The best plan is no plan". This coming from the mouth of a German who parked a mile away from a vineyard to hear Eric Clapton make it talk. It's just natural, a way of life to them. Just as you would parrot back a list of your values and hopes, they would rifle off Capitals, Culture, and Time Spent. It really makes for good talk, all of this stimuli like nothing you've ever heard, sentences presented in semi-english that you wouldn't even understand if the Queen herself spoke them. The home fires burn out, but the soul is wealthy in fuel.
I figure that wealth must be something unmeasurable, something that not many from back in The White have a sense of, something not to be revered but bottled up and mocked. I figure, also, that I would've been one to do that as well, so it stands to reason that I should be here, now looking through the mirror, forced into a change brought on by 19 hours of travel. Payment for my past transgressions - pennance for my former prejudices. The only ignorance I have ever so knowingly nurtured, so expressly embraced, is one of Isolation. That's the big bear in the room, the swinging left turn that lives hinge on. You can't go back from either direction... once you're here, you have no steps to retrace. Thinking about it only deepens the resolve, only further smashes your previous actions, only swims you out, beyond the chop.
And, like I said, once you take off, sever those roots, start treading on hollowed ground, well that's when it starts to make more sense. I guess it's not knowledge per se - something parallel to that, something words only dramatize.
You could call it soul, and you wouldn't get much argument.
The past lingers in memories stored in caverns of The Grey, and likely will never relenquish its grip on unconscious thought. Burn the home down, but it just keeps right on blazing in your mind. Fight like hell to get out of it, and like me, you'll end up making the memory stronger, feeling your roots like appendages, unable to shake what feels unnecessary. The only solution is to force it. The only way you cut the ties is with a violent jerk, something so strong mere electrical brain power can't keep up. A flight lasting almost an entire day to a place where shadow is in sunlight, and you meet a guy on a beach with two dogs that are part dingo. This is how it happens, how you change.
This is how you start to understand these travellers. How friendship and Good Contact takes the place of ignorance and apathy.
You look through the one way mirror, and it only strengthens your sight, only sharpens your rods and cones.
Then you can recognize yourself when it turns around.
Monday, January 01, 2007
A Little Less Conversation
I suppose the full reason of this sojourn will never really be known - the dark meaning behind it all too complex and muddled to make any sense out of it. I suppose you can attach whatever it is that you would like to it, go through me and project thoughts and ambitions of your own. Go ahead. It's ok, I really don't mind. I suppose, also, that it's my responsibility to discuss at least a few of the motivations and triggers, at least pull a small corner of the curtain back, otherwise it's rambling goddamned nonsense, and you get enough of that from Other Ones.
The truth is that the talk got to be too much. Too many dreams failed, too many plans allowed to rot, too many projects and hopes discarded despite the efforts of the Few.
I can take failure. I am no stranger to the everlasting self-doubt and the inability to perform actions that others handle with relative ease. I understand things are hard, and I also understand that there is a True Life, one with all sorts of unaccommodating demands and trivial hang-ups, and that it gets in the way quite often. Look, I'm living this shit too. Or at least I was.
No, the truth was the talk, that's what launched the ships. It was buried deep in the idea that you could just say whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and that someone else would listen to this and be forced to comment, like some puppet act. Also, that there would be no reprecussions, no punishment to go with the inaction. That something could be tossed about like a volleyball, batted around for a day or a week or a minute, and then left to sit for the rest of eternity.
And that there were fields of these dead plans that stretched further than I could see with my own fucking eyes.
Well, that was part of it, a Negative part that holds a lot less weight here, something that was like sprinkles on frosting, nothing of substance, just a provision thrown into the soup. I'd rather not have it that way, surely, but it's there and I'm not in the business of floating bullshit from across The Blue. Leave that up to Hemingway, if and when you can find him.
I should, though, tell you that it lives and breathes. It has a soul, this inaction, this burrowing insect, and it follows even to far away lands. The talk, it hitched a ride in my suitcase, got out and smelled the fresh Green air and made itself at home.
I suppose it would. It's not like you just leave it behind, like a posession. It's a fucking Brain Part, a web of thoughts and behaviors that would take a fall down some steep steps to jar loose or even damage. No, it's not going out like that.
And so that struggle, which the California Gold Squadron is keen to observe, it's played out across oceans, on other continents like a bastardization of our American Sport. So hell, watch it and put money on it. I guess to an observer, it might be quite interesting. I suppose if I'm ever to escape it, I've got to violently rebel against it. And I think, to many degrees, I've already done that. I am, after all, here.
Exactly why still remains a mystery. And now, it's even more complex, even more important to Unlock.
In the battle against Reason, you can only be unreasonable, and that means that you can end the battle any time you want.
The truth is that the talk got to be too much. Too many dreams failed, too many plans allowed to rot, too many projects and hopes discarded despite the efforts of the Few.
I can take failure. I am no stranger to the everlasting self-doubt and the inability to perform actions that others handle with relative ease. I understand things are hard, and I also understand that there is a True Life, one with all sorts of unaccommodating demands and trivial hang-ups, and that it gets in the way quite often. Look, I'm living this shit too. Or at least I was.
No, the truth was the talk, that's what launched the ships. It was buried deep in the idea that you could just say whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and that someone else would listen to this and be forced to comment, like some puppet act. Also, that there would be no reprecussions, no punishment to go with the inaction. That something could be tossed about like a volleyball, batted around for a day or a week or a minute, and then left to sit for the rest of eternity.
And that there were fields of these dead plans that stretched further than I could see with my own fucking eyes.
Well, that was part of it, a Negative part that holds a lot less weight here, something that was like sprinkles on frosting, nothing of substance, just a provision thrown into the soup. I'd rather not have it that way, surely, but it's there and I'm not in the business of floating bullshit from across The Blue. Leave that up to Hemingway, if and when you can find him.
I should, though, tell you that it lives and breathes. It has a soul, this inaction, this burrowing insect, and it follows even to far away lands. The talk, it hitched a ride in my suitcase, got out and smelled the fresh Green air and made itself at home.
I suppose it would. It's not like you just leave it behind, like a posession. It's a fucking Brain Part, a web of thoughts and behaviors that would take a fall down some steep steps to jar loose or even damage. No, it's not going out like that.
And so that struggle, which the California Gold Squadron is keen to observe, it's played out across oceans, on other continents like a bastardization of our American Sport. So hell, watch it and put money on it. I guess to an observer, it might be quite interesting. I suppose if I'm ever to escape it, I've got to violently rebel against it. And I think, to many degrees, I've already done that. I am, after all, here.
Exactly why still remains a mystery. And now, it's even more complex, even more important to Unlock.
In the battle against Reason, you can only be unreasonable, and that means that you can end the battle any time you want.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Dispatches from the Dark
Any holiday film or (better yet) commercial tells you that the "Holiday Spirit" triumphs over all. And for all I know, that may be true. But what is also true is my living the same things of which California Gold is all about. And it does not exist in Minneapolis.
Not that it ever has. And not that this is news, either. But it had been many years since my last sojourn to the north during the darkest of hours. Whatever had changed really hadn't. The fact that Best Buy built 5 buildings where houses and a car dealer used to sit, the fact that you have more chain restaurants than before, the fact that it's 35 degrees instead of 20...these don't hide the truth. This is where your ambition slowly goes to die. Here, it does not die a quick death. In fact, you might not even notice it leaving. The only way you WOULD notice it is if you contact the world outside this cavernous mindset.
It's visiting relatives of family friends. They're all from Greece. They know no English at all. But they know how to cook. They know how to drink. Immediately you are good friends. You dance, drinking Greek Government-made "Tequila" while talking to them. And they smile, not understanding a god damn word. But you're all having a fantastic time.
"Come on, Trip, time to go."
Huh? We're living on the Greek Soul Train of Good Eating right now.
"No, we're meeting another group at a generic Brewpub."
Soul, wilting.
It's meeting a middle-aged ad exec at yet another Family Carnival Circus. They want to know of the "TV Biz" and they respond as if you are the end all to it. Well, not quite, but they are interested people and so you go on. You give details few know, while describing the joys of this life.
"Isn't it great having him back? I don't know why he left!"
Soul, thirsty.
It's sending countless text messages to your lady back in LA. Sure, you miss each other for multiple reasons, but you have another angle - you're not warm. You're trapped. You're having to relive all that you left again and again. And as much as you change, as much as the surface of this dark cavern may change, the inhabitants won't. And they won't admit you have, either. And you can tell of what you do, places you go, girls you grope, but it doesn't matter.
My soul needs sun. And more than that, it needs warm breezes.
Doing a week's worth of work in a day and a half (all while the Sun Bowl is on) is no way to live. But there is swank, there is said girl, there is plenty of beer. And yet, already back in the groove that wide lapels endorse, you can hear their cry:
"Come back! Come back"
And finally, after all these "vacations" back, it made sense. The outsider IS the sun there. It is the soul. It is the warm breeze (even the gas from the insane amount of salt that is in every foodstuff made). Without the outsider there, it is black ice, windshield fluid, added weight. Overtold stories, expensive liquor at city-owned stores, cream soups. Us? We have deviated from this cave and are now at a mental beach miles away. Everyone could enjoy this gold if they got out of the cave. But they don't.
That's why it's so good here.
Not that it ever has. And not that this is news, either. But it had been many years since my last sojourn to the north during the darkest of hours. Whatever had changed really hadn't. The fact that Best Buy built 5 buildings where houses and a car dealer used to sit, the fact that you have more chain restaurants than before, the fact that it's 35 degrees instead of 20...these don't hide the truth. This is where your ambition slowly goes to die. Here, it does not die a quick death. In fact, you might not even notice it leaving. The only way you WOULD notice it is if you contact the world outside this cavernous mindset.
It's visiting relatives of family friends. They're all from Greece. They know no English at all. But they know how to cook. They know how to drink. Immediately you are good friends. You dance, drinking Greek Government-made "Tequila" while talking to them. And they smile, not understanding a god damn word. But you're all having a fantastic time.
"Come on, Trip, time to go."
Huh? We're living on the Greek Soul Train of Good Eating right now.
"No, we're meeting another group at a generic Brewpub."
Soul, wilting.
It's meeting a middle-aged ad exec at yet another Family Carnival Circus. They want to know of the "TV Biz" and they respond as if you are the end all to it. Well, not quite, but they are interested people and so you go on. You give details few know, while describing the joys of this life.
"Isn't it great having him back? I don't know why he left!"
Soul, thirsty.
It's sending countless text messages to your lady back in LA. Sure, you miss each other for multiple reasons, but you have another angle - you're not warm. You're trapped. You're having to relive all that you left again and again. And as much as you change, as much as the surface of this dark cavern may change, the inhabitants won't. And they won't admit you have, either. And you can tell of what you do, places you go, girls you grope, but it doesn't matter.
My soul needs sun. And more than that, it needs warm breezes.
Doing a week's worth of work in a day and a half (all while the Sun Bowl is on) is no way to live. But there is swank, there is said girl, there is plenty of beer. And yet, already back in the groove that wide lapels endorse, you can hear their cry:
"Come back! Come back"
And finally, after all these "vacations" back, it made sense. The outsider IS the sun there. It is the soul. It is the warm breeze (even the gas from the insane amount of salt that is in every foodstuff made). Without the outsider there, it is black ice, windshield fluid, added weight. Overtold stories, expensive liquor at city-owned stores, cream soups. Us? We have deviated from this cave and are now at a mental beach miles away. Everyone could enjoy this gold if they got out of the cave. But they don't.
That's why it's so good here.
Friday, December 22, 2006
The Hardest Hue To Hold
Hot springs bubble and spit, retribution brought forth from the slate and shale below, opening valves to The Core. No, really, all you have to do is go rent a spade and be under 80, and you too can dig down and unearth the magma leftovers. "Naturally Heated" it's called, as if there's any other way. Cold and hot, shadow and solar, it's all swirling around you in a dense fog of Nature, connecting you to it until there is no more separation - til it runs together like water and ice.
Green trims everything here, you can't hide from it - not that you'd want to - and it's only a shade away from gold. In fact, the closer we get the more it washes away the rest, the more that it burns into the retina, blocking the sharp colors and blurring the outlines. Sunlight simply shifts the balance, not the color scheme. The grey only turns the light around, radiating now from some internal place, no longer thrown and reflecting from the Heavens.
You'll have to excuse me. I've been here two months and have walked in oceans that have lured me in to the agua azul, as they say.
I'd like to stay there awhile. At least until human voices wake me, and I drown.
A walk into this heavy chop will more than likely bottom you out and double you back, but not before you might actually feel something, might actually see instead of just watch. You can push it to the maximum in whatever way you choose, but this plan forces it upon you. Tumbling in over your head, surf pounding away - temperature becomes relative and the Thoughts recede.
Sometimes the moods are just too much though, not enough sand in the world to absorb it all, you've got to send the rest back to the sea. The mood is human, it only gets in the way of what this is really about. Gold filtering through the horizon like a blanket - flecks of it looking like rain, like you might wear it if not for the wind. My humanity makes me reconsider all this, the senses lighting up to and fro, but still passing through the old Grey Block, and for that I'm sorry. The stories aren't any kind of respite, any kind of substitute. You'd be better off experimenting with drugs. In the absence of shadow, you might as well seek the dark.
Reflections all around, sun bouncing off the sea, ricocheting off the sky vapor, through the lens, upside down, played back like an instant film, reversed and thrown into the brain cavity, then reflected back through these fingers and past the last outpost, into the digital realm to be forever floating, never tied down. Sometimes it's like a pinball, so fast you can barely see it, all bells and buzzers going akimbo with bonuses, no rationality to it. It's when that path narrows out, when the stimulant straightens and quits bouncing off the goddamned obstacles, when it's straight from the money to the money, no man in the middle - that's the magic time. When the experience stands on its own merit, no interpretation, no bonuses, no humanity.
The earth can open up and offer a volley of ash and violence that could tear it apart at any time. That's why we have to hold that hue.
The gold that rains, it will rain forever, and the reflections will never slow down. Nothing in the way, nothing to stop them, no filters.
Even as the clouds fade to grey, people 500 miles west of here are watching the show, in awe, isolated in their own wicked human space.
It will happen again for me tomorrow. I can wait.
Green trims everything here, you can't hide from it - not that you'd want to - and it's only a shade away from gold. In fact, the closer we get the more it washes away the rest, the more that it burns into the retina, blocking the sharp colors and blurring the outlines. Sunlight simply shifts the balance, not the color scheme. The grey only turns the light around, radiating now from some internal place, no longer thrown and reflecting from the Heavens.
You'll have to excuse me. I've been here two months and have walked in oceans that have lured me in to the agua azul, as they say.
I'd like to stay there awhile. At least until human voices wake me, and I drown.
A walk into this heavy chop will more than likely bottom you out and double you back, but not before you might actually feel something, might actually see instead of just watch. You can push it to the maximum in whatever way you choose, but this plan forces it upon you. Tumbling in over your head, surf pounding away - temperature becomes relative and the Thoughts recede.
Sometimes the moods are just too much though, not enough sand in the world to absorb it all, you've got to send the rest back to the sea. The mood is human, it only gets in the way of what this is really about. Gold filtering through the horizon like a blanket - flecks of it looking like rain, like you might wear it if not for the wind. My humanity makes me reconsider all this, the senses lighting up to and fro, but still passing through the old Grey Block, and for that I'm sorry. The stories aren't any kind of respite, any kind of substitute. You'd be better off experimenting with drugs. In the absence of shadow, you might as well seek the dark.
Reflections all around, sun bouncing off the sea, ricocheting off the sky vapor, through the lens, upside down, played back like an instant film, reversed and thrown into the brain cavity, then reflected back through these fingers and past the last outpost, into the digital realm to be forever floating, never tied down. Sometimes it's like a pinball, so fast you can barely see it, all bells and buzzers going akimbo with bonuses, no rationality to it. It's when that path narrows out, when the stimulant straightens and quits bouncing off the goddamned obstacles, when it's straight from the money to the money, no man in the middle - that's the magic time. When the experience stands on its own merit, no interpretation, no bonuses, no humanity.
The earth can open up and offer a volley of ash and violence that could tear it apart at any time. That's why we have to hold that hue.
The gold that rains, it will rain forever, and the reflections will never slow down. Nothing in the way, nothing to stop them, no filters.
Even as the clouds fade to grey, people 500 miles west of here are watching the show, in awe, isolated in their own wicked human space.
It will happen again for me tomorrow. I can wait.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Hang On To Your Ego
If you could, you would want to condense it all down, mash it together and release the awesome power of the Experience, devour it in one sitting. You'd probably like to relive the whole thing in one day, one hour, one minute if you could. If you had to have it, if it filled you up like some chemical, and seeing it was the only True Release you'd experienced in years, then you'd do whatever you could to personalize it, to capture it and lock it away, to take mental stock of the images and sounds, make it easy for replay later.
You'd want to, but it's impossible.
The Wanderers, they are out here on a whim, some accidental shove by society and they land all around the globe - tramping without so much as a windsock. The Believers, they look for it - specific, everlasting glory. They exercise faith in the Beauty, truths lying below layers of shells and obsidian sand. Their purpose is The Purpose.
I'm not either of those. Call me an Amnesiac.
They used to say that we're immortal beings, that one life just starts up when the last one runs out, and that the process of birth is so painful and terrible that it wipes our memory. Therefore, we have no recollection of any of the past things we've seen or done, even though we've been alive since the dawn of time. Pure mathematics and Common Reasoning has dashed this idea against the rocks, but it lives and breathes, if you give it room.
But maybe I'm too dumb for that. Maybe, if it's there, then I'm tapped into it because I'm lacking the motor-neuron development to push it aside. And hell, while we're at it, the Natives have some damn good ideas about the symbolism and function of the Sun, Moon, Stars and Earth. Much better than those fucks who bet against the stocks I own. Off the path I go, pull it back. It's too easy, too ignorant to push knowledge away, to say that a culture spent their entire existence believing and practicing something, but somehow we know better, so there you go, fuck off and we'll catch you on the dark side.
I'm tapped into it because I think I forget this shit too easily, and I need to record every moment, to somehow make it relevant in the future, as well as the here and now. It's not just images, it's the whole scene, the whole feel. The worst thing I can do is go back and work some dogshit job, clutching my fleeting memories of the Waves and the Gold Hue. But it's even worse to struggle to maintain it, only to lose it in the flush of Human Drama that exists throughout the entire American landscape. Goddamn it, there's not enough time for HALF of this shit, so why all the talk?
If we're going to do it, then let's walk right into the fucking surf, meet the monster on its territory and fuck telling the story. If I'm having a problem remembering the specifics of the bluish-green sway of the inlet, then I'm going to have to just go the fuck to another place, a better one, and define my life that way. It can never go away if it can't hide. And if I have to flush it out by ratcheting up the meter to Full Go, then so be it, I'll be that.
There's enough people in this world who are content to see what movie is TV tonight and live the Fake Life, through other people who may or may not even be real.
How do you prepare a face to meet the other faces that you meet? What if we can't connect, what if the sensors aren't lining up? What if this is the true drug, the opiate not of the masses but of the One? The one thing that causes all light and shadow to meld, the Brain Breaker, the breezes carrying ominous warnings of slipping thoughts and dying melodies?
It's not changing, because that would be to isolate it and make it separate from the rest of the world, which doesn't ever stop changing. But it's growing. The push and the pull, the sea singing back and forth, eternity staring right into your face - you with your petty concepts of time and space - this spiritual enigma is growing and exposing more and more.
I'm not a Convert yet, but only because I might be too stupid for it just now. But I'm on the list, and they'll be visiting my house more often in the future.
You'd want to, but it's impossible.
The Wanderers, they are out here on a whim, some accidental shove by society and they land all around the globe - tramping without so much as a windsock. The Believers, they look for it - specific, everlasting glory. They exercise faith in the Beauty, truths lying below layers of shells and obsidian sand. Their purpose is The Purpose.
I'm not either of those. Call me an Amnesiac.
They used to say that we're immortal beings, that one life just starts up when the last one runs out, and that the process of birth is so painful and terrible that it wipes our memory. Therefore, we have no recollection of any of the past things we've seen or done, even though we've been alive since the dawn of time. Pure mathematics and Common Reasoning has dashed this idea against the rocks, but it lives and breathes, if you give it room.
But maybe I'm too dumb for that. Maybe, if it's there, then I'm tapped into it because I'm lacking the motor-neuron development to push it aside. And hell, while we're at it, the Natives have some damn good ideas about the symbolism and function of the Sun, Moon, Stars and Earth. Much better than those fucks who bet against the stocks I own. Off the path I go, pull it back. It's too easy, too ignorant to push knowledge away, to say that a culture spent their entire existence believing and practicing something, but somehow we know better, so there you go, fuck off and we'll catch you on the dark side.
I'm tapped into it because I think I forget this shit too easily, and I need to record every moment, to somehow make it relevant in the future, as well as the here and now. It's not just images, it's the whole scene, the whole feel. The worst thing I can do is go back and work some dogshit job, clutching my fleeting memories of the Waves and the Gold Hue. But it's even worse to struggle to maintain it, only to lose it in the flush of Human Drama that exists throughout the entire American landscape. Goddamn it, there's not enough time for HALF of this shit, so why all the talk?
If we're going to do it, then let's walk right into the fucking surf, meet the monster on its territory and fuck telling the story. If I'm having a problem remembering the specifics of the bluish-green sway of the inlet, then I'm going to have to just go the fuck to another place, a better one, and define my life that way. It can never go away if it can't hide. And if I have to flush it out by ratcheting up the meter to Full Go, then so be it, I'll be that.
There's enough people in this world who are content to see what movie is TV tonight and live the Fake Life, through other people who may or may not even be real.
How do you prepare a face to meet the other faces that you meet? What if we can't connect, what if the sensors aren't lining up? What if this is the true drug, the opiate not of the masses but of the One? The one thing that causes all light and shadow to meld, the Brain Breaker, the breezes carrying ominous warnings of slipping thoughts and dying melodies?
It's not changing, because that would be to isolate it and make it separate from the rest of the world, which doesn't ever stop changing. But it's growing. The push and the pull, the sea singing back and forth, eternity staring right into your face - you with your petty concepts of time and space - this spiritual enigma is growing and exposing more and more.
I'm not a Convert yet, but only because I might be too stupid for it just now. But I'm on the list, and they'll be visiting my house more often in the future.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
When's The Last Time You Heard A Funky Diabetic?
The blue Pacific and the green Tasman come together here, violently butting up against each other forever, struggling not against each other but against Order. Eventually, their battle will shift, but not because one of them wins. The Natural Order will bring an end to their fight, long after humans are gone from here.
You know how we do it for the World Cup, meeting in pubs to watch our boys at 8 in the fuck morning? Yeah, it's like that for the All Blacks' EXHIBITION GAMES.
The Country With A Thin Soul, that's what you could call this place. Morals and Ideals are awash in a frothing sea of easy living and controlled drug use. I suppose there must be someone, somewhere on this island concerning themselves with the Proper Life, but I'm not exactly sure where they live. Perhaps south. As Dave told us, don't go east. And if you do, make sure you have a gun. Forget all that though, tell the story. Ah yes, this society, their lives defined by recreation, nobody having any substantial amount of money, yet bathroom attendants willing to plunk down 150 dollars to jump out of a German plane sold at cutrate discount at a WWII auction over farmland with a chute that may or may not go when it counts. Hell, why not? You're going to get your fix, you better ratchet it up and tuck your nuts in.
The national fear seems to be running out of things to push experience to the max. Self-medicating by way of the life-death continuum. The natural crossover being the ultimate rush, the goal. They're not crashing planes into towers, but only because someone else needs to use the plane when they're done.
I'm an outsider here, but I was an outsider at home, so the only difference is the color of the currency. They're as welcoming as they can be, as usually I'm just standing between them and their own sensory addiction. Yesterday I had a thermal mineral bath from a hole in the ground run by a group of Koreans who spoke absolutely no english. Hand signs only, please. I felt better there than I did at Subway. It's hard to fuck up hand signs, but when someone fakes their way through english, you end up with turkey. And you don't want turkey.
You look into that ocean, that nothingness, and there's nothing to look back, so there must be no one watching it, and everything must be nothing. But you know that there is something, someone has to be observing it, something has to draw you here and keep your gaze. Nothing has a hard time conversing with you. Nothing cannot speak. So why when we throw a rock into nothing, does it not hurt nothing? No, something's there. It's just too goddamned massive to contemplate. Our language can't describe it. So whether we're here for that or not, it doesn't matter. There's nothing to figure out. Again, we're back at the experience, the rush, the neurons going all cock hammer and jibber jabber. Ah, never mind all that. It's just local talk.
So the fight wages on, the same gas that brought this magma to the top heats the water I sit in. And god damn, that's the ticket right there. No kids allowed in this pool, and the no smoking sign has been turned off. Walk along the path, turn the corner, we're going somewhere.
Off the cliff, the razor's edge, the mortal coil. Slough it off.
You know how we do it for the World Cup, meeting in pubs to watch our boys at 8 in the fuck morning? Yeah, it's like that for the All Blacks' EXHIBITION GAMES.
The Country With A Thin Soul, that's what you could call this place. Morals and Ideals are awash in a frothing sea of easy living and controlled drug use. I suppose there must be someone, somewhere on this island concerning themselves with the Proper Life, but I'm not exactly sure where they live. Perhaps south. As Dave told us, don't go east. And if you do, make sure you have a gun. Forget all that though, tell the story. Ah yes, this society, their lives defined by recreation, nobody having any substantial amount of money, yet bathroom attendants willing to plunk down 150 dollars to jump out of a German plane sold at cutrate discount at a WWII auction over farmland with a chute that may or may not go when it counts. Hell, why not? You're going to get your fix, you better ratchet it up and tuck your nuts in.
The national fear seems to be running out of things to push experience to the max. Self-medicating by way of the life-death continuum. The natural crossover being the ultimate rush, the goal. They're not crashing planes into towers, but only because someone else needs to use the plane when they're done.
I'm an outsider here, but I was an outsider at home, so the only difference is the color of the currency. They're as welcoming as they can be, as usually I'm just standing between them and their own sensory addiction. Yesterday I had a thermal mineral bath from a hole in the ground run by a group of Koreans who spoke absolutely no english. Hand signs only, please. I felt better there than I did at Subway. It's hard to fuck up hand signs, but when someone fakes their way through english, you end up with turkey. And you don't want turkey.
You look into that ocean, that nothingness, and there's nothing to look back, so there must be no one watching it, and everything must be nothing. But you know that there is something, someone has to be observing it, something has to draw you here and keep your gaze. Nothing has a hard time conversing with you. Nothing cannot speak. So why when we throw a rock into nothing, does it not hurt nothing? No, something's there. It's just too goddamned massive to contemplate. Our language can't describe it. So whether we're here for that or not, it doesn't matter. There's nothing to figure out. Again, we're back at the experience, the rush, the neurons going all cock hammer and jibber jabber. Ah, never mind all that. It's just local talk.
So the fight wages on, the same gas that brought this magma to the top heats the water I sit in. And god damn, that's the ticket right there. No kids allowed in this pool, and the no smoking sign has been turned off. Walk along the path, turn the corner, we're going somewhere.
Off the cliff, the razor's edge, the mortal coil. Slough it off.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
You Don't Understand My Plight
All an actor has is his instincts. If you know anything about me you know I'm not an actor, which makes my own personal instincts a whole other matter.
"Are you an actor?"
As I said, no, but I had to answer this question for a second time at a local "Irish" bar. Times is rough and I sat, solo (my attorney was in jail, located in a town I couldn't even spell, never mind pronounce. His communiqué didn't shed light on anything other than a mule was involved: the animal kind). So this is what I've become? Slingin' back Malibu while NOT in Malibu, looking for good times?
Well, the first two hours had yielded nothing despite a crowd which all seemed to already know each other. I wasn't sure if I was stepping in to some other realm, that the reason I was ignored (save from the bartender) was that I didn't belong. And I was about to leave (as I finished some Jim Beam...remorse was setting in) as I was somehow dragged into a conversation about how getting married wasn't for them. At least, these two girls and one guy. This man claimed to have been a farmer for 10 years before coming to LA. He said it with pride, but later drunk ramblings lead him to admit he collected chicken eggs. Hmmm, not one in the same. Such admissions of truth lead these two ladies to me (they both had 10 years on me, supposedly). Despite having their guard up (insert NBA analogy) almost so high I could barely get to know them, the convo flowed. Nice folks, just drinkin, shootin the shit, talking LA. This is what I was after. And naturally, it came as quittin' time arrived. As we left out the back door, I heard surprising news as to why it was so hard to open.
"Yeah, it's locked. A lot of crime around here."
Uh...
There's no way around this god damned climb. We're talking upward skiing, no poles, nothing but grit. And these are the options. I've got a long way to go. But there are alternatives. And no, I won't use any. You don't like the James Beam, brown shades, or these pants...you might as well move on.
"Are you an actor?"
As I said, no, but I had to answer this question for a second time at a local "Irish" bar. Times is rough and I sat, solo (my attorney was in jail, located in a town I couldn't even spell, never mind pronounce. His communiqué didn't shed light on anything other than a mule was involved: the animal kind). So this is what I've become? Slingin' back Malibu while NOT in Malibu, looking for good times?
Well, the first two hours had yielded nothing despite a crowd which all seemed to already know each other. I wasn't sure if I was stepping in to some other realm, that the reason I was ignored (save from the bartender) was that I didn't belong. And I was about to leave (as I finished some Jim Beam...remorse was setting in) as I was somehow dragged into a conversation about how getting married wasn't for them. At least, these two girls and one guy. This man claimed to have been a farmer for 10 years before coming to LA. He said it with pride, but later drunk ramblings lead him to admit he collected chicken eggs. Hmmm, not one in the same. Such admissions of truth lead these two ladies to me (they both had 10 years on me, supposedly). Despite having their guard up (insert NBA analogy) almost so high I could barely get to know them, the convo flowed. Nice folks, just drinkin, shootin the shit, talking LA. This is what I was after. And naturally, it came as quittin' time arrived. As we left out the back door, I heard surprising news as to why it was so hard to open.
"Yeah, it's locked. A lot of crime around here."
Uh...
There's no way around this god damned climb. We're talking upward skiing, no poles, nothing but grit. And these are the options. I've got a long way to go. But there are alternatives. And no, I won't use any. You don't like the James Beam, brown shades, or these pants...you might as well move on.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
"Cheese cup please."
“That’s it?”
Yup.
I don’t ask for a lot, I never really have. Throughout the past week or so I’ve been watching the Tigers tease the Twins with the AL Central crown. The Twins would lose and the Minnesota faithful would lose faith, but then the Tigers would cough up a game to the Royals. For four days I watched this, each day resigning myself to the AL Wildcard with a sort of satisfied dissatisfaction. I didn’t totally crush out my hopes for a divisional title like I do my Pall Mall butts, but I figured I should stop smoking once I hit the filter otherwise I might burn my fingers. I attended two games during this nerve racking week, both of which resulted in Twins loses. I felt bad when I left the baggy-like confines of the Dome, somehow it was my fault that they couldn’t grab the division with the Tigers stumbling down the stretch.
One of these games was the opening game to the series against the White Sox on the final weekend of the regular season. They got down early, and stayed down for most of the game, so my mood was slipping from hopeful to demoralized when a man sits down next to me. The powder blue Twins jersey should’ve sold me on this man, but it wasn’t until I noticed what he was holding that I realized what had just stumbled upon me.
“Holy fuck, man! What the hell is THAT!?”
He looks at me like I’m from Mars and simply states, “well, this here is a Chicago dog son. Add cheese sauce.”
Add. Cheese. Sauce.
It was like magical words to my ears. I mean, I’d heard of a Chicago dog, stuffed a few into my face on more than one occasion as a matter of fact, but add cheese sauce!? At that point I lost total interest in the game, I was focused on the man eating the Magical Glory Cheese Dog next to me. I was having a hard time fathoming its existence.
Well, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. A couple of older gentlemen in front of us started babbling incoherently, then kept trying to get my hotdog-holstered friend into a conversation. He wasn’t biting, at least at their attempts at talking. His mouth was busy with other things.
After a few meetings with the local beer man, and a couple more innings of less-than-encouraging baseball, my processed-meat eating neighbor made a comment. “Bhlhat Phbil blebin ish proddy fet.” I could do nothing but agree with him as I was mid guzzle on my Budweiser. The older gentlemen sitting below me made a few golf jokes about some of the swings the Twins were taking, to which I had to role my eyes. When I did, I caught another glimpse of greatness in the act.
The man had gotten half way through his Meal for Kings, and still looked fairly lucid. He looked like he might be struggling a little bit, but not too badly. When I asked him how the cheese sauce was, he looked at me, grinned his big grin, nodded in approval, and got back to work. I’ll take that as a big time yes. Big time.
Mid way through the 5th inning I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a bag of peanuts to go along with that half inning’s beer.
“Hey, cunnah ghat schaum pen ahts?”
“What?”
He swallows the bite, takes a couple pulls of his MGD and starts again.
“Can I get some peanuts, y’know, for the dog.”
In awe, I can do nothing but give the man my bag of peanuts.
“Thanks man.”
No problem sir, I can’t even begin to fathom what’s going to happen next, so I turn back to the game. It’s not looking good, but that’s okay, we still have tomorrow night. I’ll be sad to lose, but that’s okay.
Then I get the tap on the shoulder
“You want a bite? I mean, you gave me the peanuts, so it’s the least I can do. I mean, they ain’t as good as the roasted almonds, but they add some crunch anyways.”
Speechless, I stare at this man with blank eyes, mouth ajar, unable to wrap my brain around what he just said. Not as good as the roasted almonds!? He gives me a moment to answer, shrugs his shoulders, and has himself some more dog - with a little crunch this time.
Phil Nevin strikes out badly to end the game and my boys go home losers, but the man sitting next to me did not. He won.
Big time.
Yup.
I don’t ask for a lot, I never really have. Throughout the past week or so I’ve been watching the Tigers tease the Twins with the AL Central crown. The Twins would lose and the Minnesota faithful would lose faith, but then the Tigers would cough up a game to the Royals. For four days I watched this, each day resigning myself to the AL Wildcard with a sort of satisfied dissatisfaction. I didn’t totally crush out my hopes for a divisional title like I do my Pall Mall butts, but I figured I should stop smoking once I hit the filter otherwise I might burn my fingers. I attended two games during this nerve racking week, both of which resulted in Twins loses. I felt bad when I left the baggy-like confines of the Dome, somehow it was my fault that they couldn’t grab the division with the Tigers stumbling down the stretch.
One of these games was the opening game to the series against the White Sox on the final weekend of the regular season. They got down early, and stayed down for most of the game, so my mood was slipping from hopeful to demoralized when a man sits down next to me. The powder blue Twins jersey should’ve sold me on this man, but it wasn’t until I noticed what he was holding that I realized what had just stumbled upon me.
“Holy fuck, man! What the hell is THAT!?”
He looks at me like I’m from Mars and simply states, “well, this here is a Chicago dog son. Add cheese sauce.”
Add. Cheese. Sauce.
It was like magical words to my ears. I mean, I’d heard of a Chicago dog, stuffed a few into my face on more than one occasion as a matter of fact, but add cheese sauce!? At that point I lost total interest in the game, I was focused on the man eating the Magical Glory Cheese Dog next to me. I was having a hard time fathoming its existence.
Well, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. A couple of older gentlemen in front of us started babbling incoherently, then kept trying to get my hotdog-holstered friend into a conversation. He wasn’t biting, at least at their attempts at talking. His mouth was busy with other things.
After a few meetings with the local beer man, and a couple more innings of less-than-encouraging baseball, my processed-meat eating neighbor made a comment. “Bhlhat Phbil blebin ish proddy fet.” I could do nothing but agree with him as I was mid guzzle on my Budweiser. The older gentlemen sitting below me made a few golf jokes about some of the swings the Twins were taking, to which I had to role my eyes. When I did, I caught another glimpse of greatness in the act.
The man had gotten half way through his Meal for Kings, and still looked fairly lucid. He looked like he might be struggling a little bit, but not too badly. When I asked him how the cheese sauce was, he looked at me, grinned his big grin, nodded in approval, and got back to work. I’ll take that as a big time yes. Big time.
Mid way through the 5th inning I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a bag of peanuts to go along with that half inning’s beer.
“Hey, cunnah ghat schaum pen ahts?”
“What?”
He swallows the bite, takes a couple pulls of his MGD and starts again.
“Can I get some peanuts, y’know, for the dog.”
In awe, I can do nothing but give the man my bag of peanuts.
“Thanks man.”
No problem sir, I can’t even begin to fathom what’s going to happen next, so I turn back to the game. It’s not looking good, but that’s okay, we still have tomorrow night. I’ll be sad to lose, but that’s okay.
Then I get the tap on the shoulder
“You want a bite? I mean, you gave me the peanuts, so it’s the least I can do. I mean, they ain’t as good as the roasted almonds, but they add some crunch anyways.”
Speechless, I stare at this man with blank eyes, mouth ajar, unable to wrap my brain around what he just said. Not as good as the roasted almonds!? He gives me a moment to answer, shrugs his shoulders, and has himself some more dog - with a little crunch this time.
Phil Nevin strikes out badly to end the game and my boys go home losers, but the man sitting next to me did not. He won.
Big time.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Golden Slumbers fill your eyes
How long is today going to take? I know how much time this is going to take, but is this going to be one of those things where an hour goes by and you don't even notice? I remember being in truly boring classes in high school and watching the clock go s l o w l y by, and thinking to myself "shit, when Rockford is on, it goes way to fast." We all wish life was all about watching Rockford. Actually, it is for some folks who's reason for waking up is getting the paper.
So, then, Twins.
Again, I can't stress this enough - winning the division is absolutely key. Another 4 and done series with New York isn't the kind of deal they need. Oh sure, it could be done, but isn't it easier when you get to play the Oaklands of the world and take a rest? One thing Loud Mouth McWriter won't mention is how depressed the Tigers are. They play and live in Detroit. So, once things go south, and it happens, it will drag you down. Of course, the Twins know the majority of their fans are just now dusting off that cap, realizing their new Twins shirt will have to be XXL, replacing the last one bough in 2002. But it could be worse. Actually, in some respects it might actually be even. OK, forget I even mentioned it.
So, then, Balance Bar
If I need to shit right away, I'd eat cold nachos for breakfast. Wash it down with room temp Hamms. I thought you were about nutrition and vitamins and whatever. Hell, if you're barely going to stay in my body at all, what is the point? Then again, yesterday's exercise consisted of a walk around the lot and parallel parking my car, so what do I know?
So, then, Cubs
Wow. OK, in three years you've become the worst team in the league. Took longer than I thought. With minimal optimism, I suggest a new manager. I suggest new starting pitchers. I suggest new people in the front office. Hmmm, this should only take 12 years.
The summary of everything you read is actually "bite the bullet." If the really hot girl just wants to ask you questions about TV for two hours, just go with it. You'll "get to know her" later. If the guy at Carl's Jr. forgets to give you the correct order of fries, ask for a refund instead. If your landlord is channeling your father, just drop off the check and run like you just robbed a typewriter store. If a guy with a mullet is actually playing the "Eliminator" at the bowling alley, laugh once you're outside. You heard him say "Dude, what the fuck?" to a mechanical arm.
Why? Because tomorrow, college football. Because Sunday, more parlay money comes in. Because there's actually a bar called the "Fox Fire Room" and you will go to it.
Shit, only 19 minutes later?
So, then, Twins.
Again, I can't stress this enough - winning the division is absolutely key. Another 4 and done series with New York isn't the kind of deal they need. Oh sure, it could be done, but isn't it easier when you get to play the Oaklands of the world and take a rest? One thing Loud Mouth McWriter won't mention is how depressed the Tigers are. They play and live in Detroit. So, once things go south, and it happens, it will drag you down. Of course, the Twins know the majority of their fans are just now dusting off that cap, realizing their new Twins shirt will have to be XXL, replacing the last one bough in 2002. But it could be worse. Actually, in some respects it might actually be even. OK, forget I even mentioned it.
So, then, Balance Bar
If I need to shit right away, I'd eat cold nachos for breakfast. Wash it down with room temp Hamms. I thought you were about nutrition and vitamins and whatever. Hell, if you're barely going to stay in my body at all, what is the point? Then again, yesterday's exercise consisted of a walk around the lot and parallel parking my car, so what do I know?
So, then, Cubs
Wow. OK, in three years you've become the worst team in the league. Took longer than I thought. With minimal optimism, I suggest a new manager. I suggest new starting pitchers. I suggest new people in the front office. Hmmm, this should only take 12 years.
The summary of everything you read is actually "bite the bullet." If the really hot girl just wants to ask you questions about TV for two hours, just go with it. You'll "get to know her" later. If the guy at Carl's Jr. forgets to give you the correct order of fries, ask for a refund instead. If your landlord is channeling your father, just drop off the check and run like you just robbed a typewriter store. If a guy with a mullet is actually playing the "Eliminator" at the bowling alley, laugh once you're outside. You heard him say "Dude, what the fuck?" to a mechanical arm.
Why? Because tomorrow, college football. Because Sunday, more parlay money comes in. Because there's actually a bar called the "Fox Fire Room" and you will go to it.
Shit, only 19 minutes later?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I'll Be Lonesome When I'm Gone
Play it on to the dawn.
The weasels are backing down. In the face of the Fear, they cower. All comers have been served. The melting vortex has consumed all but the Strong. And the Strong live here, in the blue.
God, Nick Punto might be the dumbest person I've ever seen.
They have absolutely no reason to be here. None at all. That sounds cliche, and boring, but I'm telling you, if you haven't seen them play this year, you've missed some low talent ballplayers. Besides The Baby Jesus and The Terror From Tovar Merida, there are few players on this team who have any discernable "skills". None of them are talented in any sort of metric, any sort of definition, by scout or stat. I think many of their games have simply boiled down to the opposition staring in disbelief as tiny children careen around the basepaths like kids with pockets full of quarters at the Chuck E Cheese.
They'll suck you in, this bunch, they'll give you something to watch, that's for sure. When God decided he needed someone to run down balls in centerfield earlier this year, Captain Ahab announced they were going to play every day like number 34, and that we wouldn't ever be wanting for more effort. But, christ in heaven, did he know what he was saying? Is it possible for a team to possibly play this reckless, this unhinged, and still maintain any semblence of sanity for a fanbase? I mean, 3 years ago we thought guys like Jones and Koskie didn't give a fuck about jail. Yeah, well, LIRIANO SPENT A NIGHT THERE IN SPRING TRAINING.
The Twins would be served just as well to stop playing right now and let us off the hook. We can't take this abuse, this violent shifting of emotions, much longer. We've invested too much, we watch the charts climb with organized nausea. But coming over the top of it, blanketing us, comforting the soul, is that ever present feeling of righteousness. Is this what Pious Pat thinks when he steps up on the stage of the 700 club? Bulletproof? The rest of the game seems to be happening beyond our fingertips, behind our Brainly 8 Ball. We float, as one, unflappable, eyes ever onward, smiling.
It's their fault. They put us here. We tried like hell to bail on this team, get back to work (for some of us, that meant back to "eating"), enjoy life and articulate. But that's gone now. We can only stare, glowing, into the magic that is happening on Puckett Place. And when the rest of the world asks us why we have that dumb look on our face, well, you'll have to excuse us.
We've been watching Punto all year.
We're starting to merge.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Torii's Nuts
are bigger than yours.
What? It's true.
(I'm incredibly sorry. I have nowhere to write about baseball, and... umm, the A's are good and stuff, right?)
The sloths are out in full force. They scour websites and hunt statistics, they do it all from their bedrooms, greedily devouring information and Kit Kats, in what they think is a noble quest for Ultimate Knowledge.
Many of them were left off the team in tee-ball because mom couldn't keep the Mars Bars in the purse.
I'm talking about these rogue writers, these bloggers of the current age. They give us a level of coverage that the lumbering beasts of mass media could never hope to accomplish. They provide so much insight, so much analysis of game events, and free! Oh, happy day! Little to no pressure, evidence-stacked posts, discussions that delve into every debatable point in the entire sport. Shit, some of them rock photoshop and put smiles on faces.
But eventually, bullies clean up the mess these geeks get themselves into.
It happens every so often, these sniveling grinches in the dark of their caverns, the faceless masses of human cast-offs, they go too far. They debate too much. They use too many statistics. Yes, that's right. There IS such a thing as too many statistics. There IS such a thing as subjective reasoning. And managers know more than you. They just do. They have played baseball for their entire lives, they know every single thing about the game. They are paid to fucking run the game, not comment about it. Managers in baseball are the smartest baseball people in the world. Writers are not smarter. Bloggers are not smarter. GMs are not smarter.
Oh, but don't we think that we could do better? Sure, well, that's natural. Let it flow. But if you dumb down this sport, if you make the entirety of your pursuit that unattainable goal that is the Ultimate Knowledge, you're not going to have any fucking fun. You and your online buddies can talk all you want about Torii's ankle, his situational hitting, his VORP, his Isolated Power, and all the rest. It won't matter. Because when he pulls his nuts out, two things happen. You were proved wrong, and the ball goes really far over the fence.
Doubt him. Yes. That's right. Woof any amount of bullshit you want. Throw the twisted numbers, claim to have "seen things". We've all done it. But my eyes, they lie. They lie and tell me that he's done, that the whole fucking team is done. They lie and tell me that everyone's tired, and it's just not going to happen.
But then that ball goes screaming over the fence.
The world of information is perfect, it is essential that it remain without fail. The only problem that ever occurs is human meddling. How can one possibly debate statistics? They exist as truths, how can you debate truths? Can one thing be true and untrue at the same time? No, but our little minds (made smaller by Li'l Debbie) bend and warp things to fit into our own agenda. The framework is there, we pass it through like a fucking credit card. So we can ALL go out on websites and read numbers and make the case for WHATEVER we want. That's not healthy. Debate in and of itself is not a good thing. The expansion of ideas, there's the money. Go after that. I appreciate what Bill James is doing, it is admirable simply because it is growing our knowledge system. It is adding another algorithm to play with, another corner of the grey exposed.
But you bloggers have all gone too far. You've done too much with not enough information. You've stopped going to games and drinking beers, you've stopped taking smoke breaks during the Twins' halves of innings during a Santana start (because, christ almighty, you know you want to be back to watch Him). You've told yourself that this is a legitimate way to watch sports, that your passive mentality in life can bear fruit in this pursuit of some sort of knowledge about baseball.
Ah hell, what the christ. It's probably my fault for paying so much attention to it. I just can't help the information I take in, it's like a spigot above my ears.
The nerds, they take over. They breed in themselves, molecules gaining speed and violence. The collisions create more, the laziness is viewed as a virtue.
I still raise a glass to this team and this town. They follow their boys, they care, and if I was comfortable doing this and only this with my time, that might be enough.
But goddamn it, when 48 is launching pigs into the September night, I could give a good goddamn if his range factor is lower since his injury.
What? It's true.
(I'm incredibly sorry. I have nowhere to write about baseball, and... umm, the A's are good and stuff, right?)
The sloths are out in full force. They scour websites and hunt statistics, they do it all from their bedrooms, greedily devouring information and Kit Kats, in what they think is a noble quest for Ultimate Knowledge.
Many of them were left off the team in tee-ball because mom couldn't keep the Mars Bars in the purse.
I'm talking about these rogue writers, these bloggers of the current age. They give us a level of coverage that the lumbering beasts of mass media could never hope to accomplish. They provide so much insight, so much analysis of game events, and free! Oh, happy day! Little to no pressure, evidence-stacked posts, discussions that delve into every debatable point in the entire sport. Shit, some of them rock photoshop and put smiles on faces.
But eventually, bullies clean up the mess these geeks get themselves into.
It happens every so often, these sniveling grinches in the dark of their caverns, the faceless masses of human cast-offs, they go too far. They debate too much. They use too many statistics. Yes, that's right. There IS such a thing as too many statistics. There IS such a thing as subjective reasoning. And managers know more than you. They just do. They have played baseball for their entire lives, they know every single thing about the game. They are paid to fucking run the game, not comment about it. Managers in baseball are the smartest baseball people in the world. Writers are not smarter. Bloggers are not smarter. GMs are not smarter.
Oh, but don't we think that we could do better? Sure, well, that's natural. Let it flow. But if you dumb down this sport, if you make the entirety of your pursuit that unattainable goal that is the Ultimate Knowledge, you're not going to have any fucking fun. You and your online buddies can talk all you want about Torii's ankle, his situational hitting, his VORP, his Isolated Power, and all the rest. It won't matter. Because when he pulls his nuts out, two things happen. You were proved wrong, and the ball goes really far over the fence.
Doubt him. Yes. That's right. Woof any amount of bullshit you want. Throw the twisted numbers, claim to have "seen things". We've all done it. But my eyes, they lie. They lie and tell me that he's done, that the whole fucking team is done. They lie and tell me that everyone's tired, and it's just not going to happen.
But then that ball goes screaming over the fence.
The world of information is perfect, it is essential that it remain without fail. The only problem that ever occurs is human meddling. How can one possibly debate statistics? They exist as truths, how can you debate truths? Can one thing be true and untrue at the same time? No, but our little minds (made smaller by Li'l Debbie) bend and warp things to fit into our own agenda. The framework is there, we pass it through like a fucking credit card. So we can ALL go out on websites and read numbers and make the case for WHATEVER we want. That's not healthy. Debate in and of itself is not a good thing. The expansion of ideas, there's the money. Go after that. I appreciate what Bill James is doing, it is admirable simply because it is growing our knowledge system. It is adding another algorithm to play with, another corner of the grey exposed.
But you bloggers have all gone too far. You've done too much with not enough information. You've stopped going to games and drinking beers, you've stopped taking smoke breaks during the Twins' halves of innings during a Santana start (because, christ almighty, you know you want to be back to watch Him). You've told yourself that this is a legitimate way to watch sports, that your passive mentality in life can bear fruit in this pursuit of some sort of knowledge about baseball.
Ah hell, what the christ. It's probably my fault for paying so much attention to it. I just can't help the information I take in, it's like a spigot above my ears.
The nerds, they take over. They breed in themselves, molecules gaining speed and violence. The collisions create more, the laziness is viewed as a virtue.
I still raise a glass to this team and this town. They follow their boys, they care, and if I was comfortable doing this and only this with my time, that might be enough.
But goddamn it, when 48 is launching pigs into the September night, I could give a good goddamn if his range factor is lower since his injury.
Friday, September 01, 2006
The loss of a friend
Often times when someone loses a family member, that is exactly as it is stated. When it's a friend, it's stated that way. That's not the case here. My brother Rik was a friend, a person who likely had more influence in my youth than anyone else, and someone who clearly made me the person I am. We're either related, or we were great friends from the start.
Why the two possibilities? Because he and I always like the same things. Same tastes in everything. Music, clothes, TV, anything. He'd introduce something to me, I'd like it. It was never otherwise. As a teen visiting for a while, or sometimes long enough to be enrolled at Jefferson, he easily could have been hanging out with neighborhood boozers, and he did. But not all the time. Before that would happen, we'd hang. At 4 years old, he would allow me to build a fort on his bed. At 10, he would tell me of late night thrills and what he told Maurie to get away with it. He'd watch reruns of the Gong Show with me even though he'd probably seen it before. At 15, he'd tell me of trying to make it in TV and video production, stunted by the "help" of dear old dad. He'd tell me of married life. At 20, he'd listen to my college problems, give me advice when I struggled creatively. At 25, he talked of his son. I told him how much it ruled to have a nephew named after Sid Vicious.
As I look back on it now, it's our similarities that will help me through the rest of our life. Each time I talked with him, I'd seem to get some sort of knowing reaction - he'd usually been through what I was going through, sometimes the exact same thing. And unlike people who just want to tell you what TO do, he'd say what he did, and leave it to me to figure out where to go from there. Our father has made all of the son's growing-up extremely difficult. I can only wish I was there for them in those "If you don't change your major to banking, I'm not paying for college" days. Being in California created distance, and I never pretended to be any closer than I was just because of the last name. But when I met Sid and we goofed around, with him singing Kiss songs (at age 5) while I played the drums, I had a brief flashback. It was me, at that age, point to a Led Zeppelin posted on the wall. "Who is that?" He'd tell me. "Can I put up a poster, too?" A small Superman poster went next to it, and he played more Zep for me.
It is impossible at this stage to try to step in, but all I really can do is be there for Sid V as he grows up as Rik was for me. It shouldn't be difficult. He's already a friend.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
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?
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?
Friday, August 18, 2006
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...
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...
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...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
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!
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!
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