A Boy Called "Racecar":

Heartless

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 05:02:25 GMT

A man who gave all of his children his own name, dangled them out of windows, when to court on molestation charges, bought other people's songs, who everyone for the last decade turned their nose up to, died. They'll only love you when you're gone.

Oh yeah, and it's my birthday.

Rubber bands? Check. Wooden robot? Check.

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 19:37:20 GMT

Undoubtedly the coolest thing I've ever seen. Imagine rolling down the sidewalk and catching your friends (who obviously did something to deserve it) coming out of some store. The sheer look of terror. The sting of high speed rubber. The joy.

And to you.

Sat, 25 Apr 2009 09:07:03 GMT

Tonight, after many a thought, after many a drink. I sat dull, on the porch after watching the stars (and they thought I was crazy). And to you, do closer things bring closure? Out into the streetlights. The lights that illuminate the underside of the weeping willow. Street signs. An exhale that only brightens you. This is all underlined by the words I know lay in the seat next to me. The seat that has no crease, hasn't been there for years. And for you, would you know this? At a moment staring out into the streetlights that to me are your eyes. To feel everything I've felt tonight, would your words still be, "Hush, it's okay." Mediocre. What I've always strived for and everything you've achieved. All anyone has achieved, that is cursed by proximity. God dammit if I didn't feel what my mother feels tonight. God dammit if I'm not my father's son. God damn the feelings I have. I don't miss you. I miss the idea of having you. I'll just keep saying it. Please let me forget.

Lately

Sat, 07 Mar 2009 08:43:03 GMT

- Reading "Bastard Out of Carolina," a great, tragic book.
- Got out for a long walk last night, first time in a long time. It's like winter's kept me in a prison cell and last night was a walk in the yard. Summer's still a ways away.
- In Iowa tomorrow, then Chicago.
- Writing a lot lately, hope to have a book together before the end of the year.
- Hum hum hum.
- Tired of all my friends being hung up on girls (or guys). Tired of everyone acting like they're thirty, like life's going to pull the rug on them if they don't have everything straight.
- Hum hum hum.
- Zombies will probably just end up munching on our brains or something.
- Trying to remember my dreams as of late, the ones I wake up with aren't worth it. I dream up some terrible things.
- It's come to light lately that if you don't pick up your phone, you must not exist. What did we do before cell phones? Need someone to send snailmail to.
- Hum hum hum.

Insane.

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 09:48:15 GMT

http://www.nerdshit.com/2008/11/21/ibm-to-build-brain-like-computers/

I can't decide if this is horrifying or exciting.

It's mostly just interesting.

Jesus H. Christ!

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 22:16:32 GMT

On my way to church.

Happy Holidays to all those goofy hipster kids out there on LJ.

(Even if you're one of them jews.)

-Racecar

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 09:07:30 GMT

Batman’s next nemesis may be funnier than the Joker. Eddie Murphy, 47, will play the Riddler in the series’ next installment, due in 2010, the Sun reports. “Everyone’s excited to see what he does as the Riddler,” an insider said. Christopher Nolan returns as director, and Christian Bale as Batman. Other cast news: Shia LaBeouf is Robin, and Rachel Weisz may play Catwoman.
- SUN (UK)

A. What the fuck?
B. I thought I couldn't hate Shia LaBeouf anymore than I already do. I was wrong.
C. What the fuck?

Trouble.

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 22:20:02 GMT

My dad lost his job today.

This means:
-lose the van in January
-This gives me no way to get to school
-we might lose the house
-I'm not getting a house in Burton like I thought
-I'm going to be living off of $1.00 vegetarian vegetable soup (Which is actually really good.)
-I'm kind of stuck in the mud about what to do,
this gives me a good opportunity to get off my ass and do something for my self for once in my life.

We'll see what happens.

White-knuckle grip on the world.

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 09:34:13 GMT

Tonight, one of my favorite bands of all time played. I made an ass of myself, in the name of good fun. I don't think anyone suffered from it. As much of a good time as I'm having lately, something's not right. I'm not sure what it is. Lance let me call about seven different people tonight. I talked to my love in glasses. I talked to Mike about sex-toys and razor teeth. I talked to Dan Marino about how her boob tattoos remind me of The Godfather. I talked to Kate about Jeff cornering her sister. I probably didn't actually talk to any of these people, I think I just left voicemails. A good time, a good burrito, a good group of friends. Especially ones who will put up with me when I'm drunk. Amazing. I think I tried to pick a fight with someone, not very well though. Tonight was what we want.

The first rule of racecar drinking:
We don't talk (the day after) about racecar drinking.

Fare thee well assholes!
Racecar

An Audience Of One In Mind

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 07:21:30 GMT

Tonight I went to East Lansing to see We Are The Union and Cheap Girls.

* * *

Lately I get the feeling I'm too old for music, which is a ridiculous feeling, being twenty-one.

I don't jump around and freak out during bands anymore.

I'm worried about what people think, and it's starting to show.

I want to go back to a time when I didn't know that all of the guys in bands are just insecure alcoholics.

Including myself.

I don't want to pace around my room writing and re-writing songs because at least one person I know won't like it.

I'm not even sure what I LIKE anymore.

* * *

Ian invited me back to their van, we had to take a secret looking, completely stainless steel elevator.

We drank a few beers, had a few shots.

We talked about Able Baker Fox, The Dismemberment Plan, The Promise Ring, drinking, Flint, The Fest.

It was awesome.

Watch Cheap Girls closely, expect good things.

I'm finishing this beer and going to bed.

Mere insanity

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 00:39:07 GMT

Canned laughter.
Campaign ads.
Class Systems.
College and careers.

America, you've finally made me crazy.

Martyr Of The American Night

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 06:57:05 GMT

Running and sitting. Perfecto contradictions. But that's the life. To run, and sing and fly and be free like an angel of the earth that knows nothing and doesn't care. Running wild and beautiful, drinking wine in brief encounters with the earth and the ground smiles to know your winged feet bless it. To praise Jim for his wit behind the counter when there's no one else around and you know that he's the only angel you'll ever need to know. Running down the halls to play the music that you could only orchestrate in your dreams. Wild dreams at that.

O but sitting! A waste! And once I thought that the most zen thing was to sleep. Action! Action and the very contradictions stabbing at inaction that make life so beautiful. That's what all those crazy Japanese men in the mountains have been laughing into the mist about. The mist is just there sitting and the men just go on laughing and living in action.

At this point it would be a good idea to say I'm drunk. O I am.

Burroughs, would you run from the law when they could see the dark brush strokes under your eyes? Kerouac and Cassidy run and run and sail through America in a way that's impossible now. Point A to point B now. No roman numerals in-between. Klosterman, you sailed on magazine money and followed Thompson's wild steps but you were too tame. Shame on you. Piss in the river that ends it all Celine! No one's looking! Bukowski, we'll go back to our drinks soon enough, there's a bottle of wine in the icebox! But I know you just want the beers.

To end this drunken run of rambles on and on.

I'm sick of politics in everything. I'm sick of politicians running everything with their hands tied back by god and the god-fearing. Where are the voices of the revolution? Where is our bailout? We never cared for the money but for the love of your false-idol-hating false idol, give us a say! Turn a new page in history, this one is getting dog-eared and boring as hell.

I love you. Goodnight.

Are we a dream?

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 09:12:06 GMT

Dreams don't seem to start, they just kind of blur their selves into existence. Could you just live like that? Like a dream of sorts? I sit on the porch smoking dream cigarettes, sipping at dream coffee watching the life-movie unfold. A tiny, unidentifiable wasp-bee insect floats right down into my coffee and I watch it struggle for a moment and then give in to the sweet-bitter coffee death. A life loss and coffee ruined. There's an orange bum-cat that's just rolling around in the grass outside my house. As soon as it sees me it starts calling out with long lackadaisical meeeewwwwws. It runs up and rams it's head against my leg for awhile and tries a few times to imitate human posture. It wants to come inside but I know the dog will kill it trying to play nice. I sang a dream song:

I want to dig up bukowski
from a beat-up-old grave
to tell the asshole his
novels were really just okay

Metropolis blues in a
gutter-slum world
I liked you better when
you were my punk-rock girl

It doesn't make sense but it's a dream and so it is meaning incarnate. Or something like that.

I sit outside the gas station on a bench. The lights are off and I can only see in the green neon glow of the ATM sign. I transform three times. First I'm god watching the eternal life moving eating popcorn. I'm god watching the wayward spin in and out of the bar in sighs of love and jealousy. Wind swirls in my cove and I reach for coffee in my second phase. I'm a bum resting on the bench with my belongings spread out next to me. "Junky" by William S. Burroughs. One (1) half-smoked pack of Camel Lights. One (1) half-eaten bag of popcorn. Suddenly the phone rings and it's my off-to-big-ole-California friend, and I realize I'm myself. I want to read but Burroughs wants you to think that heroin addiction is adventurous. Sounds like a load of shit.

Dreams don't end, you just wake up into another one.

Endless Sporatic

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 04:45:15 GMT

Ah so the summer has come and is creeping away. Let it creep, it feels good hiding myself in a jacket. I'm done with hot days in a van in Texas. Motels. Parking lots. Hot days in a gas station. Hot days without sweat, without a lifted finger to fix things. Writing pathetic-inspired by my basement sorrows-blues songs that go on and on for hours. Sometimes my guitar sounds like a dog dying, that's when I'm the most proud. Most of the time though it just sounds like muddled chords clomping around like my feet at 5am. Nothing to do but play the blues for myself and watch the hole-filled with sky and clouds and rain and shit and people and catcalls-shrink above me. Dig dig dig dig.

I need to lay off the sauce. Sauce? Gutrot. Liverspots. Deathbed.

I'm done with myself.
None of this interests me.
Mostly THIS doesn't interest me.

Oh man Henry Rollins, I've got the black coffee blues.

Kerouac rules.

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 21:16:18 GMT

"On essaye a s'y prendre, pi sa travaille pas."
(We try to manage, and it turns out shit.)

A Farewell to Gray Matter

Tue, 05 Aug 2008 15:33:22 GMT

They gave you convulsions;
took your memory.
You gave yourself
a dysfunctional liver;
a malnourished heart.
In the summer,
you decided to put
a shotgun between your eyes
and cut it short.
You offered yourself up
as the last hunt.
I'm not sure
why they tried so hard
to save you.
You were a whore.
You were a slave.
A murderer.
Where did you
get that gun?
An outfitter
that now sells
clothing for dickheads.
Motherfucks just like
you!
I hope there's a
Hell so you can
watch them drink.
I hope you can
watch them drown
their insecurities.

They gave you convulsions;
took your memory.
You gave yourself
a dysfunctional liver;
a malnourished heart.
In the summer,
you decided to put
a shotgun between your eyes
and give a short,
farewell to gray matter.
They said you were
a genius.
The only genius I know of
that's never heard of
foreshadowing.

The July Tour (Complete)

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 03:14:08 GMT

I would say that this tour was mainly focused on: "Partying", "Keeping it real", Trying to figure out what "keeping it real" was, abusing Nyquil and alcohol, "Keeping it avant", finding huge as fuck burritos and trying to survive. Enjoy. I know I did.

July 11th - (supposedly) Madison, Wisconsin
Driving along on I-90 through Chicago we run into traffic that slows us to a speed you barely call a crawl. We were stuck in a sea of pavement, a hot sweaty sea of pavement and little cars. Little cars blasting flamenco. Every now and then we get a break from the Chicago traffic and catch a breeze. Then back to traffic. In one of these fluctuations Jeff decided to read something really interesting on the dash board. Up ahead I could see the break lights come on. Slowly I tried to get his attention. As we barreled, going about fifty mph, at the stopped cars my tone changed to something like "Yo Jeff we're going to HIT THESE FUCKING CARS AND D..." Close to the last second Jeff swerved out of the way and Stephen who had been in the loft wound up in the seat next to me. Later we stopped at a Murry's auto parts store to figure out why our breaks felt fucked up. Apparently the quick swerving/breaking maneuver pulled by Jeff caused our break lines to explode (okay, probably not explode) and we were rapidly losing break fluid. The dude at Murry's gave us directions to an auto repair shop that was closed but said it was "cool" because his "buddy would just come up and do it as a side job". His buddy was "a mexican, but cool as hell." Whatever the fuck that means. We thanked our friend and moved on down the road to meet Eric, the cool as hell mexican. Unfortunately, our Murry's buddy didn't tell us that we needed to bring him parts and we ended up calling it a night in the repair shop's parking lot. Day one, show canceled. All there is to do is eat some burritos.

July 12th - Bloomington, Illinois (Loft party)
Woke up in the van uncomfortably close to dudes. Ah yes, all the familiar scenarios of tour are coming back to me. While our mexican friend is working on the van we decide to walk down the street to Tino's which is a badass Mexican mercado with a huge bakery. I grabbed as many delicious pastries as I could for two bucks and stuffed my face on the sidewalk in this awesome little mexican-town. Finally the van was in working order and we were on our way to Bloomington. No near death experiences this drive. We made it to Sean's loft (The dude from The Dowry) early to meet up with three flights of stairs that were more like a thirty foot ladder. After huffing it against unbearable odds we hung out with Scout's Honor and Brett (our press photo guy who is a total badass by the way) for awhile before the show got started. Jeff bonged a zona on camera for a Empty Orchestra documentary that will probably never get finished. Our label-mate, Tina Sparkle played a straight up rocking set before we were on to play. I was totally nervous, our first real show and despite my own judgment, I'd already had a good buzz. We ended up playing really well but before we could finish our last song the cops shut us down and gave Sean a fifty dollar ticket. We broke down disheartened. After awhile it was settled that we would all chip in for Sean's ticket, throw some mattresses up in the windows and let Scout's Honor rock, cops be damned. Overall it was an awesome time and Brett let John "steal" the rest of the beer.

July 13th - Chicago (Recording with Mark)
Stayed the night at Mark and Michelle's apartment in Chicago. Waking up to that view is probably one of the best parts of tour. Staring down at the rooftops of a city like that is empowering. Or humbling. Or something. Went into the studio to record a new song, "A Wide Spot in the Road". Ate some leftover chinese food, sat around, watched John played Tony Hawk, sat around, wrote my part out, sat around. Finally, around midnight I started recording my parts. It took about twenty minutes. Overall it's a decent song, probably the most country thing Empty Orchestra has done to date. I'm sure Mark will make it sound amazing.

July 14th - Kansas City, Missouri (Return to The Riot Room)
The last time I was in Kansas City the bartender had a personal vendetta out on my liver. Needless to say I was excited for The Riot Room Part 2 (It's a working title). Unfortunately we ended up playing to two people and the bartender this time around didn't seem to worried about destroying my organs. Luckily we still had a few beers in the van and we partied as hard as we could. After watching the last band "Shudder" who sounded like a bunch of kids who watched Rocky Horror Picture Show one too many times (in their defense they played a badass NIN cover), John ended up carrying around a cup of his own piss. "It's funny because you don't know where this is going!" Yes. Please stop waving the cup of piss John. Wait. Where did it go? "See that table of people over there?" Sure enough in the middle of a table surrounded by barscum was a cup of John's piss. He was overjoyed by the idea that someone might mistake it for a beer. It was a strange night.

July 15th - Little Rock, Arkansas (White Water Tavern)
Hung out with Will from American Princes. Awesome dude. The white water tavern was exactly the divebar we should be playing. Some crazy trainhopper carrying a rat on his shoulder. Some girl from an all-girl punk band told us about "Flying Burrito Co." Fucking awesome. Stayed up until four in the morning listening to stories of bar fights, trainhoppers, creepy pool sharks. Good night.

July 16th - Day off for the drive to Texas
Realized today that I haven't had a girlfriend since I've been in Empty Orchestra. It's probably for the best. Empty Orchestra doesn't get pissed off when I don't call for a few days, hang out with other bands or drink too much. Empty Orchestra doesn't mind that I'm out for a few weeks once and awhile. Despite all of these things, I'm sorry Empty Orchestra, you can't fill that void. Like trying to jam a square block in a round hole.

July 17th - Houston, Texas (Walter's On Washington)
Nothing too exciting. Some asshole noise band wasn't happy with their slot so they set up on the floor before us and played. We asked for a place to stay and they told us we should find a residential area under construction. Apparently they turn the water on before they're finished. That will help someday when I'm a bum, but as for the band? Not so much. Ended up sleeping in a parking lot somewhere. Walking up in a van in a parking lot is bad. Walking up in a van in a Texas parking lot is Hell.

July 18th - Dallas, Texas (The Prophet Bar)
I decided to take full advantage of the continental breakfast, unfortunately it didn't have much to offer. Weak. I grabbed a few muffins, a banana and a cup of coffee and sat down for some much needed alone time. A bit of meditation. I felt like Black Coffee Blues Henry Rollins. Not as dismal though. The only other people hanging out in the "breakfast room" (which was more of a hallway with chairs) was a nuclear family. It made me miss my family. Not just my blood family but my garage-dweller family as well. I'm still working on being happy where I am instead of hyping up the idea of being somewhere else. Content on the road. Content when I'm home. Some day maybe. We made it to Dallas with plenty of time for the 7 PM load in time. You win Texas. I can't take this fucking heat. We stopped at some record store that Vince wanted to hit up, I opted to ride to the gas station with Steve. Advice: despite your current feelings, when given an option between two activities, choose the one that you know less about. Turns out Less Than Jake was playing an acoustic show in the record store. Fuck. We waited outside of the venue until 7:50 when they finally opened the doors for us. That was pretty fucking annoying. Then we got to play first to a decent sized crowd that obviously didn't care. Didn't help that there were two other shows going on in the same building. John, Vince and I ended up having some drinks and making the best of a weird time.

July 19th - Austin, Texas (The Red Seven)
In a nutshell: Drank too much. Watched a badass ska band. Don't remember their name. I think I'm in a photo of the audience though. Flush face and bloodshot eyes yelling... something. Someone promised us free beers at another bar and we were off. The streets of Austin were crazy. Flooded with people. Drunk in such an environment helps with perception. No free beers at the bar. Tried to steal Jeff's hat. Failed. Passed out.

July 20th - Day off for the drive to Florida
Woke up drunk, that's a good way to wake up. Usually eases you right back into existence. Not today. As my drunken state wore off it was replaced with depression. I didn't care about anything and anything was worth giving up on. I was sick of music. I was sick of myself. We ended up hanging out at Freebird's burritos and my chemicals slowly reset. We had a fifteen hour drive ahead of us and I planned on driving most, if not all of it. Driving gives me time to think and listen to a few albums. I want to howl like Tom Waits. I want to run like Jack Kerouac. I want to fight and drink like Charles Bukowski. I really only know how to be myself so I guess I'll just keep up with that. Tour is looking better every day but I'm still ready to get home. John and Vince are currently having a burger fiesta. Apparently (and this is the combination of three different stories) John told the woman at the McDonald's drive-thru (in a poor southern accent) that we were a rock group from Flint, Michigan and she ended up loading double cheeseburgers into a bag for us. Too bad only John and Vince eat meat. I got some fries out of the burger fiesta deal. That's pretty alright.

July 21st - Tallahassee, Florida (The Beta Bar)
After part two of the longest drive ever we wound up in Tallahassee at The Beta Bar. At first glance it seemed like a cool place. A few acoustic acts opened up and weren't bad. The first dude owns a record store down the street and ended up buying Stephen's entire catalog. He also had an extended conversation with John about how badass Tom Petty is. After that some band played that sounded like John Mayer with endless wanking. John bought me a few Tres Pistoles, which is a 9% beer made by a brewer in Canada called Unibroue, I believe. It was delicious. It also made it hard to pace myself. We played to basically no one, nothing new. We had a good time and sang a few lines from a twisted sister song on stage.

July 22nd - Gainesville, Florida (The Atlantic)
Out of all the days on tour this was without a doubt the most relaxing. John, Jeff and I went down to the beach. I was a little hesitant to swim in my only pair of shorts. After being in Texas for three days, however, I gave in. It was the single best moment of tour. Swimming in front of rolling waves, (according to Duffy) the detox effect of the salt water, plus the fact that we weren't trapped in a van. After a good amount of sun we crossed the street and hung out in a pool waiting for Jeff's mom. She picked us up and treated us to food and a beer. Awesome. The Atlantic is the bar that everyone in Empty Orchestra was excited to play. It's apparently run by the dudes from No Idea Records, which is indeed pretty badass. We ended up playing first on a line-up of the best bands of the whole tour. It seems pretty rare on Empty Orchestra tours to play with bands that I find interesting. Sometimes it's even rare to play with bands that I find listenable. Florida, if it weren't for the Atlantic (ocean and the bar) I'd be pissed about this wicked sunburn.

July 23rd - Athens, Georgia (Some shitty bar. Jeff gets fucked up on Nyquil.)
Pretty much all evidence of you had been disregarded. I haven't even thought about you in six months or so. Then Laura Veirs comes up on my playlist. What happened? When times are good your unstoppable. When times are bad you just remember how great the good times were. We would sit around at night listening to records. You would sit on the floor making graffiti stencils, I would play guitar. You would go out to work and I would sit at the type writer for hours. We would drive up to the 24 hour coney to sit and talk about nothing. Strange.
Played to two or three people. Jeff got all sorts of fucked up on Nyquil. "Hey. What are those dogs that pull sleds?" Sled-dogs? "No. What kind of dogs?" Huskies? "No. The ones that save skiers?" St. Bernards? "Yeah. This bar smells like St. Bernards." Stayed with some dude named Corey? We stayed in a spare bedroom that was vacant because his roommate was in jail. He called packing peanuts "popcorn". Weird.

July 24th - Louisville, Kentucky (Skull Alley)
Played with a badass band called Max and the Marginalized. Definitely ready to be home. Six hour drive through Ohio, the land of hills, road-fatigue and creepy little Gummo towns.

Collage

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 05:22:37 GMT

[Part one]

It's hard to convince yourself you're alive, sometimes. You stand there pushing buttons. You stand there repeating phrases, monikers. You stand there using about 1.5% of your partially-functional brain. Worried about women, bills, transportation, addictions. Not so much keeping yourself together to experience these things. You stand there watching people walk in, black under their eyes like a mirror to your thoughts. It's a nod, it's a wink.

It could also be lonely ignorance. Everyone is looking for an all knowing, supreme god. Someone to let them off the hook. So you start running through your list of phone numbers. Then you grow, you think I'll take that nice little home. I'll take that nice little "soul mate". I'll take that nice little nine to five to feed the mouths I've made. I'll recycle all of my energy so I can keep the mindless safe. Then you hit the top of your faulty metaphorical ladder. Solitude is your only god. You learn to hate everything and love nothing. No commercials, no attempts to impress, no affirmations of being impressed, no drunken nights, no sober confused mornings. Nothing. Unfortunately we've all developed some slight but undeniable form of ADD. We can't be content with nothing for a considerable amount of time.

I started a collage. It stems from just above my unused TV set and sprawls out like ivy. It began with an article about a guy I went to college with, died in a car accident. From there you can see it stretch. Lost soldiers in a pointless war. Shootings, murderers consumed by withdrawal. It's a physical reminder I'm still alive. For better or worse. I've got the same daily routines. Out on the edge of this collage is the newest addition, from yesterday's local paper. Just a story, I imagine the visual was too gruesome. A man who apparently live just down the street from me, drives himself to the rest stop, some two miles up the highway. He parks, gets out with a plastic bag, duct-tape, and a bottle of starter fluid. Walks two-hundred feet into the woods bordering the rest stop, puts the bag over his head with some starter fluid, tapes it down and ends it right there. A young man found him two days later. The woods he had wandered into were the man's backyard.

That's usually the first thing I see as I roll over on the couch. Morning, already two hours in on it's own schedule casts oddly shaped shadows about the room. I search the shadow in front of me for my cigarettes. Partially morning-blind I feel for the filter on one of the cigarettes, place it in my mouth and light. Watching the tobacco glow red for a moment, I breath in and it slowly fades into gray ash. Not even two minutes into my day and I'm already killing myself.

Birthday thoughts (no. 21)

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 05:49:28 GMT

12:40 (Sober)
The birthday song at this point is either embarrassing or just depressing. Rode my bike around Fenton for awhile, being alone as you turn twenty-one isn't so bad. The first real thought I had was "man, I've made it to the legal drinking age without going to the hospital, without getting any MIPs or DUIs, without joining the military, without selling my body for crack-money, without doing any serious drugs, without blowing my brains out, without pissing off everyone I come in contact with, without much worry. Give me another twenty-one years."

1:20 (Sober)
Get home and there's a envelope sticking out of my book. I really hoped it was a note from my mom. "Happy 21st, we bought you a huge jug of wine" or "The big TWO ONE! There's a six pack of Newcastle in the fridge! Drink up!". Nope. A card from my grandparents. It seems like the one this year has some cautionary, "we know that no matter what you decided to do, you'll be a good person" undertones. Then I remember it's basically the same card I've received for the last twelve or so years I can remember. Thanks, can't wait for the one from my sister that's a kid with cake all over his face or a dog pissing out candles or something. Sit down to read Jack Black's "You Can't Win". I want to pack a bag and live my next twenty-one years as a bum.

1:50 (Sober)
Twon texts me, "happy 21st substron". My response: "GO FUCK OFF MOTHERFUCK! I LOVE YOU!" Goodnight.

To be continued...

A Faithful Recreation of "Avocado Behind Bars".

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 05:34:47 GMT

"You call that art!?"

Within three-hundred miles this could be heard as I was thrown out of the gallery. Or at least that was my intent. Maybe that asshole was right, maybe I did drink too much. Who knows? I lost count. Around seven or eight I start yelling a bit above the acceptable volume. Acceptable volume being silence save for the wispy explanations of some fashion whore. I know I was under twelve though. That's when I begin to noticeably slur my speech.

"Eh! Eh 'ere, gaha smoke?"
"Excuse me?"
There goes that theory. "Sorry. Lil' outta breath." I had taken all of my concentration away from breathing and placed it solely on not breaking my face as I flew down the stairs. "Sorry, do ya have a smoke?"
"Sure, rough night?" He reached into his blazer jacket and retrieved a soft pack of camel lights, four left.
"Thanks." He cupped his left hand around my cigarette and held the lighter in his right. The quick succession of spark, flame and smoke filling my lungs made me stagger. "Guess I had a few too many."
"I'll say, kicked out for bullying some artist..."
"Artist? Ha!"
"Well, the man with no doubt deep regret for inviting you, whatever title you give him. A man doesn't expect to have his life threatened at his own show."
"Threatened? Who'd ya hear that from?"
"Came out of your mouth, to have him hung for such atrocities, I believe that's what I heard. Suppose that's what the whole city heard."
I tried my best to express a face of concern, "Didn't expose myself did I?"
"To the best of my knowledge, no."
"Did well then tonight." I set my sights on my car, across the street and made an attempt to leave.
"And what exactly was your purpose at tonight's function, may I ask?"
"Aside from the obvious, which would be my indis... indispensable qualities as a public drunk, I'm an art critic." I took another lurching step and he stuck like a shadow.
"You don't say."
"I do. I did. Didn't I?"
"I don't suppose you'll be writing anything positive concerning tonight?"
"These damn modern art shows, no I suppose... I suppose it won't be pretty. Not sure if I'm a critic in the right times. Only times we have though. No damn emotion. Too experimental. Random. No real art."
"Surely that's not true for all, wouldn't you say it's more about a personal connection? The artist's experience and the viewers?"
"But in order... damn! Dropped my smoke. In order to establish "whatever it is" with "whoever it is" there has to be emotion. Some words we can pin to it... scrambles in our head, tied to words or something..."
"You don't remember me do you?"
"Course I do, you just lent me a smoke. I thank you."
"We've met before."
"Sorry buddy, I told you I've had a bit to drink."
"You won't mind if I read a bit of something to you?"
Damn poets, all these new art junkies hover around the same bland flame. "Shoot."
"Perhaps, if a faithful recreation of an avocado behind bars speaks to you in the tongue of a genius, you missed out tonight. Otherwise, tonight's show provided nothing stimulating or important concerning the art community."
"Sounds good, sounds like something I would write."
"You did."

The man then reached around to the backside of his waistline and retrieved a handgun. Personally I don't know enough about guns to tell you what kind, but I know enough to say that it was one. Before I could let out a single syllable the hammer of the gun was pulled back and drove something right into my stomach. For a moment I was fine, reeling from the shock and adrenaline. In this moment, dealing with scrambled receptors and slurred electric brain messages, I pinned who he was. Although we were never formally introduced this could be none other than Ilma Tundmus. What he had read me had been my review of his show from nearly eight years ago when I had begun criticizing art. I then realized my hand was doing a poor job of restricting the overwhelming cascade of blood coming from my fresh wound. I could feel the bullet burning as I winced, fell, and promptly passed out. That's the last time I drink at an art show.

In hysterics, underwater.

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 21:04:52 GMT

or Death of a Teenage Day Dreamer

Two teenagers sit, in love, on an island not too far from the bench I've taken up. Lost in each other's gaze, moved by the scenery or unaware of the scenery. Either way, still in the illusion that they are apart from it. They'll learn eventually. They sit and sit and sit for hours, secrets exchanged like millions before, new and beautiful to a mouth targeting an ear. Personally I was more interested in the reddish spider crawling up my arm but he's been blown away. Oh! The scenery. They sat under the only tree on their tiny island in the middle of our river. Where you can watch the fish pulled along by the water. The clouds pulled along by the sky. Flustered men and women pulled along by their cars. I'm dreading that. I should have been born a fish. But of our lovers! They began playfully poking at each other, giggling, sickeningly sweet as we are when we're young. Slowly it escalates as they laugh harder and harder. Crescendo in the park. As they reach the seemingly endless apex the boy grabs at his sides, losing his balance, laughing hysterically, he rolls into the water.

She stands up laughing at him as he's quickly swept away. She loves the sound of her laughter on its own. Simplistic. No need for harmonies.

The boy is helpless to swim against the current and his head soon disappears under the rolling glass top of the water. Sinking, he comes to the end of a great long laugh, draws a giant breath and with it a gallon of water. He sinks farther down and is pulled along the river bed.

She looks over our river from their island. She looks over and smiles as I place and adjust my hat to leave.

"Always make sure they're out of sight before you break character."

Happy LB-Day!

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 23:34:30 GMT

Spent the middle of the day at Stephen's recording three decent songs and one GOD AWFUL cover. Just wait for it, you'll see. My fourteen year old brother doesn't even find that humorous. Right. Well. At least it's free to record and give out.

Right now I'm (Lance look away) obtaining the entire Queen discography. I am so happy about that.

Seriously, you have no idea.

Decided I can't handle lip piercings. Am I a geriatric for feeling that way?

I have a tattoo, that keeps me cool and hip, right?

Ahhh [ ]. It's so [ ]ing warm. I wish I didn't look like such a [ ]wad wearing shorts. They make me look shorter than I already am. [ ].

Yesterday was NATIONAL DONUT DAY.

A day established by our forefathers so that we privileged future Americans could spend an entire day gorging ourselves with fattening pastries. Not just any pastry though (sit the [ ] down fat Tuesday), one of my personal favorites, the donut. Yes, the most American of all pastries. A pastry to stand against tyranny and terrorism. A pastry to stand as a symbol of patriotism and truth. A pastry that can come glazed, powdered or frosted. It's up to you America. It's up to you!

Tour journal (no. 1)

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 17:16:16 GMT

The Riot Room
or
Kansas City, Missouri Will Always Have A Place In My Liver

[ellipses are in place to represent editing.]

Kansas City stretches into Missouri and presents itself in a way that reminds me of Ann Arbor, narcissistic, but in a slightly charming way. After walking around for almost two hours (I had thirty three cents on me so there was no reason to even window shop) I decided to sit in the empty van and go to work on a free sandwich. Hannah and Stephen had gone into a lengthy discussion about health food, the food industry, capitalism, I've heard it all. No need to interject. I laid down and spent some time running through the list of every girl I'd never had. It's been a long time since I've considered that they were of any consequence. Just shit to remember when you're writing a song. That's the trouble with love, it's just an emotion like hate, you bottle it up when little things get you and you let it all out on the wrong person...
Rummaging through my bag trying to find my black hoodie, the crowd in the Riot Room seems like one of those stuck up, post-punk only audiences. Even as I hear my mantra, "it's just more fun when you don't give a fuck," I know I don't have a "self-image" to uphold, so trying to blend in isn't really an issue. It doesn't help that the name of the venue leads you to believe that given the chance "they" don't enjoy your band, there will be repercussions. Turns out every kid there is a alt-country enthusiast in disguise.
The first band reminds me of listening to Neil Young when I was a kid, tagging along in my dad's silver Volkswagen Golf. Next up is a blatant Lucero rip-off, but I can't really hold it against them, we're all con artists. We try to make the audience sympathize with us as we falsify our creativity. As they announce their last song I make my way to the bar for a drink before we set up. That's really all I can handle before a set, I fuck up enough without the alcohol slurring the movement of my fingers.
On stage all I can feel is the emptiness of the room, even though no one really has a choice but to listen to us. The lights make the stage feel like a desert and by the second song I'm already sweating. I yell at few nearby kids for them to bring me a beer but they can't hear me over Stephen's voice over the PA. The heat is starting to make me crazy and all I can think about is getting home. That's how tour is, you sit at home, board as fuck, waiting for tour to start. Once you're on the road you're perpetually homesick and pretend that when you get back, someone will care.
After the show there's the expect exchange of bullshit. A few guys from the other bands approach you with lines like, "Great show man!" or, "That was awesome, DUDE." We all have our generic, heartless responses. "Thanks MAN, I really appreciate it." That, infallibly, comes out of my mouth. I must sound like a pretentious ass. I get the feeling my responses always come across as, "You don't have to tell me I'm great, but thanks for the ego-boost, fucker." Maybe sometime I'll harness the ability to give a fuck but for now my mind is on the unused drink tickets waiting for me.
The band files downstairs to the green room after I grab another drink from the bar. We end up talking about our future musical en devours, ninety-five percent of which won't pan out. After awhile Hannah and I return upstairs to the bar and sit down. "Pabst, rum and coke?" The bartender catches me off guard. We're only three drinks in and he already has us pegged. I feel like a true barfly...
...I turn my attention to the current band. The next thing I know I'm screaming along to "The Weight", originally performed by The Band. When I hear the buildup to the last chorus I completely lose my shit and barrel toward the stage. Apparently the singer had asked Stephen to come up and help so I assume that it's alright if I follow suit. In all of my tone-deaf glory I belt out the few remaining lines, "Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free. Take the load off Fanny and you can put the load right on me." Drunken backup vocals are still an unparalleled high for me.
A few beers later and Stephen tells me he has "the fear", which is just a John Duffy way of saying, "We need to get the fuck out of here." I end up making an ass of myself in the van, from what I can remember, and everyone decides we need to stop at The Waffle House. After a much needed piss I sit down with the rest of the band, have a glass of water, then for absolutely no reason bolt out of the restaurant. It's a great Missouri night and the rain is falling just soft enough not to bother me. I decide this is a great chance to get some rest on a concrete slab next to the van.
It's about 10 AM when I wake up and Jeff is standing over me with his "how's that hang-over?" smile. "How ya feeling, racecar?" Luckily for him I've slept through my hangover and I feel as good as I can feel after a night of unrestrained drinking. "Fucking awesome Jeff, thanks." I sit up and we're surrounded by semi-trucks in an endless mud-field. This might be unsettling if I wasn't on tour. I don't think I'll ever be able to match that kind of disregard for my surroundings when I give up touring. Until then, praise be to The Band, my weight has been lifted.

Bi-polar vitula.

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 04:17:59 GMT

I lack the professional title to declare something such as this, but I've never been concerned with official documentation:
I must say, after careful consideration (or a inconsiderately careless thought) I have decided that the stringed instrument (VIOLIN) tonight was and is quite possibly the single most bi-polar instrument in it's family, if not in the entire instrumental kingdom. There are low swinging points of medicated middle ground, obviously out of place. The sound of horsehair on catgut can only create, in a realistic sense, a reaction of complete and unbound jubilation or of heart-wrenching sorrow. PLAY THAT TILL IT KILLS.
Maybe this is an extension of the luthier's psyche. Perhaps it's a manifestation of my own.

I'm one person that doesn't belong in a winery. Gingers are people who don't belong in public. Even the guy in the NASCAR embroidered denim shirt fits in better. I can only imagine what Bukowski was like in public. I can only imagine the scene. That's another day, another short story of slurred curses and movements.

For being such a small town we can't help our self to the royal treatment. A slice of the upper crust. Independent of any actual class, whatever the fuck that is.

There was a man tonight sitting maybe five feet from me, every time I took a glance he had a full glass. Apparently every time I looked it was a new one. By the end of the night his face had taken his shirt's color of blood red, but not before his eyes joined. Saccades. Vestibulo-ocular reflex. All behind a sheet of red inflamed retinal blood vessels. AND GOD, WHEN HE LAUGHED. When he laughed, everything contorted. He'd clutch his chest. I imagine if I ever have the misfortune of witnessing a heart-attack it will be exactly like that man's laugh. Must be a joke I haven't heard.

It was about me wasn't it? Fucking wino.

Tomorrow I'm going to sing as well as I can. Not well enough though. I have no problem controlling the outbursts of an inanimate object. When it comes to my body though, there's no telling.

Tomorrow I'm going to write a short story about a hallucinogen junky. It's about you.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

And Racecar.

Yard Sale.

Sat, 31 May 2008 07:24:12 GMT

Slept in today. Woke up and stared at the ceiling, sometimes it's hard to find a reason to get up on time for nothing. Outside their was an assortment of elderly women. All congregated in my driveway. Mom's having a yard sale, some stuff there from my childhood. Nothing all that important, minor details in the large scale story. The real-life scale of things. In contrast to my mother, or else I wouldn't have noticed, all of these women had odd hair colors. Burnt by curlers. I feel like my mother is beautified by comparison. No hair to worry about, she's up and out, nothing to hold her down for thirty minutes in front of the mirror in the morning. I've pulled many of my traits from her. The old mothball women have nothing better to flock to than the soft flame of a yard sale. Looking forward to old age.

I wish I could have a yard sale for my memories. Get rid of the old shit to make room for new-although not certain to be more interesting-memories:
This? Kind of fuzzy, not quite hilarious. Yes. We convinced him while he was high/drunk that birds were shitting on him.
That one's free. Sitting on a porch at 7am trying to get someone to work for me at 8am. Take it home, make it yours.
No sorry, that's not for sale. That one? Too personal, not ready to toss it out yet.
Ah, that might be a collectors item someday. A show in someone's basement, drunk...

My journal is starting to sound like a film noir script. Choppy and over-dramatic. Lacking romance probably. That or it's a situational comedy and I was left out of the canned laughter recording session.

Is it okay to miss her? Just a little? One conversation, probably cauterized the hope of a second. Nothing throws me like a beautiful girl with glasses. It's their pronounced ability to see properly. Everyone else is faking it or taking it for granted.

Today was filled with conversations. Like everyday. Some real, some really only existing in my mind.

Can I help you? [She came at an odd angle.]
Just looking for some crackers. (Please don't talk to me.)
Right. Over there. [That's it?]
Thanks.
[Say, this is where I extended the conversation into something meaningful.]
(You didn't though. So I'm gone.)
[Not yet. If I lie enough I might believe it.]
(Do you?)
[Not really. By the way, you caught my attention. I see a lot of people in here, that's saying something.]
(By not saying anything?)
[I guess. You're like a fairy tale.]
(No, those end happily. A fable maybe?)
[Those have a moral at the end. We just had 'thanks'.]
(Right.)
[Right. A myth?]
(Hmm. No certain end. But they don't exist?)
[I've been unstable lately, who's to say you do?]
(You don't even remember what I look like.)
[Exactly. You'll make a great extra in a nightmare sometime.]
(Blurry? Vague? That's what you like, don't you?)
[Yes.]
([Thanks.])

And to follow (something more solid in reality):

Note: tonight. May, something. Whenever. Tonight Michigan smells like stale cigarette smoke and deep frying oil.

There's something about drinking something that's not wine or beer that makes me feel rich.
You're better than all the winos in the world. There's something about coffee that makes me miss beer.
Why do sober attractive girls exist?
To bait you and make you dream of them. Right after you fall asleep making out with their drunken, less attractive counterparts.
The thing about beer is that beer will always dance with me.

Anything in bold is compliments of Teddy. Thanks.