2.04.2010
2.03.2010
"You're My New Roomie, Now"
Timmy saw himself floating at the bottom of a glass. He had a handful of grease in his hair and he sat towards the end of the bar with a glum look on his face.
His dismal state of mind had nothing to do with Terry…in fact, he was puzzled as to why thoughts of her warm body pressing up against his did not cheer him up. Those thoughts were definitely running through his head, but they were squelched by images of switch-blade knifes and motorbikes that made him depressed and hurt his tender feelings. Terry had only known him for one night and already she had told him, at least four times, that he needed to grow some thicker skin. He knew, deep down in his heart of hearts that the advice was sound, but he also knew that he liked to mope and wallow in his depression too much to do anything about it.
“Aw. Fuck…” he said, downing another huge swig of his cheap-ass Milwaukee’s Best beer. “I know what the problem is. I’m just a juvenile product of the working class.”
“Who you talkin’ to, greaser?” The bartender seemed a little confused, but he also exuded the air of a man who was used to his customers talking to themselves.
“I sure as hell ain’t talkin’ to you, you old bastard!”
“Who are you callin’ an old bastard, you half-drunk son-of-a-bitch?”
“I only see one of you behind that bar, and there’s only one bastard in the whole joint, so I guess that means I AM talking to you after all.”
“What makes you think I want to listen to the problems of a man who can’t afford to drink anything better than the Beast? In a bar, no less?”
“I don’t care if you listen to me or not, you self-righteous piece of shit. I didn’t ask you to. I’m perfectly capable of keeping my own self company.”
“Well I sure do feel sorry for you, because the company you’re keeping is a goat fucking asshole.”
“That’s as may be, but will you still feel the same when I pull out my gun and point it in your face?”
“Boy, you pull a gun on me and I’ll rip your fuckin’ head right off your shoulders and use it for a bowling ball. Don’t you threaten me, you lazy, no account…”…he cut off, not able to think of any profanity laced slurs he hadn’t already used.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a gun, doe, ain’t it?”
“What is this shit you’re talkin’ anyway, Timmy?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Fred. It’s Saturday night and I just felt like fighting.” He replied. “You’ve seen me, sitting here all night nursing this Milwaukee’s Best like it was milk from my own mother’s left tit. I swear to you that I am just about as oiled as a diesel train right now, and so far there has been no action to get in.”
“That’s true, old salt.” Fred said, scratching his head. “Slow night. It always is when ZZ Top is in town.”
“ZZ Top’s in town?” Timmy said with acute disappointment apparent in his voice.
“You’re goddamn right, they’re in town. Billy Gibbons even stopped in to have a few Lone Stars and shoot a few rounds of pool. He had this huge glob of tobacco juice all in his beard but I was too scared to tell him about it. Or maybe I just didn’t have the heart? I don’t know…I’ve never been good at dealing with these spoiled rock stars.”
“Oh, Fred, that’s to be expected. After all, he had you under pressure, showing up out of the clear blue sky like that.”
“I guess you’ve got a point there. But damn, the same thing happened last month when Geddy Lee walked through those very doors. I flat out laughed in his face, no reason, just busted out laughing.”
“Now there’s no excuse for that, Freddy Boy” said Timmy, incredulously. “Them Canucks will eat you for lunch.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I guess that proves it. You got shit for brains.”
“Fuck you, Walrus. I’ll make you eat shit.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Goddamn, I love that word!”
With that Timmy decided he’d had just about as much “Freddy” as he could stand. The fellar was a good shoulder to cry on when things got tough, but tolerating him when things started looking up was no easy task.
He walked out the back door, whipping out his cell phone like it was an American Express Gold Card in a stripper club. Dialing the numbers he felt the cold rain drip down his face and no small degree of satisfaction that if Terry were to show up there and then the raindrops would disguise the tears. He’d been crying from the moment he stepped into the alley. He’d seen a homeless man lying in a puddle of his own vomit and felt sorry for him. That was when the dam broke and the tears began to fall. But he knew Terry would think he was bawling for her, so he was glad for the rain. Not that there was any reason he should have been bawling for her, but you know how some gals are. Always convinced that they’re worth crying over.
When Terry answered his call it was all he could do to choke back the despair in his voice.
“Hello?”
“Uhhh, yeah, babe. I was just calling to see if you got to the house alright. The moving men were there all day and I think everything is accounted for. Have you looked around yet? Is anything missing?”
“Oh, hey, that’s real nice of you to call. Yeah, I think it’s all here.” She said. “No, wait. There IS something missing. I’ve got this huge jar of pickles that my mom gave me just before she died. I never broke the seal on it, baby. Those gherkins are aged to perfection, I was hoping to break ‘em out on our fourth anniversary. I don’t see ‘em anywhere! What am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, baby,” he said. “Pickles is one thing...”
She waited for him to complete the sentence, but apparently he had said all he had to say.
“Oooookkaaaayy,” she said, by this point confused. She would soon learn that Timmy had a way with confusion that she found alternately frustrating and loveable. “So what are we going to do about the pickles, then?”
“Well, the way I see it,” Timmy began, “we’ve got a few choices. Number one, we can go to the store and buy a new jar. But, then, they would not be nearly as old as the ones you lost…”
”Oh, I didn’t lose ‘em,” said Terry, anger quaking in her voice. “It was those goddamn motherfuckers on that moving crew. I’ll stake my life on it.”
Timmy wasn’t disturbed in the least by this logical observation, although he did silently make a compact with himself that, not only would he no longer do business with this particular moving company, he would, if the opportunity ever presented itself, beat the living shit out of anyone who worked for them. He never trusted people who got paid to do something he could do himself, if only he had a truck large enough.
“Number two,” he said, not hesitating. “We can buy a jar of dills, sit ‘em on a shelf, then wait for our 10th anniversary.”
At this point the realization dawned upon her that they were already talking about anniversaries. Not only had they never discussed marriage, they had only been together for a day or two. “What the fuck am I thinking?” she asked herself. “Either I am a fool in love or I’m one of the biggest, most naïve hepcats in the civilized world.
She settled on the former (although she rather liked the idea of being a hepcat, naïve or otherwise). Love is a funny thing, she understood instinctively, and there’s really nothing more satisfying to a young woman than a hunka hunka burnin’ love.
“I don’t like that idea, either, Chief. I was thinkin’ that 4th anniversary was going to be the special one.”
“Okay,’ Timmy persisted. “Option number three, and I hope you like it, cuz it’s all I got. Number three: fuck the pickles. Just forget ‘em. We can find something else to eat on our fourth. Maybe I’ll take you to McDonald’s, order you a quarter pounder with cheese, EXTRA PICKLES!”
“Yeah, baby dog!” she yelped with the excitement of a young teenage girl who has just been given permission to raid her parents liquor cabinet. “That’s a capital idea! What was I thinking? Burgers are better than pickles! But can I ask you for one favor?”
“What’s that, sweet cheekers?”
“Do you think we could make it Burger King?”
“Burger King? FUCK THAT SHIT! McDonald’s all the way, beee-ahtch. I’m tellin’ you for the first time, and no doubt it won’t be the last time, but me and the Hamburglar are TIGHT! I mean to say we are SOLID. Ronald fuckin’ McDonald, that’s my homeslice.”
“Whatever you say,” Terry said, somewhat disappointed. Her acquiescence, however, was feigned. Deep down she realized a truth that, had she affirmed it there and then, would have saved her a world of heartache, pain and misery. There was no getting around it: Timmy was an asshole of the highest order.
But she loved this asshole. That made all the difference in the world. The sacrifices she made and the hardships she faced over the next few years were, to her, a small price to pay for the joy he brought into her life. He could do no wrong, she believed, and so what if he had expected sex within hours of meeting her? At least he hadn’t broke down and cried when she refused. There was no denying, though, that ever since that fateful night she had been plotting and planning just how she was going to do the deed…if she could ever get him in the mood for it, that is. He had seemed not only disappointed that night, but she thought she saw a gleam in his eye that spelled M-U-R-D-E-R. “Whoooo,” she thought. “Murder! Big word!”
On the other end of the line Timmy yelled at her. “Hey! Where did ya go? Are you still there? Answer me, bitch!”
“Oh, yeah. Hey! I’m sorry babydog. I got to thinking.”:
“Well don’t do it again, y’hear?”
“Right-o.”
“So listen, I can’t be yappin’ on the phone all day long, and I sure as hell can’t stand here listenin’ to dead air on the other end of the line. Now I don’t know what’s so important that you have to waste my minutes, but I’m gonna let it slide. I gotta go, sweet cheekers. I’m ramblin’ on. I’m going home. You gonna be there when I get there?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re my new roomie now. I almost forgot.”
His dismal state of mind had nothing to do with Terry…in fact, he was puzzled as to why thoughts of her warm body pressing up against his did not cheer him up. Those thoughts were definitely running through his head, but they were squelched by images of switch-blade knifes and motorbikes that made him depressed and hurt his tender feelings. Terry had only known him for one night and already she had told him, at least four times, that he needed to grow some thicker skin. He knew, deep down in his heart of hearts that the advice was sound, but he also knew that he liked to mope and wallow in his depression too much to do anything about it.
“Aw. Fuck…” he said, downing another huge swig of his cheap-ass Milwaukee’s Best beer. “I know what the problem is. I’m just a juvenile product of the working class.”
“Who you talkin’ to, greaser?” The bartender seemed a little confused, but he also exuded the air of a man who was used to his customers talking to themselves.
“I sure as hell ain’t talkin’ to you, you old bastard!”
“Who are you callin’ an old bastard, you half-drunk son-of-a-bitch?”
“I only see one of you behind that bar, and there’s only one bastard in the whole joint, so I guess that means I AM talking to you after all.”
“What makes you think I want to listen to the problems of a man who can’t afford to drink anything better than the Beast? In a bar, no less?”
“I don’t care if you listen to me or not, you self-righteous piece of shit. I didn’t ask you to. I’m perfectly capable of keeping my own self company.”
“Well I sure do feel sorry for you, because the company you’re keeping is a goat fucking asshole.”
“That’s as may be, but will you still feel the same when I pull out my gun and point it in your face?”
“Boy, you pull a gun on me and I’ll rip your fuckin’ head right off your shoulders and use it for a bowling ball. Don’t you threaten me, you lazy, no account…”…he cut off, not able to think of any profanity laced slurs he hadn’t already used.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a gun, doe, ain’t it?”
“What is this shit you’re talkin’ anyway, Timmy?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Fred. It’s Saturday night and I just felt like fighting.” He replied. “You’ve seen me, sitting here all night nursing this Milwaukee’s Best like it was milk from my own mother’s left tit. I swear to you that I am just about as oiled as a diesel train right now, and so far there has been no action to get in.”
“That’s true, old salt.” Fred said, scratching his head. “Slow night. It always is when ZZ Top is in town.”
“ZZ Top’s in town?” Timmy said with acute disappointment apparent in his voice.
“You’re goddamn right, they’re in town. Billy Gibbons even stopped in to have a few Lone Stars and shoot a few rounds of pool. He had this huge glob of tobacco juice all in his beard but I was too scared to tell him about it. Or maybe I just didn’t have the heart? I don’t know…I’ve never been good at dealing with these spoiled rock stars.”
“Oh, Fred, that’s to be expected. After all, he had you under pressure, showing up out of the clear blue sky like that.”
“I guess you’ve got a point there. But damn, the same thing happened last month when Geddy Lee walked through those very doors. I flat out laughed in his face, no reason, just busted out laughing.”
“Now there’s no excuse for that, Freddy Boy” said Timmy, incredulously. “Them Canucks will eat you for lunch.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I guess that proves it. You got shit for brains.”
“Fuck you, Walrus. I’ll make you eat shit.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Goddamn, I love that word!”
With that Timmy decided he’d had just about as much “Freddy” as he could stand. The fellar was a good shoulder to cry on when things got tough, but tolerating him when things started looking up was no easy task.
He walked out the back door, whipping out his cell phone like it was an American Express Gold Card in a stripper club. Dialing the numbers he felt the cold rain drip down his face and no small degree of satisfaction that if Terry were to show up there and then the raindrops would disguise the tears. He’d been crying from the moment he stepped into the alley. He’d seen a homeless man lying in a puddle of his own vomit and felt sorry for him. That was when the dam broke and the tears began to fall. But he knew Terry would think he was bawling for her, so he was glad for the rain. Not that there was any reason he should have been bawling for her, but you know how some gals are. Always convinced that they’re worth crying over.
When Terry answered his call it was all he could do to choke back the despair in his voice.
“Hello?”
“Uhhh, yeah, babe. I was just calling to see if you got to the house alright. The moving men were there all day and I think everything is accounted for. Have you looked around yet? Is anything missing?”
“Oh, hey, that’s real nice of you to call. Yeah, I think it’s all here.” She said. “No, wait. There IS something missing. I’ve got this huge jar of pickles that my mom gave me just before she died. I never broke the seal on it, baby. Those gherkins are aged to perfection, I was hoping to break ‘em out on our fourth anniversary. I don’t see ‘em anywhere! What am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, baby,” he said. “Pickles is one thing...”
She waited for him to complete the sentence, but apparently he had said all he had to say.
“Oooookkaaaayy,” she said, by this point confused. She would soon learn that Timmy had a way with confusion that she found alternately frustrating and loveable. “So what are we going to do about the pickles, then?”
“Well, the way I see it,” Timmy began, “we’ve got a few choices. Number one, we can go to the store and buy a new jar. But, then, they would not be nearly as old as the ones you lost…”
”Oh, I didn’t lose ‘em,” said Terry, anger quaking in her voice. “It was those goddamn motherfuckers on that moving crew. I’ll stake my life on it.”
Timmy wasn’t disturbed in the least by this logical observation, although he did silently make a compact with himself that, not only would he no longer do business with this particular moving company, he would, if the opportunity ever presented itself, beat the living shit out of anyone who worked for them. He never trusted people who got paid to do something he could do himself, if only he had a truck large enough.
“Number two,” he said, not hesitating. “We can buy a jar of dills, sit ‘em on a shelf, then wait for our 10th anniversary.”
At this point the realization dawned upon her that they were already talking about anniversaries. Not only had they never discussed marriage, they had only been together for a day or two. “What the fuck am I thinking?” she asked herself. “Either I am a fool in love or I’m one of the biggest, most naïve hepcats in the civilized world.
She settled on the former (although she rather liked the idea of being a hepcat, naïve or otherwise). Love is a funny thing, she understood instinctively, and there’s really nothing more satisfying to a young woman than a hunka hunka burnin’ love.
“I don’t like that idea, either, Chief. I was thinkin’ that 4th anniversary was going to be the special one.”
“Okay,’ Timmy persisted. “Option number three, and I hope you like it, cuz it’s all I got. Number three: fuck the pickles. Just forget ‘em. We can find something else to eat on our fourth. Maybe I’ll take you to McDonald’s, order you a quarter pounder with cheese, EXTRA PICKLES!”
“Yeah, baby dog!” she yelped with the excitement of a young teenage girl who has just been given permission to raid her parents liquor cabinet. “That’s a capital idea! What was I thinking? Burgers are better than pickles! But can I ask you for one favor?”
“What’s that, sweet cheekers?”
“Do you think we could make it Burger King?”
“Burger King? FUCK THAT SHIT! McDonald’s all the way, beee-ahtch. I’m tellin’ you for the first time, and no doubt it won’t be the last time, but me and the Hamburglar are TIGHT! I mean to say we are SOLID. Ronald fuckin’ McDonald, that’s my homeslice.”
“Whatever you say,” Terry said, somewhat disappointed. Her acquiescence, however, was feigned. Deep down she realized a truth that, had she affirmed it there and then, would have saved her a world of heartache, pain and misery. There was no getting around it: Timmy was an asshole of the highest order.
But she loved this asshole. That made all the difference in the world. The sacrifices she made and the hardships she faced over the next few years were, to her, a small price to pay for the joy he brought into her life. He could do no wrong, she believed, and so what if he had expected sex within hours of meeting her? At least he hadn’t broke down and cried when she refused. There was no denying, though, that ever since that fateful night she had been plotting and planning just how she was going to do the deed…if she could ever get him in the mood for it, that is. He had seemed not only disappointed that night, but she thought she saw a gleam in his eye that spelled M-U-R-D-E-R. “Whoooo,” she thought. “Murder! Big word!”
On the other end of the line Timmy yelled at her. “Hey! Where did ya go? Are you still there? Answer me, bitch!”
“Oh, yeah. Hey! I’m sorry babydog. I got to thinking.”:
“Well don’t do it again, y’hear?”
“Right-o.”
“So listen, I can’t be yappin’ on the phone all day long, and I sure as hell can’t stand here listenin’ to dead air on the other end of the line. Now I don’t know what’s so important that you have to waste my minutes, but I’m gonna let it slide. I gotta go, sweet cheekers. I’m ramblin’ on. I’m going home. You gonna be there when I get there?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re my new roomie now. I almost forgot.”
"Gather"
Gather ‘round, warriors. This is your time.
This is your time to shine. It’s your day in the sun. It’s one-of-a-kind, o ye cheaters of death, but this is, nevertheless, your finest hour.
You found a home in war. You entered into a contract with bad company and gave up the rights to your body, your mind, everything but your mortal soul. They took advantage of the circumstance and you wound up deep in a bunk hole, hiding behind the tenuous wall of a manure pile. Bullets whizzed by your ears, fear possessed your frames like a demon taunted by the Lord. Death swooped in to put it’s fear into you, but you all laughed in his face and spat in his eye, turned your back on him without saying goodbye. Perhaps “See ya later” would have been appropriate.
But no matter, husky gladiators. It is time to rest from your battle. It’s time to put away your swords and scabbards, your spears and your slings. Your automatic machine guns and your hand grenades. Your potent strains of anthrax and your agent orange. Surrender your arms, troglodytes. Cast them to the ground below. Consider the clatter they all make as they fall to the pavement. Take it in, breathe it all in, make it yours…
…for it IS yours.
Sorry, we didn’t get around to telling you. It was always yours, we just figured you would find it out on your own if you wanted it bad enough. No, I would agree: that is NOT fair. And I would also say this to you, “Fairness is a relative concept. When you consider the value we placed on you actually knowing this as a fact…well, I think it should be pretty damned obvious. Don’t be a moron, you give all servicemen a bad name when you do that, you know?”
But enough of the self esteem-building fodder all, that is not why I have gathered ye here to-day. Nay, not even close. I have brought you all here together because I wanted to be the first to tell you. You’re all going home. That’s right, you’re homeward bound. Soon you’ll be able to pack your shit and take a southbound train to ride. You’ve lost your minds killing innocent civilians, you’ve struggled to keep your eyes open most nights, as staying awake meant staying alive. But you’re going home! Warm nights tucked between clean linen sheets. Soft goose down pillows to bore your heads into. The smell of coffee in the morning, bacon and eggs if you’re lucky. The prospect of another day that won’t be defined by the number of lives you’ve ended between sunrise and sunset.
The journey home will be a victorious one, indeed. You shall see it from the comfort of a first class seat on the most expensive airliner we can afford! A small bottle of gin or whiskey is only a few feet away and all you have to do to get one is ask the attendant. If you ask nicely I don’t doubt she might let you have more of those little bottles than administrative policy usually allows. But she sees it in your eyes…you’re a grizzled soldier. You’re still warm to the touch from the heat of battle. You know this. This is who you are, it’s what we made you. And she will sense this. It will drive her mad with desire. Her knees will quiver, she’ll blush, she’ll radiate erotic charm…but all you’ll be able to think of is that Vietnamese farmer with the plaid shirt.
A dirty plaid shirt. Dripping with dark, brown mud, he smiled at you from beneath the brim of a straw hat that looked as if it had seen many better years. A smear in the drying clay was on the right side of his face where he’d wiped sweat. His lips were dry and cracked and his nose was a little runny.
The buttons on that plaid shirt were the cute mother-of-pearl finish jobs, the kind that snap shut real easy. How many men would have noticed that? How many of the sharpest minds in the known universe would have missed how his left boot didn’t quite seem to match the right. But you caught it right away and you stored it into that immense data bank that is your United States Marine Corps certified brain.
If only you could forget it, though. Right men? I see a few tears in a few eyes. I know I’m on the right track here, so if you still think I’m not talking to YOU, I have an invitation right here in my back pocket that will entitle the man to whom I give it a 6 month stint in the back of a mess peeling spuds. You don’t want that, now, do ye? What? No takers? I thought not.
But where was I? Oh, HOME, that’s what I was on about. You all have very nice homes, no doubt, and I’d better there’s not a single one of you who isn’t just itchin’ to get back to ‘em. Is it the one you grew up in? Is it one you just bought? No matter, when you leave this place it will either be in a body bag or on the better side Uncle Sam, who looks after all of those fine men and women who have risked life and limb in his service.
So what’s it going to be, worms? Death? He calls often here, and don’t think I don’t know that his is the song of the siren to many a worn out Spartan. But faileth not, loyal comrades.
Will it be insanity? Will the wage of life and death struggle prove to be nothing more than a tug-of-war between lucidity and madness? Yer going home, grunt, why should it matter? Either one’s better than lying face down in a pool of your own guts. Don’t worry about it, just get on the plane. Baby, it’s your ticket to ride.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
I stepped onto the tarmac with a firm determination to forget the last 2 years. Maybe even the last 15. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just tired of looking for an answer. I’ve listened for the still, small voice of reason and wisdom, but it seems to have stayed behind in the battlefield. Probably where it belongs.
The night was cloudy and the stars shone like pinpricks in a dark black veil that covered the most brilliant light…ha, I almost said “life”…I may not have been too far wrong there. I wanted to cut the cord of gravity, float through however many miles it might take to reach one of the punctured holes. Then I would tear the fabric and crawl into the other side. Disappear into the brilliant aura.
Only a dream, only a wish. I drug my weary frame from the bustling airport to the highway. An old two-lane road, dangerous after dark. It doesn’t bother me. It’s purpose is to facilitate the traversing of distance from one point to another. I could care less about where it could lead me. I only knew that I would not turn back no matter where I wound up, so I stuck out my thumb and waited for someone to give me a ride.
Does anybody stop to give rides to strangers anymore? I wouldn’t. It’s not something I condone. In fact, I have only done it once in my life, when I was just a kid, before seeing “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer”. After watching that seminal film I resolved to never, ever pick up hitch-hikers again. I wasn’t going to help anybody on the side of the road, either. Fuck being a “good Samaritan” if it means getting my brains blown clear out of my skull, flung to the side of the road like a rotten fruit.
Despite all of this I still had my hand stretched out, thumb in the universal position that signifies the need of transportation for the “down-on-his-luck” traveler. I remember asking myself what could be more pathetic. I was reduced, by circumstances beyond my control, to hitching or hoping that someone might be clueless enough to pick me up.
Yet, that is exactly what happened.
A hookah smoking caterpillar sat behind the wheel, and he seemed glad to do a small kindness to me. He could tell I was a veteran of psychic wars. He felt obligated, I was sure.
“Hop in, friend,” he said. “I can see that you’re a little down on your luck. I been there ma’self a time ‘er two. Just throw yer pack in the back seat and climb up here with me.”
I wasn’t shocked in the least that a hookah smoking caterpillar was driving a GMC Jimmy east on Route 66. It did, however, give me quite a shock to think that he would pull over and offer me a ride. I am no fool.
“Off we go,” I said to him.
The road was a long one that took us out of the state. As we crossed the line the caterpillar turned the radio up real loud and started singing along to the Journey song they were playing on the classic rock station.
“Ooooh, wheel in the sky keeps on turning,” he wailed. “I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!!!”
I turned to him. “You have a very distinct grasp of Steve Perry’s vocal mannerisms. Have you ever sang professionally?”
“Oh no, not me. I could never go onstage in front of a lot of people and sing. I just don’t have it in me.”
“Well, you aren’t afraid to sing in front of me. What’s the difference between one stranger and a hundred strangers?”
“Oh, it’s not that. It’s not that at all,” he repeated. “I had a friend who used to play and sing in a lot of the bars on the circuit between California and New Orleans. It was a job to him, you know? He told me about a lot of the stuff that goes on in those places. He told me how one time he was singing a Roy Orbison song when some pool-shooting loser throws the cue ball right at him. Beaned him on the forehead, BOP! Had to hurt. Said the bruise swelled up so bad directly afterwards that people started calling him “the Elephant Man”. I was a beginner in the days when he regaled me with these anecdotes and mister, I’ll tell you, he put the fear of God in me. I was so terrified of getting conked in the head with a pool ball that I never pursued the craft.”
I felt a tinge of sympathy for his plight. “I’m sorry to hear that. I bet you would have been a star if you’d gone for it. Bigger than Steve Perry, even.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I don’t feel cheated or like I’ve missed anything essential to my happiness. As long as I’ve got wheels, my hookah and something to put in it, I am a happy caterpillar. Remember that: I am merely a caterpillar.”
“I will do that, but you’re a caterpillar who could kick Steve Perry’s ass any day of the week!”
“Wheel in the sky keeps on turning!”
“Damn straight…I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!”
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
The caterpillar held the wheel steady and kept on truckin’. He sang along with every single classic rock song that came on the radio. From Kansas to Boston to “Sweet Home Chicago” he knew them all and, to be perfectly honest, he did a damn good job. He belted ‘em out like Springsteen, he crooned like Bryan Ferry, he croaked like Joe Cocker, he wailed like Janis Joplin, he screamed like that dude from Slayer. No two ways about it. This hookah smoking caterpillar had serious talent.
I was curious. “So, mister, what to do you do for a living?”
“My friend, I am a mortician. I deal with death every single day. I do a job that most folks would find distasteful and not a little disturbing. And yet I love my job. I do, oh yes, I do. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the whole world.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said. “How does a man get a start in a field like yours?”
“It’s not too hard, really,” he replied. “You come with me, I’ll make you an apprentice. You lookin’ for work?”
“No, sir. I can’t say that I am right now. Still got a little cache stashed away from military days.” I made a gesture with my hand that signified that I was grateful for the offer, but would have to pass. “Maybe one of these days I might change my mind. I think I could handle it. I’m not squeamish. No, not at all.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could handle it. I can tell by the way you look straight ahead, you don’t look back, you’ve got a grip on everything in this world and you think there’s nothing that could ever shake your foundations, whether it be from the east wind or the west. The north or the south. Do I read you correctly?”
“I reckon you do. I’ve had a hard run most of my days. Experience has taught me one lesson, but it taught me good and well: Nothing is as you really think it is, and it could all be gone tomorrow. ”
This is your time to shine. It’s your day in the sun. It’s one-of-a-kind, o ye cheaters of death, but this is, nevertheless, your finest hour.
You found a home in war. You entered into a contract with bad company and gave up the rights to your body, your mind, everything but your mortal soul. They took advantage of the circumstance and you wound up deep in a bunk hole, hiding behind the tenuous wall of a manure pile. Bullets whizzed by your ears, fear possessed your frames like a demon taunted by the Lord. Death swooped in to put it’s fear into you, but you all laughed in his face and spat in his eye, turned your back on him without saying goodbye. Perhaps “See ya later” would have been appropriate.
But no matter, husky gladiators. It is time to rest from your battle. It’s time to put away your swords and scabbards, your spears and your slings. Your automatic machine guns and your hand grenades. Your potent strains of anthrax and your agent orange. Surrender your arms, troglodytes. Cast them to the ground below. Consider the clatter they all make as they fall to the pavement. Take it in, breathe it all in, make it yours…
…for it IS yours.
Sorry, we didn’t get around to telling you. It was always yours, we just figured you would find it out on your own if you wanted it bad enough. No, I would agree: that is NOT fair. And I would also say this to you, “Fairness is a relative concept. When you consider the value we placed on you actually knowing this as a fact…well, I think it should be pretty damned obvious. Don’t be a moron, you give all servicemen a bad name when you do that, you know?”
But enough of the self esteem-building fodder all, that is not why I have gathered ye here to-day. Nay, not even close. I have brought you all here together because I wanted to be the first to tell you. You’re all going home. That’s right, you’re homeward bound. Soon you’ll be able to pack your shit and take a southbound train to ride. You’ve lost your minds killing innocent civilians, you’ve struggled to keep your eyes open most nights, as staying awake meant staying alive. But you’re going home! Warm nights tucked between clean linen sheets. Soft goose down pillows to bore your heads into. The smell of coffee in the morning, bacon and eggs if you’re lucky. The prospect of another day that won’t be defined by the number of lives you’ve ended between sunrise and sunset.
The journey home will be a victorious one, indeed. You shall see it from the comfort of a first class seat on the most expensive airliner we can afford! A small bottle of gin or whiskey is only a few feet away and all you have to do to get one is ask the attendant. If you ask nicely I don’t doubt she might let you have more of those little bottles than administrative policy usually allows. But she sees it in your eyes…you’re a grizzled soldier. You’re still warm to the touch from the heat of battle. You know this. This is who you are, it’s what we made you. And she will sense this. It will drive her mad with desire. Her knees will quiver, she’ll blush, she’ll radiate erotic charm…but all you’ll be able to think of is that Vietnamese farmer with the plaid shirt.
A dirty plaid shirt. Dripping with dark, brown mud, he smiled at you from beneath the brim of a straw hat that looked as if it had seen many better years. A smear in the drying clay was on the right side of his face where he’d wiped sweat. His lips were dry and cracked and his nose was a little runny.
The buttons on that plaid shirt were the cute mother-of-pearl finish jobs, the kind that snap shut real easy. How many men would have noticed that? How many of the sharpest minds in the known universe would have missed how his left boot didn’t quite seem to match the right. But you caught it right away and you stored it into that immense data bank that is your United States Marine Corps certified brain.
If only you could forget it, though. Right men? I see a few tears in a few eyes. I know I’m on the right track here, so if you still think I’m not talking to YOU, I have an invitation right here in my back pocket that will entitle the man to whom I give it a 6 month stint in the back of a mess peeling spuds. You don’t want that, now, do ye? What? No takers? I thought not.
But where was I? Oh, HOME, that’s what I was on about. You all have very nice homes, no doubt, and I’d better there’s not a single one of you who isn’t just itchin’ to get back to ‘em. Is it the one you grew up in? Is it one you just bought? No matter, when you leave this place it will either be in a body bag or on the better side Uncle Sam, who looks after all of those fine men and women who have risked life and limb in his service.
So what’s it going to be, worms? Death? He calls often here, and don’t think I don’t know that his is the song of the siren to many a worn out Spartan. But faileth not, loyal comrades.
Will it be insanity? Will the wage of life and death struggle prove to be nothing more than a tug-of-war between lucidity and madness? Yer going home, grunt, why should it matter? Either one’s better than lying face down in a pool of your own guts. Don’t worry about it, just get on the plane. Baby, it’s your ticket to ride.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
I stepped onto the tarmac with a firm determination to forget the last 2 years. Maybe even the last 15. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just tired of looking for an answer. I’ve listened for the still, small voice of reason and wisdom, but it seems to have stayed behind in the battlefield. Probably where it belongs.
The night was cloudy and the stars shone like pinpricks in a dark black veil that covered the most brilliant light…ha, I almost said “life”…I may not have been too far wrong there. I wanted to cut the cord of gravity, float through however many miles it might take to reach one of the punctured holes. Then I would tear the fabric and crawl into the other side. Disappear into the brilliant aura.
Only a dream, only a wish. I drug my weary frame from the bustling airport to the highway. An old two-lane road, dangerous after dark. It doesn’t bother me. It’s purpose is to facilitate the traversing of distance from one point to another. I could care less about where it could lead me. I only knew that I would not turn back no matter where I wound up, so I stuck out my thumb and waited for someone to give me a ride.
Does anybody stop to give rides to strangers anymore? I wouldn’t. It’s not something I condone. In fact, I have only done it once in my life, when I was just a kid, before seeing “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer”. After watching that seminal film I resolved to never, ever pick up hitch-hikers again. I wasn’t going to help anybody on the side of the road, either. Fuck being a “good Samaritan” if it means getting my brains blown clear out of my skull, flung to the side of the road like a rotten fruit.
Despite all of this I still had my hand stretched out, thumb in the universal position that signifies the need of transportation for the “down-on-his-luck” traveler. I remember asking myself what could be more pathetic. I was reduced, by circumstances beyond my control, to hitching or hoping that someone might be clueless enough to pick me up.
Yet, that is exactly what happened.
A hookah smoking caterpillar sat behind the wheel, and he seemed glad to do a small kindness to me. He could tell I was a veteran of psychic wars. He felt obligated, I was sure.
“Hop in, friend,” he said. “I can see that you’re a little down on your luck. I been there ma’self a time ‘er two. Just throw yer pack in the back seat and climb up here with me.”
I wasn’t shocked in the least that a hookah smoking caterpillar was driving a GMC Jimmy east on Route 66. It did, however, give me quite a shock to think that he would pull over and offer me a ride. I am no fool.
“Off we go,” I said to him.
The road was a long one that took us out of the state. As we crossed the line the caterpillar turned the radio up real loud and started singing along to the Journey song they were playing on the classic rock station.
“Ooooh, wheel in the sky keeps on turning,” he wailed. “I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!!!”
I turned to him. “You have a very distinct grasp of Steve Perry’s vocal mannerisms. Have you ever sang professionally?”
“Oh no, not me. I could never go onstage in front of a lot of people and sing. I just don’t have it in me.”
“Well, you aren’t afraid to sing in front of me. What’s the difference between one stranger and a hundred strangers?”
“Oh, it’s not that. It’s not that at all,” he repeated. “I had a friend who used to play and sing in a lot of the bars on the circuit between California and New Orleans. It was a job to him, you know? He told me about a lot of the stuff that goes on in those places. He told me how one time he was singing a Roy Orbison song when some pool-shooting loser throws the cue ball right at him. Beaned him on the forehead, BOP! Had to hurt. Said the bruise swelled up so bad directly afterwards that people started calling him “the Elephant Man”. I was a beginner in the days when he regaled me with these anecdotes and mister, I’ll tell you, he put the fear of God in me. I was so terrified of getting conked in the head with a pool ball that I never pursued the craft.”
I felt a tinge of sympathy for his plight. “I’m sorry to hear that. I bet you would have been a star if you’d gone for it. Bigger than Steve Perry, even.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I don’t feel cheated or like I’ve missed anything essential to my happiness. As long as I’ve got wheels, my hookah and something to put in it, I am a happy caterpillar. Remember that: I am merely a caterpillar.”
“I will do that, but you’re a caterpillar who could kick Steve Perry’s ass any day of the week!”
“Wheel in the sky keeps on turning!”
“Damn straight…I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!”
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
The caterpillar held the wheel steady and kept on truckin’. He sang along with every single classic rock song that came on the radio. From Kansas to Boston to “Sweet Home Chicago” he knew them all and, to be perfectly honest, he did a damn good job. He belted ‘em out like Springsteen, he crooned like Bryan Ferry, he croaked like Joe Cocker, he wailed like Janis Joplin, he screamed like that dude from Slayer. No two ways about it. This hookah smoking caterpillar had serious talent.
I was curious. “So, mister, what to do you do for a living?”
“My friend, I am a mortician. I deal with death every single day. I do a job that most folks would find distasteful and not a little disturbing. And yet I love my job. I do, oh yes, I do. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the whole world.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said. “How does a man get a start in a field like yours?”
“It’s not too hard, really,” he replied. “You come with me, I’ll make you an apprentice. You lookin’ for work?”
“No, sir. I can’t say that I am right now. Still got a little cache stashed away from military days.” I made a gesture with my hand that signified that I was grateful for the offer, but would have to pass. “Maybe one of these days I might change my mind. I think I could handle it. I’m not squeamish. No, not at all.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could handle it. I can tell by the way you look straight ahead, you don’t look back, you’ve got a grip on everything in this world and you think there’s nothing that could ever shake your foundations, whether it be from the east wind or the west. The north or the south. Do I read you correctly?”
“I reckon you do. I’ve had a hard run most of my days. Experience has taught me one lesson, but it taught me good and well: Nothing is as you really think it is, and it could all be gone tomorrow. ”
"Dolenz"
Am I to understand, dear Fellow, that you are a man or your word and a true gentleman in matters heroic and chivalrous? Then I feel inspired to tell you about some things that happened to me.
…what’s that? You say you’re too inspired to want or need to listen to my sage words? O, she errs! Behold, see how she errs.
And do you expect me to believe you were the keyboard player for the Monkees’ 30 Year Anniversary touring band? You say you’ve even partied with Mickey Dolenz a few times?
You expect me to believe it and so I DO believe it. What does it matter anyway? It’s the Monkees. It’s Mickey fucking Dolenz! Are you bullshitting me? DOLENZ???
Ah, but my story is much like yours, and I long to tell it to you. Relax, have a seat. Toke a bowl if you need to. Every single word is true.
This happened smack dab in the middle of 1968, as both the Beatles AND the Monkees had huge records on the chart. They were riding high on a wave of popularity and adulation the likes of which have not been seen in over 2,000 years.
I knew this girl and she knew this guy who knew another guy who was dealing dope to the second guy, whose girlfriend knew the girl I knew and said she would pass on some crucial information to the third link in the chain.
Anyway, she was able to procure two good seats at a Monkees show in Philadelphia. Even better…she had backstage passes! You talk about hanging with Mickey D, that’s nothing next to meeting all four of them and shaking Mike Nesmith’s hand. That’s a-what I was-a
gonna do.
Lady Luck must have been stalking me that day, because right there at the show, not 15 feet away from me, were THE BEATLES! Not just one or two…all four!!! And then I saw a mind boggling exchange of words between Peter Tork and Paul McCartney. Never, in my wildest dreams could I have imagined John Lennon sharing song ideas with Davy Jones. Yet there it was, right in front of my very eyes.
I heard it all. I swear I have every word of it committed to memory…
PAUL: So what you’re sayin’ is that the a song like “Blackbird” would sound better with just me and the acoustic guitar, sort of folky, right? You didn’t like the polka band I brought in for the final mix? Or the death metal rendition that Linda likes so much? You gotta be crazy. That stuff costs a lot of money.
PETER: Settle down, mate. Don’t lose your nut just yet, eh, Old Salt? Take my word for it. There’s too much of that thrasher metal out there. The polka idea is cool, just not for this song. Chill it and kill it, Pauly.
PAUL: Okay, Tork, I’m takin’ your word for it. DO NOT let me down.
PETER: Have I ever let you down, Big Macca? Don’t you remember me giving you the idea for the “Sgt. Pepper” concept? Have you forgotten my contributions to the story line of “Help”? You even stole a few from me. None of the good ones, though. Thank God.
PAUL: I’ll do it. By God I am throwing caution to the wind and we are by god gonna do this your way, because it seems to be a good way and because I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll lay down some tracks along those lines here in a few days. It’ll kill.
PETER: Of course it will. Now quit worrying and slip me a sack of that stuff I smell.
PAUL: You got it.
I was afraid to approach any of them after that. Lennon, especially, as I overheard him asking George Martin to make sure Yoko had all access to the studio while the group recorded. Paul would be furious.
But shit happens, you know? You hear it all the time…shit fucking happens. I hear it and I suppose people think they’re real clever in saying it. I hate that it is a cold, hard fact of life that rings out as true as a parable from Jesus’ lips…SHIT HAPPENS. So it does.
Long and short of it, that is my true story of how the Monkees, not the Beatles, hold the coveted title of “My Favorite Band”.
But what’s that got to do with you, you ask? It’s just to show how my experience with the Monkees and the Beatles trumps your lousy ass night with Mickey Fucking Dolenz. Shit.
It doesn’t matter, though. You know it and I know it, so let’s not pretend while we are alone. What would be the point? None of those things we thought would follow us to the grave…all the tastes, all the tendencies, all the tolerances and all the biases---none of them survive even an age. They all drop away, one by one, the strongest hanging on by a frayed thread.
And she will roll on as sure as the werewolf only comes out on a full moon.
It kills time, though, doesn’t it? Makes the minutes fly by faster. If I only had a package of sunflower seeds and a spit cup I would be in some bona fide business. Crack-spit-crack-spit-crack-spit. That will wile away the hours as sure as Elton John wears a lot of different pairs of eye glasses.
So while I lie here in this vat full of some kind of nuclear engineered ooze, while my mind still hovers just outside of my body, I need to tell you some things. I know, I’ve told you a lot of things. Some things I have never shared with any living soul. You were always there for me. So these things I want you to know. These things I need you to know. These things I wish I did not know.
Like the night when I stole all of my uncle’s Playboy magazines while visiting him on vacation. The folks wanted to stay there for a few days but as soon as I packed those Playboys in my suitcase I pestered mom and dad until they relented, succumbed to my demands: Put me on a Greyhound bus to ride, all the way home to wait for them to return in a couple of days.
I spent the entirety of those days holed up in my bedroom performing what was to become a ritual:
1. Peruse the pictorials first, before anything else. Of course.
2. Go back through the magazine in it’s entirety, noting the article’s names, the subjects, all that kind of thing.
3. Go back through the entire magazine yet again and read all the cartoons. If I’ve got a little time and I'm in the mood I'll take in the party jokes on the flipside of the centerfold.
4. Get aroused by accidentally catching a glimpse of a buxom gal’s nipple on the top page of the centerfold.
5. Repeat step #1.
6. Swallow my pride, retire to the bathroom to “read the articles”.
There had to be at least 10-15 Playboys in that stack of booty.
I was set. Might as well have hung a Do Not Disturb sign on my door. The phone was off the hook. Maybe that was the problem…
"Once Was a Housekeeper"...from BIPOLAR CONFESSIONAL
Came up with this for my BIPOLAR CONFESSIONAL project. Not real sure what was going on in my head when I wrote it, but it has a certain befuddling charm about it.
ONCE WAS A HOUSEKEEPER
You know it's not worth all the trouble
The stationary on the table
Open the doors to needy families
They need their ice machines
Need their locks and they need keys
And they need chairs and beds and ashtrays
The stationary on the table
Next to the television
I was in the shower
Looking for my soap
The doors were closed, I'm sure
No one knows I was there
Kept it well hidden, then I
Did what I had to do and then I
Walked away and I forgot this day ever happened
Ever happened
It's easy to walk away just turn your head
And forget this day ever happened
It's easy just to walk away, turn your head and forget
That this day ever happened
It's easy to forget, turn around and leave
Wrap it around your sleeve and forget
Forget this day, this day ever happened
Left the ice machine
I left my locks and keys
I left my luggage and my dirty magazines
I left my ashtrays
Left my bed and my buffet
Left my chairs and my keys and
Lord, I left my "Do Not Disturb"
Left my family, left the housekeeper
And I left the ice machine
Left the postcards of the pool
Left the restaurant, left the shower
And the rooms and the signs that say:
"Soap upstairs, stationary on the table
By the television."
I stole the towels and the TV guide
I got into my vehicle, I stole another ashtray
From the bar, by the bed, by the buffet
Sat in your electric chair and thought of children
I was a clerk, I had a "Do Nor Disturb" sign on my head
And the Doors were playing in the background
About the broken families
And the housekeeper at the ice machine
Where she lost her keys, but she never could find the locks
And her luggage and her magazines
Oh, she's on the phone too much, and the pool is warm but it's closed
She's got a postcard
There's a remote chance that the restaurant is still open
But we've got the keys to the rooms
We got showers, we've got signs that say:
"Soap can be found upstairs
By the stationary on the table
Sitting by the television."
Well, I brought back the towels but I kept the TV guide
My vehicle's in the shop and the ashtrays are filled
With roaches and roach clips
And the bar of soap that I stole from the hotel
That was by the beds that were never quite made right
And the buffet that didn't taste right
And we were sitting in the chairs
We were listening to your children
Oh, that purse does not seem to like me much
I said, "Do not disturb my meditations, if you please
Turn that Doors tape off, if you please."
Gotta get home, back home to my family
I once was a housekeeper, I once was a housekeeper
Yes, I was, do you remember when I was a housekeeper?
But I never knew my way to the ice machine
And they never gave me keys so I never knew where the locks were
And I never needed luggage because the only things I'd seen were in magazines
Heard about on the phone - spent some time by the pool
Writing on the backs of postcards, suicide notes
But it's remote- this restaurant will not be the place I do it
I know I need some rooms - rooms with showers
Need myself a sign that says "The soap can be found upstairs
Next to the stationary on the table by the television."
I need some towels but I don't need the TV guide
So I got the TV, yeah I put it in the vehicle outside
Along with a couple of ashtrays
And a bottle or two that I had ordered but never paid for at the bar
Well, the beds were made this time
But the buffet still didn't taste quite right
And the chairs they gave us were much too small
Like they were made for children
But the clerk was not responsive to my complaints
She kept on saying, "Do Not Disturb me
You know the way to the doors."
If I had a dollar for all the families who were expecting me to be a housekeeper
I'd go buy the ice machine
Empty the ice and find the keys
And then I'd go look for the locks
Take my luggage cram-packed with magazines
I've got some quarters for the phone
Brought my swimming trunks for the pool
Send a postcard
But there is a remote possibility
That I might never leave here
But stay here
Eating in the restaurant
Where the rooms are not too cozy
And the showers ain't got no running hot water
We need a sign, there were nothing but signs
I should have been paying attention to the signs
I should have brought my own soap
The thought occurred to me as I walked down the stairs
That's why I need some stationary
I'm gonna sit down at the table
Turn the television off, send back the towels
Open up the TV guide, think about the vehicle outside
ONCE WAS A HOUSEKEEPER
You know it's not worth all the trouble
The stationary on the table
Open the doors to needy families
They need their ice machines
Need their locks and they need keys
And they need chairs and beds and ashtrays
The stationary on the table
Next to the television
I was in the shower
Looking for my soap
The doors were closed, I'm sure
No one knows I was there
Kept it well hidden, then I
Did what I had to do and then I
Walked away and I forgot this day ever happened
Ever happened
It's easy to walk away just turn your head
And forget this day ever happened
It's easy just to walk away, turn your head and forget
That this day ever happened
It's easy to forget, turn around and leave
Wrap it around your sleeve and forget
Forget this day, this day ever happened
Left the ice machine
I left my locks and keys
I left my luggage and my dirty magazines
I left my ashtrays
Left my bed and my buffet
Left my chairs and my keys and
Lord, I left my "Do Not Disturb"
Left my family, left the housekeeper
And I left the ice machine
Left the postcards of the pool
Left the restaurant, left the shower
And the rooms and the signs that say:
"Soap upstairs, stationary on the table
By the television."
I stole the towels and the TV guide
I got into my vehicle, I stole another ashtray
From the bar, by the bed, by the buffet
Sat in your electric chair and thought of children
I was a clerk, I had a "Do Nor Disturb" sign on my head
And the Doors were playing in the background
About the broken families
And the housekeeper at the ice machine
Where she lost her keys, but she never could find the locks
And her luggage and her magazines
Oh, she's on the phone too much, and the pool is warm but it's closed
She's got a postcard
There's a remote chance that the restaurant is still open
But we've got the keys to the rooms
We got showers, we've got signs that say:
"Soap can be found upstairs
By the stationary on the table
Sitting by the television."
Well, I brought back the towels but I kept the TV guide
My vehicle's in the shop and the ashtrays are filled
With roaches and roach clips
And the bar of soap that I stole from the hotel
That was by the beds that were never quite made right
And the buffet that didn't taste right
And we were sitting in the chairs
We were listening to your children
Oh, that purse does not seem to like me much
I said, "Do not disturb my meditations, if you please
Turn that Doors tape off, if you please."
Gotta get home, back home to my family
I once was a housekeeper, I once was a housekeeper
Yes, I was, do you remember when I was a housekeeper?
But I never knew my way to the ice machine
And they never gave me keys so I never knew where the locks were
And I never needed luggage because the only things I'd seen were in magazines
Heard about on the phone - spent some time by the pool
Writing on the backs of postcards, suicide notes
But it's remote- this restaurant will not be the place I do it
I know I need some rooms - rooms with showers
Need myself a sign that says "The soap can be found upstairs
Next to the stationary on the table by the television."
I need some towels but I don't need the TV guide
So I got the TV, yeah I put it in the vehicle outside
Along with a couple of ashtrays
And a bottle or two that I had ordered but never paid for at the bar
Well, the beds were made this time
But the buffet still didn't taste quite right
And the chairs they gave us were much too small
Like they were made for children
But the clerk was not responsive to my complaints
She kept on saying, "Do Not Disturb me
You know the way to the doors."
If I had a dollar for all the families who were expecting me to be a housekeeper
I'd go buy the ice machine
Empty the ice and find the keys
And then I'd go look for the locks
Take my luggage cram-packed with magazines
I've got some quarters for the phone
Brought my swimming trunks for the pool
Send a postcard
But there is a remote possibility
That I might never leave here
But stay here
Eating in the restaurant
Where the rooms are not too cozy
And the showers ain't got no running hot water
We need a sign, there were nothing but signs
I should have been paying attention to the signs
I should have brought my own soap
The thought occurred to me as I walked down the stairs
That's why I need some stationary
I'm gonna sit down at the table
Turn the television off, send back the towels
Open up the TV guide, think about the vehicle outside
2.01.2010
...and that reminds me
The names in this piece have been changed to protect the innocent...and ME. The author does not guarantee that the events described herein are accurate or even factual.
…and that reminds me of what may possibly have been the meanest thing I have ever done to another human being. It’s something I would not want to be done to me and I would NEVER do it again. Yes, I wish I had never done it, but there you go…
I was staying at a house in the country. I was sort of watching over it, as the owner lived in a different home several miles away. I thought of myself as “security”, but in reality it was simply a case of a generous man giving a homeless person a place to temporarily stay.
It had only been a couple of years since I’d been released from the Naval hospital, A year and a half since my wife left me. About half a year since I’d stopped taking meds. I’d been booted from my dad’s house by his wife. I wound up at John’s place by chance. I didn’t even know the guy. Seriously, I’d never met him until the night he offered me the place after hearing my tale of woe.
John was the manager of the band my brother was playing with at the time. He owned all of their P.A. system, which stayed at the house, so it actually was a benefit for him to have me there watching over it, keeping it safe from thieves. The house was out in the boonies and it would have very easy for anyone to steal whatever they wanted from it at any time, day or night.
Anyway, I’d been there for a little over 3 months when a guy they called Bear started spending a lot of time at the house. Looking back on it, I wouldn’t be surprised if John had been planning on moving him in to replace me as their “security man”. His wife didn’t like me at all. Eventually I learned that she was convinced I had stolen a gun they kept (hid, they thought) in an unused bedroom. HA! I had no idea there was a gun, where it would be, or even how to use it if I HAD ripped it off.
But that’s neither here nor there. Point is that Bear was the kind of person who grated on the nerves. I was stuck with him on a regular basis. He disturbed my precious solitude, and that was his only sin.
Okay…so there was rarely anything to eat at John’s house. It was almost as if we survived on the Busch beer he left behind. He would stop by every day on his way home from work to check in and see how things were going. He’d almost always bring a 12 pack of beer that he would share with me, leaving behind several for me to enjoy the next day. There was almost always beer. It wasn’t unusual for the refrigerator to have a couple of cases in it, left behind from the band’s rehearsals (which always devolved into parties).
When we did run out of brews, Bear would make up a gallon of iced tea. I never liked tea so he was the only one who drank it.
And this is where we get to the MEAN part…
Bear had been getting on nerves that day. Not that he actually TRIED to annoy me. It just came naturally to him. In fact, I don’t think he even disliked me. There were a couple of times when he gave that impression, but those could probably be attributed to a bad mood. He was a nice guy.
One afternoon while he was gone I took his pitcher of tea, which about half full…AND I PISSED IN IT. I put it back into the refrigerator and waited for his return.
When he came back I was sitting inside the fenced patio, strumming an old guitar that had been left at the house from one of the band rehearsals. I was making up impromptu songs when he joined me. He sat down and listened.
It wasn’t too long until he got thirsty.
He went into the kitchen, found some ice, and poured up a nice, big glass of tea. Then he came back to the patio, sat down…and took a huge gulp. Of course he could not taste it, so he had no idea why I bust out laughing. I laughed and laughed and he kept asking me what was so funny. He didn’t believe when I told him it was nothing. I just dept guffawing.
Then I started playing a couple of chords on the guitar and sang, in a nasally voice and in a manner that assured he wouldn’t understand a single word…
“Pissed in your tea
Oh yes, I pissed in your tea
Ain’t you so pissed off at me?”
I still have this on a cassette tape somewhere, as I had been trying to write some songs that afternoon and used a recorder to capture ideas. It had serendipitously been running during this exchange.
Bear never found out about my practical joke. Which is a good thing, because he was a big ol’ boy, bigger than me, and had very likely been the one who stole the gun I mentioned earlier.
I got booted from the house because John’s wife hounded him to get rid of me. She didn’t think I pulled whatever weight she figured I should be pulling. And the gun thing, of course. I don’t know why she hated me, but, seeing as how I was the kind of person who would spike someone’s beverage with urine, I imagine she had some strong instincts that told her I wasn’t a good ‘un to keep around.
I don’t blame her. They say that “what you don’t know can’t hurt you”. That may well be, but I’d hate to think that my Dr. Pepper had been pissed in somewhere down the road, even if I DID deserve it.
Karma? Oh boy…
…and that reminds me of what may possibly have been the meanest thing I have ever done to another human being. It’s something I would not want to be done to me and I would NEVER do it again. Yes, I wish I had never done it, but there you go…
I was staying at a house in the country. I was sort of watching over it, as the owner lived in a different home several miles away. I thought of myself as “security”, but in reality it was simply a case of a generous man giving a homeless person a place to temporarily stay.
It had only been a couple of years since I’d been released from the Naval hospital, A year and a half since my wife left me. About half a year since I’d stopped taking meds. I’d been booted from my dad’s house by his wife. I wound up at John’s place by chance. I didn’t even know the guy. Seriously, I’d never met him until the night he offered me the place after hearing my tale of woe.
John was the manager of the band my brother was playing with at the time. He owned all of their P.A. system, which stayed at the house, so it actually was a benefit for him to have me there watching over it, keeping it safe from thieves. The house was out in the boonies and it would have very easy for anyone to steal whatever they wanted from it at any time, day or night.
Anyway, I’d been there for a little over 3 months when a guy they called Bear started spending a lot of time at the house. Looking back on it, I wouldn’t be surprised if John had been planning on moving him in to replace me as their “security man”. His wife didn’t like me at all. Eventually I learned that she was convinced I had stolen a gun they kept (hid, they thought) in an unused bedroom. HA! I had no idea there was a gun, where it would be, or even how to use it if I HAD ripped it off.
But that’s neither here nor there. Point is that Bear was the kind of person who grated on the nerves. I was stuck with him on a regular basis. He disturbed my precious solitude, and that was his only sin.
Okay…so there was rarely anything to eat at John’s house. It was almost as if we survived on the Busch beer he left behind. He would stop by every day on his way home from work to check in and see how things were going. He’d almost always bring a 12 pack of beer that he would share with me, leaving behind several for me to enjoy the next day. There was almost always beer. It wasn’t unusual for the refrigerator to have a couple of cases in it, left behind from the band’s rehearsals (which always devolved into parties).
When we did run out of brews, Bear would make up a gallon of iced tea. I never liked tea so he was the only one who drank it.
And this is where we get to the MEAN part…
Bear had been getting on nerves that day. Not that he actually TRIED to annoy me. It just came naturally to him. In fact, I don’t think he even disliked me. There were a couple of times when he gave that impression, but those could probably be attributed to a bad mood. He was a nice guy.
One afternoon while he was gone I took his pitcher of tea, which about half full…AND I PISSED IN IT. I put it back into the refrigerator and waited for his return.
When he came back I was sitting inside the fenced patio, strumming an old guitar that had been left at the house from one of the band rehearsals. I was making up impromptu songs when he joined me. He sat down and listened.
It wasn’t too long until he got thirsty.
He went into the kitchen, found some ice, and poured up a nice, big glass of tea. Then he came back to the patio, sat down…and took a huge gulp. Of course he could not taste it, so he had no idea why I bust out laughing. I laughed and laughed and he kept asking me what was so funny. He didn’t believe when I told him it was nothing. I just dept guffawing.
Then I started playing a couple of chords on the guitar and sang, in a nasally voice and in a manner that assured he wouldn’t understand a single word…
“Pissed in your tea
Oh yes, I pissed in your tea
Ain’t you so pissed off at me?”
I still have this on a cassette tape somewhere, as I had been trying to write some songs that afternoon and used a recorder to capture ideas. It had serendipitously been running during this exchange.
Bear never found out about my practical joke. Which is a good thing, because he was a big ol’ boy, bigger than me, and had very likely been the one who stole the gun I mentioned earlier.
I got booted from the house because John’s wife hounded him to get rid of me. She didn’t think I pulled whatever weight she figured I should be pulling. And the gun thing, of course. I don’t know why she hated me, but, seeing as how I was the kind of person who would spike someone’s beverage with urine, I imagine she had some strong instincts that told her I wasn’t a good ‘un to keep around.
I don’t blame her. They say that “what you don’t know can’t hurt you”. That may well be, but I’d hate to think that my Dr. Pepper had been pissed in somewhere down the road, even if I DID deserve it.
Karma? Oh boy…
Ice Storm 2010...some photos
We just made it through another ice storm. Lost power for about 5 hours on Friday. Another hour or two on Saturday. Knew it was coming, though, so we were prepared. Snapped up a few decent pictures and thought I'd share a few.
Oh...and this is what a fool like me does when the snow is a foot deep on the ground...
My god, what an idiot!
Oh...and this is what a fool like me does when the snow is a foot deep on the ground...
My god, what an idiot!
Here's a new video that's been released from Jonsi's camp. I can't say I'm too enamored of it. In fact, it's very hard to watch. Meaning "literally" as opposed to subject matter or what-have-you. You'll see why. Nevertheless, you can close your eyes and hear a very nice acoustic performance of a song I can only assume will be on the solo album set to be released in late March or early April. I've heard both dates mentioned, but who knows. They could surprise us and put it out tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, it's a pretty cool video, as far as "concept" goes.
Sigur Ros' website reports that there will NOT be a new SR album this year. Orri and his wife just had a baby. Georgi and Kjartan also have young children to care for. I assume they will not be touring (and that SUCKS!). Jonsi will spend a month in the States promoting "Go", but the chances of him making a stop in Oklahoma are mighty slim. Maybe in Texas, but with finances the way they are now I don't think I'd be able to make the trip. Bad news all around, eh? Still, it's good to have something SR-related coming down the pike. Hopefully it will tide me over until next year.
Bethnal Green, London. January 28th, 2010 from Jónsi on Vimeo.
Sigur Ros' website reports that there will NOT be a new SR album this year. Orri and his wife just had a baby. Georgi and Kjartan also have young children to care for. I assume they will not be touring (and that SUCKS!). Jonsi will spend a month in the States promoting "Go", but the chances of him making a stop in Oklahoma are mighty slim. Maybe in Texas, but with finances the way they are now I don't think I'd be able to make the trip. Bad news all around, eh? Still, it's good to have something SR-related coming down the pike. Hopefully it will tide me over until next year.
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