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fig. 6

I had a dream on Sunday morning, and I woke up smiling through a hangover and didn't stop. In it I was confidently walking the canyon streets of some major city. There were cafes at the bottom of international banks, and their coffee-addled shit-talking patrons quieted and stared when I passed them on the gum stained sidewalk. Wind kicked up and pushed through skyscrapers like the bulls of Pamplona. I wore an incredibly comfy shirt, and I could only read what it said from the reflection off the rear window of passing taxis. It read: Fame Won't Change Me. Money's Just A Weapon.
Music Is Clutch.

I can't help it if the things in sound I like are the dark wet corners of happyending daymares. Can I get a hand from the id? The ego is long asleep and the peanuts outside the cage are rotting in the southern sun. I couldn't help but overhear you were thinking of calling me but your hands twitched too much to operate the keys and you found yourself stuck in the middle of a warehouse of emotional pain, and strangely at a loss for speech.

My baby tells me she received a text from you about a dream you had. I didn't want the details, like always, but she supplied them and it was something about her safety. She asked for my input, but all I could tell her as I poured myself a whiskey was that "I can't even begin to think about that. I have a hard enough time sorting out my dreams without having to analyze the dreams of those who really don't have any." She took this at the value that I gave, and moved on. And the memory of the shit experienced moved with it. If you're depressed, I'm sorry. There's a gun under the bed mate. Smile!

And with teeth white with piss and cigarettes you can cleanse just about any body's soul.

The lights are dimming in the valley, cluing us in to the brown out. It's coming. I'll be in mid set. I'll be spinning something deep into something dark and fun and it's going to make me laugh when the cords go quiet. The hum of the white noise silenced by almighty PG&E. Sweet shit. Bring it about. Fair play.

We all abide by the sun. It's a matter of who and what provides the shade.

Jul 1, 2008 5:18 PM | Link | Comments (0) | Add Comment | Report Content

fig. 5

The squirrels in the yard have gone butt fuck insane. We woke up at ten to seven, on a Monday, to the squealing of tails chasing tails from branch to branch to the roof and back again. Bushy trails of brown blur going apeshit for whatever reason. She kissed me before leaving for work at nine and now that it's noon you'd think they'd stop playing. But undeterred by the growing heat, their insanity parade carries on. One just fell from the roof... or made a fairly impressive jump. I'd have hobbled away from that kind of fall. Then again I don't horde nuts.

I keep meaning to pick up slip covers for the chairs in the yard. I might do that today. And if I'm at the hardware store, or the big box (most likely), I'll look into a plexiglass top for the table in the livingroom. She cleaned the sheets last night, and all the pillowcases and shared t-shirts. I'll pick up dinner tonight before she gets home. The cat ignores the squirrels, mostly, and slides along the seam of my foot. He's well fed, apparently uses the litterbox after all (there was some debate), and sleeps soundly on the bed between us most nights. Nobody panic: we're being domestic.

Jun 16, 2008 8:53 AM | Link | Comments (0) | Add Comment | Report Content

fig. 4

Another mid week ends and you find yourself on Friday and all the things you wish you'd done don't get done or are done and the satisfaction of these little moments gives you reasons to keep driving. I'm sick of my car however; a black mid-90's Honda with the emblems fallen off. And a hubcap and barely 20 to the gallon. Which is a laugher for the mothers in the their barrel trucks, cages for the kids and death traps for the squirrels. I have Jim James & Calexico on blast in the bedroom, a lonesome cover of "Goin' To Acapulco." It's horns blaring at the birds when I realize the neighbors to the right in the 2-story remodel are probably busy sunbathing. But the only other noises are the hum of two freeways a mile out, and construction time again on a house two blocks behind us. When the chorus comes a second time the trees in the yard bend for a breeze and the crows fly up away from the telephone line, so nature approves and so do I. And then again when my music's involved I don't care very much for what other people think. This early in the day anyway. James' soulful wail brings sadness to a boil though it evaporates before it hits the ear. For a second I feel slightly trapped by the yard, and the stucco of the exterior of the house, and then a jet takes off from Van Nuys and I'm returned to the open earth by way of distancing myself between satellites. I've got the old gig back tonight at the dive bar in Glendale. No special menu for the set tonight, but I'd imagine I should lace it with references to the 13th, and that it is Friday. In June no less. Isn't Flag Day tomorrow? I always remember the calendar from grade school; Flag Day resting on the edge of summer. Yearbooks get signed, the K.I.T. hand notes shoved into the final pages between the fuzz and dirt of a locker's dirty end times. I imagine the collective consciousness of kids everywhere this summer, soaring on account of a new hot season to dive out of mind. But so rarely into spirit...eh? Oh I, the eternal pessimist reborn. The funky shit I assume about generation Flux. Like senators, we capitalize all that we don't know. The funny smoke is cold in glass pipes on the patio table. It's time to do something. Such a beautiful day. And writing is such a waste of precious time, though it helps the drive.

And so I'll walk out front and finally clean the newspapers and empty Red Bulls from my car, because there's no room for turntables in the mess that Is. And isn't it lovely to goal it up on a Friday afternoon? I think I'll play Bowie tonight. But I don't want to plan on it. Yet.

Jun 13, 2008 11:25 AM | Link | Comments (0) | Add Comment | Report Content

fig. 3

Examining the floor from the pillow top bed. Double pillow top. It's impossible to get out of this thing. Some days. Or rather, it's a pain in the ass to deal with the psychological dissonance of having to decide whether to get out of bed, or why. And then again the rest of the world does it out of necessity, so why not me. Signs of depression so dependent on the comfort of a comforter, you have to laugh. I'm not nearly as messed up as I thought I was or think I am. I'm a believer now, if only in the process of letting go. Quitting lies for instance, is instantly freeing. Whoosh, a weight off the shoulders of a hectic city life. There's enough trucks on the freeways to make you completely insane, and every step in the calmest direction is a step toward better mental health. Having to pee gets you out of bed too, and that's a great start, if you have none. Nature's necessity becomes human need, becomes the beginning of the day, or you can slide back into your crater of the bed like nothing happened. I don't recommend going back to sleep, because without fail that always fucks me up. I have a funny sorrowful feeling for all the flailing fucks who have tiny prostates and can't get a decent night's rest without getting up to piss a half dozen times before sunrise. And what if you went to bed at sunrise? Even more useless.

I check the patio table for my cigarettes, and finding none I roll another one half-mindedly while taking a phone call from my mother.
"Are you coming up to see your father on Sunday?"
"I forgot I had a meeting at the store. I was thinking Saturday."
"That's not Father's Day."
"Well no, but I have a meeting."
"O...K. Well give him a call and see if he's free Saturday then."
"Already planning on calling. Going for lunch first."

And I do, walking down three blocks to the corner of Van Nuys where there's a diner with a buxom Jewish woman who runs the counter. Walking down the street, no sidewalks, I veer to the right as often as possible to avoid SUV's, Lakers flags a 'flyin. There's a game tomorrow night, and everybody keeps talking 1984, 1984. But this is an entirely different crew. The cats are younger, eager, hungry, but surprisingly well fed. But I have other things to concentrate on before the new crew takes to the court. I'm setting the small goals, and for the foreseeable future, or the rest of summer, I'm concentrating on only three things. The first is a mandate of the economy; work every available shift at the restaurant, as long as possible, and do all but rip the cash from the plastic of the clientele. Oil is only part of the equation, and a smile with a little bit of humanity still goes a long way. The second is a mandate of the court; attend fifty AA meetings on account of a drunk-in-public citation from the Ides of March. At a little over an hour a piece, that's only a full two-days of my life. Who knows, if may be worth writing about one morning... after a piss. The third is a mandate of the body; work out at the gym at least four days a week. I've abandoned fast food, and the bulk of my beer intake. Still hunting for a good deal on a road bike, in the heat of an Angeleno summer I'd much rather sweat my ass off in a racquetball court. My girlfriend already tells me I'm losing weight, but I can't tell. Mirrors don't hold my attention the way they used to. And razors are strictly for facial hair. So, hooray.

She would be the unsung fourth mandate. As if I could call it that. Our relationship is equal parts drinking, smoking, and sleeping too much, but we've both got routines and places of work and private avenues of worship; her romance novels, my turntables. We watch baseball and drive back streets. She calls me from parked freeways to see if I want any food. I call her from the corner store to see if she needs anything. A pack of Parliaments, big bottle of Stella, whatever's required for the moontime. She is a deeply human creature. Clumsy, stubborn, warm-hearted, analytical, voluptuous. The spectrum of frailties dawns and fades across her tired face, and most nights I understand her entirely, as though understanding something secret in myself. And her bed is just as difficult to get out of for both of us. The comforter is too warm, and we sweat and rotate as soon as the sun filters the sycamore in the backyard. Music bounces off her the way words do me. Though I'm smiling, she's smiling, and the record keeps spinning, so everything works.

I pass two, then three pool guys as I light my cigarette along the street to the diner. Chemicals drying in petroleum containers oblivious or not to the heat of the day. It's not nearly unbearable, because the breeze is up, out of the Verdugo's and right in my face. It would be delightful if it weren't for the ash flying around my glasses. I turn my head a little and risk looking slightly retarded as I smoke and walk in the middle of the Sherman Oaks day time. There's no sidewalks, the dogs drink from their porch dishes, Lakers will win out and the pools will stay free of mosquitos.
And that's when I realize it's probably the best cigarette I've ever rolled.

Jun 12, 2008 11:33 AM | Link | Comments (0) | Add Comment | Report Content

fig. 2

I was listening to Death Cab when I realized I drink too much. I was home alone in the middle of the San Fernando Valley, not really craving a drink, but knowing the Lakers are playing in the finals tomorrow and, well, that's a factor in'it? All the winter we stood in the dirty yard kicking spent papers in the dirt, putting out cherries and hiding the evidence from my buddy's sister. She doesn't touch without pills, and, I guess none of us do. I've been living in the center all this time, and the number of Red Bulls and European cigarettes logs away in a secret lung I just don't listen to. But something about the chaos of the songs, the arrangement on disc, the fulfillment of guitar through speakers, now it's a little clearer. Of course I'll roll another nine for tonight. Of course I'll hold her when she gets home. Of course I'll make a little money at the restaurant tonight. Of course the Lakers will win or lose between beers. I don't fuck around and I don't foresee death as a workable option anymore. Was it ever? Oh well, yea. Depression is dirty lawns, cluttered rooms, a backwards glance from a co-worker. Stalled talks on the patio, smoky misinterpretations and unshaven face. Things end and begin at the oddest fucking times. Were you present when the diplomas got mailed, and all the lyrics from your teens fell like skyscrapers on your little heart? Who's gonna hold your doors open but your flight deck closed? Now that I see me, now that I know, there's still so much to do and it's beautifully overwhelming. The solution is in the balance that's in the cupboard but we know what shelf it's on and it's not too high and maybe if you're free tonight we can get together and put the kettle on.

We wheeled the baby through the camelia forest last month, and came upon the Japanese tea house. It wasn't the weekend, so it was closed, and the cobwebs climbed from the garden stones to the candle holders. "They have a lot of goodies here, when it's open," I told her. I pointed to the display of macademia cookies in a faded picture from the previous summer, hung on a dirty nail to the far wall of the gazebo. She mock scoffed and wheeled the baby out into the bamboo, saying, "Who wants cookies? I just want tea."

She was going to be all right. I was going to balance and my girlfriend shuffled smiles between phone calls to near strangers over books I would never read about deals I would never make. The fires would always burn in all the hills, waking people up and putting them to sleep. Ash. Even the studios were burning. Even my heart was flaring up. New albums were coming out, surprising noise from the recordsphere. What to do with all this free time, and then well there isn't any. Have a Red Bull and a smile and shut the fuck up. Cancer in the stomach and the head and the lungs and we keep burning sticks to stay sane and maybe that's just the only balance any one ever needs. Eh? Chemicals in the gabacho bloodstream. Slip inside security like a good ballgame. Watch the bases load, unload, beer, no beer, would you get me a steak knife baby? I want to sit around on the grass and breath a little between innings. You?

Jun 4, 2008 11:11 AM | Link | Comments (0) | Add Comment | Report Content

fig. 1

Figueroa is the longest street in the world. I'm standing over it, on a walkway, smoking a cigarette. Yes I smoke. I used to say I would only smoke when I drank, but clearly that's not the case. It's a rolled cigarette. A mess of a thing. I don't know where I put my roller, and anyway I've got too many friends who were in the army who tell me I should learn by hand by now. I haven't had the luxury of sitting in the desert with tobacco and a machine gun and nothing to do but sweat. And then again that's hardly a luxury. Johnny fell out of a helicopter. Twice. Now he waters his lawn between hash spliffs and back spasms, long shifts at the service yard and longer nights of Sapphire tonics. I don't know half the world he does. I could tell you a few things about Figueroa Street, Los Angeles, California, the movies, poetry of the 60's. Music. There's a lot I don't know. And there's a lot I do. I hope I'm boring you. It's too nice a day to stay in and read. Save these things for cold nights when the television's crap and the radio is all talk. And even then it's nicer to go for a drive in the middle of the night. Forget things. Slip between area codes, their overlays and thousands of apartment complexes, air conditioning systems humming in the magnetic night. What the fuck am I talking about. Cigarette on an overpass. Why does everybody get the instinct to jump? Is this a split second thing for everybody? I was in a glass elevator getting kissed by a perfumeless woman in yesterday's dress. She doesn't like looking out the window, but I'm so used to looking in.

See birds flying into the glass. That's somebody.

May 19, 2008 9:50 AM | Link | Comments (0) | Add Comment | Report Content