W is for Weakness...

It used to be different. I used to literally sit by the phone, waiting for calls. Now there is no house phone, just the cell phone that sits in my pocket, waiting for calls.

I regularly loose things down the drain of my shower. Thoughts. Plans. Lovers. Friends. Ideas. Goals. Sympathies. Time. The water takes them with it when it rolls down my skin. Some I let go, freely. Some I fight for. But they all go. Eventually.

I have probably lost more things this way then I realize, or that I care to admit. I come up with ways to counteract the effect. I turn the lights off. I play music what some would consider too loud. I bring lovers in. But they all still go. Eventually.

Today it was music. Loud. Very loud. Music that reminded me of you.

Fuck.

Everything reminds me of you lately. Faces of women I don't know. Songs you have never heard. Maps to places you don't belong. The ding my phone makes when someone who is never you decides to send me a message. The steps I take between the refrigerator and the counter when I pour myself a glass of water. Sweaty punk kids. People kissing in the streets. Sidewalks.

I decided today was your turn. I made a date with you and my drain. It is time. I can't keep up my end of the bargain; I can't burn a candle for you anymore. It is out of sight, out of mind.

Your head is stronger than your heart.

Mine is not.

And in the steam, in the scalding water, in the place where I have had my heart pound harder than most, I let you go.

No ill feelings. No cross words. No regrets.

I heard a ding in the distance.

And for once it was you.

I responded, slowly. Then another ding. Then the phone rang.

You would call.

You would know.

23/26

V is for Variables...

If we could go back, maybe to April, or, fuck it, March, and line up a group of friends, and past lovers, and acquaintances, and ask them, what would they say?

- Well, there's the age...
- You don't exactly know what you are doing...
- She seems nice, but...
- You know how it's going to end...
- How many times will this mistake be made...
- If you had your choice, is this how you would spend it...
or my personal favorite, revealed to me about 6 hours ago
- You pretend to be a bohemian artist type, who doesn't care, but you really just want to love these girls, and you smother them. It is a blessing and a curse.

Well, fuck.

It feels like I cant fall in love anymore. Or that none of my feelings are honest. My heart is beating, but maybe my mouth is full of lies? Maybe my heart isn't even beating. It's too strong, it cares too much, it is probably shit.

Let us talk about these variables. They have been attacking my mind lately.

There is distance: out of sight, out of mind.
There is situation: exes, dorms, family bedrooms, disease, or mental illness.
There is emotion: I am here, and I am something, but not enough.
There is everything else: What do you want here? Hair color? Music preference? Area Code?

Fuck it.

I could have been in love, forever, FOREVER!, sixteen times before. And maybe they never counted.

I don't fucking know what I am doing. I have no idea. But I know this, from the bottom of my shitty, failing, heart:

Two weeks ago, ten days ago, six days ago, two days ago, this thing, inside of my chest, was on the verge of pounding out of my body. I felt it in my fingers when I passed out coffee. It shook my steps around the cities I spent time in. It rattled up my spine, to my brain, where I couldn't form words, or thoughts, or emotions, that didn't involve you. The intensity was rare. The feeling was similar. I've been in love. I've wanted to die for things. I have been comfortable on quitting things for other things. But these days it bruised my chest from the inside out.

And now...

I'm a pawn in a scheme. I'm an alternate. I'm something you'd trade in a barter only society, for carpet cleaning or an orgasm or two. I am a monkey, and, yes, I am dancing, but I also have my cymbals, and they are crashing, and I am smiling, and someone, or everyone is taking advantage.

Change one of these variables, or eliminate them, and this entry is V is for Valuable.. or V is for Vanessa...

But with them, as they stand, I am trying to figure out a way to be and not look like an asshole, or at least a fool.

22/26

U is for Uppers...

If it were as easy to get pills as they made it seem in grade school, I would be flying on reds, blues, pinks, purples or whatever sort of prescription that would pull me out of the ground. I'd swallow them whole. I'd crush them up in my bathroom and snort them. If it made sense to turn them into a liquid and shoot them into a vein I totally would.

See, I've been falling lately. In all sorts of ways. Falling for old tricks. Falling while standing up. Falling off a cliff. Falling in love.

It's taken a toll on my body, on my head, on my heart. I've been crying in showers, on the phone with friends, walking on the street, while smoking, while painting, while singing, while writing and while thinking of you. I've been making up reasons and situations to explain how things went so wrong so fast. I'm searching through old text messages, replaying old phone conversations, and watching from some part in my mind all the sweetest heartfelt things that fell from your finger tips or rolled off of your lips. Total honesty. That is what it was all supposed to be, and I pray that it was. And I pray that it is.

A women on television sitting in an office chair said last night that "they" could never get the timing right. It hit me square in the chest. My timing is fucked.

We walked out of the party, to get some fresh air, to talk, to just be somewhere else. The house felt like the old houses in Lancaster that I used to leave to go puke, fuck, or just go home and sleep off whatever was in my system. It felt strange, holding your hand, leaving what reminded me of an old life, to wander off into what could be a new life. We found a corner and laid on the sidewalk. There was enough of a breeze for you to have a jacket. The smoke from our cigarettes would briefly block out some stars before disappearing. We talked about everything; I could smell the scotch on your breath. A while later I could taste it in your mouth. Your kisses were always so hard, so real, so focused and I miss them.

Later you emptied your insides into a gutter next to the car. You've been there before, and I have too. I've been me and I've been you. I held your hair, rubbed your back and tried to pull together some sort of sentence that would distract you from the burning in the pit of your stomach. You fell asleep on the way home with your head on my lap and my hand lightly brushing your hair.

There are moments where everything seems perfect. It is hard to recreate them. Its harder to think about them. I don't know exactly how that night happened. I don't know how we got there. I don't know if we can go back. I don't think I want to.

Planning to keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other, didn't involve me looking back. Now it is all I am doing.

I miss you.

21/26

T is for Time...

The train was full of punks. And Greeks. And heart broken women. And rail weary men. And me. I had the biggest smile on my face.

You've developed this talent lately, of making me smile, the biggest, goofiest smile of my life. It would show up at work, at shows, in bed, driving, and right then. There aren't words for the excitement that was running through my veins. It had only been a week, but it felt like forever.

I saw an old window from the train. It was the one I woke up under the first morning of me being engaged. That house is empty now, or at least not populated by the people who I spent Christmas mornings with. There are a lot of windows like that in my life, looking into houses full of people that I don't know anymore. My stomach dropped as the train went by.

I also saw the hotel where we had our first night together. Back when I was throwing up for no reason. When I was drunk all day. When you were just another woman. Back before I fell for you.

We spent hours on the beach together. We found our own little spot and just let time slip away. I erased it from my head. And I erased location. And I erased my existence. I saw birds and angels and the boldest rays of sun in the sky. The words on my skin rearranged. I reaffirmed my love. I realigned my hate. We didn't talk for hours but every time I kissed you, or our eyes met, you smiled.

The sun burned my skin. I got uncomfortable with some of your friends. A stamp on the ceiling reminded me of an ex. Things got rough in my head. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted you to hold me.

We talked about all of this when we went back to your place. You have a better understanding of yourself. You know to be warm is to be happy. I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned. I couldn't be close enough to you. I couldn't hold you tight enough. I couldn't kiss you hard enough. I couldn't be anywhere else right then. I couldn't let this all go. I couldn't fail again.

But I did. And I am. Failing.

I didn't want it to be different. I didn't want us to change. But we had.

(playing on repeat: House of Cards by Radiohead. It explains even more.)

20/26

S is for Sabotage...

I'm burning candles. They aren't for you. They are for me. There is a sacred heart of a woman, a saint's prayer and a guardian angel. One day last week, when I was preparing for the hellfire and brimstone that my heart had earned, if not deserved, I bought them. They were going to save me.

Something is always going to save me.

There's been jobs, loans, women, friends, cities, yellow birds, checks, booze, anarchy and god.

I'm not sure if I need saving. I definitely need protection for myself. There's only one gun in this room, and its pointed right at my chest, no one will survive.

And why not? Four hundred times before this, something, someone, somewhere, moved that target enough to put words down. Four hundred times before this night something had to get out. And I am really glad it did.

Because if it hadn't, if it had all stayed bottled up, thrashing around, gnawing at itself, what would happen? How could the rapidly approaching pain in the pit of my stomach feel? How would this night be going, putting off sleep so I can think about how the moon is getting closer and closer to crushing me?

See, that's sabotage.

That's what I do.

It has been hard to stay positive. It has been hard to believe my ears. It has been hard to feel the pounding of my heart honestly. It has been hard to know if your heart pounds, beats, or flutters. It has been hard to sleep alone.

It has been hard to not fall.

19/26

R is for Rewind...

I slept for forty five minutes earlier that day. Before that a friend of mine went up to the old stomping grounds with me to see my father and step-mother. Her mother had just passed away so they flew out from Texas for the occasion. Sitting around a dinner table talking about weddings, babies and funerals while everyone eats fried chicken is not as exciting as it sounds.

So we left.

We went to the old bar, the place that used to have most of my drinking memories, for a drink and to meet up with two friends. Our foursome retired to their house soon after. I went to bed on a couch for forty five minutes after the sun rose without my noticing and my nose was kind enough to not start bleeding on my shirt.

Work was a zombie adventure. The blood came at work, somewhere between the chip machine and the dish room. Coworkers with no experience were confused, others knew exactly what was happening.

I went home and tried to sleep. I think I took a nap for five or ten minutes, if I even slept at all. My body was exhausted but wanted that feeling back. I started drinking wine.

That is when you came over.

Sweatpants. No contacts. Hair in a tattered mess.

Beautiful.

We sat across from each other and drank hot chocolate. Mine definitely had baileys and schnapps in it, yours probably did too. We talked about our exes, or soon to be exes, and everything wrong with them. I retold parts of my nights, not to brag, and not to warn, but to shed light on the things that sometimes happen at all night garage parties. You weren't stunned, or shocked, or surprised. It was nice.

I realize now that I didn't know you very well then. And you didn't stay very long. But I can still see you sitting on the couch opposite me, me mugs of cocoa and booze and glasses of wine deep into my evening, you peeling back layers of yourself.

That was the first time I got lost in your eyes.

And I was miles away.

18/26

Q is for Quiet...

Things are too quiet. I can hear my heart beating. The tapping of my fingers on the keyboard echo down the hall. I've lived inside this room for almost a year. It used to be filled with all of these things: hate, love, desire, passion, distrust, confusion, anger, drugs, booze, women, baby steps, possible families, kisses, stolen kisses, kisses grabbed quickly on the way back to real life, burritos, religious candles, songs, lies and the occasional heart breaking confession...

If you have been keeping track, the countdown is over.

Twenty days, they flew by like fucking nothing. What do I have to show for them? Some heartburn, some new artistic tendencies, a friend or two, and my heart being taken from me.

That is what we all expected, isn't it.

I'm too drunk to fight or question. I'm going to my empty bed. I'll think of you...

17/26

P is for Passion...

My skin was hot in the water. You used ice to try and cool it down or show me a different way of feeling. The bottles had long given up their contents and sat in the distance like the skyline of that city I go back to every few months to make sure it is still there; to make sure I am still alive. Friends of years of yours and minutes of mine slept soundly in the living room, a slight hum from another continent the only sound. If you were me you'd be lost in your eyes too. I keep my hands above the water, rubbing the tips of my fingers, the sensation recalls other nights with you and this is the closest I will get to ever crossing my fingers again. The sky is getting closer to bright blue by the second. You have to feel my heart pounding out of my chest. The shock waves bounce of the walls and crash back into me. Maybe you are immune to it. Maybe you don't notice it, constantly being bombarded with things like this. Maybe your heart beats just as hard and it cancels mine out. When I kiss you I taste copper, the blood from hours of trying to get the most out of life as we possibly can. I let you go and you curse the sun for taking away the night. I silently curse it for taking you away from me.

16/26

O is for Outage...

The wine is still good. I put saran wrap over the top; I threw the cork away. Apparently last night I decided that I was going to drink the whole thing. When I woke up this morning I felt like I had. Sleeping in the clothes you wore for about nine hours at work makes you feel worse than you actually do.

I am a functioning power outage. I am full of misplaced rage. I melt for a smile. I get lost in this pair of eyes.

I recognize the quiet before the storm. Things are going to get rough around these parts. I've been working making sure everything is secure. Not so much boarding up windows, or selling things to move across the country, but definitely putting up caution signs and warnings for curvy roads, falling rocks and flash floods.

The wine and the heat in my room are making me sweat...

15/26

N is for Nostradamus...

I could tell from the beginning that this wasn't going to turn out the way I had thought. There is the smell of sulfur in the air. I put it there. I'm burning wood matches to stay awake. They are in a rectangle box from a bar named after half of my yearly income. That half of my yearly income shares its name with a bar is suiting. I have the shakes from the last five or six years, but probably more from the last five or six months. I can really see them right now; I am spinning the matches as they burn towards my fingertips so the chard part twists to give a physical presentation of the twisting of the chambers of my heart and the tightening of the muscles around it. There is no solace in the sweaty can that almost slips out of my hand to empty its contents on my keyboard. Nothing changes with that. I still shake. She still doesn't call. I write more though, and I guess you have to be tortured to be a tortured artist. My four chambers are quitting on me. They used to make these: passion, desire, courage and love. Now they sleep through their shifts. There must be holes in them, letting all the good things out. It hurts when it beats. It hurts when it thinks. It hurts when it feels. It hurts because it feels like waste.

It isn't though. Not even close.

It is life.

And today it is great.

14/26

M is for Miles...

I stood on the roof of a venue last night. My pupils were big, my eyes were wider. I looked up at a building where friends and friends of friends do drugs different then the ones I was on right then. If it wasn't the breeze on my skin, or the cigarette smoke filling my lungs, then the chills had to be from some combination of her eyes, voice and hands. Sweet words were whispered into my ears about manifest destiny or the secret spots in our hearts that you need more than one map to find. Our hands were locked in a death grip, sweaty from the beating of hearts full of possible love and drugs, fingers rubbing together to keep the sense of security alive. The brown of her eyes was being over taken by the black of her pupil, and they said everything I knew. Past, present, and future laid end to end counting the steps to a heart.

I rub my hands sometimes to remind me of how it felt to be so close.

13/26

L is for Lists...

Two nights ago you told me about your lists. You told me about how they stress you out, make you anxious. I didn't tell you, but I was envious. I make lists, but not of plans, not of goals, not for my future. They are all things I've seen, mistakes I've made, places I've been, things I've fucked up. I heard a man sing this morning that memories are sinking ships that will never will be saved. That is where this came from, that is where my head is right now.

I am anxious. Every second of the day. There is a countdown in my head. It currently stands at twenty days.

I've seen things end. I've watch myself strike the match that burns bridges to the ground. But this time, this time, not so much. I've never been in a leaky boat, but I can feel the water coming over my feet. My arms aren't moving fast enough. I can't row to shore; I can't bail the water out. The boat is deep, over my head, and I can't see which way to go. The water isn't stopping, it won't stop, and it will be over my head soon rather than later. I can't swim. I have no place to go.

But I have to sit there.

I have to make the hole bigger. I have to make more water come in. I have to sink deeper. I have to fall harder.

I made a soundtrack to this catastrophe. I have made a few. They play all the time, on loop in my head, on repeat in my heart, and on never ending in my room. My housemates must hate these songs. Too bad for them. In twenty days they will probably hate me.

Dark suits. Ties. The saddest songs ever.

Twenty days. It's all over in twenty days. Two months of the best days, the happiest nights, the most intense thoughts, feelings, discussions, trips, life. Twenty more days.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe I am actually figuring all of this out. I don't seem to be making the same mistakes. I don't seem to have the same sort of unrealistic notions of my life.

Right?

I'm not writing this hungover, checking my sent messages for my feet, drinking a beer, eating stolen chips, waiting for someone to call who isn't going to; am I?

To quote myself, worse case scenario we're falling apart.

12/26

K is for Knowledge...

11/26

J is for Janet...

Our eyes met across the room. No, it was across the bar. You had the loneliest tv blue eyes I had ever seen. Actually, they were the saddest brown eyes. You tossed your head to move your hair from those eyes, or maybe I brushed your hair behind your ear when I leaned in to kiss you. These details seem to get jumbled up, mismatched and confused from the event to my brain to the page. One night we fucked, or slow danced, or made love, or maybe we drove towards the ocean, debating on stopping as that cliff got closer. Was it worth it, the brakes? My mind says yes, my heart, well, it is still thinking about all the other things. Opening the front door to you and angelic rays from heaven, or was it you normal with friends and acquaintances that I would never see again. The trials by fire, the gauntlets of arrows, or the explanation of intentions in dark rooms, crowded rooms, empty streets or busy beds. Maybe my heart is wrapped up with conversations from time zones away, counties with shared borders, or that one really rough night when I escaped to the driveway and locked my self away outside so I could figure out where you stood, where I stand and where I fall.

It is now about twelve years ago. I am spending time in a jacuzzi watching movies in black and white. Then I am swimming in the longest slimmest pool of my life. I am kissing girls, my pants are wet, my hair is a mess, and I have absolutely no way of showing or explaining any of this to you. I stop thinking about all those friends I lost. Back to you, Janet.

There is a bar in Santa Barbara. There is a dance club in Tijuana. There is bowling alley in Chicago. There is a house in Oregon. There is a bed in Texas. There is a lake in Oklahoma. There is street in Gainesville. There is a cul-de-sac in Seattle. There is an ocean that is not the Pacific. All of these are you even when they are not, baby steps in the creation of an adult, a human, a piece of shit who secretly functions as the one with the deepest valleys of a heart until they are filled with all the things that have gone into them these last few years.

I'll take my chances with beds and dreams. My heart, head, and mouth are conspiring to honesty. It feels as close to perfect as I can remember.

I'll see you tomorrow, if only for a second...

10/26

I is for Inventory...

Your flowers have been safe
for fifteen to twenty years
stories packed away in boxes
lining the ceiling of your home.
Forget that they catch your prayers.
Forget that they muffle your cries.
Forget that they block your path to heaven.

Keep those boxes full of
exes, letters, dresses, dreams,
pvc pipe, brushes, photographs,
recipes, lovers, and my best wishes.

Move them from house to house
to house to house to home.

Cross out the names,
change the labels,
mark everything as X-MAS LIGHTS.

My heart keeps rhythm with
the lights blinking on your tree;
One and Two and Three and Four.
Breathe.
Repeat.

9/26

H is for Hollow...

I was standing outside of a bathroom door. I had to empty the last of my drink into my gut. The night was winding down, or maybe, just getting started. I could smell the chain smoke on my fingers. I looked out, through the dark, over the bar, past the white lights, around the tables and into the dance floor. A little girl twirled. That is all they do, twirl. Then they get older and break your fucking heart. The bride danced, her new husband head and shoulders above the crowd. The breeze had died down, but the cold still hung around. My empty cup joined some distant cousins on a crowded post. Men in nice suits and cheap tuxes shared stories that must have been about conquests or drunken choices; their eyes and laughs gave them away. Some friends of mine huddled around a low table smoking, drinking, smiling and dancing just a little. I made myself promise not to forget the scene: the lights, the air, the joy and my heart beating in my head. The door opened and I walked in. "I'm going to sit here on the step, it is warm in here." I leaned down and kissed her.

8/26

G is for Guarantee...

"I guarantee you I will screw this song up"

The word guarantee always reminds me of that quote. It's from Nirvana's Unplugged album. How that relates to this and the rest of things, we will see.

I am in Reno, Nevada, it is the summer of either 2002 or 2003. A friends aunt had just been married. The bride, groom, men in suits, women in dresses, little kids twirling, drunk cousins and my friend are milling about. We are at the Peppermill in some suite. There's a jacuzzi tub and wet bar. (Actually, it might have just been a bar. I'm not sure what a wet bar is.) There is also a big curved black couch. The decor is total 80's-coke-party-Vegas-Lifetime-movie-shit. A drunk cousin comes bouncing in with two bottles of vodka he swiped from another suite that had a maid in it cleaning the bathroom. I am sitting on the couch. I am suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that the bed that some little kid is bouncing on will soon have all sorts of other similar but different movements happening on it. I hear water being drawn in the bath and there is talk of a baby taking a bath in the jacuzzi tub. This is supposed to be a wedding reception. My friend's mother taps me on the shoulder and asks if I am ok. I had been sitting next to her on the couch and when she touched me it occurs to me that I had trailed off in mid-sentence. I tell her the Coors Light must be getting the best of me quicker than I expected. I am peeling at the label to distract me from the strange reception that I am at. She puts her hand on my thigh, our eyes meet, and she hands me the label from her beer.

"You know, if you give someone an intact label peeled from a beer then they owe you a sexual favor."

7/26

F is for Forever...

I am listening to a mix I made for a woman in my life. As per everything up until this point it is complicated. And it also makes me happy. Whatever. It isn't for forever.

Forever for me has been many many different things. States, counties and cities. Homes, houses and apartments. Fiances, girlfriends and fucks. Heartbreak, loss and indifference. That has been forever.

I am spending multiple minutes of multiple hours convincing roommates, friends, best friends, coworkers, ex-lovers and the occasional lawyer that I am fine. Amanda got me a little bit ago, and it still stands true...

YOU are all I ever want. I am a hopeless romantic. (This blog has just officially lost any street cred by that lame exclamation. whatever. street cred is for assholes and I am a hopeless romantic) All I look for is Family; Struggle.

UGH.

This isn't where it is supposed to be...

Forever is something I thought I understood; I do not anymore.

I am so close to putting my foot in my mouth it is almost hilarious.

Don't worry, you will totally see it happen. Shit, it might have already happened tonight.

So it goes.

6/26

E is for Elizabeth...

There have been multiple people, men and women both, in my life that I have treated less than satisfactory. This is for Elizabeth. She was one of them. I hope she knows I am sorry, or at least forgot about me.

Of course we worked together. We always work together, don't we? We bought a six pack of Anchor Steam at a beach-near liquor store. It was the time in my life when I thought that more expensive beer made me feel better about the shitty decisions I made. I'm not there these days. No beer makes me feel better about my decisions, and they aren't any excuses left. It is honest; it is nice. You had driven to that beach city. We parked between a harbor and the beach, between a comedy club I went to once and patch of sand I lost one of my many parts of innocence in. There was a blanket, yellow maybe, it doesn't matter. I had recently gotten back into the swing of things, as someone might say. Everything was new. It was as if I had just woken up from a coma, shaved off my huge beard, and tried to stumble my way through a sexual encounter. It was sloppy, uncoordinated, and earnest. I will always remember one moment. My lips found your left earlobe. It was soft, had a bit of give to it. It didn't taste like perfume, or lotion, or anything; just flesh. I sucked it in between my lips and gently bit down on it. Where this technique came from? I am not sure. But you thanked its parents with your breaths and moans. We had a late start, that night, and we left soon after. I also remember a long straight drive, on another evening, to your place. It was out where the wind was even less forgiving then the rest of that god forsaken valley. You had your own place, but only showed me your living room and your photographs. You were probably the first photographer I fell for once I could understand photography. I owe you that, thank you. We slept together that night, underwear and spoons. Everything in that house, the few times I visited, stayed in the PG realm. That was fine. That is fine. We figured the rest of that out later. That is where things get bad. I don't care to revisit them on these pages, not today at least. But know I am sorry. And yes, yes, in the past I told the story about how the end of our sexual encounter on your birthday was less then satisfactory, especially in terms of me as a lover. And yes, I took you back to you car as the sun was rising. And no, I had nothing to do that day. I am selfish. It is not an excuse. Maybe a back story, but definitely not an excuse.

Funny thing about all of this. It is two in the morning, and I am writing a belated "I'm Sorry" letter to a woman I talked to for the first time since 2007 about two months ago. In a virtual chat. And I am drinking beer alone. And to the best of my knowledge she has a loving husband and beautiful child and lives three hours ahead. Congratulations Elizabeth, you pulled it together. Me? Well...

5/26

D is for Don't...

Don't is the only advice I get lately, from family, friends and from myself. Don't drink too much. Don't go to that party. Don't invest in foreign currency. Don't call him. Don't send her that text. Don't forget that birthday. Don't sleep with someone just so your bed isn't empty. Don't wear your heart on your sleeve. Don't show any emotion. Don't cry. Don't fight. Don't hate. Don't scream. Don't sing out of key. Don't believe everything you hear. Don't skip work today. Don't take a nap. Don't borrow money from lovers. Don't collect keys. Don't keep doing the same things and expect a different reaction. Don't seek sympathy. Don't over-react. Don't talk to any Asian women. Don't save slow dances for anyone. Don't smoke. Don't try to match. Don't put food and drinks on the same tray. Don't make that person cry. Don't give up. Don't sell out. Don't get married. Don't start a family. Don't plan for the future. Don't paint. Don't waste any talent. Don't listen to that band. Don't blindly recite quotations that you can't put your heart into. Don't dance. Don't forget postage. Don't sleep on your arm. Don't waste your time. Don't waste your life. Don't talk to strangers. Don't tell anyone how you feel. Don't be so honest. Don't like her. Don't let him in. Don't invite them over. Don't take those drugs. Don't eat those pills. Don't settle. Don't fucking settle. Ever.

4/26

C is for Chances...

There are never too many chances to give or too many chances to take. There are never unnecessary chances. I take chances. I give them too. You are welcome to them, as many as your heart could possibly desire. I'll need a basket full too, if you have them to spare. I've known people to give them to men, women, sports teams, organizations, political theories, pants, parts of this country, other countries, wives, husbands, children and grocery stores. One of these days soon I won't need any more chances. I will wake up to just before the sun rising and not fall back asleep. I won't need coffee or amphetamines or the hair of the dog. I will put on my favorite shirt, the one that is in all of the pictures, and it will be soft, soft like the skin of the woman I am leaving alone in my bed. It will smell like her, and every bird, every song, every thought and every crack skipped over for the sake of saving backs of women I will be forever in debt to will remind me of her. Flowers. Dinners. Rage. Tears. Museums. Sandwiches. Love Songs. Appliances. Wine. Poems. Paintings. Sweat. Baked Goods. All of it. Everything. That day all of those things, and things I failed to mention, and things I don't even know about today will take the place of all of the chances I've been burning through like matches behind the gym at some Midwest high school. Chances. Second Chances. Third Chances. No need. No need at all.

3/26

B is for Bending...

The idea is to bend, not to break. I will bend my morals. Wait. Do I have morals? Hmm. I will bend them if I do. I will bend a situation until it fits me exactly how I want it to. I will bend your words to fit what I think you should be saying. I will bend my plans to include you. I will bend my history to hide the bad parts. I will bend my walls to let you in. And I've figured all this out. I don't worry about hearts breaking, especially my own. I don't worry about habits breaking. I'll make new habits and just throw the other ones away. I'll bend for you, wherever you are, whoever you are.

2/26

A is for Anticipation...

(Yes, I DO always think of The Rocky Horror Picture Show when I hear the word anticipation)

There is a that moment, or rather series of moments strung together, where the anticipation of what is going to happen next is brutal. It's right after your phone vibrates in your pocket and you anticipate that it is a message or call from that person you've been waiting to hear from all day and then just before you find out if it is them or not. It's that quiet moment right before a kiss, especially a first kiss, but also, to an extent, the moment right after a kiss. More? Fingers crossed. It's that stomach drop of "I need to talk to you" or "I have to tell you something" or "Please keep all arms and legs inside of the..." The heavy breathing. Is it hard enough? Is it too soft? Am I in the right place at all? It's opening the door to a new house, a new room, a new backyard. It's walking into a party and knowing it is only a matter of time before something, anything, happens. It's the knocking at your front door. Or, if you are lucky, the doorbell ringing. It's the lights dimming in the club, the bar, the stadium, your room, your life.

1/26

I blog in a tie because I care

I played dress up today. I woke up with the sun, let the water heat up in the shower while I picked out a soundtrack for the day. There was lathered body wash and shampoo for my freshly cut hair. The coffee pot had already been turned on and was doing its job. A razor was placed to my face to make me presentable to the people I would present myself to. Underwear in case things go terribly wrong. Black slacks, skinny enough to question, dark enough to show how serious. Leather belt with a truck belt buckle from my best friend. Grey shirt, buttons to the top, sleeves rolled down. Black tie from a wedding. Skinny, but not hip skinny. Black socks, of course, hidden by the skinny slacks and the black square tipped dress shoes. Hair was brushed, shirt tucked in, glasses on and the overall appearance judged in the mirror. I held the coffee cup to my lips and thought "Here's to something" and drank.

The few times I bother telling time

I know when it is late. I can feel it in my heart.
I know when it is early. I can feel it behind my eyes.

I don't really need a clock. It helps me get to work on time. And it helps me do other things that are dependent on that.

But the only time I look at the time these days are when I'm waiting to hear from you.

I know you are asleep.
Or you are at a party.
Or work is running late.
Or your car broke down.
Or it is your brother's birthday.
Or you are seeing your ex.
Or you are making a three point turn in a grocery parking lot.
Or you are on your way to see your new home.
Or you are the third car in a funeral procession.
Or you are sitting outside.
Or you are flying over more states then I have stepped foot in.
Or you are taking baby steps to destroy my heart.
Or you are reading this and might be sad that this is what always runs through my mind.
Or you are laying next to me, and that fucking sun is rising too quick.

I still check the time.

Just for you.

Somewhere between Tuesday and Wednesday.

The blinds to my windows are mostly open. My light is on and I am listening to music and thinking about this and the last few days. I wonder if any cars drive by and think "What is happening in that room that the light is still on at one in the morning?" If they only knew.

I am sitting alone. The money has almost all ran out. My legs are covered in cuts, scratches, dried blood and scabs. The music isn't as loud as I want it to be, but at this point I have decided to be considerate. I stayed up for twenty four hours yesterday breaking laws and doing things my friends and parents would both be proud and ashamed of. Most of the muscles in my body ache. My eyes are almost closed. There is fire coming up from the pit of my stomach. I tried to put it out with the last couple gulps of warm champagne from yesterday. That didn't work. So I put forty ounces of malt liquor on top of it. There is probably still a fire there, but I don't seem to notice it, or care. I think I hear footsteps outside, someone coming to my door to get me out of this fifteen minute funk and run their fingers through my hair. Or they have a pocket full of pebbles and they are going to toss them at my window one at a time, just hard enough to get my attention, till it draws me outside to cries of love and proposals, or at least a kiss. There are horses on the television running through the desert in black and white and I have more in common with them then I do with the text messages I received today, or at least their senders, or at least what I care to admit. Those horses don't know where they are going, and everyone else is on their way out of town. Days, weeks, or months it is all happening. It might be the next exodus.

Or it could just be me being tired.

Me and bodies of water.

I was within an arms throw of the ocean today. Not my arms throw, by no means, but someones arm. An arm as strong as the pounding that has been leaving my heart and heading full force towards my skin. If my feet are on the ground, which lately they are not, that ground fucking rumbles and shakes. Things fall over. Women change their thoughts on the quality of their lovers. Men change their underwear.

Like I said, I was within an arms throw of the ocean today. I didn't see it though. Honestly, I didn't even bother to look. I'm always looking this way or looking that way at some large body of water that I think is going to change my life, give me all the answers, at least keep me hydrated. They don't. It won't. I'm fine.

So today I didn't look. Today it didn't hold anything to me. I think the change I needed, this THING that I'm always asking/looking/hoping for, was to my left. But then it was to my right, or at least what used to be my right. Fuck. It could have been behind me. But it was definitely not in the ocean, not today, not tomorrow, not yesterday, and, fuck, not ever.

Maybe this is a reaction to the thing about baptism. Or maybe it is a reaction to my love of symbols. But maybe sometimes a baptism is a baptism only for Jesus, and maybe that short reply isn't that you are mad, but you just don't know what to say.

I am not everyone. Actually, I am barely myself. But I do things that other people would never think of. I don't mean (insert sexual act that at this point would surprise or repulse my readership), but rather my initial first reaction to what life throws at me.

I'll quit. Or fight. Or cry. Or feel like dying.

Whatever.

I spent time in a small body of water today, and next to it, and at times I felt like I was bearing my soul. Or maybe I was just telling stories. And maybe there is no difference. It all still hurts. It all still makes me smile.

I was asked if I should be followed, when things get like this, and I said yes.

And then I was asked to do the same.

Following through on that promise for Earth Day...

You decide the title, it will be better that way.

Birds of Paradise
have flown away
or rotting and falling
to the ground.
I'll leave them
for the gardeners
or the neighbors
or anyone who cares.
See, I am a lumberjack
a calloused soul
with downed trees lining
the map of my past.
Small, tall, dead
they all fall at my will.
I wish them death:
it is so.
I wish them defeat:
easy said and done.
I wish them love
and gnash my my teeth.
Not today, not ever
always the last standing.

The phantom message

I have been finding paint everywhere. On my chair, on my mouse and on my thumb. It is all different shades of blue. What this has to do with that, I am not sure. But this rogue paint keeps distracting me from the thoughts I want to put down.

Put down like a sick dog?

Yes. Definitely.

I am a fan of baptisms. These include the ones on little babies, who have no say, but usually cry. I enjoy the irony. This also includes my own baptism on Palm Sunday some fifteen years ago (at least). And it includes the multiple baptisms I have performed on myself, none of the religious or the sexual (zing!) nature.

See, I am a fan of rebirth. I am always looking out for some conversation, road sign or person that will disrupt my life so much that my only natural response is to baptize myself, hoping to come out better on the other side.

It has happened in an ocean.
It has happened in a tub.
It has happened in a shower.
It has happened with scissors and barber clippers.

I get too entirely wrapped up in shit that sometimes I need to shed whatever person/place/thing that is binding me to that moment.

Why all this? Why tonight? I thought everything is going great?

It is. But there are patterns of thinking, and they do not do me any good.

So I am giving them to you, internets, that you may do with them what you will. (That shall be the whole of the law)

As for me, I am taking a shower and leaving the thoughts and behaviors that I don't need anymore to circle the drain.

No more finger crossing.

about the thing I do when I'm...

I've been leaning back in my chair. hand on my head, scratching at my scalp.

It is a nervous tick.

I'm fucking nervous. Insane. Too much. I totally fucked up. Everything I said I wouldn't do, well, I did.

But it is sooooo good.

Those fleeting moments you seem to see in movies, or read about in magazines, or hear people talk about on trains.

I have that now. All to myself.

And I'm the only one who knows.

I've lately felt like I've been screaming into a cave, yelling at the top of my lungs in the deepest ocean.

It is totally ok.

At least I have a voice.

heartburn

It was 11:35 one night, and I was standing in the middle of some street. It was a slow residential type of road. The moon was out, I could see whatever part of it it felt like showing me between a street light and the branches of a tree. I was smoking a cigarette. I'm pretty sure I was falling in love.

It is always one or the other: fall in love or fall out. I keep it going, the cycle, to be consistent, to keep someone happy, to make sure the bets keep paying out.

I talk all of the time. When I'm not talking I am thinking. When it isn't that it is this, or some song, or some poem or story. I always have something to say. Always.

At 11:35 that night I had nothing.

(I am exhausted right now. I'm taking 36 second cat naps. My eyes are burning from the combination of old cigarette smoke, no sleep and thinking about this. It must come out)

I was destroyed at that moment. There were valleys of thought, mountains of feelings, rivers of, well, rivers of everything. It was a strange feeling.

Because I couldn't tell anyone about it. I didn't know how. Fuck. I don't know how to tell anyone about it now.

I know this:

Worse case scenario: this is the last time I ever feel like this again.

Best case scenario: it isn't.

I miss my inside joke about sandwiches that only I got. I miss the routines of car trips and parking permits. I miss my secret life and my not so secret life.

And I miss that night on the street. At least the way the air felt on my skin. And you being so close and so far away.

Putting a face to a thought

I wrote some poetry while standing on a subway car yesterday. I haven't written on public transportation since the great Chicago Winter Extravaganza of 2008. This isn't really about yesterday, or Chicago, but this thing that happens when I write poetry.

I put it up here sometimes, poetry, like every six months or so. It isn't that I don't like it, or I don't know if it is good, I just feel weird about the idea of putting poetry up on a blog when I'm not a poet.

I mean, I guess I am a poet, from writing lyrics for the bands and what not. But it is strange. I think I figured out what it is.

The subject.

I EXCLUSIVELY write poetry about women. Every single one. For probably the last ten years. Women. Loving them, hating them, missing them, wanting them, thinking about them, kissing them and leaving them. And most of the time is about this combination of women I know, like a frankensteinian (made that one up) monster of ideas and loves and perfect character traits.

Hmmmmmm.

I guess I'll write another one. I'll put it up tomorrow, for Earth Day.

The next stop is pacific station

I am on a train. Not a fun hobo cargo train, but a train none the
less. I've spent the day with a friend from twenty years ago and we
caught up like we needed. She knows me better than I know myself.
Here's to you Amanda, you see right through my shit. Damnit. I'll
finish the ride from long beach home in silence.

Another Shirtless Entry

Today is the end of an era. This is is for one of my favorite houses ever. And a lot of other things too.

I don't remember exactly when it happened. It could have gradual, like a frog sitting in water getting hotter doesn't notice. Or it could have been instant, like a car crash or falling in love. I'm not really sure, and to be honest, it doesn't really matter. I just know this: one day the radio was fine and then it wasn't. One day it was cd's at the end of the aisle, or the "endcap" for us former retail slave, then it was blind grabs at bands on thank you lists. One day it was Dodger stadium for Genesis with my parents, and then it was driving through a snow storm alone for Against Me! and Alkaline Trio at a club in Reno.

Music has ALWAYS been a huge part of my life. One of my first memories was being at the first place I lived, 85 or 86, and dancing around to what was probably Bon Jovi. Thank god I grew out of that. But now it is no longer a spectator sport. I participate and it is wonderful. Its been a good thirteen or fourteen years of this, maybe more. I could only be happier if I had a mimosa dispenser next to my bed.

So it is with this, and a heavy heart, that I bid farewell to one of my favorite punk houses: shitHOUSEdrunk. I saw some of my favorite bands play there, in a living room. A fucking living room with this wall installation that made me feel like I was in a library or the set of a Sherlock Holmes play. I've played some of my favorite shows there, sometimes with Bobb balls naked. (there's pictures to prove it) There will be more houses, and more bands, and more drunken porches, but you, shitHOUSEdrunk will always have a special spot in my heart.

I'm going to scream out my sins in you later today. I'm gonna spill beer on my shirt and your floor. I might kiss a beautiful girl on your porch. And then I'll walk away and never see you again. A fitting end to our relationship.

I'll miss you.

A Tale of Two Cities

in which the two cities are actually people

I am sitting at my desk in the early evening. It's MY early evening; it is one in the morning. The champagne bottle that was started yesterday is almost finished. I just put on XO by Elliot Smith. It has been a while, a long while, since the last time I listened to this record. But I am trying to figure something out about it, him and some people I know.

Now let's begin.

And don't forget: it is WAY more fun when you are vague.

I know a woman with soft features and a young face. I also know a man with hardened edges and years carved onto his skin. I have just recently found out that she loves Elliot Smith as much as he does.

Now Mr. Smith is not central to this thought I'm tumbling towards the ground with.

No. But I am VERY interested in how one person could attract two different people.

Funny thing, I just got it.

There are things I know about this woman and this man that don't surprise me. And there are things I keep learning that astonish me. And that is what this is all about. We decide what shoes everyone will fit into, and what we know about them. We are wrong all the time.

Funny. I didn't see this here.

I'm trying to think of the next line, the next thought, and I am suddenly walking into a bathroom at a McDonalds in Oakland.

I can't put names to all of the faces in the restaurant with me, or faces to the names I hear. But I know its me. And an ex. And a step dad. And maybe a cop. But he might not be there. But I'm pretty sure he is. We're going to a hospital to pick up my mom. But first I/someone else had to piss. This bathroom keeps jumping to the front of my mind.

I don't care about why the man and women I know both love Elliot Smith. And I'm not worried why the Oakland bathroom keeps coming up.

I just know that in a few swigs, when all the champagne is gone, I will get out of this chair and slide into my bed all alone.

And I am OK with it.

Tonight I have Mr. Smith to keep me company. Maybe I'll figure this out yet.

Street corners and the steps between

There is still a burning in my calves. Its not from dehydration, which it is sometimes, but from the series of steps I have been cramming into the previous 10 days. I've been in four different airports. I missed one flight and had another make an emergency landing. I walked all over Chicago, LAX, and parts of Santa Barbara. I had my heart trampled on somewhere along the 14 and restored in a good friends kitchen. He used booze and kind words to patch it back together. I made late night phone calls to answering machines that got intercepted. I smoked what seems like a hundred cigarettes. I shared meals and toasts with friends old and new. I danced with a woman older than my mother and girl who drank like she used to. I made plans and promises and broke both I am sure. It was exhausting.

And I am not tired one bit.

More life, I think that is what I need. So I'm going to do it.

On passing you on the highway exactly an hour ago

To Whom It May Concern,

There's space between the really important things in our lives. Between the seconds, the breaths, and the tears. We don't notice it, we don't think of it, at least I didn't use to. Now it is all I think about. Every left turn shows a right. Every laugh holds a tear. And every heart-beat is separated by a non-beat. These gaps that we don't think about sometimes hold hands and turn themselves into days weeks and months of space. Focusing on these little things will drive me crazy, errr, crazier. And I think you might think this is a little abstract, but this is just a foundation.

I've been out of town for the last few days. You knew about that. I'll be around for a few more hours then its back out into oblivion. I hear you've been asking about that. I've been stumbling through airports and social situations that we used to plan together. Your name comes up in casual conversations in beds, bars and brothels. People ask how you are, or how you've been, or where you are, or where you are going; but I've seen these eyes and looks before. They are asking about me. I'm not a narcissist. But they want to know the edge is further from me then it seems. Don't pat yourself on the back though. They've asked these questions before and if I was a betting man I'd say they'll ask again. And I am. And they will.

I sleep on less couches lately. But I can still find one when I need to, and they still feel like home.

I digress.

I saw you today, we passed each other on the road. I was headed North, yourself South. It reminded me of the spaces. For three short seconds I watched you living, 40 miles an hour in the opposite direction. My car smelled like cigarettes as the wind pushed the last remaining thoughts of shitty slave wage labor out of the window. I couldn't tell what was on your mind. But I know it wasn't me. And that's good.

I keep seeing people get married. I watched a couple get married on the beach yesterday from behind some glass. Then they came upstairs and I served them and their guests drinks. A lot. Everyone was happy. There were people from all over the world. It was raining cats and fucking dogs outside. There was a moment, just a second, where I was pouring shots for the family, and the music was real loud, and most people were dancing and I realized that I was in one of the spaces.

Clarity sometimes comes at the expense of others.

On made up loves, opened windows and saving face

I've started this entry for the first time two hours ago.

I'm going painting.

Missing The War

This is for Zane's Birthday, it is late, like pretty much everything I do in my life. I keep listening to three songs over and over, let's see if they put themselves into this.

I've been coming to this blog a lot lately, to see if I have talked about something already, to see how I used to feel about people, places and things, and to help me figure out what is going on in my head. Isn't that what detectives do? Go through someones past life to figure out what frame of mind they were in or whatever? Well, I am detecting myself lately. Anyways. I've been coming to this blog a lot lately, and the pictures on the right side bar continue to be from Dan and Marliegh's wedding on Fourth of July. None of the scenes in the pictures are familiar. They make sense; I can tell when people are drinking, dancing, crying, fighting, whatever. But I didn't see any of this happen. I was standing behind a table playing the soundtrack for most of the night. I enjoy doing this, but it got me thinking.

More days and nights lately my mind is somewhere else. It is in kitchens of houses on streets with numbers for names. It is in car rides, bus depots, airport terminals and standing on docks. Its at weddings, funerals, hospitals, gravesides, baseball games, and graduations. It is at the beach, in a lake, at a waterfall, beside a cliff, on a peak, in the desert and lost. It is holding hands, kissing, fucking, punching, crying, hugging, celebrating, singing and dancing with girls, women, men, boys, family, friends, coworkers, bosses and alone.

But I can't prove it. There are pictures somewhere, in some box or some landfill or sitting in a drawer undeveloped. There is video, maybe, in a format that no one could possibly still play. No one took minutes though. No one wrote a description in journal to be cataloged and referred to by someone someday to prove/disprove my existence. But I was there.

And fuck them if they don't believe me.

I meant everything. Even when I lied, or stole, or cheated, or whatever thing didn't seem right; I meant it. Every kiss, every tear, every thrust, every hug, every joke, every curse, every compliment, every erection, every stare filled with anger/passion/pain, every song, every mistake, every regret (no regrets, no looking back at sinking ships). All of it. I did it, I felt it, and I meant it.

You can't find it in photographs. You cant find it a video. You can't find it in a third hand story. It is all in my heart and my head.

There are nouns I have forgotten. They come back into my head every once in a while. I still care about them. There are things here I have forgotten to say. But if I said everything I had to say, I would have nothing left for tomorrow, nothing left for this.

But there is one thing.

Happy Birthday Zane.

Don't stand there, participate. I am sure you already are.

How are things on the west coast...

Works over, almost. I'm laying down in the Togo waiting area. It's
strange, this is how my nights used to always start, closing at
Chilis. Then it would be out to find a backyard or a bar, meet up with
a girl I loved, wanted to love, or love to hate. We drive somewhere,
anywhere, or my place. One night stands. Engagements. Cuddling.
Dancing. Those used to be my nights. And where did they get me?

Well, when I leave here tonight it's off to a backyard, and then maybe
kisses in an alley or a room, shots and pints and who knows.

Hearts, Bones, Nooses, Promises and the other things I break or are broken

Valentines Day is first my mother's birthday. It is everything else second. I like making lists, so I have a list today and a story tomorrow, for Zane's birthday.

• Girls who may or may not have been my valentine during school: Miyoko, Lisa, Ashley, Raquel, Kimi, Christine, Tami and Jessica. I am wrong on some of those.
• Places I have spent Valentines day: Lancaster, Palmdale, Chicago, Riverside, Hume Lake, Northridge, Canoga Park, Maxdons, and Blarney Cove
• All Alkaline Trio songs are about today, especially when I listen to them on Valentines Day
• This list is shitty.
  

If I had a soothsayer, they would say to watch out for today.

I am making this day, February 8th, my mortal enemy.

I left the house for class tonight, and the lights bounced off my windshield in a certain way, and the air rushed out of my lungs, and my shoulders got real heavy. Things got bad. It took me 11 tries in 5 different spots to parallel park, I was late for class, so I came to the library to write.

I am learning lessons about you, February 8th, I will get you in a couple of years.

P.S. Check the archives, that makes this all better.

When you could be here, you are slipping away...

Football season is almost over. That has to do with this, and it has to do with nothing. I have a heart full of things to say, a mouth full of things to discuss, a soul full of things to be ashamed of, but today is not those day. Today is the day for this...

I passed a funeral procession today. Well, almost.

The Peppers I spend my time these days is a lot like the Pepper's I used to spend my time. The one where I complained about facial hair and bosses and I made mixes to loose my job to. They are remarkably similar, at least in lay out.

Today, just before I got out, the small part of the restaurant was filled with people. They all knew each other, or at least knew of each other. And they all wore black.

There are specifics to this that I do not know. There are rumors about these people that I have heard, but this is neither the time or place to talk about why they were sitting together in an awkward combination at the Pepper's that employs me. I just know that, for the few hours on this Saturday, before the end of football season, they were united by something given to them by a man. He might have been a boy, he might have been a giant. We are all of these things at various times. But whatever this man was: boy, god, fuck-up, lover, cousin or friend; these people all thought it best to remember him on this Saturday. And I too, will remember him, in my own way.

I have been fortunate in not knowing the sting of death, personally, in these years I am stringing together. I feel like I have mentioned this before, in this place, but I am not sure. But this is what I have, for him, the gentlemen who probably left us too soon. The fucked up thing is that we don't know if it was too soon or too late...

30th street east was very close to the house I grew up in. On that street sat two landmarks that I have been thinking about all day, before the bad news, before the funeral, before I got out of bed. They were both places of death. Maybe someone died there, I am not sure, but they were dead. I knew this at seven, when I first walked through the desert to them, to figure out their geography, to make up a history that would suit them, now that they were almost gone. One was a large concrete silo/fireplace and some woodwork. It had to be a house, no, a home. There was a father, he worked to hard, and a mother, who loved to much, and one day it collapsed under its own weight. The same thing happened to my parents, but our house stood up, I saw it the other day. It freaked me out. The other place had a concrete pool that I used to try to skateboard in. There were problems everywhere. One, I was a horrible skateboarder. Two, there was dirt everywhere, and no lip. Some kid told me once that was where they kept their water, they didn't have a well. That seemed insane to me. Evaporation in the desert would have made any effort worthless. I guess it doesn't matter now. Why?

All of those places got torn down. The two I mentioned, the rest I didn't; they are all gone. They got replaced by track homes in the real estate boom. We all know that went bust, now those homes sit empty, and the places of desert life before it was a life are gone. No kid is going to wander out and find the remenants of a home from 90 years previous. Not like I did, but what is the actual difference. The places I held dear didn't mean to me what they meant to the people who lived in my favorite places to visit, and neither my home to them.

There was some point after high school, but before I became the person that I am most days of the week, that my father was in a funeral. It was a guy he worked with. The name escapes me, if I even knew it before he passed, but he is dead. My dad picked me up for something, I couldn't even tell you if I had to, I don't remember what it was. But in the car, a car I would later drive into the ground and get 600 dollars from the state from, was still a sticker in the window that said "procession". It was very strange to me that people had decided that mass producing a sticker for a funeral procession would be a great way to make money, but they did, and they did. This story doesn't seem to make much sense right now, but let me try to tie this all together...

Death doesn't show his face in my life that often. That makes me happy. But everything seems to fall to commerce. I was amazed at the number of people who showed up for this man's funeral. I am sure there were more than who showed up to Peppers, but they all seemed to care. And I think they all cried.

And that is all I want.

A lot of tear stained faces.

Because they will take EVERYTHING else away from us.

Everything.

Different Names, Same Faces - Mix

I haven't done this in forever. This mix is a representation of the other things going on in my life right now that I am choosing to not talk about, which is strange, because I talk about everything. It has some old stuff, some new stuff, and some songs that make me shiver with the thought of someone from my past/present/future. Lets go ahead and dedicate each song to a woman in my life. In order? Maybe..

Different Names, Same Faces - mix - http://www.mediafire.com/?mgj0khymmtw

Learn To Live Without - The Sidekicks
To Be The One - Ryan Adams
Eating Me Alive - Alkaline Trio
A Movie Script Ending - Death Cab For Cutie
Eet - Regina Spektor
Megan - Smoking Popes
Helpless - Sugar
Kiss The Bottle - Jawbreaker
I'm a Loner Dottie, a Rebel... - The Get Up Kids
Perfect Stranglers - As Friends Rust
Laura Laurent - Bright Eyes
Substitute - Frank Turner
All I Wanted - Paramore

Dedicated to, inspired by, strangely affected by...
(I've switched back to no particular order)

Marliegh, Chelsea, Gina, Stephanie, Amanda, Allison, Jen (all 12 of them), Crystal, Michelle, Tonya, Leah/Michelle (they are one), The mom from Gilmore Girls and Natalie.

Maybe they are in the right order.

Fuck it.

White Couch Serenata

Poetry and myself aren't very good friends. We sort of just randomly happen to be in the same room, then there is an awkward glance or two. At some point we share a beer and talk about superficial things that have happened since the last time we saw eachother. I ran into poetry the other morning in the kitchen. Strange

I know the sun has set
and is closer to rise
despite all my best efforts
I still feel my hand on your thigh.

I can hear the sound of your dreams
as they dance towards me down the street
alone on this couch by the window
I look out towards where you sleep.

So right now I wish you good night
right now I wish you good sleep
right now I wish you all the joy in life
you get when we fall asleep.

The second day of school

The second day of school had exactly 27 minutes of class.

I've met three of my four professors so far. It is going to be the semester of the drunk.

• One talks about getting drunk.
• One sounds like and looks drunk.
• One has the I haven't had a drink yet shakes.

It is going to be a good semester.
I think I am going to fit right in.

The best of 2009 can fall off a cliff...

I had a list going for 2009, of the things that made it better then the years before, or at least made the year more enjoyable. It has explanations, and examples, and situations that just made me happy.

Fuck That List.

Here it is, incomplete, like some form of all the other shit I deal with:
1 Penguins
2 Weddings
3 Mimosas
4 Music

That was as far as I got. I was working on it on Sunday, and I couldn't finish. See, here's the thing.

2010 was kicking my ass.

Intensely. And with no one to blame but myself.

So I was working on a best of list. And it just got worse; the day, not the list.

I decided I was starting over, I was making a new calendar; like the Mayans!

It has been three days of that. Here is what I have realized:

(These things are equally keeping me together and tearing me apart at whatever seems I have left)

I've used it all up. I have no backlog left. Every song/place/feeling/excuse/fuck-up is already someone elses. I either need to read more books or find new songs or figure out a way to delete all these people/things/places from my memory.

Technology is my enemy. There is too much information. I know every one's face, every one's likes, every one's college. We've all gone to Ball State, we all look like a poor mans president/poet, and we are all fucking falling apart. You are better than me. I see it; I get it. There's that beard, and those pants, and that fucking hilarious thing you did when you were nineteen and your parents were writing checks for you to take a class at some improv group so you could learn to be "funny" or "hip" or "relevant"; and all the while I was twenty-four and fucking falling apart and barely scrapping by. (It's OK, I mentioned it, so all the street cred is gone. Suffering only counts if you do it in silence or there is a video camera to document it.)

I'm twenty seven. I should be twenty two, if not a day above seventeen.

And the part that kills me the most:

This is all an empty room. It is just like the empty room I'm typing in right now. No one hears, no one cares, no one notices. There are passerbys, they wish their best, they say nice things, and I think something here makes something else in their life better. So fuck it. Here it is. In bullets:

• I got left
• I got left almost 10 years ago
• I cant deal with either
• I fell in love
• It was too late
• I'm going to bed
• i cant deal.

Goodnight.

I hope this makes more sense to you...

I'm sorry it took me so long; I wont hold my piece on your wedding day.

****UPDATE*****

I failed to mention that making a new calender is working out great for me. I've been extremely happy. I've gotten back to doing a little of some of the things that make me happy, I have more of that to come. I don't want to sound like a whiny ass. Things are totally looking fucking UP! I was overwhelmed last night by the smell of Tim burning t-shirts to remember that THIS was the whole point of the blog:

I made my own happiness. It took deciding that MY year started on January 11th, but it is working. The New Year that everyone celebrates started with some of my favorite people. I'm working on MY year only including the people that look out for me. I've stopped making excuses.

What's the best of 2009?

THIS.

I'll tell you what I think tomorrow.

Fuck it.

from the kitchen counter...

The kitchen counter is marble, or fake marble, or shit. I don't know.

I know that I am sitting on it. I know that I am drinking some Jameson. Its not my first.

I have spent different parts of the last few hours cleaning this kitchen. My company has been singular, minus a sponge, a broom, a pseudo-broom.

There is recently a new couch in our kitchen. I am organizing my clean laundry on it. I have made this kitchen my own.

Both middle knuckles on my hands have gotten really red over the last couple of days.

The strange part is I haven't wanted to hit anyone in a week or two.

Strange.

I'm lonely lately.

It is my own fault.

But not because of what the 3 people who read this think it is.

It is because I am lame.

Sorry.

Better blogs soon, I promise.

Or you can come kill me.

For the past....

I am hopeful for you.

Be strong.

I wish this was more.

These shoes are made for shuffling

I'm back in Chicago. I've been visiting since Friday, I leave early
tomorrow. It's been a strange trip. I saw a good friend get married
and it was wonderful.

I'm trying to figure out how to not put the cart before the horse.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

I'm going to see the bean, maybe he has some advice.

Birthday Survival Plan

It was a success!

I'm 27, have been for more than a week now.

Am I alive? Yes.
Am I happy? Yes.
Am I freaking out? Of course.

It'll be ok, whats the worse that can happen.

It continues from the shuffleboard bar

This might be our last night at this bar. I'm a little sad. I've grown
to like it in the few days we've spent here.

I feel like I'm either out of the loop or in the center of the storm.
Either way it feels pretty nice.

I'm not sure when things happen in life and that counts as meeting new
people. And I don't know if the people you meet are new, or their
attitudes are new, or if you are new.

I know this though, there is a bartender in Long Beach who plays the
songs that murder my heart.

But should that matter? And should it count?

Fuck it.

I'm just trying not to freak out and loose my mind.

And accidentally fall in love.

I fall in love enough.

I need a sandwich.

Birthday Countdown Part 5

This is a preface to what will spill out of me tonight at the bar with shuffleboard.

I think about you sometimes. I imagine you are riding your bike, like I am. I'm hoping some one is happy to hear you coming up the steps, driveway, whatever. Maybe somewhere some one is painting you a picture, or writing you a letter, and they have the postage to send it. I hope you don't drink too much, and when you do, I know you will, when you do, you call a friend you haven't spoken to in a while. I hope they are happy to hear from you. I hope the miles and roads between us get smaller everyday. I think you might be getting a handle on this stuff, the distance from family, the art bouncing around in side, the self destructive behavior. This summer will be better then all the other ones past. This will be the summer we do things people will write plays about, we'll make stories that people we don't know will tell their kids and put themselves in our place. So cheer up. You'll make it through the year, you always have. You'll make a new friend or two, you'll lose a couple more. Just remember that its time to sing. Take a shower and live a little tonight, ok?

Birthday Countdown Part 4

It was probably fifteen minutes past midnight, some Saturday or Friday night, probably March or April. My dad and I hadn't moved out of the house on Santa Rosa Circle yet. (That's the one with the names in the concrete) I had spent the evening out with my friend Nick Lee, he's famous, he was a waiter in an episode of Real Housewives of Orange County. We weren't drinking, or getting high. Fuck, we weren't even smoking cigarettes. We were driving around, eating fast food, maybe sliding on said fast food trays, maybe ghost riding shopping carts into polls. We ended up finding a sign for some church's open house and bringing it back to his garage. Or maybe we put it in someones lawn. That probably makes more sense. So we were fucking around with some church sign, totally sober. We lost track of time and I showed up fifteen or twenty minutes past curfew. I walked into the house and the fireplace was one, but all the lights were off.

Things had been strange in the Booth house those months. That is where this post came from. Just for reference.

By the fireplace there was our computer desk. My dad was sitting in the chair. He had been waiting for me and asked where I was. I told him. Nick. Church Sign. Sorry. He was upset. He said this:

"You aren't going to do this to me. Not like your mother."

I said I was sorry and went to bed.

I was seventeen, about to graduate, about to move to an unfamiliar city. My parents marriage was finally done. I didn't have time to argue with my dad about how I wasn't how he thought I was.

It is funny the times you find yourself giving up, or giving in.

I did both that night.


**********************************************

I decided tonight I am going to be recording things into the voice memo app on my phone because its easier then setting up all the recording stuff and it makes me feel better about the immediacy of the whole thing. Here is the first one. Second or third try, recorded in my bathroom. I heard this song tonight for the first time in my life and I decided that it was a good place to start. Enjoy.

BOOTH! - Chelsea Hotel Number 2 (originally by Leonard Cohen) - http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?zunmdmzjetj


Expect more of EVERYTHING!

Birthday Countdown Part 3

I use to have one of those 110mm cameras. I had got it from my grandmother, Constance. It had a brown leather-esque case. I took a lot of pictures with that camera. I remember when I got it, I put an info card in it, in case it got lost. My hand writing was extremely sloppy, more so than it is now. I still remember the way my name looked.

I feel related to everyone with the name Anthony. We are a part of group, a secret collective, that only I know about.

One day in high school we got out early, it was finals. I remember everyone was going to soccer practice or hangout or do something exciting, but not me. I snuck off. I took my 110mm camera and drove around to places that had been important to my romantic development. I took a picture of Michelle's house. I took a picture of Jennifer's House. I took a picture of the cul-de-sac I lost my virginity on. I took a picture of the playground where I had my first kiss, and then I turned around a took a picture of where I had my first real kiss. I took a picture of Kimmy's house.

I know I took a lot of pictures that day. I got them developed and I used to keep them in my backpack. I didn't show these pictures to many people, if any at all. I carried them with me in boxes for a few years, moving them from place to place, house to house, until just before I moved to Sacramento, right around when I started this blog.

I took my truck to the dump and threw away a lot of things. One of those things was the box with those pictures in them. There were a lot of pictures in that box, but I remembered that set, in the blue vinyl sleeve, as the one I thought about keeping.

Sometimes you have to start over.

Birthday Countdown Part 2

I was in sixth grade. I had been dating this girl Raquel for a couple of months. The funny thing about sixth grade and dating is that nothing really happened, at least for me. No sneaky handjobs in the movie theater, no under the shirt, over the bra second base action, nothing. Anyways. I was in sixth grade, and I had managed to convince my mom to take me to the school for Raquel's little sister's christmas program. It was lame. But the point was to see Raquel and exchange christmas gifts. I dont remember what I gave her, but I do remember she gave me two things. She gave me a necklace with a key on it. That key fit into her necklace, a heart, and made it complete. It was totally tacky but at the time meant SO MUCH. And the other thing she gave me:

The biggest boner of my entire life.

Yup.

We kissed by a tire swing. It was my first kiss. And I got this crazy hard big boner that was uncomfortable and messy and wouldn't go away for almost 3 hours.

It wasn't big, literally, but it felt enormous.

And the kiss had no tongue or sloppiness, it was just lips to lips.

It was awesome.

From the shuffleboard bar, one week later

I have problems with being ignored. I'm a pretty selfish person. But
the thing, funny or not, is that I only need acknowledgement. I'm
pretty sure I spelled that wrong. Anyways. I find myself fitting into
the same sort of thought all the time. There is ALWAYS a foot out the
door. Always. Why? Not exactly sure. Just the same way I don't
understand why the guy close to me keeps saying bro.

I am pretty selfish. That has to come out in this blog. Thinking
people care or are better off for hearing my stories about drunken
life failures, that's lame.

But this has turned into a mess.

I'm trying to find a medium where the interesting parts make sense.
And I'm trying to find a part of life where I don't lie. And I'm
trying to find a space to express everything.

I'm buying beers for people. Rather a beer for a guy.

Anyways.

Shuffleboard makes me want sandwhiches and attention.

I get neither.

Birthday soon.

Birthday Countdown Part 1

It is late 1988. I am in first grade. My mom made me oatmeal for breakfast, I put extra brown sugar on it and washed it down with milk. There was probably some toast too. I run into my parents bedroom where my mom is getting ready for. Obviously, since its 1988, she has to take me to school on her way. She has a jewelery box on the headboard of the water bed she shares with my father. The box, not the bed, looks like it was carved from a fallen redwood, and its drawers are lined in felt. I climbed on to the bed and my little fingers dug through the jewelery.

"What are you doing?"

"Ummmmmmmmm, nothing"

"..."

"I need to give Ashley Jefferies a present. She likes jewelery, necklaces. You have a bunch of necklaces, I don't have any, so I should give her this one." I hold up a necklace made of white sea shells. It isn't a pooka shell necklace or whatever, but it similar.

"You should probably ask first"

"Ok. Mom, can I have one of your necklaces to give to Ashley Jefferries. I like her, and she might like me if I give her this. That's what she said"

My mom let me take the necklace to school and give it to Ashley. She liked it. She didn't like me.


*******************************************

I was thinking about this story a couple of days ago. It's mostly true. Surprisingly I don't remember what i had for breakfast, or what I said to my mom one morning in 1988. I also might have given this necklace to a different girl, but because this is my blog, this is how it happened.

On the 16th I turn 27.

To celebrate this milestone I'll be putting up stuff like this. Little memories, expressions, stories, insights to why I am almost 27 and sandwich between a girl looking at Hello Kitty lunch pails and a guy watching wrestling with Korean subtitles in a university library.

Most of the stories will be mostly true.

Thanks for coming around.

A Wonderful Suprise

Thank You

You need to lite your cigarettes and laugh at all your jokes

I only had one class today. I'm missing friends who are in differnt
parts of the country, so for them I tried to have a good me day.
Sometimes the best intentions don't make up for history. If I keep
watching women walk out of my life my head might explode. I'm always
walking after them, today I'm driving by, and if that doesn't help I'm
having a drink on the patio. That's how someone would want it.

Don't bother trying to explain angel...

I'm sitting in a bar full of shuffleboard, cheap beers, and men who
say "son". The company is mixed, and strange, and perfect. The
bartender has put on two songs that are driving me crazy with the
their appropriateness. I'm remembering a hotel in San Bernadino when I
bought "Live Though This". I'm remembering breaking up with a
girlfriend after seeing Taking Back Sunday and the Lawrence Arms at
Chain Reaction in Anahiem.

I would talk about it more, but there is shuffleboard to play. Things
are a mess, I'm happy.

I'm sorry, it's been a while, I owe you...

Tonight I'm drunk.

Tonight I'm not going to blame anyone else for the shit I'm dealing
with.

Tonight I spent time with friends who care about me alot.

Tonight I remembered how much that mattered.

Tonight I realized where I've been fucking up.

So to Whit: I'm sorry. I never told you how much I loved Harley, and
how I am sad to see her go.

To my dad: I'm glad you're better, stay that way.

To my mom: I'm glad you're still sober, it makes me very happy and
hope for the future.

To Dan and Tony: I know what's coming, and I've dodged some bullets
already, and I'm excited for the rest.

To Bill, Hickman, Tim, Conner, Gabe & any other possible groomsmen in
my wedding: sorry it didn't happen, but it's gonna happen someday, and
it'll be great.

And to me? Fuck em, you'll be fine

My new favorite spot in the world.

I happened to be looking out the window during class and saw someone
walk across the roof of the building next to mine. I found it, and it
is amazing, to me.

Your kindest words

There are about six to seven things I need to get by on any given day.
Today's list is as follows.

1- burrito
2- some sing along song
3- a smile from a stranger
4- a woman with a sexy voice
5- the memory of someone who is gone
6- an unexpected message
7- a little relief from responsibility

Let's see how the day goes

Once, twice, three times a...

Salvation? Not so much. If there's one thing I've learned from my
father, mother, grandpa, grandma, and myself, it's that this doesn't
ever fix anything. It doesn't make it better. You feel better, but
everything else is still fucked. And I guess it is ok. Because at the
end of the day we have nothing to show for it anyways, right? Everyone
grows up, grows old, and grows apart. We don't talk, we don't dance,
we don't fight, we don't love, we don't fuck. Battles are singular,
pain is minimal, and lessons learned are few. Will we change? No, it
works. Will we survive? No, it doesn't work.

Maybe the saddest day of her life

I am getting really good at sitting in airports, waiting. I'm also
gettin really good at doing this by myself.

This girl, 8-12 years old, a few aisles away is not. She has a dad,
uncle, man, whatever with her.

I'm typing this on my phone listening to a song that reminds me of my
bus trip that was supposed to get me to Chicago, but just got me to
Denver.

She is wearing ears from Disneyland.

I keep thinking of all the airports. I keep thinking of all the
people, the ones I knew and the ones I didn't, that I flew with. I
keep thinking of all the things I was flying to, and all the things I
was flying from. I keep thinking about how I got dropped off at the
airport by someone new, again. I keep thinking about how long this
stuff can go on, and I'm probably comfortable with forever, most days
at least.

I don't know what she is thinking about. But for the last fifteen
minutes she's been silently crying. I think I'm the only one who
noticed.

I want to tell her it's fine, it'll be ok. The turbulence will be the
best part. She'll land home and her friends will be glad to see her.
And her pet will run to say hello. And someone will have made her
something special to eat. And she'll always be able to go home, there
will always be some place full of these wonderful memories with it's
arms outstretched, waiting for her. I want to tell her to stop crying,
not because I'm callous, even if I am, but because it's going to be
ok, it's all going to be fine.

She'll never be sitting alone in an airport, trying to figure out if
she's coming or going. Listening to the same song on repeat to try and
get some feeling back she had for a while. Trying to keep her hands
from shaking from the booze or whatever. Thinking about where she
thought she'd be when everyone started turning 27. Worrying about
never figuring out any of this stuff. Hoping the best for her friends
that make horrible deciscions, but seeing they are better than her
own. She'll be better than that.

She just took off her ears, more tears streaming then ever before, and
walked away.

Maybe we have more in common then I thought.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed for turbulence.

I haven't felt alive in a few hours.

I'll see in Seattle.

Human League was playing at work...

So I tucked my dick so I could be the waitress in the cocktail bar.

That much is true.

They see your every move...

I've pretty much given up on being the person I am supposed to be, at
least in certain company. Explaining yourself all the time gets old.

I'd like a forum where I could shout from a mountain top all of
someones failures, all their ability to be the whores that the bible
warned me about in 7th grade. But those places don't exist. And that
shout doesn't make me feel better.

I just play into it.

It is all fun and games until you are on the other side. Then you just
see everything played against you.

Let's be honest...

Hearing your ex-fiancé make plans to party in your shared room when
you are out of town really puts a damper on everything, especially
your trip.

But what can you do? You don't have the balls to throw her out. Or the
balls for any other part of your life.

Anthony, your lame as fuck. Shut up, grow up, and get your shit
together. All your problems are your problems.

Asshole.

It only took thirty minutes

Navigating the downward passage

Everything's gonna be ok soon, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.

All things being equal, I am a horrible person.

I am also not alone in this. But those people really only show up towards the back of PEOPLE and in the lead stories of the afternoon news. Don't get me wrong, I am not doing the things that put those people in those situations, but close enough.

I get really down on myself in these parts. It is not the place I want to be. It is not the way I want to think of myself. It is my way of coping, a little.

The problem is I can't help myself. I want everything, all of it, every little sip. I don't care who I hurt. I don't care how I look. I don't care if it is right.

I found out my Saturn returns from October 30, 2009 to April 7, 2010.

I am getting a head start on that.

I want to apologize, but I am too selfish and excited to run my life into the ground to worry about it.

Natalie, thanks for helping me realize what I am doing, even if you didn't know you were helping.

Here's to the next few years.

BEAR DOWN!

I am feathered by the moonlight...

I'm sitting outside one of the cleverly named coffee shops on campus.
I am eating almonds. Someone told me once that eating almonds is a
good way to center the soul if you've been feeling uneasy about
things. (*editors note: I made that up. Almonds are good.)

This Counting Crows song is playing: Murder Of One. Great song, but
not a hit, and not one you'd expect to hear out side of Freudian Sip.
(I would have gone the other way with it, Freudian Dick. Sometimes a
sip is actually a dick. Nevermind.)

Back to the song. It has been the soundtrack to, but not the
inspirations for two mini catharsis. One was on the 405 yesterday. My
deciscions are never the best decisions, but they are the right ones
for me. And then the other today. For being independent, I'm pretty
dependant. I always need aproval/encouragement from other people,
sometimes from people I don't like. About art, thoughts, choices,
pants, bedroom tactics, my moustache.

If I keep hearing this Counting Crows song I might be do something
bad, like develop a conscience. Or buy a house.

On an unrelated note, I found myself to be repeatedly making eye
contact with a woman across table area. Some dude just sat down and
put his backpack on the table. Her face is behind the backpack now. I
just got cockblocked by a backpack.

(chelsea said yesterday I hadn't updated in a while, so this is for
her.)

From this Hemingway story...

"I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it - look at
things and try new drinks?"

Yup, thanks.

The Brand New Excitement

(an impartial list)
- tuxedo shirts with Roach
- football with the Bears
- Seattle with Whit
- Texas with my dad
- British Lit with the cute girls
- everyday with the roommates
- crazy new things with people I don't know
- the backyard with Dan
- life with Bill
- drunk texts with imperceptible
- my new fascination with women in Oregon
- thanksgiving with my Mom

Things are awesome out here, come visit and let's play!

This day could someday be an anniversary

The hills are burning. It might be an omen, for the right or wrong decision. I don't really know. The thing is, about this, about all of this, was that when it first started to fall apart, last October, I thought my heart was broken then. I thought I had healed it, that things were getting better. But now that I look back on the last ten months I know that wasn't true. It broke big that day, in the bathroom, but it didn't heal. I just sort of added stuff into the crack, and it fell out. It broke a little more everyday. I did it to myself, which is the part that I don't like to admit. I thought I would be able to fix it, I couldn't. I thought I could look past it, I wouldn't. I thought I could forget it, I can't. To borrow from a friend of mine, to take something from him about something much more important and tragic than this, and try to attach it to something less, "in like a lion, out like a lamb gone astray". I was excited to plan a wedding, I was excited to wear a suit, I was excited to dance to my favorite songs, with my mom and dad and all my friends. I was excited for beer koozies and burritos, bachelor parties, cans on the back of a car, a honeymoon, all of it. And I miss it all right now. A lot.

I know it is right, that I am not getting married today. It isn't her fault. It isn't my fault. It is how the cards were dealt and how they were played. It would have been an epic party, the hills burning, it snowing ash on the bride and groom. It sounds too good to be true. And it is.

I've been running this in my head for months. It isn't a final draft, but I need to get them out of my head, for me.

I remember the first time I saw your smile. I remember the first time I heard your whit. I remember the first time we sat on the couch and shared all those surface level things that make us more of who we are then we care to admit. I remember the first time we got drunk together. I remember the first time we fought. I remember the first time we made up. I remember saying goodbye to you at the airport, and it being one of the saddest days of my life. I remember opening the door to you the day I got back, and how happy I was. I remember waking up in my tent, in my old room, with you, and it feeling perfect. I remember asking you to marry me on the beach that night, and puking afterward. I remember all the downs, and all the ups, all the hot days and the cold ones. I never wanted to spend them with anyone else, and I am glad that starting today, I never have to spend them with anyone else. I love you.

I wanted this to be the song we danced to. I'm sorry no one will ever see it.

About Last Night

Things are not as bad as they seem, or appear, or sound.

I just got through my first week of university, for the second time in
my life. It makes me very happy.

The things that came out last night aren't new, they've been around
but I've been quiet about them, for reasons. I've been fine.

I don't feel the need to explain, just elaborate.

In lieu of flowers please send beer/whiskey donations to me. The
address is up, and to the right.

Come see me, I got a mouth full of words and an empty stomach.

a brief reprise...

The hiatus is over.

I don't have much right now.

I am falling apart apart.

I have a bunch of classes.

I should have been planning a wedding.

I am not.

I will not be.

See you on the 29th.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBdeX9LfJww

did someone say hiatus?

Sounds like a great fucking idea to me! I've got things to deal with, yards to sit in, songs to write, places to put of visiting, vigils to keep, and, oh yeah, money, pills and girls.


"Watching simpsons, afraid to call you..."


It'll only be a couple of weeks, I promise!

I'm sitting on the couch...

thinking about how this weekend is going to be awesome. We just got
Internet at the new house, which helps. Bill is getting married
Saturday, which helps too. Things should come together on Sunday, but
we have all heard me say that before, right?

I am becoming rapidly worn out by working a bunch of days, and my lack
of creativity.

More empty promises.

I am sorry.