June 25, 2007

Old Man Said

Old Man said hope ain’t nothin’ but a prayer to a god i don’t believe

i asked an Old Man how he got to live so long and he said to me don’t be careful with what you’ve got let the crop rot in the field let the clean water run let the weak feel your weight in the Alabama sun don’t be kind or humble or settled of heart bring to bear a heavy weaponshadow.jpg before the static starts learn to lie and deceive and sleep easy with its sting walk with thieves run with murderers and curse the birds when they sing trust the god in your wallet and place your faith in a fiend and steal the bread from the mouths of the children as they bleed remember son that it’s only you whose needs be met live with these words and my long life you’ll get Old Man i said what kind of lies you tellin’ me long life a reward for waste and crime and greed he looked at his hands and the lines on his palms and he sat silent for a while and then his words fell real calm my reward for this life has been long years to bear witness to the seeds i have sown watch them die early long before they had grown or grow up too soon and find solace in a bottle in the money they spend or the pills that they swallow rest their head in a jail and live with the horrors within or in a mind whose fears make it no less a prison see them age with bitterness mean and saddled with sorrow go now son i got another grandchild’s funeral tomorrow


So Johnny took his advice and stole his wallet.


We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

June 18, 2007

When It Pains, It Roars

i paid no attention to my fare, just glided to her softly spoken destination on some kind of earthbound autopilot. i spoke the toll with my eyes on the sideview, and she handed some bills and something else to me over the seat. she was gone before i could say a word. it was dark and the pile felt strange; too many bills for the $12 cab fee, plus something in the pile was too irregular, angular, smooth.

a photograph. i turned it over in the streetlight until i could make it out and remembered where it's from: a cracked plaster cement stairway in a building i've long since left. i remember the morning like yesterday when i found that graffiti scrawled in the stairwell. and i remembered it's author. she was all peroxide lemon yellow blond scattered hair and glass blue eyes, a black biker jacket, a sunflower dress. late one summer night must have been about twenty or so people in that place, most crowded into the kitchen around a keg of beer. she said she liked my haircut and laughed when i asked if she was punk rock. i had it made.

ParkNight.jpg a little while later, she had gotten into one of those quiet fights with her friend, the kind of fight that seethes venom and threatens violence. i remember him grabbing her by the arm and jerking her body towards him. her hair fell into her eyes and, the way her jacket moved, i could see that the shoulder on her sundress had torn. so i took the dare and stepped up to them, telling some lame joke and maybe get him to relax. well, he wasn't having any of that, and he quickly dotted my eye. i stepped back, still with the beer bottle in my hand - neck up, down at my side - and shook my head. i laughed a bit and started to explain myself when he hit me again. i mean, square in the nose this time. see, i had had my right arm at my side with my hand around the neck of the beer bottle. i learned to do that when i was younger. it was a good way to hide it when underage drinking in public, or at least make things less conspicuous. as it turns out, it also allows for a quick swing. i really didn't think about it, it was something more or less like a reflex. the bottle crashed into the side of that motherfucker's head, and he crumpled to the floor of the kitchen bleeding and screaming. a couple of other guys came towards me but stopped short. i looked down at the jagged glass in my hand. by this time, Lemon Yellow was standing behind me, tugging on my shirtsleeve to leave. we left out the back door like some Bonnie and Clyde shit.

we ran down the street and hid behind what? a car? some bushes? something. she asked me how my face felt, and i wanted to say that it hurt but it came out "it pains." we had a laugh about it. we got back to my home, get high, drink wine, sun rise, fall out, wake up…she's got on one of my shirts tied in a knot at the waist. she's in my wallet. i tell her there's $87 and she looks at me like she's gonna cry, and it mighta been cuz she got caught, but i think it's cuz she ain't no thief. i told her to keep it anyway. she says she's sorry, says that she and her boyfriend are catching a bus to New York City. i tell her she should be running from that place, that she should be heading west, that the sun sets too early where she's going. she laughs, leaves.


Can't help but wonder if she ever made it to New York.


We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

June 11, 2007

Rejected

FROM: thadmccone@[deleted].com TO: stclairjohnny@yahoo.com
SUBJECT: Re: i got it…and penicillin ain’t helpin’!!!


Dear Johnny:

Normally, I consult with our editors when considering an individual author’s merits. In that sense, you are unique. Your material went straight to our attorneys and the local sheriff. Not only are we passing, but please allow this letter to serve as a cease and desist notification for all future correspondence between this address and your email address / ISP address.

How dare you, Mr. St. Clair. Was this your idea of a joke? Do you have some kind of personal vendetta against us?reject.JPG Were you raised by wolves? After a mere cursory glance at your submission, it was clear that you not only lacked the skills to work at [deleted], but you lack even a rudimentary grasp on what it means to be civilized. And your “gift” has set off a wild chain of legal repercussions that began with an FBI search of our mailroom, followed by the arrest of Manuel [deleted] – our beloved mailboy who simply signed for the package – and has locked up our legal representation for the next six weeks.

We have friends in high places, Mr. St. Clair, and you have none. You probably even voted against Cheney / Bush in the last election. And for that crime, this, and a host of others, you will answer to us. We’ve sent a fleet of white vans your way, and a flock of black helicopters will be circling your block by sundown. There’s nothing you can do, except pray for it to end soon. Which it won’t.


Sincerely,

Thad McCone
Editor-in-Chief;
[deleted] Magazine
947 Witowski Boulevard
Dartford, NH 22920-1500
(xxx) xxx-xxx EXxxxx
FAX (xxx) xxx-xxxx
thadmccone@[deleted].com

-----Original Message-----
From: stclairjohnny@yahoo.com
Sent: Tuesday, May 29, 2007 11:58 PM
To: thadmccone@[deleted].com
Subject: i got it…and penicillin ain’t helpin’!!!


Dear Thad McCone:


great name ya got there, pal.

anyway. read about your mag and heard it’s looking for a new writer. well, look no further. i got what you need and you don’t even know it yet. dig on my write-up for the new new new Queens record that ain’t even hit the stores yet. it’s a little more intense than what you normally put out, so if you want, i might be able to dial it back a bit. maybe.

no need to thank me for the package either. it’s a gift. share that shit with people at the office there.


Regards,
JSC


The best part is that responses like this only encourage him.


We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

June 4, 2007

Queens of the Stone Age – Era Vulgaris

only a man with an all-access press pass could secure an advance copy of this record and survive the impending destruction that would surely follow. we were somewhere on the outskirts of the city when we’d lost our way. i remember the Doktor saying something like, “there’s a roadblock up ahead,” and wildly swinging the car from the highway into a patch of weeds.

after i’d wiped the blood from my nose, i screamed at him. “are you trying to get us killed?” i said, “we haven’t even done anything wrong!”

“i can’t afford to take any chances,” he said. “you might have tomorrow, but i’ve got today.”

we ended up taking a much longer and much more circuitous route to the porno store. through careful calculations, we deduced that a gross of whippets would be necessary to properly “get through” this new Queens record. and while the Doktor lobbied for whiskey to wash it all down, i convinced him with a few sharp blows to his brow that two cases of Milwaukee’s Best would be more feasible. tying on a beery drunk in a hazy Spring afternoon felt like just about the best thing to do. that, and settle down with this new record.

the son-of-a-bitch was hot, rumored to have been smuggled directly from Josh Homme’s den of iniquity by an Arabian princess and her Thai hermaphrodite lover. how it came into my hands is unclear at best and possibly criminal. but in War Season, these types of crimes – piracy, slavery, murdering the homeless, dogfighting – go largely unnoticed. still, i wasn’t about to let this get into just anyone’s hands. that’s why i kept it in my ass pocket.

“put it on,” he said.

“fuck you. not until we get the whippets and the beer. HA HA. soon, we will be on your porch cracking whippets and whistling at the girls that pass by. step on it. and hand me another beer from the cooler.”

our plan had been to do whippets for each song. the train of thought was something like the number of whippets for each track number: one for #1, two for #2, three for #3, etc. half the beer was gone when the needle first dropped on the groove, and that seemed about right. he had a rather nice set-up, what with the speakers aimed out the windows and a few on his roof, not to mention the two strung up on the light poles on the other side of the street. i remember complimenting him on the sound and the volume. he flashed a rather large, stylish blade at me.

“that better not be some kind of bullshit, St. Clair,” he hissed.

the glint of the sunlight off the blade seemed to blind my eyes and whipped me into some kind of weird, atavistic fury. when i came ‘round, the Doktor and i were in the middle of stomping the mailman. shaking those cobwebs from my head, i helped him up and offered him a beer. he declined, and the mace barely fazed us. we queued up that first song again. and again. and then again. after an hour or so, some wild dogs from the neighborhood had gathered near the stoop, yelping and fucking wildly in broad daylight.

it may or may not have been around the third song when the Doktor tripped on the porch and whacked his head against the railing with a hollow, sickening thud. after that, i don’t remember much, except that when i awoke and brushed the glass out of my hair, i found the Doktor still breathing shallowly. i found that encouraging.

the record was skipping idly somewhere off in the distance.

1. turning on the screw 2. sick, sick, sick 3. i'm designer 4. into the hollow 5. misfit love 6. battery acid 7. make it wit chu 8. 3's & 7's 9. suture up your future 10. river in the road 11. run pig run


listen: Queens of the Stone Age - Era Vulgaris [bonus track]
buy: Queens of the Stone Age records

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

May 28, 2007

Mud Farming

“why are we at the farm?”

“drug deal.”

“oh. well why am i here?”

“you don’t go alone to these kinds of things.”

“oh. who are we waiting on?”

“you need to know?”

“you’re right. well how will we know when he gets here?”

“we won’t. i will. and who said it’s a ‘he’?”

“it’s a bitch? she sexy? this might turn out to be a good day after all.”

“who said it was a girl?”

“you did.”

“i did not.”

“yes you did. yes you did, motherfucker. yes you…”

“no. i didn’t. i didn’t say who it...why am i having this conversation with you?”

“i don’t know.”

“me either. let’s make our way over to pig pen.”

“why there?”

“that’s where i’m meeting him.”

“so it is a guy.”

“…”

“why the pig pen?”

“i don’t know man. cuz i’m a greedy motherfucker. i don’t know.”

“it stinks over there.”goathump.jpg

“it stinks everywhere. we’re on a farm.”

“oooooooo!!! look. goats.”

“yeah.”

“goats are heavy metal. Satan.”

“what are you doing?”

“what’s it look like? i’m climbing the fence.”

“it looks like you’re retarded.”

“hey goats…hey goats…come here little goats…”

“stop it. you’re getting all muddy. you’re gonna fuck up my interior.”

“what?”

“the car. i just had it detailed.”

“hey goats…hey goats…hey, watch this.”

“what are you doing?”

“i’m squeezing it’s belly.”

“why? what the…”

“HA HA!!! check it out.”

“cut it out. you’re shooting goat shit all over the place.”

“HA HA!!! look it. it’s like a machine gun. A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A.”

“come on, get out of there. it’s all over your shoes.”

“that’s funny though, right.”

“no. it’s demented and sad.”

“why you all serious and shit?”

“…”

“i’ve got a booger in my nose. don’t look at me like that.”

“what?”

“i can feel it. my hands are dirty. i gotta go to the john.”

“where?”

“the head.”

“where?”

“the lav. the loo. the water closet. the powder room. the pisser. the fisting room.”

“WHAT?!?”

“be back in a minute. i sense a rare disturbance in my pants.”

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

May 21, 2007

on down the road

the heat can do strange and terrible things to even the healthiest of minds. that said, i've been trying to keep my wits about me, coolin' in the grass until all hours of the night, playin' my radio and drinkin' beer. but last night was too much to take...so i loaded up and headed off in my ride, windows down, Creedence on the stereo. i rode in a huge arc through slightly populated areas on roads that wind like a river bends. after I circled back around and was nearing home, i pulled into the gas station near my place at about 2:30 at night.

"you need a shirt on, man."

"yeah, but you're not even wearing one." i've been coming into this place for years and this guy is always working but i never got his name. he could be the owner for all i know, but it is much more likely he gets paid with old rags and gallons of gas. i thought about telling him there was a paint-huffing party in the woods down by the river. no doubt he would've high-tailed it outta there like a wild hog to water, and i could've had free reign over the stores aisles, loading my pockets with packs of gum and bottles of club soda, having my way with the cash register and pillaging the scratch-off lottery tickets.

"30 bucks."

"huh? what do you want from me?"

"30 bucks man, for the gas, come on...i don't got all day."

i handed him the money without looking, concentrating instead on the $1000-a week-for life ticket that seemed to mock me from its black plastic case, sitting with its brothers and sisters on the roll. could that be the one, i wondered. i imagined grass huts by the beach on a Carribean island, with my girl brading hair by the water, while my seeds ran butt-naked in the sand, and i sold mango juice to the tourists. the gas station attendant snapped me back to reality...he was enamored of the rather large wooden cross i wore around my neck on a thin leather strap fashioned from the skin of wolves.

"that's a nice van out there...it would look good with a big Aztec warrior airbrushed on the side. my cousin is real good with detailing. he'll hook you up."

sky.jpg"i bet he would."

"hey man, how's your girl?"

"my girl?"

"yeah...that girl i see you with sometimes."

"that ain't my girl."

"no?"

"fuck no."

"you act like it's your girl."

"well it fuckin’ ain’t.” i had to spit.

"i'd make her my girl, homes.”

"i'm done with this."

"here, take this."

he held out a closed fist and opened it once my outstretched palm was underneath. he took his free hand and closed my hand into a fist, looked me in the eye and nodded. whatever the fuck it was, it seemed important, and i slipped it into my back pocket and didn't look at it until i got the fuck outta dodge.

it was time to go. i longed to get behind the wheel and let the tires eat the white lines on the road... just go, just drive...watch all this melt away behind me. i lifted the latch on the door to get in, and nothing. i pulled again, harder this time. nothing. i lifted the handle and then added more force, pulling upward. i stepped back to examine the door, it's outline, the van itself. i pulled on the handle yet again. nothing. i tried and tried, gentler at first, then more violently. i punched the door, pushed it in, pulled it. i yanked on the handle wildly, teeth bared. Nothing.

out here there were no stars.

i stopped and listened to the gentle cadence of cricket bows in warm August night. hands folded on cool metal, i leaned in and rested my forehead on the backs of my fingers.

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

May 14, 2007

3rd st

where i hid with you from the rain under a pine tree and the others, they all danced around in the sun’s last light and i swear i could read that whole story in the needles of the tree up above

wwmhb.jpgwhen we slow danced in the headlights of a parked car down the road

how the air hung lazy around yellow street lights and crumbling redbrick buildings in summer nighttime sky, with the fog rolling in from rain two hours gone

baseball games on radio

fireflies and neon pizza signs

what the shadows looked like back around your grandma’s house, running from the old folks and the cars in the street settled down to a low hum and alls was left was whispers and your breath

what your dad said, that the millsmoke couldn’t be bad because it meant people were working and soon they’d file out of the plant like blood spilling when the shifts change

bikes trace slow circles

scratching pebbles in the cement

how your mom would be standing under a white porch light, hollering down the block and across avenues and around corners for you to come home

when your hand slid into mine without a word

where we sat on the table top of a splintered red park bench in July moonlight and i was trembling after the laughter and nothing was left except you and everything else we never said

i saw you across a crowded room a few weeks ago

you look rich now, guess you drive a big car

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

May 7, 2007

will our ball club win the pennant?

“you mind?”

i looked in the rearview quickly and shook my head. “it’s your dime.”

“thanks.”

i glanced back now and again but never for very long and never let him catch me looking. there was a slow sadness to his actions and there wasn’t much to clean up after he was through.

“i’m in no hurry,” he said, “so if you wanna take your time…”

“ok.”

“it’s been a long time with this shit,” he said.

i nodded.

“long time. sad, ain’t it?”

“it doesn’t sound like fun anymore,” i said.

“it hasn’t been fun for forever.”

“you should quit then.”

“i do every once in a while, but it never lasts long. it always comes back.”

“how long has it been?”

“the better part of thirty years.”

“wow.”

“yeah. ‘wow.’”

“i don’t mean to pry, but is that why you’re going there today?”

“me? no. no, my old man is there.”

“oh.”

“black lung. he was a coal miner and that’s the thanks he gets. like he was a sponge that we all kept using on and using on until there wasn’t nothing left.”

“sorry about that.”

“that’s alright. you don’t have to be sorry. just talkin’. i don’t get to do much of that nowadays anymore.”

“no?”carsrollby.bmp

“naw. my old man with all the tubes and shit. and my wife don’t even look my ways half the time. mostly, it’s just me and that shit. i can’t really talk to anyone else.”

“sometimes you just need to change your whole scenery, ya know, you’re whole way of doing things, ya know…your playground, your playmates, your playthings. just get away…” i was just reading something about that, and i felt like i might know something he didn’t. but i was wrong.

“what are you some kind of counselor?”

“no, i…”

“you some kinda religious nut?

“it’s just…”

“awww, i’m just fuckin’ with you.” he was laughing slowly. “hey, man, you’re not telling me anything i don’t know is all.”

“it’s just shit i’ve heard anyway. the fuck do i know.”

“i’d like to do that, you know. i really would. i really would. get a place, maybe by the ocean. get a job, find myself a girl. talk a little jive. i like to think i got a little poetry in my heart.”

“then do it. i mean, it’s easy for me to say, but just go.”

“i can’t.”

“your old man?”

“yeah, that’s part of it. and my wife, too.”

“but i thought you said…”

“yeah, man, but it ain’t ever just that simple. i wish it was, but it ain’t, ya know. and then there’s my momma’s grave. who would mow that cemetery plot?” he tapped on the window. “it’s not a lot, but it’s what i got. besides, leaving – that would be too selfish.”

“selfish?”

“feels like i would be. like i was doing something just for me and everyone else be damned. just seems selfish. and anyways, who would everyone have to blame?” he laughed again.

“i don’t know man. selfish? i don’t think it would be selfish.”

“hey man, if that’s the strangest thing you think i’m feelin’, then…”

“you think you’ll try again?”

“probably. but it won’t matter much. but there’s always that chance, always that hope you hold out for. but like what you said before, it’s just too easy for me around here.”

“we’re almost there. what do you want me to do?”

“ok. let me out on the other side of the bridge.”

“what do you mean?”

“it’s ok. it’s spring time, and the sun is shining. i just wanna walk a ways.”

“you sure? alright. this is you.”

“’preciate it. thanks for the ear.”

“no problem. and good luck to you and your pops.”

“he’ll be alright. who knows, man. maybe one day, i’ll get away, too.”

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

April 30, 2007

i told you it was wrong, and other gambling disasters

as soon as i got my official Faster Than The World press credentials, i immediately called the Doktor to gloat. he said nothing on the phone, which i initially took as rather rude even from his ignorant ass. it seems that he dropped the phone and raced to my place with, among other things, a tape recorder. he was very persuasive that we leave at once and test the limits of my new found authority, or something like that. the following is a vague recollection of the Super Bowl week.



DATELINE: January 28, 2007. 11:58 PM. somewhere in Pittsburgh.

i show him the press pass. “well?”

[
strange rumblings, broken glass, a few dull thuds]

“you hit me with a
fuckin’ bat?”

“get your shoes on. we’ve got business to attend.”

“alright. fuck. where are we going?”

“Miami.”

“well, that’s all you had to say.”



DATELINE: January 29, 2007. 8:03 AM. Portland, Maine.

johnnypass.jpg “welcome to…Portland? what the…Portland!”

“damm…this compass is worthless.”

“Portland? you drove to fuckin’ Portland?”

“well you were no help.”

“I WAS SLEEPING!!!”

“exactly. man i drive like Steve McQueen.”



DATELINE: January 29, 2007. 2:17 PM. somewhere outside of Philadelphia.

“license and registration.”

“it’s cool, officer, seriously. johnny, show him the pass.”



DATELINE: January 29, 2007. 2:19 PM. somewhere just a bit further outside of Philadelphia.

“how come they’re chasing us.”

“relax. i bet it’s just a police escort. we’re like royalty.”

“you sure?”

“totally.”

“why are they behind us then?”

“i dunno. it’ll be a goddamm miracle if we make it there on time.”



DATELINE: January 30, 2007. 12:27 AM. around Walterboro, South Carolina. i think.

“here comes a pick-up. keep your thumb out and look sad.”

“what are we gonna do about my car?”

“sorry about that.”

“we can’t just leave it here, can we? i mean, it’s still on fire.”

“shut up and look sad. HEY!!! HEY!!!”

“you boys need a ride?”

“yeah, we’ll take it as far as you’re goin’.”

mmm hmmm. the other one’s gotta ride in the back. but you ride up in the cab with me. you got a pretty mouth, boy.”

“whoa. johnny, show her the pass.”

“i don’t think i really need to.”

“you heard what she said.”

“yeah.”

“well?”

“well i don’t want to abuse my power, you know. so…”

“come on boy.”

“i’ll be in the back if you need me.”



DATELINE: January 30, 2007. 9:11 AM. on the dais at Dolphin Stadium, Miami.

“yo…we made it. meet the press, motherfuckers.”

“wow…look at all the cameras and shit.”

“HEY!!!”

“it’s cool…we’ve got credentials. check it out.”

“GET OFF OF THE STAGE YOU TWO!!!”

“look…it’s Peyton Manning. hey Peyton. Peyton. yeah…a couple of questions for ya. it’s ok, i’m with the press. seriously.”

Peyton%20Manning%20pic.jpg
“SECURITY!!!”

“yeah, uh, does the back of your hand smell from taking snaps under center? if so, after about how many? and when is it the worst?”



DATELINE: January 30, 2007. noon-ish. on the way to Miami-Dade county jail.

“alright. remember…we can survive this.”

“what the fuck are you talking about? we’re going to the county for a few hours.”

“don’t protest. it only makes them feel better.”

“what?”

“start growing your thumbnails.”

“look…i’ll call [
deleted], he’s got a boat down here. if we’re lucky, he’ll post our bail once it’s set, and in a few hours, we’ll be out.”

“man. as soon as we get in, i’m puttin’ some bread in the toilet and makin’ that jailhouse wine.”



DATELINE: January 31, 2007. 3:26 AM. on the way out of Miami-Dade county jail.

[
breathes deep] “you smell that johnny?”

“no.”

“ah. that’s freedom.”

“damm…where’s my press pass?”

“don’t worry. contraband. i didn’t want The Man confiscating it. i took care of it.”

“you did?”

“yeah. i’ll get it after we eat.”



DATELINE: January 31, 2007. 7:33 AM. back in Miami. i think.

“motel time…how about that one?”

“sure.”

“it’s close to the bus stop.”

“indeed it is.”

“where are we?”

“i don’t know.”

“las hojas sucias por la playa.”

“wow. you’re all Spanish and shit.”

“yeah man.”

“sounds classy. must be a four-star.”

“wait until they see your press pass.”

“we’re gonna be like royalty here.”



DATELINE: February 1, 2007. the less said about it, the better.



DATELINE: February 2, 2007. 10:45 PM. south beach.

“i think we’re kinda early.”

“i know, but this is where he said.”

“i can’t believe Snoop said he’d hook us for this Playboy party. man…that press pass is working wonders.”

“i didn’t tell him about that. he’s a big Steelers fan. me and Snoop go back.”

“how far back?”

“way back.”

“shhhh…act serious. Ladies, ladies, good evening.”

“they’re smiling. they must not understand English.”

“relax. i got this. now, Ladies, who wants to see if the groundhog in my pants casts a shadow?”



DATELINE: February 3, 2007. 4:32 PM. south beach.

dirty-beach-02.jpg“listen, Officer, sir…i don’t know that guy at all.”

“well, he says you came to Miami together.”

“yeah, well, he’s a liar.”

“he said you guys are down here covering the Super Bowl.”

“we’re not…i mean we are. what i mean is, no one is supposed to know. it’s highly confidential. top secret. Patriot Act-type shit, you know. but i told him not to do it, ok. i told him, ‘you better not. you better not even touch it,’ you know. but sometimes there’s no reasoning with him. he’s an animal. the sooner you lock him up, the better.”

“he says you’ve got some kind of press credentials, immunity from prosecution or something-or-other.”

“i did…well, i do. but you don’t wanna get your hands on it. better that you don’t even know. better that NO ONE knows about this, you know what i mean? i’d hate for you to get the federalés on your back.”

“right.”



DATELINE: February 4, 2007. 6:28 PM. Dolphin Stadium.

"let's walk down this way."

"uh oh...be cool."

"hey look. it's Prince."

"oh shit...hey watch this. Prince. Prince, hey. Pancakes, bitches. ha Ha!!!"

"SECURITY!!!"

Somtimes is just best to not ask too many questions about Johnny

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

April 24, 2007

pussy

it was a long-gone Tuesday, and i was on my way to a place where i used to work when i came across a cat that’d been hit in the street. i remember expecting it sooner or later. where it happened, there was an old lady who let her cats run wild. when the weather broke, there were kittens all over her front steps. this scene, i remember thinking, was just a matter of time.

burntblue.jpgi remember hesitating for a moment before i pulled the car to the side of the street and got out. cars slid by my ride’s window and when things cleared, i got out and walked over to her on the sidewalk in the rain. still looking out at the damage in the street, i told her i was sorry.

she was crying softly.

without another word, i walked over to the middle of this busy city side street and looked down. i was scared to touch it – half-expecting it to jump up and claw at me or sink it’s teeth into my hand. in another world, i would have poked at it with a stick or nudged it with the toe of my shoe to be sure it wasn’t alive. but not on that day. i let my fingertips scrape the pavement as i slowly slid my hands underneath its body and cradled it to my chest.

i remember not wanting to let her know about the blood on my hands, not wanting her to feel bad about it. that would have been rude. and when she asked me to dig the grave, i couldn’t have refused. besides, the earth was soft from the rain and the flowers in the garden were just beginning to bloom. it was going to be easy for me and it felt good to be outside in spite of all the rain. that was another thing i didn’t want her to know.

i remember getting to work with blood on my shirt. there was mud on my pants, too, but that would have washed away soon enough.

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

April 16, 2007

a hard lesson in politics

i had to go to one of those chain retail stores to take back something. and i swear it wasn’t stolen merchandise. anyway, i went in the front doors and over to the return counter. the girl who was working, she was talking with a middle-aged lady over on the other side of the counter. so i sat down in one of the ‘job opportunity’ kiosks and became vaguely depressed that the place drug tests.

these two guys walk in and i notice the one sit down at the kiosk opposite me. the other guy goes directly to the counter. he looks at me, looks at the girl, and then back at me again.

“hey man,” he says, leaning lazily on the counter, “that your girl?”

the clown is wearing a headband pulled down over the tops of his ears. his hair isn’t combed, got lint in it. he’s got a neck tattoo, one arm in his jacket – this big leather-type thing – with the other half just brushing the floor. yellow teeth. fingerprints and smears all over his wire-rim glasses. and he needs to pull his pants up.

i look over at her. she doesn’t seem to notice.

“naw man,” i say, “that’s my little sister.”

“oh yeah?” he rubs what scraggly chin beard he’s got. it could be leftover pubic hair. i don’t know. “how old is she?”

“i don’t know,” i say, “twenty?”

“yeah. she got a boyfriend?”

“huh?”

“does she talk to…”

“yeah man. big motherfucker. Big. crazy, too. my moms don’t even let him in the house no more.”

angrywoman.bmp“word?”

“word. and he ran my dog over, too. RIGHT IN THE DRIVEWAY!!!"

“aiight. i get wit’chu later,” he said, and put out his fist.

i’ve never really been good with those types of pleasantries, and i just shook his fist with my outstretched hand. he threw his hands up to the girl, nodded his head, and he and his buddy headed towards the cash registers to no doubt menace some more girls working hard for minimum wage.

after the girl behind the counter finished with the old lady on the other side, she made her way over to me. i laid out the merchandise and my story about a bad gift. when she asked for it, i handed her my license and made some wisecrack about the guy who just left.

“he’s been in and out of here for about a month. he keeps trying to get me to go out with him, and i keep telling him ‘no.’ he’ll be back, though. i should tell security.”

“i don’t think he’s coming back,” i said.

“and why is that?”

“i told him you had a boyfriend.”

“oh you did?”

“yeah,” i tried to laugh, “i told him i was your brother and you had a big, crazy boyfriend. he got outta here pretty quick after that.”

“what the fuck did you do that for?”

“excuse me?” i tried to laugh again. “i was just…i mean, it seemed…”

“look, motherfucker, i don’t need no one to do shit for me, ok? i pay my own motherfuckin’ bills. i got my own motherfuckin’ place, ok. i’m a grown-ass woman. i can take care of my own motherfuckin’ problems. i don’t need no one to look after me, especially some brokedown lookin’ motherfucker like you.”

“i was…”

“I WA – I WA – I WA!!! just listen to your stutterin’ ass. what makes you think you can do shit for me? hmmm? here,” she threw my license across the counter. “get your shit and get the hell outta here before i call security. stupid motherfucker.”

so after that, you know, i just kinda stumbled towards the door in a daze most familiar to boxers, crash tests dummies, and mass-transit riders. it wasn’t until i was outside the front doors, distractedly bumping into people waiting for the bus, that i realized i’d forgotten my merchandise.

i went back to the counter and reminded the girl – in the most pleasant way possible – that i’d left my unreturned goods behind.

“what kind of sorry ass shit is that? huh? even that other motherfucker’s got better lines than you. ‘you forgot your merchandise.’ please. i got a good mind to mace your crazy ass. you know what, where’s the motherfuckin’ phone at? i’m callin’ security. and i’m havin’ them call the police.”

i don’t need anyone to tell me when i’ve worn out my welcome – i’m sensitive to that type of shit. still, plenty in the general vicinity were able to hear her remind me that the whole incident was caught on the security tape.

Johnny has forgotten his shit many times in the chase of a good piece of pussy....

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April 9, 2007

the fix is in

i’m looking for these kids.

right now, those savage little bastards are probably crouching behind bushes, half-naked in this foul-weather, waiting to pounce on mailmen or brush salesmen or elderly mothers on their way to serve free lunches at the church. i’m sure i heard their terrible screams just the other night, along with the lonesome wail of a three-legged dog they were no doubt menacing with a fireplace poker.

i had picked up this old man and was taking him across the river to “137 Patterson, my Missus place.” it’s a mostly residential area where he wanted to go, with some row houses here and there and a bunch of houses packed really closely together. so, i’m driving through the side streets, and it’s a really slow go. cars pretty much lined both sides of those narrow-ass streets. there’s a stop sign on every corner. i got to one of them – an intersection with a hill running north to south – and the car just gets fucking pounded with snowballs. must have been a dozen or better.

BadFinger.jpgthe juvenile delinquents were up the hill a little ways, but they weren’t trying to hide or anything. they were all laughing, baring their hideous yellow teeth sharp as razor claws. i opened up the car door and managed to stand with one leg outside of the vehicle before the snowballs began to fly again, and i had to hurriedly duck back inside. this time, they were gunning for my head. snow spattered against the driver’s-side window and ricocheted off the door. one or two managed to explode and scatter snow all over my seat. it wasn’t long after i sat down again that my marbles were soaked and cold from melted snow.

i cursed their mothers and the days they were born.

the old man in the back, well, he just started chuckling. “i’m gonna get them,” i told him, “matter of fact…” i turned the wheel to head up the hill after them, but the old man gave a shout.

“hey,” he said, “the meter’s running.”

he was right. those unnatural little punks were still grinning up at the top of the hill. most of them had their arms at their sides, but a few were hunched over, scooping small piles of snow together and getting ready for another assault. i eyed them warily as i pulled away.

the old man was still chuckling in the backseat. “that shit ain’t funny. someone could’ve been killed.” i said.

“come on,” he said, “it wasn’t like they were throwing rocks from a highway overpass.”

“i’m not talking about me getting killed. I’M TALKING ABOUT THEM!!!”

later, just before he got out of the cab, he put his hand on my shoulder and he said, “the good in a man is revealed by how he treats the least of those amongst him.”

with that, he got out of the car, ambled slowly up the steps to his Missus’s place, and casually tossed a snowball down onto the hood of my car before he disappeared in the doorway.

yeah. so like i said…i’m looking for these kids.

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives

April 2, 2007

overpass

kim%20atlin_overpass.jpgrush hour on the parkway is for suckers. that’s why my ride to work is all side streets and forgotten boulevards. it takes me by this one spot where a graffiti vandal stained the stone under an overpass with the last name of our president. and while the Doktor and i rarely see eye to eye, he agreed that the graffiti would be much classier if it had the word ‘fuck’ above it.

we traveled old-school style, picking up a can of ‘whisper white’ Krylon at the hardware store before catching the 35f downtown. we got off and walked about a mile to the overpass, up an aged stairway that commuters used back in the good old days, and back to that towering abomination. the spot was fairly overgrown with weeds and liberally littered with beer cans.

i took the paint out of my backpack, started shaking, and got the balls rolling. a smashed beer can clanged near my feet and slid on the gravel and into the weeds.

“what the fuck?”

“junkies?”

a spotlight light shone suddenly from our left. i turned towards the Doktor and saw my shadow splayed ominously on the ground to his right.

“it’s the cops,” he said.

“what?”

“the Man! WE WILL LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY…” he croaked as he hopped a rusted fence and tumbled down a steep embankment to the boulevard below. i was just like, fuck it, dropped the paint can, and reached for the sky.

“what’s goin’ on?” i said.

after a moment, i was able to make out the shape of a police cruiser against the neon lights from the street below. the officer walked towards me until i could see the whites of his eyes against this foul blackness. we stood there for a moment, i with my hands in the air, surveying the situation. he broke stare first and turned to look at the handiwork of the vandals.

“coming down here to add to that?” he said and nodded to the writing on the wall. he patted my pockets, my waistband, the small of my back, my sides…unzipped the backpack and took a quick look inside.

“can i put my hands down?”

he didn’t say anything, so i took that as a ‘yes’ and put them down. slowly.

“can i see some identification?”

all i had was an expired driver’s license, but at this point, i figured that could be the least of my problems. let’s face it, he could have taken me down for any number of crimes that i did in the past. make a few up, even. i’ve willfully committed innumerable misdemeanors and a felony or seven along the way and have emerged relatively unscathed. this would be poetic justice. i’m guilty…i confess…why not beat me into a puddle of my own piss and blood and spare the taxpayers a lengthy trial.

“Johnny St. Clair? you have any drugs in that backpack?”

“no sir, they’re at home with the guns.”

“wait right here.”

when he returned, he had a a string of beers in his left hand and my i.d. in his right. he returned the i.d. and kept his eyes on me as he opened a beer and took a sip.

“that’s a nice perk,” i said.

“yeah…i’m off duty. sometimes we come down here when the shift is over.”

i watched him drink and looked back at the wall. of the many lessons i’ve learned in this foul and wretched life, few are surer than accepting as gospel the word of a man with a loaded gun. so when he asked if i’d like a beer, i thought it would be rude and imprudent to refuse.

“my brother did that,” he said and nodded to the five-foot letters on the cement.

“oh yeah.”

“he’s overseas now.”

“vacation?”

“yeah…with the army.”

“Iraq?”

“yeah…they told him he was going to help with the elections. that was a while ago.”

“have you talked to him?”

“no…got a letter at Christmas.”

i sat silent for a moment and sipped the beer. “so…cops run in the family?”

“he’s not my blood,” he said. “so what’s up with the spray paint? you and your buddy have an arts and crafts fair you were planning on attending? or were you guys just gonna paint each other up real nice here under the bridge?” he got a real kick out of that shit.

“i was thinking about a change of scenery. since i have to drive by here every morning on my way to a dead-end job…i figured seeing ‘Fuck Bush’ in giant letters would be a sure fire way to cheer me the fuck up.”

i braced for the mace but it never came. he half-laughed. “you know, you get raised to believe in God and Country…”

“and look what he’s doing to it?”

“what do you mean?”

“i mean…”

…now, i didn’t feature droppin’ the heavy shit on johnny law, but what was i supposed to say? where do i even start? do i tell him about the fear? do i tell him about God? about evil? about war-mongering? hijacking religion? about trust? belief? God-mandates? principles? a soul? how about i come off as arrogant and call them all stupid? huh? that’ll work, right? maybe i’ll just jump right into labels – liberal and conservative, Democrat and Republican, rich and poor, have and have-nots, young and old, right and wrong…that shit’s the same old song.

“i mean…” i continued, “i don’t even know what i mean anymore. this whole mess just seems unhealthy.”

“when hasn’t it been?”

“but now it seems worse.”

“you walk around these streets lately?”

“that’s part of it. your brother went off to war for people and reasons that have nothing to do with him.”

“but look at the alternative?”

“what?”

“you might be right…they probably don’t give a shit about where he comes from, or the problems we have right here, on this block, in this city, in this country even.”

“exactly.”

“and it might really be all about money…”

“it is…i mean, the president of Afghanistan is a former employee of a Halliburton sub-…”

“whatever…that don’t mean a goddamm thing to me.”

“so what’s your point?”

“my point is…is if this war really is a lie…then my brother has to fight because of that lie all the same. he has to believe in what that man says,” he nodded to the wall, “he has to believe in his country, in what he’s doing.”

“i don’t get it.”

ambush.bmp“you don’t have to because you’re not over there. and i hope you and yours don’t ever have to go…”

“yeah, but he didn’t have to go either. he knew what he was getting into when he signed up for the service. what…did he expect a holiday in the sun?”

“he’s just trying to do the right thing.”

“i don’t know, man, everybody should be trying to do the right thing. sometimes, shit just seems so wrong…”

“do you remember what you felt on September 11?”

“i couldn’t wrap my head around it…”

“when the second plane hit the tower…”

“i thought shit was going down that night...like, when the sun went down, evil was coming out of the woodwork.”

“it felt like the beginning of the end…”

“maybe it was. looking back now, we had to be blind not to see all the trouble that was seething just below the surface.”

“who saw all this shit coming anyway? besides, that’s not even what i’m saying…i mean he has to believe, because what’s the alternative? that he could die for an ignoble cause? that he is willing to sacrifice life and limb…for what? he has to believe in the tradition…of the nobility of the cause, of the soldier. because if he doesn’t, and he dies, then he dies without purpose. as fucked up as it is now, he has to believe that it can be right again one day…”

“ignoble? that’s a big word for the police.”

he laughed. “if you got some big fuckin’ secret, why don’t you show me something. what’s your big plan? to write the ‘fuck’ word?”

“it would have been if i didn’t get caught by the cops.”

“come on, man, write something.”

“what? like ‘fuck?’”

“something better.”

“i guess we could turn ‘bush’ into something else.”

“okay, smart guy, write on.”

“yeah, but like what though?” i thought for a moment. “how about ‘ambush?’ as in ‘that cheap motherfucker ambushed a nation.’”

“too cliché.”

“who says cops are stupid?”

“criminals that get caught.”

“point taken. not ‘ambush’ then. alright…” i thought again and took another beer. it’s always nice drinking outside in the nighttime. “i got it. ‘a bus has potential.’”

“what?”

“’a bus has potential.’ i’ll write it in all capital block letters, no spaces.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?”

“i don’t know. get on the bus. take the ride. a community endeavor. a little unity. some positive shit, you know…that shit’s got potential.”

“arguably the most important societal advancement of the twentieth century got a shot in the arm from an incident on a bus.”

“you right, you right…plus there was that whole hippie thing with the merry pranksters.”

“what?”

“nevermind, copper.”

“a bus has potential. i like that.”

i got the ball rolling around in that paint can again. in block letters…whisper white…ABUSHASPOTENTIAL.

after, i took another beer and we stood in silence, looking at the wall. the cop and i shot the breeze about nothing in particular until an unmuffled exhaust and a dusty horn blared from the street below. i could hear the Doktor yell, “!!!odelay!!! where you at, homes?” if he found me consorting with the enemy…i shudder to think.

“sounds like my ride. this is a cool spot to hangout, though…mind if i come back?”

“sure,” the man said, “make sure you come back when there are a bunch of cops around. we can play Rodney King.”

“ha.”

i shambled down to the blacktop and found the Doktor in the bed of a beat-up pickup truck. the cab was loaded with young women who looked vaguely Mexican or Puerto Rican.

“thought you got arrested,” he said.

“naw…i tied the cop up and shoved him in the back of the cruiser.”

“did you get his radio. i need a fuckin’ police radio, yo.”

“we’ll go back later and get it.”

“how we gonna get there? you ain’t got no car.”

“we’ll take the bus.”

“the bus?”

“the bus, baby. it’s got potential.”

Johnny St. Clair's latest showing can be seen underneath the 405 on Ohio Ave starting this Friday and continue until someone brings a sandblaster down to clean it off

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March 26, 2007

no time for Sunday afternoons

i had just come out of the store when i saw her, standing there, waiting by the avenue with one or two others. i had the black bottle of red wine in my hand, wrapped in a twisted brown bag, tapping it gently against my leg. she was waiting with a handled red shopping bag in her hand, like the kind i’ve seen girls with before…from one of those stores, probably, where i’d be loathe to enter. and even if i did, i’d be the white trash the cool kids invited to the party and couldn’t believe actually showed up.

so she’s there – her hand tucked neatly into her jacket pocket, her other hand hanging at her side, attached to that bag, and whatever secrets it held – just looking down the road, waiting for something

and i got transfixed like i always do, and just stood there outside the cab watching and disappearing while she and the other ones stepped back to allow an oncoming bus to slow at the stop. when the driver figured that they – this girl and the other ones – that they weren’t gonna get on, he started away again. and it’s the craziest thing, but i swear that she and one of the other ones hopped on the back of the bus. there were these silver metal bars bolted onto the back, like handles, and she and one of the other ones hopped onto the bus’s bumper as it was slowly pulling away from the curb. the driver, i don’t know, it was like he knew they were back there. he must’ve stepped on the gas, because the bus really started to motor down the road. but that girl, she was just hanging on with one hand, and i swear that just before it rounded the bend, she threw her head back and laughed and, before the whole scene went out of sight, i don’t even think i saw her holding on anymore.
Autumn%20Street%20-%20John%20Harrell.jpg
still, even when it was outta sight, i was standing there with the bottle in my hand, this mid-range merlot i just picked up at the liquor store. i was gonna save it for later on, but it was a blue sky fall afternoon with the leaves all golden and red and blowing, so what the fuck, right. i had an opener in the cab, cuz a driver has to be prepared, and unwrapped and uncorked it right then. just a swig while i leaned against the trunk of the cab in open sky parking lot daylight.

this one meter maid, though, she was givin’ me the eyeballs…i guess it had something to do with keys in my hand and drinking in broad public. and i understand, or at least i understood, and tipped my hat before putting the cork halfway back in the bottle, in the bag, and back into the car.

i took a little ride before i headed back to the garage, and pulled in to that same meter maid. she was peering into the car, trying to adjust tired eyes from her darkened vantage point to the bright light from where i was coming. so she sees it's me, and she starts motioning, and she’s right there with my boss, and i’m all well, shit, it’s goin’ down.

the boss, he’s basically a good dude. after he gives me the ear-beatin’ in front of this lady, he pulls me into the office and starts singin’ the blues about policy and protocol and whatever else middle-management horseshit he has to deal with. i know what it looks like - drinking on the job - and i’d seen enough heartache for one day. so i just took the hit and the days without pay to save him some grief.

it was raining by the time i was leaving the garage and it slanted in through the open door. i saw that meter maid and waved, but i don’t think she’ll wave back no more.

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March 19, 2007

over the hump

there is an old lady who lives in my building. she has two dogs – one, the black one, is a Labrador and the other, newer one, is a Pit Bull. i usually see her mornings, when i’m coming home from work, and she is taking the dogs out for a walk.

mostly, those two animals run her roughshod over the parking lot and strips of grass that surround the building. i get a malicious kind of joy watching her follow the dogs, anticipating a shit with a few sheets of newspaper. when one of them humps over, she quickly splays the paper down on the ground under the dog’s ass. one time, she got all tangled up in leashes when one dog was tryin’ to cop a squat and the other crossed over to sniff its ass.

i’m basically nice to the old broad because – let’s be honest – she could have me arrested for any number of felonies that occur in and around my place on a regular basis.

and therein lies my problem.

pitbullface.bmplast Sunday morning, i was coming home from work and i’m extra pissed because of the jump to Daylight Savings Time. she’s out and about with her two animals, only this time, she’s in between me and the stairwell doorway. i’m not feeling much like a chit-chat, but for fuck’s sake, i can at least try and be cordial.

not long after she begins, the Pit starts bumping my hand with its nose. i tried to pet it, but it’s half-biting at my hand and slobbering all over the place. as soon as i stopped, it reared up and put its front paws on my arm, starts barking in my face. the old lady tried as best she could to get the dog down and apologized all the while for getting my suit muddy. i was about to tell her it wasn’t a big deal, when i was caught mid-sentence by a whack to my balls. the Pit had buried its nose in my crotch.

it was an awkward situation to say the least. i pushed the dog away as best i could, but it growled at me and bared its teeth. the old lady had become distracted with the Lab, who was painfully trying to shit on the asphalt in the parking lot. and to be honest with you, i was too. not shitting in the parking lot, you twisted fuckers, i mean watching the dog do its business. that shit is funny. you’ve seen it before, when a dog’s taking a crap, it looks out of the corners of its eyes like its all scared or something. anyway…while i’m laughing up my sleeve at the dog, the other one – the Pit – grabs hold of my left leg and starts going to town.

“whoa. Whoa!!! a little help here,” i said.

the old lady begins laughing. “looks like you two are getting along just fine.”

i tried to shake my leg and shake the dog loose to no avail. it stopped moving only long enough to look me in the eyes and growl. and when i reached down to push it off, it snapped viciously at my hand, never breaking its rhythm.

“when he gets like this, he’s like a wrecking machine and twice as dangerous. it’s best just to let him finish off.”

Finish Off? what kind of sick and twisted place have i decided to call home? i live in the company of fiends. monsters in old ladies’ clothes. wild animals. right-wing pigeons. chronic cough syrup abusers. human smugglers. mongers. mouth breathers. witchdoctors. identity thieves. shylocks. forgery artists. lottery addicts. mailbox vandals. aging hookers. gun runners. fashion victims. acid casualties. young republicans. bad tippers. poachers. sexual deviants. litterbugs. art school dropouts. poor sports. lawyers. video bootleggers. scofflaws. new wave crack baby criminals. dimestore hoods. hooligans, thugs, gangsters, muggers, ruffians, brutes, and heavies.

the last thing you’d want to do is let these people know that you’ll roll over, cuz once you do, they’ll come to expect it. and their dogs ain't no different.

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March 12, 2007

sex film bomb

“why did i have to meet you here? you thinking of finishing your degree?”

the Doktor breathes deep. “you smell that?”

“yeah, sure. what’s it…like a grill or something. a little bit of garlic. smells good. i’m hungry, let’s get a taco.”

“no, you asshole. look around you,” he points here and there to some girls walking along paths between buildings. “that smell.”

“yeah.”

“that’s pussy.”

“really.”

“yes.”

“well, thank you for that little bit of information. hey, uh…what the fuck are you on anyway?”

“me? i’m only high on life, my friend, high on life. ah, yes. just look around you. college life. wealth. privilege. naïveté. the opportunities are wide open here. this place is largely untouched…full of young, nubile, innocent female minds, yearning to broaden their horizions and…”

“it’s ripe for a scam.”

“precisely.”

“yeah, well you can find some other lackey, ok, cuz the last time you had something foolproof, i came down with dysentery and nearly lost my pinky finger.”

“i didn’t know she was prone to seizures."

“well, whatever. count me the fuck out.”

“look at you. all riled up and you don’t even know why. hey…would i ever steer you wrong? hmmm? don’t i look out for you? hmmm? who pulled you out of that burning building?”

“BUT YOU LIT IT, MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

“my point is, i wouldn’t get you into something that wasn’t a 100% guaranteed, A-1, no-brainer money maker.”

“i get half?”

“there’d be no other way.”

“alright. i got crowd control.”

“PUT THAT THING AWAY!!! Christ, can you be a little more business-like for one minute?”

“what do you mean? this lets people know that you mean business. check out the business end.”

“stop that. STOP THAT. put that away. now…just follow my lead, ok? hit the ‘down’ button.”

“you go down a lot, don’t you?”

“shut up. be professional.”

“word.”

we wait in silence. the elevator seems to be taking an inordinate amount of time, and some people have begun milling about, waiting for the car to take us all south. when it arrives, we step on and i cordially hold the door for some stragglers.

as i am surveying the scene, the Doktor says, “35 millimeter.”

“what?” i say.

“the cameras,” he says, rather loudly. “i’ve got them out in the van.”

“huh? oh. OH!!! the cameras. right. sure. in the van. gotcha.”

“yeah,” he says, “we’ve got the house for the weekend. it’s laid out. Lance is gonna shoot this one.” the elevator stops and a few people get off but no one else gets on. the car continues on it’s way.

“Lance,” i say, “i like him. cool guy.”

“yeah…it’s a pretty big budget, considering. all we need now is another actress.”

“who are the others?” i say. the Doktor doesn’t answer, but looks at me sideways, then full-on. he’s gritting his teeth together, and nodding his head towards a Blonde standing next to him. “hello,” i say to her, but she just rolls her eyes and looks at the lit numbers descending above the elevator door. when it reaches the bottom floor, everyone except me and the Doktor files out.

spray1234.jpg“what the fuck was that?” he says.

“yeah…what the fuck was it? what were you trying to do in there? set me up for a date?”

“no you asshole. we’re doing a porno shoot.”

“we are?”

“yeah.”

“since when?”

“since when? WHAT DO YOU THINK THE PLAN IS???”

“i don’t know, man. i don’t know what’s up with your…selection.”

“my selection?”

“yeah. i thought you said this was a sure thing. and then you’re all motioning towards that Blonde. i mean, she totally wasn’t my type.”

“you have got nothing to do with it?”

“what do you mean? i’m a co-owner of this business.”

“you’re about to be the sole owner of a black eye.”

“oh yeah?”

“YEAH!!!”

and we begin to fight, punching and rolling around in that filthy elevator, full of cracked-rust piss stains and black water from slushy winter boots. the elevator doors open at the top and there are about a dozen or so people waiting to get on. we quickly pull ourselves from the floor. i fix my tie and cordially hold the door for some stragglers.

“we good?” the Doktor says.

“beautiful,” i say, “ok.”

after a few floors, the Doktor says, “35 millimeter.”

“perfect,” i say. “those are amazing for some tight beaver shots. you got lens caps this time?”

“what?”

“cuz last time, juices were flying everywhere. and forget about it once that shit dries. it took those guys hours to chip it off. remember that?”

“uh…yeah,” he says, “and we’ve got the house rented for the weekend. it’s…”

“fucking fantastic,” i say, “i can’t wait to get those girls in one of those wicker chairs out on the patio. put some red marks on their ass. and that swing,” i say, “WOO-HOO!!! those bitches will look like they’re skiing. a pole in each hand, baby. A POLE IN EACH HAND!!!”

“hey…keep that shit under wraps a bit,” the Doktor says.

“i ain’t wrappin’ shit. i’m goin’ in bareback. make sure them bitches got their tests up-to-date. and no crabs like last time either.”

“Lance doesn’t like a lot of…”

“NO-PANTS LANCE!!! holy shit. he’s gonna be there too?”

“yeah…it wasn’t easy getting him to come by for the shoot. he’s a very famous…”

“that pervert. hey, is he still making those barnyard films down in central Texas? cuz if he is, i don’t want nothin’ to do with that dude. hey, tell me something. who’s greasin’ up the midgets?”

“…uh…i don’t know anything about that, but we’ve got a really big budget for this…”

“you hear that bitches? we got a big budget for this one. you know what that means!!! you’ll be doin’ blow offa boners in no time. now, who wants to be a movie star? hmmm? you? you? no? anyone? how ‘bout you? hey, it’s cool. we got some lesbian scenes, too. looks like you’d like that, no?”

the elevator door opens and a few of the girls run off, a few more turn and stare and utter obscenities at us. and one, just before the door closes again, turns and sprays me and the Doktor with pepper spray.

“ouch.”

“MY EYES!!! MY EYES!!!”

“calm down,” i say, tasting the familiar sting on my lips. “it’s only pepper spray.”

“MY EYES!!!”

“will you relax? it’s not mace. now come on. i’ve got some milk in the car. we can wash our eyes out.”

“i…GODDAMMIT this shit stings.”

“you get used to it. it’s like eating hot peppers.”

“what?”

“you build-up a tolerance.”

“i…i thought…YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FOLLOW MY LEAD!!!”

“what are you talking about? where you in the same elevator? i did. i mean, i thought i did a pretty good job. hey, you still got those cameras? cuz i know someone who will take them off your hands. plus i still get half, right?”

“awww fuck. where are we? i’m hungry. let’s get a taco.”

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One Archives

March 5, 2007

Fuck This City

bars124.bmpi was in Baltimore, visiting the fam back around 1984, i guess. one of my cousins – 19 – would school me on all the finer things in life: when i was younger, it was baseball cards, video games, and poppin’ wheelies; a little later on, it was music, alcohol, and pussy.

me and my other cousin – his younger brother – would listen intently to these lessons before trying them out by ourselves in the neighborhood, allowing the scars of learning to happen on their own.

and i remember showing up down there around ’84 with, like, Dio or something playing in my headphones, fresh on the scene with the info about my older cousin leavin’ some chick’s panties in his pocket and his mom finding them and throwing him out of the house. might have gotten her pregnant or something.

i don't know.

but anyway, i get there, my folks leave, and there’s no adults around except him. he gives me and my other cousin a six pack of 16oz. old milwaukees and a joint, and tells us to get out of the house, go somewhere, fuck…wherever, go to the arcade down the street. just get out. his girlfriend was coming over.

goddamm, i thought, this motherfucker is my IDOL!!!

nervous%20breakdown124.bmpso while i’m waiting for my younger cousin to finish emptying all of the batteries from the flashlights in the house…we needed that radio, you understand…i perused big cuz’s record collection.

the Meatmen, the Dead Kennedys, Suicidial Tendencies, Fear. the cream of the mid ‘80s hardcore crop. i remember getting transfixed on the cover of My War from Black Flag.
“play this one,” i said.

“fuck that. you don’t wanna hear that one,” he replied, and tossed me a cassette. “you wanna play this one. first song. in fact, you can keep it. but look, you little motherfuckers have got to go, ok. so i’ll see you guys later.”

that tape could be the reason we smashed the video screens down at the arcade that night. or it could be the reason we spray painted “honky lips” on the side of the police cruiser. it could have even been the reason we tried to get those cheerleaders to play stinkfinger with us, until their high school boyfriends showed up and beat our asses. but i’ll tell you this, man, i’ll tell you this: it was the reason we were gettin’ our kicks before the whole shithouse went up in flames.

listen: black flag - nervous breakdown

buy: black flag records

Archives

February 26, 2007

cashout

and she’s behind the counter with her back to me, her hair, her right arm outstretched above her head, trying for the pay phone that the manager or owner or cook but definitely boss holds just out of her reach. he lets her feel his weight. when she gets on, she looks down, shifts her eyes. a hand on a hip. she doesn’t say a word. hangs up the phone like it owed her, said nothing.

it’s the only phone in this place, this diner. it’s all red and chrome in here. all black tiles and colorless squares, bright white fluorescent lights and flecked formica table tops. the counter sits five or six guys, out late from the night shift or drunk on lousy beer or both.

i take a seat in the booth in the corner with my back to the wall. it’s late and i’m waiting for a rider and i’ve been up too long. the lights pulse in an electric rhythm and i think i can hear them droning on like i’m in school again when the quiet sinks so low it’s heavy and all that’s left is the hum of electricity and the possibility of a lesson to learn. i watch the lights in the upturned spoon, in the stainless steel cream container, in the greasy shine on the table. the words on the paper placemat seem to loose themselves from their anchors, drift to the right, rise. silverware taps and slides across plates across the room and brings me back to where i am.

she’s working along the counter now. she’s fine. filling drinks, pushing hands away from underneath her skirt, taking dishes away. writing on her notepad with a pencil she had tucked into her hair. ripping her writing from the pad in her left hand with a smooth move of the right, onto the wheel in the kitchen’s window, spinning around. the sounds is like the sweetest song. i imagine what i would say, how my name would sound on her lips, what she would feel like, how she would smile in the morning.

thighs124.jpg i think i see her smiling when she’s walking my way straight on slowly. i’m thinking about who was on the other end of that phone, and what they were saying, and why her eyes looked like crying. i’m wondering where she goes, what her place is like, and where she lays her head at night. who does she call friend, what is her dream, what makes her laugh. i wanna know about her first time and that time she drank that red wine. i will order black coffee and toast but this girl has me thinking about strawberry pie and ice cream. she doesn’t look up from her pad but once or twice. she walks away and i hold my breath for a moment in her breeze.

behind the counter again the men try to grab and laugh, whisper, lick their lips. her boss smiles sideways and puts a hand on her hip. she’s stonefaced, maybe used to the hand’s weight, maybe a thousand times before. i believe her eyes look through that flecked formica counter into something else. she steps sideways, brushes past, into the kitchen or any place to pray.

she comes back with my plate and her voice sounds new and strange unlike i’d imagined it would be or remembered it from before, when i first heard her with her pad in her hand. she smiles, leans into the table with a hip as i keep struggling with small talk, find new questions to ask, speak quickly to keep her close to the table here. she places a knee onto the booth at first, and i lose where i was, unable to think about anything but her weight, and how sweet it must be, and her leg smooth like summertime in the evening when the sun is about to go down and the wind blows and the sweetest thing is your hand on a girl’s thigh. then she swings her other leg around and is sitting here with me and it’s she who’s talking now and i would concentrate on those words if i could, on that voice, but all i can do is smile up my sleeve.

i ask her where she’s going and she smiles and says something like “baby, sometimes i think all i need’s a bus ticket,” and she says this so sweet and sad like rainy days and i slide down her voice and into her own life with its blue walls shouts worn carpets empty bottles mestizo blanket on the wall scars weak green plants unkept words a little sunlight lamplight undone dishes in the sink mud blood splattered on the yellow kitchen floor crime scene phone hanging wooden blinds banging against cracked white windowpane in the living room brown bookcase unopened books cement blocks old stereo yellow light bulb burning in the hallway cigarette ashes on the floor locked doors no connections.

she’s trying to rise.

her boss yells and the guys at the counter snort and she’s gone again.

and it’s now that i know that it’s me she’s been waiting for and so i make my plan, rehearse my lines, set everything straight i’m going to say in my mind. i’m gonna astound her, walk on out of here with her on my arm and their eyes on us as we shamble into the sunrise. yeah. and so now, in my head, i’m talkin’ all this shit, all cocky with it, because i know i can make it happen. just like those guys at the counter know they can make her. just like her boss. just like i imagine that voice on the other end of the phone thinks it can. but i gotta hold on a minute cuz this is the wrong way. i wanted to be her unsuspected hero.

damm.

46871.jpgso i pick up the napkin holder, textured black metal and chrome, white paper, and walk towards the register. she’s there running numbers through the machine and pushing hands away from her skirt. i got that napkin holder, right, take it and bust that big motherfucker at the counter right in the nose. he’s the biggest one there, falls to the ground, blood squirts out, he’s writhing around in pain, you understand, screamin’. the rest look at me, you know, wide-eyed. the manager, he makes a move to do what i don’t know, but i throw the napkin holder at him, watch it bounce of the silver table top behind the counter, tell him to sit down, show the crowd the chrome i keep in my pocket, cuz cab driving can be dangerous, you dig.

and then i look at her and she’s shook, but not like the others. no. like this isn’t all that new to her. not because of the unknown but because of the expected i guess. and i look at her and i try to smile, but my lip is shaking a bit, and i think i’m stuttering, and i say something like “listen, just take the money that’s in there and walk on out of here with me.”

she doesn’t say anything, hits a button and the drawer sputters open. she’s gathering cash and paper, holds it out in a sloppy mess. i got a gun in my hand and the fat man is still whimpering motherfucks on the ground and the manager’s got his hands clasped behind his head in the ground down on all fours. customers at the counter’ve got their hands either up or down on the flecked white top.

“you take it,” i say, “you hold it. you can go your way when you get out of here. whatever. it’s for you, girl. get your bus ticket or something. you know. for you.”

but she’s crying now and she thinks her back's against the wall and “no," she says, "you will never get away with this.”

damm.

so i tip my hat and walk towards the door with my hand in my pocket and say, “i thank you very much.”

archives

February 19, 2007

throwin' the hammer down

there is a school of thought that puts forth the proposition that there is no such thing as fear; there is only confusion. and while that may seem preposterous at first - or even like some kind of hyper-macho credo - upon further reflection, i am inclined to agree. but you should understand that some of these moments are profoundly more confusing than others, and some will leave much deeper scars on the brain.

i got this one scar when i was driving south in a '69 mercedes benz 250…solid steel, black with blood red velvet interior. i had just crossed the Pennsylvania border when i noticed water soaking the carpet beneath my feet. in the rearview, i could see the alligator's head through a hole about the size of a basketball in the backseat.

lbeaver.jpgi cut the wheel hard to the left and stopped the car in the gravel alongside the interstate. the gator tracked me from left to right as i leaned over to grab a roll of duct tape from the glove box. when i opened the rear door to deal with the problem, the animal gave a slow guttural growl before lunging for my forearm. i grabbed a fireplace poker from the floor behind the driver's seat and chased the beast back into the dark confines of the trunk before taping the hole shut with a healthy amount of duct tape. with any luck, it would patch the hole and keep the alligator confused enough to remain silent until i made the delivery.

it was just after i finished my patchwork, when i was stuffing the dynamite back into the glove box, that i noticed him. he was rustling around in the weeds and empty beer cans along the highway. our eyes locked once he made it onto the asphalt. he stood about knee-high, bald-headed, covered in tattoos and mud, wearing a diaper. after a moment of disbelief, i threw a stick of dynamite at him, but he knocked it aside and let loose this snarling scream and ran at me full-bore. i slammed the driver's door shut and heard him smash against the black steel.

i stomped on the gas. the benz sputtered and wheezed, finally kicking gravel and gripping the road underneath as i lurched it back onto the highway. the gator growled again and thrashed violently as the car picked up speed. i could hear its teeth and claws tearing at the duct tape, ripping it loose from the red velvet. it was when i turned to look at the back seat that i saw that foul dwarf again, running alongside the car just outside the passenger door. as i was about to throw it down into second, he jumped through the open window and bit my arm, clamping down and locking his jaw. i shook the vicious little bastard wildly and heard another rip from the back seat and another low guttural growl. more water spilled onto the floorboard near my feet. i brought the midget forward - still attached to my arm - and smashed his skull against the dash, then wrenched him backwards toward the backseat. i heard the dull thud of flesh and bone against glass as he smashed into the rear window. the gator by now was completely out of the trunk and lying prone across the backseat. the dwarf crawled from the window and stepped down, unaware of the animal. i could hear him yelping and the gator slapping it's tail on the back of my seat as i reached for the glove box. i grabbed a hammer by its rubber handle and swung behind me, never taking my eyes off the road. we were nearing 100. i heard an eggshell-like crack and felt the claw of the hammer catch and grab something like soft earth.

and then silence.

i breathed easy because i was on my way again and no longer confused.

Archives

February 12, 2007

The Michael Keaton Incident

“so what are you doing now?”

“i’m driving a cab.”

“you drive a cab?”

“yeah.”

“ok.”

“yeah…it’s alright. i mean, it’s certainly a change of pace, a change of scenery. different mindset. i like it.”

“you like it?”

“yeah, motherfucker, i like it.”

“sure you do. so is this like a Yellow Cab or what?”

“no, it’s not yellow.”

“no?”

“naw…sometimes it’s a car, but there’s this old black limo that i get. a lot of my runs are from the airport to downtown. vice-versa. it’s a little classier than a regular cab, i guess.”

“what’s the name of the company?”

“i’d rather not go into that.”

“…uh…”

“sixty dollars plus tip is the cab fee…that airport run. i get some crazy riders in there. it’s a cool job. sometimes some crazy shit, ya know. like in the summer, i had Michael Keaton.”

“you had him?”

“yeah man.”

“in the Biblical sense?”

“no. i picked him up at the airport, and then i was taking him to the stadium for some kind of interview and then the Pirates' game. he was throwing out the first pitch, i think. then to the Hilton. i was supposed to drive for him while he was here.”

“supposed to?”

“yeah.”

“well?”

“well what?”

“well what the fuck happened? ‘supposed to.’ what happened? why didn’t you drive him?”

“i did.”

“you just said you didn’t.”

“i did not. i said i was supposed to drive for him while he was here. i didn’t stay on the whole time.”

“why not?”

“problems, man, problems. i mean…everything was cool. i picked him up at the airport. he introduced himself like, ‘i’m Batman.’ started laughing, real corny. he seemed okay. he talked a little on his cell phone. talked to me about growing up here. about LA. real Hollywood shit. whatever, ya know. so, i picked him up and took him to the game. i had to wait…walked around on the North Side, bought some drugs, ate a sandwich. you know, and then it was back to the Hilton.”

“fascinating.”

“yeah, so…when we got back to the Hilton, i popped the trunk on the cab…”

“i thought it was a limo.”

“yeah, it is. the limo. cab. whatever. what the fuck was i saying?”

“the trunk.”

“the trunk? oh. yeah…so i popped the trunk and let the little bellhops monkey around with his bags. and i was like ‘hey, Batman, how about something, you know, for the effort.’ and he gets all Michael Keaton on me. movin’ his eyebrows and buggin’ his eyes out and shit. ‘well, ah…a tip…ah…jeez…ah…’ patting his pockets down. you know, lookin’ all perplexed and shit. kinda like Reverend Jim on Taxi.”

“who?”

“not important. so anyway…i get to thinkin’ that Keaton’s gonna stiff me on the tip, right. he says ‘a tip? hey…i…ummm…i’ll get you some stuff. autographs. memorabilia. e-bay. you know. i’ll be seeing you around later. you’re my driver here in the ‘Burgh, right? OKAY!!!’ and i just kinda nod, just lookin’ at this cheap motherfucker. i mean, come on, right? he’s a fuckin’ millionaire. i’m pissed.”

“is he?”

“i guess so…fuckin’ Batman, right?”

“learn to fuckin’ type.”

“what?”

“a tip? please. that’s offensive. why don’t you just get a styrofoam cup and spare for change on Liberty?”

“whatever…so Keaton. he’s all like smiling at me after he tells me he’s about to stiff me, or give me some cheap movie promo shit. fuck that. and then in an instant, his face gets all serious, and he thrusts a fist out at me.”

“a fist?”

“yeah.”

“he punched you?”

“yeah…i mean, no. he didn’t. he didn’t punch me. he just wanted a pound or to bump fists or whatever.”

“Michael Keaton’s a rap guy?”

“right! i definitely didn’t see that one comin’. and when he got all serious and threw out his fist, i thought he was about to punch me. that’s a natural reaction. a reflex. and when he got all serious like that and put his fist out…”

“you thought he was trying to punch you.”

“i thought he was trying to punch me.”

“…so…”

“you know…i clocked that motherfucker.”

“you punched him?”

“yeah man.”

“that’s nice. that’s real fuckin’ classy.”

“laid him out.”

“unbelievable.”

“come on…who expects Keaton to get all ‘Source Awards’ up in here?”

“certainly not you.”

“of course i didn’t.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m lying? i’m lying? ok. i got his autograph out in the car, some posters, and this yellow plastic thing that he says was his utility belt in the movie.”

“no shit?”

“no shit. ask your girl about my batwings, too.”

Archives

February 5, 2007

Cabman

the car was warm and i may have nodded off for a few minutes, but certainly not more than that. there was a distant, polite tapping on my window.

“are you on?” he said.

i said i was and unlocked the back door and watched as he settled in to the back. i’d seen him somewhere before.

lookingfortomorrow.jpg“familiar face,” he said and then asked if i minded turning down the radio. he wound down the rear windows and let in the cold air. he wanted to head crosstown but there was a water main break and the crew had traffic blocked in both directions. the lady with the sign hollered that it would be another five minutes. i was beginning to spin the car around and cut down an avenue when he said that it was no matter to him. he was in no hurry and didn’t mind waiting.

“listen to her. the city breathing,” he said.

“come again?”

“do you mind if i use the phone?”

“sure,” i said. he reached down below the seat and began dialing what sounded like a rotary phone. he came up with an army green handset and a spiral cord.

“hello,” he said, “this is mister jones…yes…i’m trying to reach tomorrow. can i get in touch with tomorrow? yes…i suppose i’ll hold, but i’d rather not. i’m trying to reach tomorrow…yes…yes, i suppose…but i'm just tryin' to reach tomorrow. can i get through to tomorrow?” soon, he would nod and hang up.

and when we were nearing the end of the ride, he was sitting next to me, and he said, “"well Johnny, sincerity's the best gimmick. remember that."

and i said something like, "all right…be sincere, that'll win it? i never tried that."

he laughed and told me to put the bill on his tab.

Johnny's not sure, but he thinks that guy might've been Jesus.

Archives

February 1, 2007

All The Way Live

"and in this cornah... Hailing from parts unknown... The only son of a bare knuckled Hawaiian boxa and a Nordic supermodel... and known for his cat like grace and his cool unda fire... I give you... Johnny... St.... Clair!!!"

He sounds a little bruised, a little dirty and more than a little my type of guy. When Johnny's in Philly, he has a couch to crash on and he's welcome to share my bottle.

--F

jeans and grease, tattoos and leather, world war, paranoia, hate, fear and power…i had a cold feeling about the social distortion show way before dr. j ripped off all those bush / cheney signs. it had all the trappings of a great band’s last fling, and for a while, i thought it could be mine as well.

yes…start the evening off right…and ugly. load up and head off, behind the wheel, out of my head and into the dark. right. police were everywhere as soon as we left the hideout. speed traps, traffic stops, routine patrols. greasy johnson complained about my driving – my lack of speed – but it couldn’t be helped. i remember at least three separate occasions soon after we departed where i was traveling on familiar roads that twisted into something dark and secluded and strange. no idea where we were going or what i was doing, but push on anyway. there was work to be done.

stealing signs.jpgi would have none of hemingway’s advice during times like these…i needed somewhere dark and dirty to drink. a beer and a proper shot. and then some. clear my head…let these waves of paranoia wash away. would some vile consequence be set in motion this evening? some foul occasion whose end on this night doth depend? note to self: lay off the grass.

we took the circular route to the gig, dr. leaking johnson insisting upon stealing every pro-bush sign he could find from the front yards of the white and privileged. i thought about the theft…not only of the signs, but also of these persons’ freedom of speech. was the doktor denying their american right? quickly dismiss that thought…those fuckers get what they deserve. i found a comfortable place to park, plenty of room and all – you understand – and doctored johnson began to place the signs around the car. a dozen or so in all. our little republican cabana. the fans in attendance didn’t get it.

they were a bunch of fairly humorless fucks, those social distortion fans. it didn’t have to be that way. this is the same band that had the balls to bring the supersuckers out on tour with them the last time i saw them play. did you hear me? the supersuckers! and if there is a band known for festivity, it has to be the supersuckers. plus social distortion was notorious for its heroin intake and alcohol consumption. i don’t know about you or your mama [ok…i admit…i know about your mama] but nothing says a good time to me like junk and booze. mike ness is an institution and his band nailed that tough guy punk thing back in – when…1987? – when ness dropped the eye make-up, slicked his hair back, and started singing songs about jail and outlaws. the fans have taken it as much to heart as he has i suppose, and apparently a few have even scored reality television programs on the discovery channel about motorcycles. i really like those shows. especially the one with the fat dude.

social_distortion_3.jpgi paid to hear two songs and i got them plus a handful of others. heard “prison bound,” “ball and chain,” “under my thumb,” “makin’ believe,” “when she begins,” and “telling them.” others too, and they were the old ones [good thing]. i don’t remember anything from “white trash…” but i was loaded, so who gives a fuck. good show, solid tunes, but a bit too much on the harry hardwick side of the tracks.

dripping johnson picked up on the vibe early, whispering in my ear about violence and 'sharks to blood' and other such maniacal ramblings. he was and often is disgruntled…and there were far fewer females in attendance than i promised there would be. when i sensed the show was about to conclude, i rushed the pit and began dancing with my elbows in the air, randomly forearming big dudes in the back of the head and punchin suckas in the gut with my keys. got my nose bloodied…don’t cost nothin’. but in the larger scheme of things, i managed to get a wholesale brawl started amongst the aging skins in attendance and the whole horde of jocks who picked up on the rock thing when “alternative” [whatever the fuck that means] hit the airwaves. the homoeroticism in the room was almost palpable…you could have cut it with a pair of ben-wa balls. i covered my head with one arm and my ass with another and got the fuck out of there…made straight to the parking lot…nothing more to do here. out in the country and most definitely on the radar of some outback law enforcement, the only way out is to get on the highway and drive the wrong way.

Johnny St. Clair is new around these parts. Just don't let the law know he been around here, kay ?

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