sealed

It’s a quest that probably will never have a completion.

Never have a happy ending.

It quite possibly could be impossible. I have no idea.

Maybe it's like love. You always want it to be like in the movies. Those 87-minute or so pieces of celluloid that always end happily. You never see the other, oh, 60, 70 years.

But it doesn’t mean I won’t stop looking.

What the fuck am I looking for? (Randy, why do you have to cuss so much?)

I’m looking for an unopened, sealed shut, copy of INXS’ cassette tape “Listen Like Thieves.”

Why?

Because I still remember the way it smelled when I opened it one day back in 1985. That smell now is a curse, because I can’t describe it. Which is why I want to find a copy of the original pressing of the tape. Sent to a Sam Goody’s or Peaches or Tower Records that year.

It’s got to be a clear cassette tape. Not black. Not covered with a sticker. Or any of the other ways it was released over the years.

I still have my old, very worn copy of LLT. It’s been through the ringer of my high school days. Of road trips and cross-country moves. Of being in blizzards and in 120-degree days without air conditioning.

Will I find one? I can always hope so.

There was a Canadian version on ebay not too long ago. I thought about buying it anyway, but didn’t. It might even still be there. It’s not the one I want. Or, to be silly, what cha need.

So, I will keep looking.

I probably would have had better luck in the late-1990s and early 2000s. When record stores started to die in a fast way. Much like newspapers, right when I was deciding to go to work (for the rest of my life!) at one.

Idiot.

Or not.

Depends on your perspective.

I’m not going to make it to 750 words.

I need to sleep.

naming a baby

Blasting Turgonegro’s “Retox” album has become my favorite pastime. It’s especially fun when driving onto the campuses of the assorted Christian schools in town.

The smell of dog shit fills the air inside my 2010 Hyundai Accent. Apparently, stepping dog shit has become another favorite pastime. The waffle of my Sambas appears clean, but, they are brown in color and one could easily miss shit when just looking quickly.

If you’ve ever had bad teeth, you will always have bad teeth.

Was talking with someone at work the other night. A conversation that lasted two-plus hours after deadline. Finding your passion? Ha. A study said you’re happiest as a grownup if you followed you first true love. I wanted to be an archeologist. I didn’t follow through. In fact, I never really pursued anything until I decided to move across country and see what newspapers were all about. What a knuckleheaded decision that turned out to be.

I’m seriously debating quitting my job and being a stay at home dad. If I didn’t have so many stupid bills from stupid, yet fun, times, I would already have made up my mind. Never knew it was so hard to find a part-time position when you’ve been working the same job your whole life. Well, except for the few years in between.

The dryer is spinning around and around. Drying clothes seems silly. Washing them too. What’s wrong with smelling? If we all did, we wouldn’t feel so bad about it anymore.

Wearing shoes without socks is a good idea, until you take off the shoes.

Netflix has made me a lazy filmwatcher.

Eating snails does not appeal to me.

Redheads still make me wonder.

“Have you ever been to Spokane?” she asked.

“Why no, I’ve not been to Spokane,” he replied.

“Too bad,” she said.

“Yep,” he replied.

They both returned to their drinks, never to speak again.

Marvin is a horrible name for a kid.

Not having anything to write about  is painful. But so is writing about what you want to write.

I’m going to go on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, gangbangsrus.com etcetera and rant about something some celebrity did/said or fucked. It’s cool, and gosh, it’ll get lots of views.

Why are we all so mad at each other, but pretending to be oh, so happy? Is it the food? Probably not, but maybe. Who knows.

I stare at the window

And wonder where you are

You don’t.

I wonder if Mickey Rourke’s plastic surgeon looks like a bladder?

“I’m not surpised, I knew about it,” all the sports media folks are saying.

“Shame on you NBA,” for not doing anything about it.

Fuck all of you. Why didn’t you expose it in the 1990s when you “knew”?

George Clooney is engaged. So?

He’s also a bad drunk.

Do you have any more gum?

More gum?

More gum?

Do you have any more gum?

When you take a shit, do you look at it?

If you do, are you satisfied with what you see?

Or are you scared to look.

Hoping it’s not bloody. Full of worms.

Don’t worry if it is. We all end up with worms in our shit.

In our head.

“Do you like drinking in this place,” I asked.

She turned her head and looked at my shirt.

“Do you like wearing that shirt?” she snarled.

“Of course,” I said. “I don’t have to worry if I leave it at your place later.”

She smiled.

Why shit like that works, I’ll never know.

--- Something scribbled in a notepad years ago.

She wasn’t going to take it anymore.

He never made a decision. He just let things “happen.”

So, one night, she answered the phone when he called and told him: “It’s over.”

He never understood.

Until now.

Well, not really.

Benzene in my veins.

Fracking on my brain!

Punk rock is easy.

I wonder what it’s like to chew things without feeling pain?

It’s been so long, I don’t remember.

That is the thattiest that that I’ve thatted.

Microsoft Word does not believe thatted is a word. Fuck you Bill Gates.

The name Syl is kind of cool.

Darn it, man, he said.

“Darn it?” his buddy said before chuckling down a beer.

He punched him seconds later.

Who is he? He is who?

Donkey Kong high score in high school while getting high. That’s the opening to a script.

If you smell pot, are you cooking?

Laser beam eyes. They don’t lie, they kill.

Sleep.

Wade Boggs, Stan Musial or Joe DiMaggio?

“It’s time!” a voice inside my head yells.

I try to figure out if it’s Michael Buffer’s kid brother, the guy your event gets when it wants a cool introduction, but has a budget of a movie that would have Sid Haig in it in the 1970s, not in the 2000s when Tarantino wannabes made him cool again. Sort of.

Anyway, I sit here every night wondering when the first tooth is going to just fall out. I’ve been thinking about that for over three decades now. I think about it a lot more than I used to. Mostly because that reality is actually a reality now. It used to be some kind of badge of honor that the chicks dug. “Yeah, I wrecked my bike once, almost lost all my front teeth,” I’d say. “Ooooh, that’s so cool.” or “You’re full of shit.” or maybe they’d say nothing because they were now scared or turned on or just stupid. I really didn’t care because it was rare for me to get into a conversation with a lady.

But seriously, it is time. Time for me to make up my mind. Am I going to say fuck it and do it, or am I going to once again just get by.

Three months and a few days from now, I’m going to be a dad. That shit is starting to get real. It’s no longer off on the horizon. It’s speeding up like the Jeepers Creepers dude. And you either get sewn into the fucking mural or you kill the mother fucker.

How the hell did that go there? I have too many damn stupid things going on in my head.

It’s why I spend money on ebay for Weeble Woobles for the damn kid.

He’s going to be playing Atari 2600 at 3 and it’ll be cool. Until his friends show them their cell phones at 5.

Why the hell does a kid need a smartphone?

Get off my lawn!!!! I will shake my cane, dammit.

I don’t have a smartphone. I’m 43.

Do I want one? Yeah, sometimes it would be nice to find out exactly that fucking restaurant is that you drove 400 miles to go eat at, but can’t find it b/c you don’t have a fucking map.

I used to think I could write a pretty darn good story. Just one story, but a good one. I tried and tried to do it, but never really fully tried.

I’ve watched awful writers I know get books published (usually self-published, but fucking a, someone bought at least one copy). I’ve watched liars and shitheads get great jobs, simply because they don’t mind lying and being shitheads.

And I keep making excuses.

It’s not fun. At least not as much.

I don’t drink anymore. It actually bores me. Unless I’m with friends, but then I’ve got to worry about saying or doing something stupid.

Yesterday, a fuckhead in a giant small penis truck wouldn’t get out of the lane. Finally, I got beside him and I fucking tried to punch the car. At 60 miles per hour.

That’s just dumb.

But funny.

And if you don’t do some of that bi-polaresque shit, you can’t write about it.

Just like Ben Nichols used to say “I can’t write the fake shit.”

Well, he writes fake shit now. I think. I mean, I guess taking it from a book, script or TV show means it ain’t fake, exactly.

Fuck, it’s all fake and it’s all not real.

See, see what happens?

I might just quit my job one day in  August. Just leave. Right before my two-year. Yep that would be a Randy move.

Just like all of them.

Follow your heart, they tell you. But then they don’t do it.

You do, and you end up making less at 43 than you made at 33. And less than just about every, single person you know or knew.

Hell, my dead grandfather probably still makes more money every year than I do.

Is that possible?

Stop with the fucking Jim Gaffigan shit.

It stinks.

Hahahahahahaha.

I used to say I didn’t hate things.

I think that’s true. At least I hope it’s true.

Hate is waste.

Love isn’t, even if some don’t believe it’s enough.

Really, though, it’s everything.

We all figure that out one day. Some  earlier than others, some really late.

Hopefully, some don’t ever figure it out. They either end up being Wade Boggs or Stan Musial. I hope I don’t end  up as Joe DiMaggio.

why bother, you pee blood...

The fucking Police was playing when I walked into the bar.

“God damn I hate the fucking Police,” I yelled. Then I remembered something important, I was at the bar because a friend invited me. That friend? He’s a cop. And the bar was filled with cops.

So, like Tim Roth says in Reservoir Dogs, you’ve just got to jump right in and swim. That in mind, I walk up to the jukebox, just as Sting finishes saying something stupid over a backbeat provided by a drummer who appeared in a reality show about storage unit auctions. I put my dollar in. I picked my song.

“Right about now, N.W.A. court is in full effect…”

A few seconds later, a couple hundred cops were chanting along with Ice Cube, Easy-Z and Dr. Dre.

I watched this scene for a few seconds and thought back to 1988. I was a teenager who wanted to be James Hetfield. I drank like him. That was about the end of similarities. I had more of a Dave Mustaine mullet. I don’t think about high school much. Nothing much happened.

Kind of like this party. It’s at a strip-mall bar. It stinks like pee. I want to go home.

But I don’t. Why? I don’t know. Maybe something will happen.

I order a shot of Jameson and a Miller High Life to chase it down. I gave up drinking soon after my stroke. Well, I didn’t “give it up” as much as I just stopped because it hurt to drink now. That made it silly to do. Yeah, I still think about the girls and women of my past. And now, I don’t fight with them anymore. I just look at them and nod. Yep, still here.

Then I eat some unsalted nuts out of a can from CVS.

I take a sip of the beer. Fuck, it tastes bad. Then I take the shot. It tastes worse. But the beer, now it tastes OK.

Why am I friends with a cop? I’ve never had a good experience with one. It’s weird. Except that guy who showed up at my apartment in New Bern at 3 a.m. one night. I was blasting The Faces, signing along with Rod and Ronnie, and drinking way too much. I guess one of my neighbors complained to the police. Instead of just knocking on my door. Of course, I opened the door when the cop showed up in my shorts only. Beer gut hanging out, bottle of Shiner in one hand, devil horns in the other.

“Yes?”

“Sir, could you turn down the musi….Hey, is that a Jump in the Fire Metallica poster?” he said.

“Well, yes it is,” I said slurring just the it.

“Soooo awesome, man.”

“It is?”

“I never got to see Metallica, but they’re my favorite!” he said, to me, I guess still.

“Saw them twice in a month back in high school,” I said, puffing my chest a little bit. I have seen some good music, even though when SHE happened, I mostly stopped.

“Cool, cool,” he said. “But man, can you turn down the Rod Stewart? Neighbors complained.”

“Yeah, not a problem. Gotta be at work in the morning,” I said, fully knowing I went to work when I wanted. Some days at noon, others at 5 p.m., and still others never. Being the boss at that point of my life was a good, and bad thing.

“Night officer,” I said, slamming the door behind me and turning off the stereo. I drank the last half of the Shiner in my hand and threw the bottle in the trash can. It hit another bottle. “Clank, cla, clank.”

I went into the bathroom and peed … blood.

Probably should have paid closer attention to that stuff, I think, now back in the bar in a strip mall in suburban Raleigh, North Carolina, surrounded by cops I don’t know wondering where the fuck the one I know is?

Probably getting a blowjob in the bathroom, his brother says to me. I guess I’d been narrating stuff out loud again. It’s a bad habit of mine. I’ve been punched three times because of it and slapped twice. And got a girls number. Why? Because I fucking asked for it. Who’da thunk that actually works?

How the fuck did Sting get so damn rich? I think.

I order another beer and another shot. It’s going to be either a really long night, or a very short one. I hope for the latter, but know I’m in for the former.

“She’s here,” my buddy, not the cop, but the other one at the party I know says.

I look over my shoulder and yep, there she is, not HER, but instead her. She stole my heart for a moment because I left it out to rot. She kept if from rotting, and poisoned it instead. And her mom told me she liked me best.

Like mother, like daughter.

I look at her and then I smile. Why? Because I figured it out before it was too late.

I scratch my balls and think about cancer cells and Miller High Life bottle caps. This, I think, would make a great fucking story. And then I realize this is exactly why I don’t write for a living. Except for that newspaper thing any more.

Gang of Four's dewclaw

It was 8:23 in the evening and I was driving from the office to Food Lion. Gang of Four’s “Entertainment!” was blasting out of my poor car’s speakers.

Soon, I noticed that I was hunched over in the seat, wishing I was inside the song. It was a strange moment. One that I can’t really explain. It happened, and then it was over. Why? Because I sat up in the seat.

Something about the hunch, I guess.

These are not normal moments, for normal people. They’re fairly normal for me.

I’m at home now. It’s 2:54 a.m. James Scott Farrin is trying to ambulance chase me on the television. Followed quickly by Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

My dog it chewing on his dewclaws. It’s as if he wants to pull them off. One got stuck on my shorts earlier today. I’m guessing it’s too long, and probably damaged now. Guess I’ve got to figure out how to cut it correctly in the morning. Even though it’s already morning.

Tomorrow I’ll drive to a high school. Sit alone in the stands watching the games being played. I’ll keep stats. I’ll watch people. They’ll watch me. Then I’ll talk to the coaches and a couple of kids. Drive back to the office and crank out two stories. Fast. It’s the one skill that hasn’t eroded – quickness.

Interviewing after games? That’s a whole other story.

Features and long-term? No problem. But the after a game ones? I’ve lost it.

“Talk about …”

“What were you thinking when …”

“Tell me about …”

My mind goes blank sometimes mid question or mid reply. It’s kind of frightening, but also kind of invigorating. It makes me have to work harder on things that became routine. That’s a rationalization. I’m no longer 29 and witty. I’m 42 and bitty.

K.C. & the Sunshine Band playing on Dr. Oz. Fuck. My life gets more numb every moment. I want to run to my car and drive somewhere, but I don’t.

Iron Maiden Japan. Charles, why sock E?

There once was a time that my war wounds were cool. Now they’re yellow and old. The wrinkles show. The gray hairs don’t lie. The scars have shrunk with my muscle mass. I look at my legs now and wonder how on earth I used to ride 20 miles on my bike to go try and find Atari games in 100 degree heat. It seems so foreign now.

It makes me think about the video game board games I left behind in the Murphy bed apartment I lived in during my internship in Birmingham, Ala. That makes me think about all the miles I drove around that state. Just about every day I went somewhere new. That was what I thought it was going to be like for decades. When the job didn’t provide it like I thought it would, I used my days off to make it so. Then I used any excuse to go somewhere new.

Now, I dream of going somewhere new. I went to 38 states in about 30 years. Maybe it was 37 and I added one a bit later.

I’m still stuck at 38. At 42.

Those old posts taunt me now…

In 2009 I’m going to visit a new state.

In 2010…

In 2011…

In 2012…

In 2013…

Now, it’s 2014 and I’m working a job. Getting a check. Writing cheques.

I’m going to be a dad. Maybe. I’ve been down this road before. More times than I was ever allowed to know about.

Which makes me think of Oakton.

And bathrooms.

Bad sex.

When there wasn’t such a thing.

I went to New Orleans instead of answering the phone. I’ll always wonder what was on the other end. It’s me. It’s just the way it is. I can say all the right things, but I won’t be thinking them.

John T. Orcutt looks like my boss. It’s like he’s here at home every night on WRAL in Raleigh, North Carolina taunting me. Telling me things I don’t want to hear, but need to.

If I had a gun …

I’d most likely pawn it and buy that Lucero album on ebay that I just can’t afford. $150 for a slab of vinyl that I already own in its actually rarer form, but don’t own it from the special pressing. Why I’m talking about Lucero albums is anyone’s guess. Go figure.

They’ll always be a part of who I am. Which means she’ll always be a part of who I am. And honestly, that’s the way you are too. You just don’t admit it.

Giggling at 42 with Rob Halford and Britney Spears

At 42 years old, I found myself staring at a Britney Spears' team was thrown off by Good Morning American asking a non-scripted question story at 1:11 a.m. on a Wednesday/Thursday night.

What was this question that threw everyone into a sudden tizzy?

"Who was your first kiss?"

Fuck. I don't remember the girl's name. I remember where it was. Exactly. I can take you to the spot in Charlottesville, Virginia. On the corner between two fraternity houses. That's where my first kiss happened.

She was from Richmond. Went to Midlothian High School.

And my roommate Hoon-Na walked in on us when she and I were completely naked in my shitty dorm room bed.

I started laughing almost immediately.

She left.

And she left behind a necklace.

It was cheap. Some kind of black opal on it. I kept it for decades. Threw it away one day in 2008 when I was depressed and feeling bad about myself. A girl -- shock -- had just destroyed my life, or so I thought at the time. One of the reasons, she said at the time, was because I held on the my past.

I have a friend who has pictures of all his exes on his wall in his "man room." He is married. And he sees nothing wrong with that.

When I saw this, and heard (well, read on facebook email) what my ex had to say, I threw away a lot of shit one night.

It felt great that night.

But I do miss my old notebooks,

My friend was right about that one. I'd regret doing it.

I do.

But, I'm much different now. I have a hard time getting motivated to write about things. About life. About the life I wanted to live. About the life I thought I did live. About her. Not the one I was talking about, but the other one.

Which brings me back to my first kiss. I remember it. I was drunk. A couple of college friends, you know, the guys you see when you're drunk and no other time, they were there.

It was cool. It was sweet.

And I don't remember her name. Honestly, don't know if I ever really knew it.

Why I’m thinking about this after looking at a story on Britney Spears, I don’t know.

I have a job. It pays the bills somewhat.

My health the last year has been steadily downhill until the last couple of weeks.

Life threw a lot of curveballs in late ‘ll and all of ’12 and into early ’13.

Now, me and my lover, we’re happy. We don’t see each other enough. She works mornings, I work nights. I rarely get two days off in a row, she works three days a week.

But soon, we’re going to change for the better. I’ve stopped drinking almost completely. I had four beers out with her friends the other night and I was drunk.

I like that.

No more coming home from work, alone, sitting on a couch downloading movies or watching British ESPN on the internet while drinking 12 beers every night and eating a bad of Doritoes.

Nope.

Replaced it with walking the dog every day, looking at the sun and trying to complete the elusive 1987 Fleer autographed set. Nearing card No. 400 out of 653. Not too shabby. Found out today that Wade Boggs and Terry Steinbach sign if you give them a little fee for their charity. Gonna do that pronto.

Brought the doggie around some kids the other day. Testing the waters, as they say. You find out that’s happening right after you get a dog from the pound – part pit bull – and you have to worry.

Not that I think he’s got that in him. But, you gotta find out. So why not use other people’s kids as test subjects. He passed with flying colors.

Irony of all this happening right at this moment makes me giggle a bit.

I wonder if Rob Halford giggles when the need strikes? I’d like to think so. He and Glen Tipton are sitting around in their old flat back in the 1970s giggling while writing songs. That’s a nice image, really.

Then I start to think about how much different things would have been in the 90s and 00s if it had been 10 years later. Cell phones and constant updates and all. Skype to stay close.

The mind, it wonders and wanders too much at times.

Then I look at the empty bag of Cheese Balls from Utz! Sitting on the coffee table, right next to the “Films of Burt Reynolds” book that I put there when I moved in and my angst leaves.

It’s nice to find happiness, even when you find it late.

The struggles have been monumental, but I think it’ll all be worth it.

Titled...

I’ve broken the rules before, so who really cares, right?

Congrats.

It’s hard to come up with other words. Not really a need for them.

Just congrats.

The hardest part is telling everyone about it.

And hoping afterward.

Anyways, I’m happy, you’re happy. Be happy.

I’m drunk. First time in months.

Here’s hoping my August is as good as your whenever…