Who are we kidding, there was never a plan ...

He sighed long and loud. His car was parking at a traffic light in New Bern, North Carolina. He’d made it 37 miles from his starting point – the Atlantic Ocean. How on earth was he going to finish this task in the three weeks he had?

Burying ghosts isn’t something that comes with a manual. He’d been dealing with them like a pit bar-b-que guy must deal with flies, he swats and hopes for the best.

She’d left him over six years ago. Six years, four months and 17 days ago to be exact. Two nights before, he’d finally realized that he’d been pining over her for longer than he knew her – six years, four months and 11 days. That epiphany hit its mark while lying in bed that morning. The wind was blowing outside and the cars were driving by on the still wet from an early rain road. He had to stop. And to make that possible, he had to do something interesting, something dramatic, something only he would think of.

So, he took a shower and went to work. Like he always did. For five days. Then, while sitting in his dusty cubicle at work, listening to the trollish co-worker beside him crying for the God only knows how manyieth day in a row, he got up walked to his boss’ desk and said “I quit.”

Stunned, the copy desk chief stared at him. “It is what it is, man,” he finally uttered.

“Fuck that,” he countered. “You’re just as stuck as I am, dawg.”

With that, he went outside knowing full well he’d never enter another newspaper office again. At least as an employee. That felt more liberating than what he was about to do, and that, he decided, was a damn good sign.

Driving the 58 minutes home he started plotting a course of action. How on earth could he do this? He had no job, was deep in debt and had a girlfriend. She knew he was messed up about his past, but she thought he was just too emotional.

His first decision was she couldn’t come with him.

He dialed her number. They rarely talked on the phone. She hated it. He hated it. His worst relationship moments had come on the phone. Fights from New Orleans to Arlington, Virginia. Crying fits. And the break up from Gainesville, Florida, to New Bern, North Carolina.

She picked up.

“Hey, honey,” she said. He didn’t remember her ever calling him honey. He tried to call her honey or hun a few times. She said it creeped her out.

“Hey, babe,” he responded. “I’ve got some news.”

“Good news?”

“I think so.” He paused. The next words out of his mouth were very important. And he hadn’t thought them through at all.

“Listen, I need some time by myself,” he instantly knew those were the wrong words.

“What?” she said, terrified.

“Let me re-phrase that,” he said. “I need to take a road trip. It’s going to be a long one. But I have to do it alone.”

“OK…Why?” she said, tentatively.

“I have to bury her,” he said. “She’d dead now. Well, she’s been dead for a long time. But I just found the corpse.”

He hoped she’d get it.

“You mean her? The one you always talk about in your sleep?”

“Yes,” he said. “I quit my job today.”

“What?”

“Good news is, I can move in with you now. No more long distance relationship. That is, at least after this trip is done.”

“Honey,” she sadly, “are you going to come back?”

“Unless I get killed driving or while eating pancakes somewhere, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I promise.”

“Love you,” she said softly. Her voice didn’t sound confident. He knew she had doubts about his intentions. It was funny, for the first time since they began dating a year and a half ago, he didn’t have any doubts about his.

“Love you too, babe,” he said. “I’ll send you a postcard from every stop I make.”

“OK,” she said, now crying.

“It’s going to be all right, baby. I promise. I just need this. We need this. To survive.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Good bye baby,” he said.

“Love you,” she said, hanging up.

He stared at the phone. He had a real hatred for phones. He hated having life-altering conversations on them. Twice in his life, he’d suffered through that life-shattering talk on a phone. One of them was while he sat on his parents’ living room floor; the other, on a broken down futon. His grey-blue eyes looked around to see where this one occurred. He was sitting on a hand-me-down couch in his holey underwear. It seemed fitting.

In the spare bedroom he kept his suitcases and bags. Under a cheap spare bed, he reached for, and found his sister’s old Virginia Commonwealth swim team bag. He loved that bag. She’d given it to him years ago. “I don’t need it anymore,” she said. He marveled then at how easy it was for her to just give away something that used to mean so much. It was a concept foreign to him. Things that had meaning, you hold on to them. They keep you grounded. They remind you of when times were better. Because, honestly, they don’t get better.

What an awful way to look at life, he thought to himself after that flood of memory.

His first instance of purging came in 2003. He and the redhead were moving. Well, she was moving, and he was moving his stuff. A box of old letters and trinkets popped up while he was taking things out of a closet. His old girlfriend’s letters and memory box. Things that reminded him of her. He looked through it all, smiling at the things it contained. His current girl had replaced her. While he was lost in thought, she walked in.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Just some old junk I don’t need anymore,” he said, throwing the entire box into a trash bag.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you throw anything away.”

She was right.

Six years later, he was in a crappy apartment in that same town. He’d moved twice, but somehow ended up back where he was. Another girl had come and gone, and she had the audacity to say she left because he lived in the past.

She was right.

And he was throwing it all away. Garbage bag after garbage bag was filled with his past. Diaries and notepads. Menus and receipts. He even threw away the necklace that the first girl he saw naked had left on his bed that night. That was one of the things he never thought he’d throw away. Now, years later, he still can remember what it looked like, but he can’t describe it.

“Guess that’s progress,” he said out loud.

He’d packed up a bag while thinking. He also had his digital camera and his laptop.

His bank account was empty, he’d paid the rent for the month and turned in his notice. He’d get back and have one week to move.

“Good plan,” he said with a chuckle. It made him think of a line from Lucero’s “She Wakes When She Dreams” Which, of course, made him grab his Ipod – which contained only Lucero and Ben Nichols songs.

“Time to hit the road,” he said, slamming the door shut.

He’d go north first, he decided. Go right into the belly of the beast.

questions and crutches

“You still love her? Don’t you?”

That’s a question most every guy has heard.

The lucky ones, or unlucky, depending on your theory or perspective, are the few that haven’t heard it.

The answer you give, and the answer you know, they’re always different.

Having your heart broken isn’t a badge of honor. It’s a tumor. Some of them fester and become cancerous. Others just sit there and annoy you. You can cut them out, but most of the times they grow right back. You can ignore them, and they may kill you. Or they may not.

As I sit here in my living room, drinking a cold IPA and listening to the rain, the ghosts dance around the house like they always do. I’m use to them now. I used to not have the ability to function when they were around, but, since they’re always there, it became necessary to learn how to.

At first, it was alcohol. Nothing else. Just drinking and drinking. You lose a lot of weight when all you do is drink. Even if it’s beer. Your body sort of starts to eat itself and you lose weight.

You also lose teeth. But that’s a long-term problem. It doesn’t happen quickly. Unless you fall down drunk one night or morning or afternoon and they get knocked out. No, they rot. Like your heart does. Like your soul does. Like your career does.

Yeah, you can get off of your ass and “make something positive out of it.” Like all your friends will say. Like the shrinks will say. Like the self-help books and web sites will say.

And they’re all right.

Just like you are.

It’s a choice, right? That’s what the good book of life says. You choose to be happy, you’re happy. You choose to be sad, you’re sad.

Well, what if you don’t choose?

That’s something to ponder.

For minds deeper than mine.

I’d rather just eat peanuts out of a can and drink IPAs, while listening to the rain.

My friends all moved away from here. They all got married, too.

Me? I fell in love again. Yeah, it was good. I got my heart dusted again too. It hurt like hell. But not as much.

I waited a bit. Got tentative again. Drifted. Drank. Drove.

Then I got off my ass. Got a job. Moved to the beach.

Allowed myself to look again.

Fell in love again.

Got really happy for a little while. Then got crapped on by God, or Karma, or whatever you call it.

Spent a night in a hospital in New Orleans. By far the worst night of my life. I can’t even imagine how bad it was for the girl who’s eyes I was looking into the whole time.

I shudder just thinking about it.

Now, as July 19 approaches, it hurts even more than it always did. But at least I have something else to be mad about on that day. Not something that doesn’t exist anymore. That doesn’t think about me anymore.

I wonder which I’ll think about first that morning.

It scares me to think that it would be the first, not the last.

It’s a guilty feeling, I know that. If I know me, I know which one will pop into my head first. And it’s the one no one would think should be first, but if it happened to them, it would be first as well.

God damn that’s depressing.

Like the song says, I hear her voice singing every song I hear. But, the voice ain’t calling me back. It’s taunting me. Making me stay where I am.

“So do something about it,” the angry mob sighs. Ha. An angry mob sighing.

Well, I do. I drink. And I write. And I listen to songs that I’ve heard hundreds of times before. They make me sad. Every, single time. But it’s a little less. Every, single time.

And that’s about all you can hope for.

One day, probably soon, I’ll have to deal with loss again. Death seems to be coming soon. Not me, I’ve probably got the DNA curse of long life. Even living out of a shopping cart, somehow my atoms won’t quit, I’m sure of that. Maybe the mind won’t make the journey. That’s morbid. Even for me.

I had an idea. Start a business with my dad. Only problem? It came 10 years too late.

Or is that just an excuse? Like the rest of it. Like the words. Like the thoughts. Like that crutch?

rental phone

As I sit here at 3:50 in the morning listening to Westside Connection, the ultimate in fake gangsta rap, I guess it’s all ok.

35 years ago sometime this week, Star Wars was released. I didn’t see it that weekend. I was six years old. I did see it however before the year was over.

My parents were, I guess, pretty damn cool when I was really young. We took the station wagon to the drive-in theater to see it. I remember seeing a few movies there. The Empire Strikes Back was one of them. So were a few Disney movies.

Maybe dad wasn’t so much a shit? Actually, I don’t remember him being there. I don’t remember mom being there either. I do remember sneaking in with my sister driving at some point. And since she was just 5 years older than me, I couldn’t have been less than 11 years old. “Get under the seat,” she’d say.

Ha.

I do remember watching Star Wars there. Sitting on the roof of the car. Just being fascinated by it. Honestly, few things over the years have had that effect on me.

Walking into my dorm room at UVA for the first time. That did.

Seeing a girls vagina for the first time. At UVA, in Lambeth dorm, second year. I, luckily, was so damn nervous I couldn’t even think about getting a hard on. So, she left. I was told that she asked one of my suitemates if he had a condom on the way out. No wonder.

Seeing a shooting star, at the age of 19, for the first time. That sticks out.

So does walking home with Rannette one day in high school. Sophomore year. Why that was the only time we did it, I’ll never fucking know. I guess she had a reason.

My first date with Sharon. I still vividly remember dancing with folks at some frat house. Me, doing things I’d never do. It’s why I think she was so special for so long. It passed, that feeling. But it took a long, long time.

My first kiss with Emily. Way before we were ‘dating’. I kissed her on the head. After she’d got second degree burns on her chest and head going to the beach with me. She didn’t remember it happening. And that made it somehow more special. And I guess to this day, makes it more special. Dream-like quality and all….

Seeing Alisa walk into the bar for the first time. Those boots and that attiude.

Talking with Adrianna outside of the State Press before we were dating. Her watching me. Me watching her. Eventually leading to that kiss. What a strange kiss, but magical.

The empty boxes of beer behind me when Alisa and I kissed for the first time. First time, second date.

Emily and I’s first kiss. In my room. Green sheet. Bad blinds.

I remember things that I shouldn’t and don’t remember things I should.

Fuck. I don’t want these thoughts. But I don’t want to toss them. They will lead somewhere, eventually. Because they have to.

My first interview as a reporter. It was on the phone. I was awkward. It sucked. I don’t have a copy of that story. It ran in the Charlottesville Daily Progress sometime in August of 1992.

The first one for real? On the ASU track team.

First scary interview? Carie Courty. Arizona State gymnast. Scary because I was a dork. She was hot. That was it.

Favorite story I covered? Chasing Bill Frieder the day he got shit-canned at ASU. Another one of those I shouldn’t have been doing it stories, but I was in the office when it broke, so it became my story things. Some days, those were my favorites. Even when they caused friction with the “Beat” guy.

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever feel that thrill again. I haven’t written anything for publication that would get a byline since January of 2009. It is now May of 2012. That’s a long time. A long fucking time. It’s the kind of gap that employers go “well, why didn’t you write?” Well, fuck you. I’ve been writing every God damn day. Well, not every day. But damn close. Notepads and blogs and shitty briefs in your sacred fucking newspaper. Briefs that the guys you pay twice what I make don’t see as important. Until the next morning when they see them there and say “um….thanks for getting that in.”

That’s three days in a row that I’ve ended at exactly 750. I don’t know if that means I’m tapped out, or something is trying to tell me something.

It’s all good. And goo.

Speaking of…I heard Sonic Youth on the free XM radio today. I hadn’t heard anything from Daydream Nation in years. It felt dated. Like me, I guess. Who wants it? Not us. Except on 90s night on alternative radio.

How about alternative print guy night on the internet. The night when all the “modern” bloggers go the fuck away with their links and references to American Idol and Twitter. Instead, you hear about Ronnie Lane and actually standing in line for a movie, hoping you got a ticket, instead of ordering it online and printing it out at home or even using you fucking I-phone to just scan some bar code.

Fuck you.

Technology.

I’m old and it shows.

And you don’t care. Even though you’re old and hate it too. Or young and don’t know any better, but would feel the same way if you had just actually rented a fucking home phone. For almost 20 years. At $9.99 a month. Damn it mom, did you really do that?

Three memories

Chapter 1

Three memories haunt me like the vision of the man at the stairs in the movie poster for “The Exorcist”, meaning, they just stay there in my mind.

I guess haunted would be the wrong word to use to describe them. The three all represent failure of some sort, but they also represent hope. Why those three memories have stuck, I do not know. They are all of the same person. All from a time in my life when I have almost no memories. And they all bring smiles and melancholy when I think about them, even almost 30 years later.

The person in them is a girl. Her name is Heather. She was quite possibly the root of all my insanity. Not for anything she did, at least that I can remember. Instead, for the sheer magnitude of importance that I placed on her existence at a very young age.

I knew her, or knew of her at least, for three years. First grade. Second grade. And third grade. I don’t remember talking to her. Or hanging out with her. Nothing. But recent revelations about places I’d been and things I said would certainly not rule out that any of those things actually happened at some point. Maybe even in lots of detail. Probably not, however.

Those years of my life were kind of strange. Setting a tone, I believe, for the rest of them to follow.

I was labeled “smart” early on. And it turned out, I was much smarter than almost all my classmates at the large brick monstrosity of a school that I attended, old and full of rot, this thing was built right after World War I. It doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s ok.

My schooling started at a different school. Why? Because mom taught at the elementary school I was supposed to go to, and she did not want me to have the other kindergarten teacher because she sucked. So, I went to a school actually closer to my house, but not the one I was supposed to go to.

I have one memory of that school. Being in the field beside the school during recess. One guy had just bought Zips shoes. In the commercial, the kid who is wearing them can do all sorts of incredible things. One of them is to leap over a large bush. Well, the kid who got the shoes is bragging he can now do all of those things. Me, being the smartass I was, and still am, pointed at a bush in the yard. It was probably three foot tall, but I am remembering it from a kindergarteners perspective, so I could have been inches tall.

“Jump that, Derek!” I exclaimed.

The kid looked at me with shock. He ended up being the quarterback of the high school football team, but then, he was just a little kid.

“I, I, I, can’t do that,” he said.

“But you said you could do what the guy in the commercial does!” I yelled, puffing my chest in superiority. I had a problem with that as a kid.

“Um. Ok. I’ll try.” Derek finally said.

I was shocked. He’s actually going to do it?

Well, Derek ran right at the thing, leaped in the air and landed squarely in the bush. Got stuck even.

A teacher saw all of this. She rushed over.

“Why did you do that Derek?” she shrieked. Derek had ripped his pants a little and also had a little trickle of blood running down his arm from a branch or something cutting him.

“Randy told me to do it,” he whimpered pointing at me.

I was smiling. Looking around at all the kids. They were looking at me too. I wanted it to be awe. Well, whatever feeling a kindergartener would call it. Instead, they gave me looks of scorn.

“He did do that,” one girl said.

“It’s Randy’s fault!” a fat boy said with enthusiasm.

“Randy, did you tell Derek to do that?”

“Well, he said he could do it, because he’s got Zips on. I wanted to let him know that they really couldn’t give you powers like on TV.”

“Now Randy, you should know better than that. Derek was just proud of his new shoes.”

I looked at Derek. He was crying a little. He smiled at me when the teacher turned her back, sticking out his tongue. Round 1 went to me. Round 2 to Derek. I don’t remember if there was a Round 3. Unless being the school jock in high school was his victory dance. I played soccer. Not a lot of fans of soccer back then. Especially females. This was the South in the 1970s and 1980s, you’ll have to remember.

The next year, I was with a whole other batch of kids at the brick school.

That’s where I met Heather. I guess.

impotence of the brain

Praying to a practice God can be a dangerous thing.

Not because of the obvious. Instead, because they tend to die. And this pretty much minimalizes their power as a God.

Or does it?

Lots of folk, including myself, viewed Joe Strummer as some sort of God. We worshipped his every word, even as he contradicted himself from one interview to the next. Then we watched as Clash songs became Levis’ jingles.

Then he keeled over.

Ditto with Johnny Thunders for many. Although he was a God of excess and simplicity.

I read a poem about Oprah being one. Personally, I’d rather go for someone like Sasha Grey if I’m going that direction.

Simply put, God and all that is already tough enough to figure out without putting someone who actually lived into the equation. Unless you believe the entire we’re all god thing, which makes the self-worship of our times pretty easy to justify. I guess.

Alcohol is another God to some. Easier to pray over a pint.

Now you can confess your sins with an I-phone app. Well, I guess it allows for immediacy with the Pope.

I once saw a great view outside of the Grand Canyon. Me and my girlfriend took the long way to Colorado. Those roads were scary, but they were beautiful. I kept having to remember that I was driving on these perilous roads instead of just site seeing. One wrong move and whammo, I guess we would have met whatever God there is.

But those views, what I remember of them between knarled fingers on the steering wheel, were heavenly. I miss those kinds of experiences.

I tried to go to church for a while a couple of years ago. It was educational. I learned more about religion than I had in 30-plus years of pretending I knew about it. I never made a connection. I felt like an outsider at every moment. Which is because, that’s exactly what I was.

Did I do it for a girl? I guess yes. Initially. But I kept up the attempt after the girl was out of the picture. Kept trying. Kept praying. Kept reading. It was interesting, I’ll admit that. Though I felt so little from it. Faith is a tough thing to figure out. I believe in something Devine. But I have yet to figure out what exactly it is. And I think that’s a good thing. It’ll keep me questioning and searching. Instead of just blindly following. Or I’m just going to go to Hell.

Last night I dreamed that I was a last fighter against some kind of evil force. It wasn’t vampires. It wasn’t demons. It was just some kind of people and soul-eating monster that took over people’s lives. I guess it was sort of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers without Donald Sutherland. Man, I dig Donald Sutherland. Not in a sexual kind of way. But in a damn, that fucker is cool way.

I kept waking up. It was nice to remember a dream. It doesn’t happen much. But usually they are fucked up like that. Maybe I have some kind of internal thing going on. I need to get rid of demons. Ha. No shit.

The snow is coming back tonight. I have to scurry on to work for the company that has no love for me -- or anyone, let’s not make this personal -- and then scurry back. Why the rat imagery? It’s a rat race, right? Fucked up clichéd nonsense.

My birthday is coming up soon. I’ll be old. I wonder if any of my friends will actually show up to hang out? I have my doubts. It’s a bad economy and all.

Pity party. Smitty ditty. Monkey bunky.

If I ever get back to Phoenix, I need to purchase a new hat. I’ve lost my new hat, and my old hat smells.

Have you ever wanted to go back in time, just to do it all exactly the same way you did it before. Just taking better notes so you remember things better? I do. There are entire years where I don’t remember a single event. And it just gets worse every year. I do like it when moments get jarred out of the black hole for some reason. That’s when I get inspired to scribble. Busting through years of regret and anger and beer must be tough.

Sit back and relax. Some things just come naturally. Others? They need a little bit of help. Kind of like impotence for the brain. Although I believe impotence is mostly a brain thing anyway.

Get Busy

“You sir are guilty!” a loud voice echoed from high above me. So high that I had no idea if it was really real.

I looked toward the sky. Or up. There wasn’t a sky to see above. Yet, I knew I wasn’t inside anywhere. I wasn’t outside either.

The air had a pleasant feel to it. Almost wet, but kind of dry. There was a smoke there. Not cigarette smoke, because it didn’t taste like that. Instead it had no taste. Yet, it clung to you like cigarette smoke.

“Odd,” I thought to myself.

I wandered about a bit. There was a giant wooden thing in front of me. I call it a thing only because I couldn’t figure out what it was. And I only know it was wooden because I rapped on it with my fist.

“Thunk, thunk, thunk,” I hit my fist against it. Hoping that maybe doing so would allow me to figure out what the only thing no smoke was.

Nothing.

I looked up. This wooden “thing” was huge. It was skyscraper-esque. Just towering over me. No end in sight.

“Get busy, man. Get busy,” a voice from behind me spoke.

I turned my entire body around hoping to catch whoever it was in whatever kind of strange face he or she may be making. No one was there.

“Get busy, man. Get busy,” the voice repeated. From exactly the same place. Down a bit. I knelt down to see what was making this statement.

What I saw was kind of a shock. I was me. Twenty years older. Staring back at the me that I had been.

“This is odd,” I said out loud.

“Not really,” the older me’s voice said. “I’ve seen it all before. Except then, I was you.”

“Well, what exactly are you doing down there on the ground?” I asked, kind of impatiently, but holding back just a bit so as not to be rude.

“Yes, I remember now. I’m confused. Well, you’re confused about what the heck is going on,” the older me said.

“Well, no shit,” was all I could muster.

“Just be patient,” he, I, whatever, said. “It’ll all make sense in a few minutes.”

That jolted me a bit. I didn’t even know what time it was. Heck, I don’t have a watch. I’m certain I have no cell phone wherever I am. Quick check of the pockets reveals this to be true as all I have is -- a Mardi Gras doubloon, an empty Velcro wallet, a condom and a wad of 37 $2 bills.

“Funny thing about it me,” the older me’s voice said. “You’re going to need all of those things.”

“Is this some kind of dream?” I asked the older me. “I mean, this is straight out of Alice and Wonderland or something.”

“How the hell would you know that?” the voice retorted. “The only thing you know about Alice in Wonderland came from a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers video.”

Well, that’s the truth, I thought to myself. That and some Disney references.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Disney-smisney,” he yelled out.

I’m having a conversation with myself. Only he knows what I’m thinking because he already thought it out. Then said it all. Is there anyway out of this? I guess not. Because even if I change what he originally went through with me, it will instantly become what we went through.

“My head hurts,” the voice said in whiny 6 year old kid voice.

“What?” I replied.

“My head hurts.”

“Well, my mind hurts,” I snapped.

“Eh. Kid, you don’t know the half of it. Try living the next 20 years. Then get back to me.”

I felt like stomping on the head. Crushing it. But then, would I be crushing my own head? Christ. This is ridiculous.

Finally, something else happened. The wooden thing disappeared. Just vanished into thin air. One second it was there, casting quite an imposing shadow, the next it was gone. Kind of like youth. One day, you’re basking in it, next thing you know you’re old.

“That’s the kind of thinking that got you here in the first place,” the old me said.

For the first time I noticed the old me looked younger than the me me.

“Yep, kid, it’s true,” he said. “You’re only as old as you think you are.”

I looked back to where the wooden thing was. There was now a house. It was a house I knew very well. Hadn’t been there in a long time, but my memories kept it in my head. All the time.

“Set it on fire, kid,” the voice said.

“Why?”

“Because you need to. That’s why.”

“Did you?”

“That, my self, would be cheating.”