i'm scared.

The opening of the novel, the memoir, the whatever, was supposed to be “I never should have left New Orleans.”

It fit. So perfectly. Those words spilled out of my lips one spring afternoon in Austin, Texas. I was there for my best friend’s bachelor party. I said them in some throwaway moment. But my friend, he understood the importance of the words, writing them down immediately. “That’s the opening to your book,” he said.

“My biography, written by you,” I responded.

And thus, “The Adventures of Alligator Jones” was born.

It never lived beyond that moment.

Fear has crept in. A little at first, but more so now.

I guess the old belief that you get more cautious with age has sort of come true. And I only have myself to blame for it. I dwell too much. I wonder what if too much. It’s silly really. I know this. I even pronounce the words of no regret a lot. Yet, I don’t live up to it.

Take now, for instance. Things should be going one direction. They aren’t. Or they are at a snail’s pace. Actually, something slower than a snail, but that’s what comes to mind. Why? Because it’s the cliché.

Inspiration also seems to have slipped a bit. I have ideas. Pretty good ones, too. But when I sit down to try and expound upon them, they fade. Or they turn into nothing. Or into Jello.

I look at my past and I see things that make me wonder about my ability to commit. At least when things are good, or looking good, or becoming good.

My journals are, and were a perfect example of this. When I am moody, depressed, unhappy, whatever -- the words flow like the Mississippi. When I’m happy, content, joyful, etc. -- they stop.

Maybe I just believe this myth. Maybe it’s true. I don’t know. I just know that when the tap turns off, I’m almost always enjoying myself. So I ignore what I want to do.

Discipline is the key, I think. I don’t have it. I need to get it.

Or maybe I just need to be miserable. Which, of course is a self-fulfilling kind of deal.

I remember the first time I seriously read my journals from cover to cover. All of them one night. It was 2000-something or other. I’d had my heart broken, and broken a heart. I didn’t understand what had happened to over a decade of my life, so I thought I’d read about it. It’s why you write it down, I told myself.

Much to my surprise, there were huge gaps in my journals. I knew I got lazy sometimes, but really this was ridiculous. In one of them, I went almost three years with about 15 entries. In another set of them, I went five years with very infrequent ones. In between those two periods, lots of writing. Before and after them. Lots of writing.

Then came the purge gal. The one I threw it all away for. I wrote a lot before, and a lot for the first few weeks. Then it became laborious. A chore. Almost a bother. One reason was the expectation. I have only myself to blame. I showed this one my writings. Something I’d never done before. She wanted them to be about her. Not about any one from the past. But I couldn’t do it. At least not knowing she was reading.

After she dumped me, I wrote more than I’d ever written. I almost killed myself. And I found a bit of a voice inside me.

Then, she came back for a moment. It stopped momentarily. But came back with a vengeance when she disappeared for good.

The period since has been full of peaks and valleys. I started a roadie with my dad, writing furiously. Slowly, it became fun. Something I didn’t expect. And the writing stopped.

Now, I’m in a place of change. A crossroad, I guess. I can chase something and see what happens. I can let it just play out. Or I can run away. I seriously sit here and think which would be better. Knowing which would be. Unless…

And this writing could have been better too. But I was scared to chase the idea that was there. Of girls, exes and twisted metal.

Maybe next time. If I remember.

All I know is there’s a killer line from a song written by Joey Kneiser. “I want to curse at the world, with my arms around you.” For years I searched for a perfect line to say to a woman that I loved. That one, I think, is it.

dancin' machine

“Eh, it’s not going to make much of a difference.”

Yep, there’s plenty of places in my life where that phrase fits in perfectly. A time when a decision must be made, and you’ve got to stick with the consequences. Love or hate the results. Enjoy the fabulous disaster that may occur.

Last night, it was a simple one.

I went to the freezer and pulled out one of those frozen, all in one meals. This one was only bought because I had a coupon. It was from the Macaroni Grill. I think they retail for something ridiculous like $7.98. The coupon was for half off. So what the heck. But that’s not the decision I had to make. No, this one ranks up there with LeBron’s.

I opened up the package. Well, I attempted to at first with just my hands. However, it appears I am too weak now to even open up a sealed plastic wrapper with frozen vegetables, chicken and pasta inside. So, I found a knife, almost cutting my finger in the process as I just stuck my hand into the drawer and grabbed, and I proceeded to cut that thing open with a flick of the wrist. Did that sound sexy at all? Or is it even possible to say ‘flick of the wrist’ and be sexy?

Looking at the contents as they trickled into the frying pan that I use as a sauce pan, it looked edible. Better than the cheese toast I had for dinner the night before, for sure. (Ha. Night before, for sure.)

I look at the directions (for the first time) and am stunned to see this “add ¼ cup milk.”

“Shit. I don’t have any milk.”

But wait, there is a jug in the fridge. Way in the back. Behind the Orange Juice. Behind the tap water filled jug. Even behind the month-old Budweisers I bought for a buddy that came down. I even drank some of them.

I reach in and pull it out. Expecting solid waste.

Instead, the jug is liquid. The expiration date is Oct. 11. It’s officially Oct. 30 when I’m doing this. I take the cap off and look inside. Just a few swirlies in the mix. No cottage cheese. It’s still white as well. Then, I do what has to be done, I take a sniff.

“Eh, it doesn’t smell bad.” Not that it smelled good, but these are important little details that I wasn’t really worried about at that moment. I’m hungry. It’s after midnight and the only open store is the BP down the street. And, I won’t ever shop at a BP again. Fuck the little man and watch the big man rebrand itself.

I get the measuring cup. This is when you know the decision has been made. You’re going to eat this. Damn the consequences. Much like not going to the dentist in 17 years. But not really.

I pour it out into the cup. Then I pour the cup into the pan. It sizzles on contact.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m eating. This isn’t that bad. I don’t know, but Alien on the television just shot out of the guy’s chest while he was chewing on his food. Fuck omens.

I got to bed a few hours later. I tried to watch ‘Million Dollar Baby’ but just couldn’t fight off the monster of sleep. I stumble to bed. Taking a pee along the way.

In bed now, I slowly try to drift off. Then my stomach decides to say something.

It’s angry. With me. I try to just sleep through it. Nope. You’re getting up.

I go to the potty. Sit down and relieve myself. Yep. I said it. You read it. That uncomfortable feeling stays after the purge. You know what it means. There’s more to come. Yet, you don’t want to sit on the toilet and have your feet and butt fall asleep in the process.

So, I go back to bed. Leaving the bathroom light on, because, I know I’ll be back.

Funny thing is. I don’t. Instead, I wake up at 9 a.m. Take a pee. Go back to bed, laughing at the light still being on.

Then the stomach says, “remember me?”

Now it’s 10:46 a.m. I’ve been on the toilet four times. Lots of toilet paper used.

It’s the decisions you make, my son. They determine your future, whether you want to believe it or not.

And no, my dad never sat me down and filled me with such wisdom. I’ve learned it all on my own. With a little help from some awesome and not so awesome women. Some who dance, most who don’t. Not that I’m a dancer, mind you. I just have danced before.

just a guide...and all that jazz

Maybe I should stop telling her about my favorite bands.

Once again, my friend Karly has thrown herself at one of my heroes. And once again, one of my heroes fucked her.

It’s stunning the frequency with which this keeps occurring. I generally find a way to fall in love with two or three new bands every year. Now, these might not be new bands, but new to me.

But anyway. It seems that every time it happens. It happens for her as well. And it always starts with me sending a silly message.

It used to be myspace. But that died. Now it’s facebook. Which is dying.

Maybe there won’t be a replacement for that one. We all know better than that, though. The collective nonsense that is trying to be a collective consciousness won’t allow such a thing, will it?

Or I could just stop telling her about bands I love.

Or stop thinking that maybe, one day she’ll get tired of star fucking and fall for me. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She knows we’re very similar creatures at heart. It’s just that I have bad teeth and can’t get up on stage and sing.

And I know this. I’ve known it since less than four minutes after we finally met. After flirting via messages and phone calls for months. All it took was a few sips of beer, a smile and some very nervous in person conversation. We both came away disappointed.

By the end of the night, however, only one of us was.

That was the first time I saw her in action. She didn’t want to go up to the band. She was scared, even. It is pretty much the only time I’ve seen her vulnerable. Well, that and another time. Sitting on the couch in the house of a mutual friend’s parents.

But that night, she and I were getting ready to leave the club. Go hit up a drinking spot she knew of in the heart of New York City. This was really the first time I’d been out and about in the big city. I spent the entire day leading up to the show wandering around. I found the Joe Strummer wall in the East Village. And then I stumbled into a tourist bar inside the Empire State Building. Without even knowing I was inside of it.

Go figure.

But instead, I coaxed her, like I always seem to do. I’m a good coaxer. I help the one’s I dig become better in some way. It’s a gift and a curse. Encouraging those I love to chase their dreams while I put mine on hold or just forget about them. I once wanted to be a reporter at a decent metro paper. I gave up on that. I thought about being a writer. Short stories, mostly. I know I don’t have the kind of dedication that it takes to write novels, so why not? Fizzle. Not for lack of want. But for lack of sane mind.

Now, here I was with a chance to take Karly out for a night on the town. Just me and her, basking in the glow of the her concert virginity being busted. But, instead, I uttered these words: “Go ahead, they’re cool guys. They’ll talk to ya. Trust me.”

I knew this because after my first show, I said hi. Got to chat a little. I wasn’t cool. I wasn’t weird. I was just me, trying to shake the hand of my hero. The guys who wrote the songs that kept me from killing myself less than two years before.

What harm could it do?

Well, I went over to the bar and got a drink. Drank it while I watched her flirt with, first the lead singer, then the guitar player.

Eventually, she came back over with the keyboardist. “This is Rick,” she said, introducing me to someone I knew, but had never “met.”

“How ya doing?” I muttered, sticking out my hand. We shook and then he lost interest in both of us as another woman came over.

“I think we’re going to hang out with them tonight!” Karly said excitedly.

I looked at her eyes. Saw the brightness in them. The sheer joy in them. One thing I cannot resist is eyes. And when I see that much bliss, no matter what it means to me, I do what those eyes want. A curse? Nah. It's just me.

“Awesome,” I mustered from deep inside. “This should be interesting.”

She scampered off. Soon, I found myself walking the streets of New York City with a girl I had a thing for and the band I loved.

We went to one bar, then another. I kept drinking.

Finally, we stayed put. I was long past gone.

I sat at the table with my heroes. Just kind of staring at them. Listening to their conversations. I tried once to get in to it, but failed miserably. And just slumped into my chair. The keyboard player wasn’t drinking. He gave me the look of “kid, you need to wake up.”

I looked around. She was gone.

Here I was in the biggest city on the East Coast, drunk off my ass. Could be worse, I guess.

Then I saw her. She was making out with one of the guitar players.

“Shit,” I said.

Rick looked at me, grabbing my hand as I tried to stand up.

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m just getting another drink,” I slurred elegantly.

The table watched me walk in a perfect diagonal to the bar. My eyes must have spoke a million words as the bartender already had a bottle of Jameson in his hand pouring before I got to the wood.

“Here ya go buddy,” he said. “It’s on him.” He pointed at the guitar player. Holding up a glass. Karly was too. Smiling.

I picked up the glass, tilted it back and shot it down.

Next thing I remember I was in a cab. With Karly. Apologizing.

Something that has repeated itself with her three times now.

Tonight, I get a text.

“AA was awesome tonight. They kicked the headliner’s asses.”

This, a couple weeks after I took her to one of their shows here in North Carolina. Finally got her in my state, maybe that‘s some kind of progress, I told myself. All during the show, I was extolling their virtues like I do.

She was converted.

And she talked to the guitar player from my favorite band, who were the headliners.

“Wow, they’re in Texas now?” I thought to myself.

A few hours later, another text came.

“The guys from AA just showed up at my bar!”

I knew what would happen. The lead singer of AA writes songs about girls. That’s it. Good ones. Bad ones. And every kind in between.

The last text I got was simply…

“Thanks for telling me about AA. J.B. is awesome! XoXo.”

He’ll be writing a song about her next. And I’ll buy it, knowing it’s my fault.