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.

Paper towels and ice cubes

Chapter 1: Opening night

Should I be surprised no one is here?

No. Not really. I spent every dime I had just getting the place suitable for folks to come and drink till they were gone.

Instead, they never came. Maybe an ad in the newspaper wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. Or at least some fliers for the kids in the streets to hand out between con games and coin tosses. Yeah, because kids still play that shit. Just like Steve McQueen in the “Cincinnati Kid”, one of the best freaking movies shot in this town. And don’t give me any of that Nic Cage in Bad Lieutenant bull either. The original kicked its ass, even though it wasn’t in the city.

I look around the place. It’s dark. Kind of muddy looking. Exactly what I wanted from the place when I lucked into buying it a year and a half ago. Then, it was just a mold-filled remnant of the storm. Left to rot like so much else. My job wasn’t to save this place. Instead, it was to save myself.

My list of folks I expected to show up read a lot less like the list I expected to show up for my 40th birthday here. I was still living in North Carolina at the time. Sent out invitations and all. Who the fuck does that for their own birthday? Someone who desperately needs his friends to show some love, that’s who.

You spend enough time alone inside your mind, it works on ya. Just like being a POW in Vietnam or Korea would do. Or in solitude in prison. Why the fuck do you think it’s done? To fuck with the mind, that’s why. And if you do it to yourself, damn there must really be something wrong in there.

I can’t remember the last time I really felt a part of something. Yeah, newsrooms always did the job. But that’s exactly what it was -- a job. And most people have the ability to separate the two things. For me, the job was the life. Even in the beginning, in school. I had roommates that sat around smoking’ dope and sniffin’ God knows what up their noses. I once sat in the room with one of them while he smoked a spliff. Or what I thought was just a spliff. Three days later, I’m still awake.

“Hey, man, hope you didn’t mind me smoking angel dust the other day,” Kurt said as he was finally taking a shower after a week.

“Fuck.” was all I really remember thinking.

That’s when I realized I wanted to get out of there. I liked them, and dug the parties and hanging out that happened. And the late night Filberto’s runs for a carne asada plate. But, after that, I really started hanging out at work, all the freaking time. So much so, I put myself in more debt staying in school to stay at the job. To this day, that student loan haunts me. But, it’ll die with me.



Stuff:

About the only thing he’d approve of is having Waylon Jennings’ Greatest Hits album on the jukebox.

I haven’t seen a Mexican girl here since 2009.

She walked in, then went straight to the jukebox, put in a quarter and played David Watts like she knew the opportunity was going to be there. Then, she ordered a Lone Star. I might like this gal.

“You know, I’ve never tried crystal meth before,” I said. “I have had Crystal before. And it left quite a bitter taste. But taught me a damn good lesson about myself.”
Killing cockroaches with a 3-iron is fun, but I won’t make your neighbors think much of you.

“Pork chops soaked in Teriayki sauce. Not bad, honey.” That was the last complement she gave me.

John Gruden may be this generation’s Brent Musburger. He’s that bad.

“You’re a writer? What do you write about?” he said with a swirl of PBR on his chin.

“You,” I said.

The next thing I remember was Daphne from Scooby Doo’s voice. Then, a paper towel filled with ice on my lip.

“That was stupid,” she said.

“Nah,” I replied as the ice broke through the paper towel. “PUtting ice in a paper towel. That’s stupid.”

She laughed and gave me a fresh Shiner. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.

“I’ll write about you now,” I said.

“Why? I’ve got nothing interesting,” she said with a wink.

“Probably right, but hey, the night is young and your ex may show up.”

“That was my ex.”