“son, you dropped something…” September 15, 2008

after a week of dragging 50 lbs of everything i own back and forth across portland, cheap tacos and cheaper whiskey, sleeping in parks and parking lots, nearly biting through my tongue in the face of a manipulative employer, stringing me along for mere pocket change, and all for the single chance to extinguish a heartbreak that i will never allow myself to feel again..

the train back to california is sold out and the coffee is mysteriously weak. i take inventory of a crushed soul and a shrinking wad of cash. how many more days can i afford to lay in the damp grass waiting for you to sort out your emotions? 2? 3? pity penetrates the pores of the city sidewalk, and it’s most authentic, and more comforting than i’ve ever allowed it to be.

i pay nothing for the train to the airport. trains are the ultimate vessel of false hopes. you may tax the cruel and the privileged. just ask the old lady from seattle who’s purse was stolen yesterday on her flight into town, and is now forced to ride the max back and forth from downtown to the airport, where she sleeps in the baggage claim, and is scared and hungry and exhausted. she’s not paying the fare either.

perhaps it is uncommon for someone to purchase an airline ticket for the next departing flight with cash, perhaps its the tears welling up in my skull, perhaps zenobia at the ticket counter is a prophet of peace and love, providing me with just enough compassion and courage to walk through the gate. i shall send her a card.

i recognize my bag coming down the carousel by the side compartment, shredded from being overstuffed and dragged back and forth along stark street. i can see odd papers and a single sock fighting its way out. i grasp the handle and haul it off the belt in one swift move. something hard and plastic falls from its gaping wound and hits the marble floor with a clank. i stare at the ground in disbelief. surely, it only my deodorant, or my toothbrush holder, surely it’s not a 9 inch black vibrator laying at my feet. without hesitation, i use the soul of my shoe to roll it under the baggage carousel. out of site, out of mind. but as i begin to book it for the door, it rolls back out, following me like a stray puppy. i keep walking, eyes on the door, past the elderly couple standing 3 feet behind me.

“son.., son! you dropped something. something fell out of your bag!”

a optimistic existentialist might suggest that such an event has set the course for confronting the humility of coming home with my tail between my legs and my cock rolling across the airport floor. in my broken state, it’s really the only thing that i can laugh at. but for humility’s sake, i’ll go ahead and hit the publish button.

my heroes have always been cowboys July 19, 2008

why do the ones who feel the most detached from their personal destiny, the ones who feel they have the least control of their own lives, always compensate by relentlessly demanding control of someone else’s?

is the delicate balance between striving for something greater than themselves, and completely surrendering to the forces far too daunting? are we a nation of sociopaths? is it perhaps an epidemic?

i’m beginning to understand the iron skin of the great wanderers and why they wear their gun outside their pants. there is no proper explanation to satisfy the content. there is only the time between a skipped heartbeat. there is only love.

i just watched my guitar disappear down the street in the back of a pick-up. it may have been a bold move for my empty morning stomach, but i know that music cannot be possessed, it can only be shared. i think i might sell my shoes by the end of the day.

freak magnetism brings me down May 9, 2008

a few days ago, i threw my back out for the very first time. and i wasnt even trying to blow myself. it involved an incredibly heroic feat with a patio table. but aside from the miserable and constant pain, and the pathetic helplessness, i was left to the mercy of my parents couch. where i was force fed an endless supply of mind-rotting television (two full episodes of american idol), and a small cattle farm’s worth of red meat.

today, i finally felt capable of moving about without a walker. though not really feeling up to it, mostly due to an aching stomach full of motrin and beef, i left the house and headed downtown.. in my hometown, where i am more a stranger than anywhere else i know. and just as i do in any town where i dont know anyone, i walk into the loudest, most crowded gay bar i can find.

it was karaoke night, and i was immediately assaulted with an off-key lionel ritchie ballad, absent of the slightest taste of irony. i got a beer and charged for the smoking patio. before i could sit down, i was joined by marc. a tall, lanky chap in his late 30’s. it wasnt so much his tapered, acid-washed jeans and brown leather jacket that stood out, but perhaps it was the entire right side of his face, swollen and bruised, nearly consuming his dilated pupil. i immediately smelled creep on his breath.

“are you gay?”, he asks, in that ever so familiar tweaker rasp.

“no, i come here for the music.”

“hey man, that’s awesome, i love lionel ritchie! i don’t really get the whole gay thing. i don’t fuck guys.. i mean, i will if i have to, you know what i mean? but i love gay guys, you know why? because they listen to me, man.”

this is where i’m inhaling my cigarette as hard and fast as i possibly can.

“did you see what happened to my face?”

“did somebody hit you?”

“somebody!?! more like 30 guys, dude. i was down at paradise beach today, and i see this girl, right? and she’s in her bikini and throwing back shots of jack.. so i go up to her, you know? and i’m just like rapping at her, it’s not like i was even gonna fuck her or anything. how the fuck was i suppose to know she was 14? so all the sudden, i’m surrounded by all these dudes who are all talking shit.. but what they don’t know is that i was in the marines for five fuckin years. so i take my shirt off and i’m like, “you wanna have this out? i’ll kill every single one of you motherfuckers.” cause thats what you got a do, you know? and thats what i did. and i won, too. god, i must sound like such a redneck right now. but you know sometimes that’s just what you gotta do, and you just get so angry.. (this is where marc starts foaming at the mouth) and you.. you just wanna rip out their fucking livers and grind them into the sand with all the blood and bile and shit..”

marc takes a pull off his beer. “i can’t believe i paid 4 dollars for this. thats why i keep a bottle in my scooter.”

i made my break. “hey man, you have a good night. be safe.”

“oh yeah, you too, hey, thanks for listening man. you’re fucking awesome. “

i walked straight out the front door and stood in the gutter pretending to text someone for about 5 minutes. then i went home. my first nite out in nearly two weeks lasted about 30 minutes, and i’ve never hated sacramento more. mostly because i’ve realized that i am the freak. and that marc is gonna find wherever i go. and i’ll probably listen to him.

rescue me, somebody.

packin’ up! March 19, 2008

marion williams - packin’ up

dear dolly, March 7, 2008

it’s difficult not to attribute this wayfarer curse to my mother, who at 17 years old, gave birth to me whilst hitchhiking her way to san francisco. and as i retrace my steps, and perhaps even retracing hers, i see an ever-evolving landscape that strives to deter each wanderer who would dare to stop along side of the road for the briefest moment, and gaze out over the silent san joaquin, or be humiliated by the stillness of the majestic rockies, offer themselves to the possession of the lost spirits who whisp about the mesa, and the vibrant bluffs that jet out into the pacific, my god. and every time i see a drive-thru starbucks erected on the side of the highway, i’m reminded how distant these roads are from the ones my mother passed through. and i picture her, with a thin layer of dust across her brow, and a yellowed copy of  “dharma bums” clutched in her hand, thinking the exact same thing.

is it selfish of me to constantly abandon these chains of security that burn so hot? will i ever properly describe the ecstatic sensation of  the sun melting your heart on an empty stomach and not a kind friend around for a thousand miles? is my glassy-eyed love, magnanimous as ever, any less pure because i may be gone tomorrow? and who gives you the right to tell me that i can’t carry it with me?

but i’m learning. learning that a city belongs to no one.  learning that i’d rather suffer the daggers of hate and jealousy than to abandon a rare opportunity to make my insecurities vulnerable to a trusting spirit.  learning that i am not a departing vessel for your self-inflicted misery, which you have so sloppily dared to impose on me. i can feel your arrogant spite tracing my footsteps as i walk out your door, and oh, to be there when you stumble upon it, sprawled and sprayed and splattered upon your doorstep, for all the neighbors to see. so endearing, so pathetic.

and here i am, at the crossroads once more. robert johnson’s gibson is scattered across the center line, smashed by a hummer, the devil’s busy with the elections, and the starbucks on the corner is having their grand opening. so i guess i’m gonna do something i’ve never done before, at least not by choice. i’m gonna order up a triple grande soy vanilla latte on ice, and walk right back to where i came. where my reputation surpasses me, and the winters are absolutley miserable. but hey, it’s spring, right?

step out into the light, the light February 28, 2008

portland is for lovers February 26, 2008

long-gone daddy February 6, 2008