Congratulations everybody, we’ve all made it through Tattoo Week here at Billy Cleans His Plate. In closing, I would like to explain why it is I got tattoos to begin with, and why I continued to get more.
1) Fucking with Permanence – There is something radical and powerful about doing something to your body that is permanent. I remember when I got my ear pierced in high school, my mom absolutely flipped (and frankly, she was not the one I thought was going to have a problem with it). She yelled, “Do you know that’s permanent?” Ummm, yeah. But there’s something about being able to take that earring out that makes it seem not so permanent, you know? Sure, the hole is still there, but you really have to look. Tattoos do not fuck around, they’re out, they’re loud, and they’re proud. I’m heavy into having to live the rest of my life with a decision I made when I was young and impetuous. It is somehow like taking the idea of permanence, which is large and scary in an utterly abstract way, and spitting in its face.
2) Facing Primal Fears – Getting a tattoo forces you to face some heavy primal fears face on; fears like needles, pain, blood and ex-convicts. Again, there’s just something incredibly powerful and fulfilling about willingly going into a situation that your instincts scream out against, it’s like some sort of rite of passage. You know it’s going to hurt. You know there’s going to blood. You know there is a SHARP ass needle going to be puncturing your flesh over and over and over. You know the possibly drug addled bastard doing the work could seriously fuck up and put a picture of Suzanne Somers on your lower back. There’s also that weird social fear of the people that typically get tattoos (at least before they became super popular): people like truck drivers, prisoners, lowlifes and sailors. Getting a tattoo as well doesn’t necessarily make you closer to these people, or make you want to be them, but it might just bring you a step closer to realizing that we’re ALL just people when you have something in common – maybe not. But after facing your fears you do feel stronger, you feel more powerful, and you have this totem, this personal emblem of decision and commemoration forever.
3) You Cannot Get Just One – I had heard it said and didn’t believe it, but it’s true; tattoos are addictive. As soon as you get that first one, you’re thinking of what the next one will be. They make you feel powerful. They’re chosen marks that show you have been through something. But more than that, they produce an endorphin rush that won’t quit. I told myself that the Quan tattoo would be my last, and yet the little endorphin receptors in my head are calling out in small, tinkly voices, “Go ahead, get another one.” Maybe something small to commemorate starting all over again in Seattle…
Thank you all for sticking through Tattoo Week here, you’re all superstars!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tattoo III - Quan
So when my fairly well paying job at Digital Generation Systems folded about 4 years ago, and life as I knew it was going to take an uncontrollable spin that would destroy my comfort niche, I decided it was the perfect time for my next tattoo.
I was called upon to train the new folks taking our jobs down in Dallas… And by called upon to do training, I mean Mercedes hooked me up with a paid trip to Dallas so we could drive to New Orleans and celebrate my job’s demise in style.
But I decided that the tattoo should be done in Dallas, a place that represented the destruction of all things good. Because you see, this tattoo was going to be my reminder of childhood, physical evidence that I had been becoming a person a did not want to be and a precursor to a new life where I tried a little harder. And where did I get the inspiration for such a tattoo?
Dr. Seuss.
My grandmother had a small collection of Dr. Seuss books that she would read to us; Hop on Pop, 1 Fish 2 Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, The Cat in the Hat. But my favorite, my absolute favorite was and is On Beyond Zebra.
On Beyond Zebra deals with the letters of the alphabet that exist after Z and gives a brief synopsis of the creatures whose names require these specialty letters. My favorite was the letter QUAN
which was used to spell Quandary – a small little, orange creature that lived at the bottom of the ocean and couldn’t tell which of his ends was the top. Read:
Like QUAN is for Quandary, who lives on a shelf
In a hole in the ocean alone by himself
And he worries, each day, from the dawn's early light
And he worries, just worries, far into the night.
He just stands there and worries. He simply can't stop...
Is his top-side his bottom? Or bottom-side top?
The picture was this great blue and spooky undersea grotto with this funny little orange oval in the corner of the page. I couldn’t wait till grandma would get to this page; it thrilled me and frightened me a little – possibly my favorite combination.
So this is the design I chose in the same glorious orange as the book, to be placed on my right shoulder.
Mercedes was to scope out tattoo parlors in the Deep Elem section of Dallas, and found one, but it was closed by the time we got there. We then just selected one at random. The guy who did it was an old school Mexican character with a big mustache. He never said, but I got the feeling he got his tattooing practice in prison. Fucking perfect!
Halfway through, Mercedes noticed that I was looking a little droopy. She asked, worriedly (or as worriedly as she could), if I was okay. I was great. My mind had figured out how to turn that tattoo pain into an endorphin rush that wouldn’t quit. As soon as I mentioned this out loud, Senor Cell Block began digging the needle in harder. I just smiled and thought to myself: Go ahead man, do your worst. I know how to flip this shit.
I was called upon to train the new folks taking our jobs down in Dallas… And by called upon to do training, I mean Mercedes hooked me up with a paid trip to Dallas so we could drive to New Orleans and celebrate my job’s demise in style.
But I decided that the tattoo should be done in Dallas, a place that represented the destruction of all things good. Because you see, this tattoo was going to be my reminder of childhood, physical evidence that I had been becoming a person a did not want to be and a precursor to a new life where I tried a little harder. And where did I get the inspiration for such a tattoo?
Dr. Seuss.
My grandmother had a small collection of Dr. Seuss books that she would read to us; Hop on Pop, 1 Fish 2 Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, The Cat in the Hat. But my favorite, my absolute favorite was and is On Beyond Zebra.
On Beyond Zebra deals with the letters of the alphabet that exist after Z and gives a brief synopsis of the creatures whose names require these specialty letters. My favorite was the letter QUAN
which was used to spell Quandary – a small little, orange creature that lived at the bottom of the ocean and couldn’t tell which of his ends was the top. Read:Like QUAN is for Quandary, who lives on a shelf
In a hole in the ocean alone by himself
And he worries, each day, from the dawn's early light
And he worries, just worries, far into the night.
He just stands there and worries. He simply can't stop...
Is his top-side his bottom? Or bottom-side top?
The picture was this great blue and spooky undersea grotto with this funny little orange oval in the corner of the page. I couldn’t wait till grandma would get to this page; it thrilled me and frightened me a little – possibly my favorite combination.
So this is the design I chose
in the same glorious orange as the book, to be placed on my right shoulder.Mercedes was to scope out tattoo parlors in the Deep Elem section of Dallas, and found one, but it was closed by the time we got there. We then just selected one at random. The guy who did it was an old school Mexican character with a big mustache. He never said, but I got the feeling he got his tattooing practice in prison. Fucking perfect!
Halfway through, Mercedes noticed that I was looking a little droopy. She asked, worriedly (or as worriedly as she could), if I was okay. I was great. My mind had figured out how to turn that tattoo pain into an endorphin rush that wouldn’t quit. As soon as I mentioned this out loud, Senor Cell Block began digging the needle in harder. I just smiled and thought to myself: Go ahead man, do your worst. I know how to flip this shit.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Tattoo II - Pocket Watch, 12:01
Ever since getting that 1st little lizard tattoo, I wanted another one. I wanted another one bad, but I didn’t know what I wanted to get. I wanted something personal, something that meant something to me. I didn’t just want to flip through an artist’s book and pick something at random.
I thought about this for years – seriously, years.
One night I dreamt of my brother getting a tattoo. He got this ginormous illuminated bible page on his arm. It was glorious and it glowed – a really impressive tattoo. I told him, in the dream, that I was still trying to figure out what to get for my next tattoo. He said:
“Why don’t you get that one you were telling Bob Moab about.”
- Note: Bob Moab was a truck driver that I worked with at the time. His name was not Bob Moab, but it was Bob. Bob from Sacramento. I liked the sound of Bob Moab better than Bob from Sacramento though, so that’s what I called him –
“Which one did I tell him about?” I asked my dream brother.
“You know, the one of the pocket watch with roman numerals on your leg, set at 12:01.”
“Right, ‘cause at 12:01 the whole idea of time falls apart and proves that hours and minutes are just manmade concepts.”
Then I woke up.
Now the whole time at 12:01 thing made perfect sense in the dream, and still sort of does if you look at it from the side and sort of squint. But don’t ask me to explain it.
This is my favorite tattoo. The guy in North Beach who did the work created a great design where the chain sort of wraps around like a treble clef. It is large, takes up one entire side of my left calf, and took hours to do. It is the tattoo that made me learn to change pain to pleasure; because after the outline was done, that shading hurt like a bitch.
Plus the whole thing was like a gift from the subconscious.
I thought about this for years – seriously, years.
One night I dreamt of my brother getting a tattoo. He got this ginormous illuminated bible page on his arm. It was glorious and it glowed – a really impressive tattoo. I told him, in the dream, that I was still trying to figure out what to get for my next tattoo. He said:
“Why don’t you get that one you were telling Bob Moab about.”
- Note: Bob Moab was a truck driver that I worked with at the time. His name was not Bob Moab, but it was Bob. Bob from Sacramento. I liked the sound of Bob Moab better than Bob from Sacramento though, so that’s what I called him –
“Which one did I tell him about?” I asked my dream brother.
“You know, the one of the pocket watch with roman numerals on your leg, set at 12:01.”
“Right, ‘cause at 12:01 the whole idea of time falls apart and proves that hours and minutes are just manmade concepts.”
Then I woke up.
Now the whole time at 12:01 thing made perfect sense in the dream, and still sort of does if you look at it from the side and sort of squint. But don’t ask me to explain it.
This is my favorite tattoo. The guy in North Beach who did the work created a great design where the chain sort of wraps around like a treble clef. It is large, takes up one entire side of my left calf, and took hours to do. It is the tattoo that made me learn to change pain to pleasure; because after the outline was done, that shading hurt like a bitch.
Plus the whole thing was like a gift from the subconscious.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Tattoo - Catalyst of Change
Corado decided he was finally going to take the tattoo plunge. We had somehow met this house full of folks over on the Mesa in Santa Barbara and one of them was a tattoo artist. I was a little reticent in going over there as the weekend before I had gotten so high that I sat for what seemed like an hour “talking with” this cute little androgynous girl, but it was really mostly her talking and me sitting there with that stoney, self-conscious grin that feels like your saliva is drying and caking on your teeth. I couldn’t remember a thing that she had said, but I did remember Dave going off on the evils of White Zinfandel, loudly and annoyingly.
But I went, and we were led upstairs to the guy’s room. The guy was big and soft spoken, the kind of guy that immediately puts you at ease. His tattoo gun was homemade, constructed from sewing machine parts. The guy’s girlfriend invited me to sit on the bed with her where we split a bowl. I occasionally passed it to Corado who would partake, but the artist declined, focusing on tracing Corado’s design.
Corado had drawn out this design that sort of resembled a question mark with arrows coming off of it North, South, East and West. In the center were the initials C.O.C. He was getting his design put on his back below his neck and between his shoulder blades.
I remember listening to a bootleg of a Jane’s Addiction show where at some point Perry Farrell said something to the effect of, “there’s nothing like looking at L.A. on acid”. The girlfriend mentioned that that was probably true and smiled; her smile was remarkable. I leaned back and got lost inside the mix of live Mountain Song and the buzzing tattoo gun.
I felt like a witness to something being born; moments, stretched and heavy and wonderful.
The artist sat and leaned over Corado, who sat backwards and shirtless on a chair. The artist’s long hair fell over Corado’s shoulder. Corado’s feet moved with the pressure of the gun and the artist’s feet moved to his own internal rhythm. The two were locked in like lovers, and I remember thinking how erotic it all was. All this skin, all this touching, all of this penetration and concentration and touching and artistry.
I asked Corado if it hurt and he said in a dreamy voice: “Not it all, feels like a massage.” He let his head slowly drop back down.
But I went, and we were led upstairs to the guy’s room. The guy was big and soft spoken, the kind of guy that immediately puts you at ease. His tattoo gun was homemade, constructed from sewing machine parts. The guy’s girlfriend invited me to sit on the bed with her where we split a bowl. I occasionally passed it to Corado who would partake, but the artist declined, focusing on tracing Corado’s design.
Corado had drawn out this design that sort of resembled a question mark with arrows coming off of it North, South, East and West. In the center were the initials C.O.C. He was getting his design put on his back below his neck and between his shoulder blades.
I remember listening to a bootleg of a Jane’s Addiction show where at some point Perry Farrell said something to the effect of, “there’s nothing like looking at L.A. on acid”. The girlfriend mentioned that that was probably true and smiled; her smile was remarkable. I leaned back and got lost inside the mix of live Mountain Song and the buzzing tattoo gun.
I felt like a witness to something being born; moments, stretched and heavy and wonderful.
The artist sat and leaned over Corado, who sat backwards and shirtless on a chair. The artist’s long hair fell over Corado’s shoulder. Corado’s feet moved with the pressure of the gun and the artist’s feet moved to his own internal rhythm. The two were locked in like lovers, and I remember thinking how erotic it all was. All this skin, all this touching, all of this penetration and concentration and touching and artistry.
I asked Corado if it hurt and he said in a dreamy voice: “Not it all, feels like a massage.” He let his head slowly drop back down.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Tattoo I - Green Gecko
Let’s talk about tattoos. My pocket watch tattoo was the cause of different discussions this weekend, so I’m thinking of running with a theme this week of tattoos. This may turn out to be a one day theme run, ‘cause frankly I am like a Ritalin-less ADD kid, I lose interest quickly…
I got my first tattoo when I was living in Chico, but I had been talking about getting one for a few years before hand. They weren’t remarkably popular back when I was 19 and my speed freak roommate was flirting with the idea of getting one. I didn’t feel too strongly about it one way or the other, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought what a radical thing to do to your body – permanently inject ink into your skin. The tattooing never happened, life and its dramas kept rolling and caught up and I found myself in Chico.
-Life in Chico was a chaotic, fucking blur. It was filled with blustery, life-expanding days and it was filled with some of my darkest moments, but it is held as this near mythical place where I began to simultaneously find and lose myself.-
One morning, after a particularly heavy acid trip, I was sitting out on the porch, smoking and watching the already hot Central Valley sun come up. Amy wandered out, looking like I felt; like a mangled mix of exhaustion and revelation. We sat there and talked quietly for a couple minutes, she had been unable to sleep due to the closed-eye geometric picture show that was an acid given, and I hadn’t even tried yet. I felt good, I felt ready for something major. We decided now was the time for continuously discussed trip to Portland, but on trying to get Alex out of bed we realized our dreams had once again been dashed. So we headed to the creek.
Big Chico Creek runs through Bidwell Park and is filled with natural swimming holes. It’s not the easiest drive out there, and not the easiest hike once you get there, but it’s a little piece of heaven when you find it. Amy and I sat, mostly naked, in that snow melt in early morning hours that must have already been pushing 85 degrees. It felt like one of those momentous moments when nothing happens. We talked about… Who knows, but we decided we would drive up to Paradise and get tattoos.
A few days later, in a house-turned-tattoo parlor in Paradise, Amy Lou got herself a small green star on the inside of her forearm, something she had always wanted. They mixed the green to her particular specifications, and I was so taken with the color that I used it for mine: a small lizard on my upper right thigh.
I cannot say why, but at the time I had a thing for lizards – geckoes in particular.
The guy shaved the small patch of my leg free of hair, put the stencil down and started. I remember quite clearly thinking that, “yup that hurts, feels like having burning glass scratched along your skin.”
I spent the next day smiling every time I bumped my leg against something and felt the shocking jolt of pain that was a healing tattoo. I wasn’t terribly surprised to find that Amy spent the day poking hers from time to time to feel it.
I got my first tattoo when I was living in Chico, but I had been talking about getting one for a few years before hand. They weren’t remarkably popular back when I was 19 and my speed freak roommate was flirting with the idea of getting one. I didn’t feel too strongly about it one way or the other, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought what a radical thing to do to your body – permanently inject ink into your skin. The tattooing never happened, life and its dramas kept rolling and caught up and I found myself in Chico.
-Life in Chico was a chaotic, fucking blur. It was filled with blustery, life-expanding days and it was filled with some of my darkest moments, but it is held as this near mythical place where I began to simultaneously find and lose myself.-
One morning, after a particularly heavy acid trip, I was sitting out on the porch, smoking and watching the already hot Central Valley sun come up. Amy wandered out, looking like I felt; like a mangled mix of exhaustion and revelation. We sat there and talked quietly for a couple minutes, she had been unable to sleep due to the closed-eye geometric picture show that was an acid given, and I hadn’t even tried yet. I felt good, I felt ready for something major. We decided now was the time for continuously discussed trip to Portland, but on trying to get Alex out of bed we realized our dreams had once again been dashed. So we headed to the creek.
Big Chico Creek runs through Bidwell Park and is filled with natural swimming holes. It’s not the easiest drive out there, and not the easiest hike once you get there, but it’s a little piece of heaven when you find it. Amy and I sat, mostly naked, in that snow melt in early morning hours that must have already been pushing 85 degrees. It felt like one of those momentous moments when nothing happens. We talked about… Who knows, but we decided we would drive up to Paradise and get tattoos.
A few days later, in a house-turned-tattoo parlor in Paradise, Amy Lou got herself a small green star on the inside of her forearm, something she had always wanted. They mixed the green to her particular specifications, and I was so taken with the color that I used it for mine: a small lizard on my upper right thigh.
I cannot say why, but at the time I had a thing for lizards – geckoes in particular.
The guy shaved the small patch of my leg free of hair, put the stencil down and started. I remember quite clearly thinking that, “yup that hurts, feels like having burning glass scratched along your skin.”
I spent the next day smiling every time I bumped my leg against something and felt the shocking jolt of pain that was a healing tattoo. I wasn’t terribly surprised to find that Amy spent the day poking hers from time to time to feel it.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Larry Goes To Lidia's
Larry awoke on the floor of a bathroom decorated with a brown and green hunting motif. There was wallpaper showing ducks bursting from reeds and cold, metal gun barrels following them into the sky. There were even two porcelain ducks, hand painted, hung on the wall above the door.
Looking around with wild, rolling eyes, Larry began to give in to a steely panic as he realized he had no fucking idea where he was. He realized just a flash of a moment later that he was sitting on this strange bathroom floor completely naked.
He could hear low rumbling of a violent argument not far outside the door which ramped up the panic factor, but pushed him to be silent. He quickly looked around this small bathroom that smelt vaguely of bleach and vitamins for anything he could wear, and anything he could protect himself with.
Hanging on a hook behind the door was a large, fuzzy, white bathrobe. He grabbed it with the hands of drowning man thrown a life ring. The closest to a weapon he could find was a curling iron.
He went for the knob on the bathroom door, mindful of the sounds of anger outside, and then suddenly stopped. The last thing he could remember was being in the bar at the Claim Jumper when two men with excessive hair gel approached.
“Hey guy, I love yer Garanimals!”
Larry looked down at his outfit. He was proud of the adult size children’s clothes that he and his friend Lidia made. They all had badges with animals on them, and you knew your clothes matched if you wore a tiger shirt and tiger pants, zebra shirt and zebra pants, and so on.
“Thank you,” Larry replied with a smile and a nod.
“How’s Lidia?” the second guy asked. Larry felt a pang of worry for some reason. Did he know these guys? He was about to ask who they were when…
He woke up in the bathroom. And now he stood with a metal rod in one hand, and the doorknob in the other. Tightening his resolve, Larry opened the bathroom door. He was faced with a wood paneled hallway, an open door on the right, a closed one on the left. Through the open door he could hear what was either two men yelling and hitting each other, or two men fucking. Larry walked carefully and quietly to the closed door and went through.
Larry found himself in a garage with the big, electric door wide open. The warm Southern California night air struck his naked legs and blew about the hem of the bathrobe. And there sat a convertible Mustang, red.
Feeling a maddening desire to check on Lidia, like an itch just below the surface of skin, Larry made a quick check of his morality scale. He realized he was alright with stealing this car as he was knocked out, kidnapped and had his Garanimals taken from him.
His Uncle Lee had taught him to hotwire cars when he was nine or ten, but as it turned out, these freaks has left the keys in the ignition. Taking a cue from his sneaking out of the house days, Larry pushed the car out of the garage to avoid making noise. When the car hit the street, he jumped through the open convertible top like a television private eye, started it up and tore down the street.
Worried that he would not be able to find his way out this ubiquitous Orange County suburb, Larry realized he was coming up on El Toro Road. About the same time he realized that the low fuel light was blinking like mad from the dash.
“It’s alright,” he said to himself. “There’s a gas station right next to the freeway.”
Larry pulled into the Chevron. He suddenly realized that he did not have his wallet. He also suddenly realized that he was indeed wearing a big, white fuzzy bathrobe. He began to look around the car for any kind of money. Finally in the ashtray he found two single dollar bills.
Quickly doing the math, Larry realized that even with awful gas mileage, two dollars would at least get him down to Lidia’s place on Laguna Canyon Road. He looked up towards the cashier. He could see some kid back behind the bullet proof glass, smoking and reading a book.
“Just play it cool, or this guy might call the cops.”
Larry walked calmly up to the window. The kid in the captain’s chair put his smoke in the stainless steel sink and his copy of Naked Lunch on his lap.
“Hi there,” he said with a mild smirk.
“Two dollars on pump 5.”
“You got it,” he replied and danced his fingers over the buttons that would turn on the pumps.
Larry walked back towards the car in a slow, casual gait. Just get the gas and get to Lidia’s, he thought. And take it from there.
Looking around with wild, rolling eyes, Larry began to give in to a steely panic as he realized he had no fucking idea where he was. He realized just a flash of a moment later that he was sitting on this strange bathroom floor completely naked.
He could hear low rumbling of a violent argument not far outside the door which ramped up the panic factor, but pushed him to be silent. He quickly looked around this small bathroom that smelt vaguely of bleach and vitamins for anything he could wear, and anything he could protect himself with.
Hanging on a hook behind the door was a large, fuzzy, white bathrobe. He grabbed it with the hands of drowning man thrown a life ring. The closest to a weapon he could find was a curling iron.
He went for the knob on the bathroom door, mindful of the sounds of anger outside, and then suddenly stopped. The last thing he could remember was being in the bar at the Claim Jumper when two men with excessive hair gel approached.
“Hey guy, I love yer Garanimals!”
Larry looked down at his outfit. He was proud of the adult size children’s clothes that he and his friend Lidia made. They all had badges with animals on them, and you knew your clothes matched if you wore a tiger shirt and tiger pants, zebra shirt and zebra pants, and so on.
“Thank you,” Larry replied with a smile and a nod.
“How’s Lidia?” the second guy asked. Larry felt a pang of worry for some reason. Did he know these guys? He was about to ask who they were when…
He woke up in the bathroom. And now he stood with a metal rod in one hand, and the doorknob in the other. Tightening his resolve, Larry opened the bathroom door. He was faced with a wood paneled hallway, an open door on the right, a closed one on the left. Through the open door he could hear what was either two men yelling and hitting each other, or two men fucking. Larry walked carefully and quietly to the closed door and went through.
Larry found himself in a garage with the big, electric door wide open. The warm Southern California night air struck his naked legs and blew about the hem of the bathrobe. And there sat a convertible Mustang, red.
Feeling a maddening desire to check on Lidia, like an itch just below the surface of skin, Larry made a quick check of his morality scale. He realized he was alright with stealing this car as he was knocked out, kidnapped and had his Garanimals taken from him.
His Uncle Lee had taught him to hotwire cars when he was nine or ten, but as it turned out, these freaks has left the keys in the ignition. Taking a cue from his sneaking out of the house days, Larry pushed the car out of the garage to avoid making noise. When the car hit the street, he jumped through the open convertible top like a television private eye, started it up and tore down the street.
Worried that he would not be able to find his way out this ubiquitous Orange County suburb, Larry realized he was coming up on El Toro Road. About the same time he realized that the low fuel light was blinking like mad from the dash.
“It’s alright,” he said to himself. “There’s a gas station right next to the freeway.”
Larry pulled into the Chevron. He suddenly realized that he did not have his wallet. He also suddenly realized that he was indeed wearing a big, white fuzzy bathrobe. He began to look around the car for any kind of money. Finally in the ashtray he found two single dollar bills.
Quickly doing the math, Larry realized that even with awful gas mileage, two dollars would at least get him down to Lidia’s place on Laguna Canyon Road. He looked up towards the cashier. He could see some kid back behind the bullet proof glass, smoking and reading a book.
“Just play it cool, or this guy might call the cops.”
Larry walked calmly up to the window. The kid in the captain’s chair put his smoke in the stainless steel sink and his copy of Naked Lunch on his lap.
“Hi there,” he said with a mild smirk.
“Two dollars on pump 5.”
“You got it,” he replied and danced his fingers over the buttons that would turn on the pumps.
Larry walked back towards the car in a slow, casual gait. Just get the gas and get to Lidia’s, he thought. And take it from there.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
William's Chevron
Back when I was 19 years old, angry and high, living with a drug addict and in this sick and desperate sort of relationship with a woman that I frankly had no business even knowing, I worked at a gas station.
I would get on my bike at 5:30 in the morning and pedal my ass to the Chevron station on El Toro road, right off the 5 freeway in OC.
For some reason I remember this as one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. I worked with a vaguely racist and volatile family who owned the place; they were nice to me, but I am white. I eventually convinced everyone who worked there to call me Lord Bill, King of the Cashiers. I stole smokes and had mad drug connections with the insane riff raff that also worked there. Oh, and they were flexible with my schedule as I was also going to school at the time.
Occasionally I would work the graveyard shift 10pm to 6am. This would often happen when I was working the night shift and the graveyard guy never showed. I’m about to make a huge generalization here, but: graveyard guys tend to not be the most reliable folks in the world.
I loved the graveyard shift, even doing it straight off the night shift. I could play guitar, go smoke in the beer cooler, all the beef jerky I could take. And did I mention the customers?
I was told I must lock the doors at midnight. One night about 2, some guy comes up to the speaker box asking to use the bathroom. I told him I was sorry, but the inside was closed for the evening. He reiterated to me that he really had to pee. I said:
“I’m going to quote the owner of this establishment for you: Even if Jesus Christ himself were lying bleeding in front of this door, you will not open it.”
*I would probably have to open the door for the Big J dude, that’s just good business. Sorry Trudy.
The man with the full bladder then asked if he could go behind the building to throw a whiz. I said yeah man, follow your bliss.
But the guy I remember most out of all the late night denizens, out of all the ramblers and nutty requesters, is a guy I’ll call Larry.
I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with Larry, but he drove up at the gas station in his red sports car round about 3:30 in the morning in his bathrobe. He came up to the window and promptly and politely asked for $2 in gas on pump five.
Why the sudden need to put $2 of unleaded into his convertible Mustang struck Larry at 3:30 in the morning I will never know. A need so sudden that he couldn’t even throw on shorts and T-shirt? I’m a little obsessed by this. I might write about a possible reason someday.
Maybe even tomorrow…
I would get on my bike at 5:30 in the morning and pedal my ass to the Chevron station on El Toro road, right off the 5 freeway in OC.
For some reason I remember this as one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. I worked with a vaguely racist and volatile family who owned the place; they were nice to me, but I am white. I eventually convinced everyone who worked there to call me Lord Bill, King of the Cashiers. I stole smokes and had mad drug connections with the insane riff raff that also worked there. Oh, and they were flexible with my schedule as I was also going to school at the time.
Occasionally I would work the graveyard shift 10pm to 6am. This would often happen when I was working the night shift and the graveyard guy never showed. I’m about to make a huge generalization here, but: graveyard guys tend to not be the most reliable folks in the world.
I loved the graveyard shift, even doing it straight off the night shift. I could play guitar, go smoke in the beer cooler, all the beef jerky I could take. And did I mention the customers?
I was told I must lock the doors at midnight. One night about 2, some guy comes up to the speaker box asking to use the bathroom. I told him I was sorry, but the inside was closed for the evening. He reiterated to me that he really had to pee. I said:
“I’m going to quote the owner of this establishment for you: Even if Jesus Christ himself were lying bleeding in front of this door, you will not open it.”
*I would probably have to open the door for the Big J dude, that’s just good business. Sorry Trudy.
The man with the full bladder then asked if he could go behind the building to throw a whiz. I said yeah man, follow your bliss.
But the guy I remember most out of all the late night denizens, out of all the ramblers and nutty requesters, is a guy I’ll call Larry.
I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with Larry, but he drove up at the gas station in his red sports car round about 3:30 in the morning in his bathrobe. He came up to the window and promptly and politely asked for $2 in gas on pump five.
Why the sudden need to put $2 of unleaded into his convertible Mustang struck Larry at 3:30 in the morning I will never know. A need so sudden that he couldn’t even throw on shorts and T-shirt? I’m a little obsessed by this. I might write about a possible reason someday.
Maybe even tomorrow…
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
He Hated Shatner
Well, Scotty’s passed on to that McSpiclish in the sky.
40 year old fan boy mentioned that he misted up when he heard the news that James ‘Scotty’ Doohan was retiring from public life because of Alzheimer’s. Pimpin’ Joe next to him asked how he felt 5 minutes later when Mr. Doohan announced he’d be retiring from public life because of Alzheimer’s once again.
I cannot say for certain, but apparently Scotty’s killer was:
There may be rumors to the effect of Scotty trying out a spin-off series called: Scotty and Medusa, Sitting In A Tree. A brief flare up at the craft services table apparently brought out the worst in scary snake lady and she turned that Scottish muffin to stone.
Damien Brewker, the product of a genetic experiment combining fratboys and trekkies, became so distraught at the news of Scotty’s death that he took it upon himself to lay out some vengeance.
He ran all the way over to the studio straight from a blow job contest. He had won.
Later to you Scotty, I’ll pass on the lame ‘beam me up’ joke…
40 year old fan boy mentioned that he misted up when he heard the news that James ‘Scotty’ Doohan was retiring from public life because of Alzheimer’s. Pimpin’ Joe next to him asked how he felt 5 minutes later when Mr. Doohan announced he’d be retiring from public life because of Alzheimer’s once again.
I cannot say for certain, but apparently Scotty’s killer was:
There may be rumors to the effect of Scotty trying out a spin-off series called: Scotty and Medusa, Sitting In A Tree. A brief flare up at the craft services table apparently brought out the worst in scary snake lady and she turned that Scottish muffin to stone.
Damien Brewker, the product of a genetic experiment combining fratboys and trekkies, became so distraught at the news of Scotty’s death that he took it upon himself to lay out some vengeance.
He ran all the way over to the studio straight from a blow job contest. He had won.
Later to you Scotty, I’ll pass on the lame ‘beam me up’ joke…
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Claymation Godard, Imagine
Alright then, 40 year old fanboy is making me crazy! All day long he won’t shut up with his pontificating!
“You gotta use analog equipment when you’re recording. Digital is shit. Analog will warm that up for you.”
Did you get that from the fanboy dialogue page you numb-nuts, unable to think for yourself, hipster dumb-ass? Let me guess, you’re a huge fan of Johnny Cash too, and wasn’t it a bitch when the Man In Black died?
Fuck off!
And yeah, I know I hate him because I see myself in that behavior, in that tone of voice, in that constant backing of the artiste above all, but towing the party line is still towing the party line even when it is a cooler party! Don’t just adopt an opinion as fashion.
Wow, that was a wee histrionic…
It all got me thinking. As a self-confessed film snob (whose top ten list does include Bring It On by the way – seriously, don’t tell anybody), I can completely stand behind the Auteur Theory; the idea that a single artist – usually the director – is responsible for the artistic direction of the film as a whole. Y’know, all the directors that you can name by name – Hitchcock, Tarantino, Scorsese, Coppola – they’re auteurs. And usually when you’re dealing with an auteur in a fanboy’s eyes, the auteur can do no wrong.
What happens when there’s a Clash of the Auteurs?
I remember there being a hipster backlash when Tarantino disowned Natural Born Killers when Oliver Stone changed it. If I remember correctly (and this was at a time when I was using a lot of substances inappropriately), the hipsters sided with Tarantino as he was the newest, coolest. I think I tended to lean that way as well. But let’s sit down and be honest with each other for a moment, okay?
Tarantino can make a very entertaining film; as long as you don’t plan on watching it more than say ten times in your life. Seriously, I can’t get through 15 minutes of Pulp Fiction without walking away to go strum guitar or read a magazine or masturbate. And did you read the original script for Natural Born Killers? Was it talky and filled with ‘ain’t I cool’ dialogue? Did we not just point out that it was written by Tarantino? And yeah, Oliver Stone is an overblown egomaniac, but I think he was striving for art with his film – and I might dare say that he hit the mark.
What’s the point of this you ask? I think that I just proved I have been pestered all day by the future version of myself. I’m going to cry…
“You gotta use analog equipment when you’re recording. Digital is shit. Analog will warm that up for you.”
Did you get that from the fanboy dialogue page you numb-nuts, unable to think for yourself, hipster dumb-ass? Let me guess, you’re a huge fan of Johnny Cash too, and wasn’t it a bitch when the Man In Black died?
Fuck off!
And yeah, I know I hate him because I see myself in that behavior, in that tone of voice, in that constant backing of the artiste above all, but towing the party line is still towing the party line even when it is a cooler party! Don’t just adopt an opinion as fashion.
Wow, that was a wee histrionic…
It all got me thinking. As a self-confessed film snob (whose top ten list does include Bring It On by the way – seriously, don’t tell anybody), I can completely stand behind the Auteur Theory; the idea that a single artist – usually the director – is responsible for the artistic direction of the film as a whole. Y’know, all the directors that you can name by name – Hitchcock, Tarantino, Scorsese, Coppola – they’re auteurs. And usually when you’re dealing with an auteur in a fanboy’s eyes, the auteur can do no wrong.
What happens when there’s a Clash of the Auteurs?
I remember there being a hipster backlash when Tarantino disowned Natural Born Killers when Oliver Stone changed it. If I remember correctly (and this was at a time when I was using a lot of substances inappropriately), the hipsters sided with Tarantino as he was the newest, coolest. I think I tended to lean that way as well. But let’s sit down and be honest with each other for a moment, okay?
Tarantino can make a very entertaining film; as long as you don’t plan on watching it more than say ten times in your life. Seriously, I can’t get through 15 minutes of Pulp Fiction without walking away to go strum guitar or read a magazine or masturbate. And did you read the original script for Natural Born Killers? Was it talky and filled with ‘ain’t I cool’ dialogue? Did we not just point out that it was written by Tarantino? And yeah, Oliver Stone is an overblown egomaniac, but I think he was striving for art with his film – and I might dare say that he hit the mark.
What’s the point of this you ask? I think that I just proved I have been pestered all day by the future version of myself. I’m going to cry…
Monday, July 18, 2005
My First Seattle Show
I don’t know who this guy is, or what is the story with his lips, but…
Friday night was opening night. It went so much better than I could have imagined. It felt like a good, fun show while we were rehearsing, but you never know.
The audience on Friday was phenomenal! We were getting huge reactions that I think drove us all to some of the best performing we had done as a group. It felt good. It felt really good.
Rob, who is HUGE in the theater community here in Seattle (he runs the theater that we’re doing the show in) came backstage right after and told us that it was the best Twilight Zone show that had been done in years. The guy was in nearly in tears.
I gotta tell ya, that kind of praise can drive out that normal ‘I didn’t do this part good enough’ bullshit. It was great to come out of a show feeling like you’ve done a good job, but then to have the man tell you how impressed he was, and to have the director beaming, and to have the audience seem legitimately jazzed about it… well, it’s better than vicodine.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Television - He's Just Watching...
Continuing with the television discussion… Sort of.
While I have a love/hate relationship with the device television, I have love/love relationship with the band Television.
The 1977 Marquee Moon is an amazing album. Once more with feeling: Marquee Moon is an amazing album!
My first experience with the band came through covers. Back in high school I heard the Siouxsie and the Banshees version of Little Johnny Jewel and thought to myself, “wow, that song rules". Little did I know how much it fucking ruled until I heard the original Television version.
Then in college I heard the Kronos Quartet doing a version of Marquee Moon that was… well honestly it was an oddity, but reinforced my desire to check out this album that I’d heard whispers of greatness about.
It took me another ten years, but I finally laid my hands on this landmark Television album and immediately asked myself what took so fucking long. While it certainly contains trademarks of that late 70’s CBGB sort of sound, it is also timeless. Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd on guitars are showy without being wanky, just fantastic.
I would highly recommend the recent re-release which does have bonus tracks including Little Johnny Jewel. Shit yeah, this stuff is good. I wouldn’t lie to you.
While I have a love/hate relationship with the device television, I have love/love relationship with the band Television.
The 1977 Marquee Moon is an amazing album. Once more with feeling: Marquee Moon is an amazing album!
My first experience with the band came through covers. Back in high school I heard the Siouxsie and the Banshees version of Little Johnny Jewel and thought to myself, “wow, that song rules". Little did I know how much it fucking ruled until I heard the original Television version.
Then in college I heard the Kronos Quartet doing a version of Marquee Moon that was… well honestly it was an oddity, but reinforced my desire to check out this album that I’d heard whispers of greatness about.
It took me another ten years, but I finally laid my hands on this landmark Television album and immediately asked myself what took so fucking long. While it certainly contains trademarks of that late 70’s CBGB sort of sound, it is also timeless. Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd on guitars are showy without being wanky, just fantastic.
I would highly recommend the recent re-release which does have bonus tracks including Little Johnny Jewel. Shit yeah, this stuff is good. I wouldn’t lie to you.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Television - Teacher, Mother, Secret Lover
I have the sort of relationship with television that alcoholics have with a bottle of anything. I refuse to get cable, and I don’t say that with a pretentious, holier-than-thou type voice, I say it because if I had cable all I would do is sit on my ass and watch it.
As it stands, I already have too much of a problem watching the dreck on the 4 or 5 channels we barely get. I’ve gotten hooked on CSI. Damn them! The original CSI is like television crack for me, network heroin. I occasionally even catch the spin-offs like CSI: Miami, or CSI: New York, even CSI: Fresno (Fresno? Uh-uh my friend, Fres-yes!). And I came to realize something the other night: I find it difficult to believe that everybody working in a lab would be hot. Seriously. I mean there are cutey science geeks, I’ve known some, but everybody? C’mon!
And while I could do an entire long ass post on reality television – and might, look out – that shit is like bourbon to me; sweet, beautiful, delicious bourbon. If I even catch a couple of minutes of one, I’m stuck. So I have to forcefully remove myself from the proceedings. I have to spend my time in another room when Biffy is watching Survivor. I want to hate it, but the truth is I’m addicted. I caught five minutes of the second to last episode of Beauty and the Geek and it became an issue of severe will power to not finish it out.
There is a new common phrase in the language that I’ve heard in many different age groups, ethnic groups and attitude groups:
“I’m not into the whole Reality TV thing, but there’s this show…”
It seems that nearly everybody has their TV vice. And as far as the Reality TV variation goes, I do allow myself a shot of Amazing Race. I think the only thing that will really save me is cutting off the television all together, maybe find myself a 12 step program.
As it stands, I already have too much of a problem watching the dreck on the 4 or 5 channels we barely get. I’ve gotten hooked on CSI. Damn them! The original CSI is like television crack for me, network heroin. I occasionally even catch the spin-offs like CSI: Miami, or CSI: New York, even CSI: Fresno (Fresno? Uh-uh my friend, Fres-yes!). And I came to realize something the other night: I find it difficult to believe that everybody working in a lab would be hot. Seriously. I mean there are cutey science geeks, I’ve known some, but everybody? C’mon!
And while I could do an entire long ass post on reality television – and might, look out – that shit is like bourbon to me; sweet, beautiful, delicious bourbon. If I even catch a couple of minutes of one, I’m stuck. So I have to forcefully remove myself from the proceedings. I have to spend my time in another room when Biffy is watching Survivor. I want to hate it, but the truth is I’m addicted. I caught five minutes of the second to last episode of Beauty and the Geek and it became an issue of severe will power to not finish it out.
There is a new common phrase in the language that I’ve heard in many different age groups, ethnic groups and attitude groups:
“I’m not into the whole Reality TV thing, but there’s this show…”
It seems that nearly everybody has their TV vice. And as far as the Reality TV variation goes, I do allow myself a shot of Amazing Race. I think the only thing that will really save me is cutting off the television all together, maybe find myself a 12 step program.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Cheer Up, Charlie
I’m just going to throw this out there. I’m feeling a little guilty, so I suppose this is a bit of a confession. I’m a little worried about Johnny Depp’s performance as Willy Wonka.
Whew! That was tough!
Now, I want it to be known that I am a huge Johnny Depp fan. I think that he is one of the most amazing actors out there and that every time I watch him in a role I forget that I’m watching Johnny Depp. But it’s just that Charlie and The Chocolate Factory was one of my favorite books as a child and I have very specific ideas in my mind as to how Willy Wonka should behave.
Willy Wonka, in the book, is a small, elfish man with a goatee and big ass top hat. He is sly, somewhat aloof and wanders life with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I’ve always imagined him as a devilish sort of character; I don’t think that he necessarily wants to hurt bad children (scare them yes, but who doesn’t), but doesn’t necessarily dislike it when bad things happen.
This is what he looked like in the battered book I had as a child, and still have:
Mischievous, and just a little bit wrong.
And granted, I’m only gathering my opinion on Mr. Depp’s portrayal from the commercials that I’ve seen, but he seems to be playing it like a whacky, childish guy with a high voice. I see these commercials and it just doesn’t jive with my precious memories of Mr. Wonka.
He looks dandy, but it’s not my Willy.
I should probably replace that sentence, but I won’t.
I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure it will be great actually. I cannot think of a better director to tackle this film than Tim Burton, and I have yet to be disappointed or short of amazed when seeing Johnny Depp. I guess I just get a little twitchy when people mess with my childhood heroes.
I’m totally looking forward to it, just a little bit nervous.
Whew! That was tough!
Now, I want it to be known that I am a huge Johnny Depp fan. I think that he is one of the most amazing actors out there and that every time I watch him in a role I forget that I’m watching Johnny Depp. But it’s just that Charlie and The Chocolate Factory was one of my favorite books as a child and I have very specific ideas in my mind as to how Willy Wonka should behave.
Willy Wonka, in the book, is a small, elfish man with a goatee and big ass top hat. He is sly, somewhat aloof and wanders life with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I’ve always imagined him as a devilish sort of character; I don’t think that he necessarily wants to hurt bad children (scare them yes, but who doesn’t), but doesn’t necessarily dislike it when bad things happen.
This is what he looked like in the battered book I had as a child, and still have:
Mischievous, and just a little bit wrong.
And granted, I’m only gathering my opinion on Mr. Depp’s portrayal from the commercials that I’ve seen, but he seems to be playing it like a whacky, childish guy with a high voice. I see these commercials and it just doesn’t jive with my precious memories of Mr. Wonka.
He looks dandy, but it’s not my Willy.
I should probably replace that sentence, but I won’t.
I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure it will be great actually. I cannot think of a better director to tackle this film than Tim Burton, and I have yet to be disappointed or short of amazed when seeing Johnny Depp. I guess I just get a little twitchy when people mess with my childhood heroes.
I’m totally looking forward to it, just a little bit nervous.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Aaah, Theatah!
I’ve been working with this theater group the last few weeks. We’re putting in a lot of work on what I think will be a pretty good show that opens this week. And while it is nothing like the experience I am going to tell you about, I am constantly reminded of my days doing Julius Caesar with the Subterranean Shakespeare group.
Let me take you back. I was offered a part – offered, no audition – and when that happens, I figure you gotta take it. We would rehearse in empty classrooms on the UC Berkeley campus. And I guess I should have gotten some sort of clue regarding what kind of troupe I was in when we had to make sure nobody knew we were inside the building. But it did seem sort of exciting at the time…
Most of the actors were self-involved asses, above it all, doing Shakespeare (read with a highly affected and fakey British accent)! Most of them also blew. Our man who played Brutus was apparently channeling the spirit of Captain Kirk – Captain Kirk who doesn’t know his lines. The director was from Argentina and had, shall we say, a twitchy control of the English language. And Caesar was threatening to leave halfway through the production because he possibly had another part in another play.
But the best part came when I found out where we were actually performing. The stage manager – my man Dougie P – said that we were getting into the pizza parlor to finally rehearse. I thought he was joking, so naturally started laughing. But no, seriously, this Shakespeare travesty was being put up in the basement of a pizza parlor.
LaVal’s – off the Berkeley campus if any of you bay area folks have been there – is a loud, obnoxious pizza joint with a shit hole basement which they rent out for shows.
I could fill up this posting talking about the seemingly unending show, but I won’t. I will say that it was the worst theater experience I have ever had. I will say that there are at least 5 people in that cast that I will run from if I don’t have the ability to piss on them when I see them on the street. I will say that I feel sorry for the poor suckers who had to see the show (like Lisa Drostova), but not as sorry as I feel for myself. I will say that you pompous fucking asses were doing a show in the basement of a pizza parlor, c’mon!
Let me take you back. I was offered a part – offered, no audition – and when that happens, I figure you gotta take it. We would rehearse in empty classrooms on the UC Berkeley campus. And I guess I should have gotten some sort of clue regarding what kind of troupe I was in when we had to make sure nobody knew we were inside the building. But it did seem sort of exciting at the time…
Most of the actors were self-involved asses, above it all, doing Shakespeare (read with a highly affected and fakey British accent)! Most of them also blew. Our man who played Brutus was apparently channeling the spirit of Captain Kirk – Captain Kirk who doesn’t know his lines. The director was from Argentina and had, shall we say, a twitchy control of the English language. And Caesar was threatening to leave halfway through the production because he possibly had another part in another play.
But the best part came when I found out where we were actually performing. The stage manager – my man Dougie P – said that we were getting into the pizza parlor to finally rehearse. I thought he was joking, so naturally started laughing. But no, seriously, this Shakespeare travesty was being put up in the basement of a pizza parlor.
LaVal’s – off the Berkeley campus if any of you bay area folks have been there – is a loud, obnoxious pizza joint with a shit hole basement which they rent out for shows.
I could fill up this posting talking about the seemingly unending show, but I won’t. I will say that it was the worst theater experience I have ever had. I will say that there are at least 5 people in that cast that I will run from if I don’t have the ability to piss on them when I see them on the street. I will say that I feel sorry for the poor suckers who had to see the show (like Lisa Drostova), but not as sorry as I feel for myself. I will say that you pompous fucking asses were doing a show in the basement of a pizza parlor, c’mon!
Monday, July 11, 2005
Tired and Rainy Days
I gotta admit it, there’s a large part of me that’s a homebody. While there is definitely a part that wants to go out and get seriously crazy with people who will put up with me in that state – a lot of times I would just like to sit my happy ass at home.
When I was younger this upset me. I felt anti-social. I felt like a crank.
I’ve come to realize that I don’t necessarily hate humanity, and I’m not an old man who doesn’t want to shake his booty from time to time. Sometimes I just like a little me time.
And while the wild days and nights of adventure and debauchery get remembered and noted, I gotta tell you that some of my favorite days are having breakfast and coffee with Biff, then climbing on the couch together to nap and watch cheesy movies all day.
That shit’s the freaking best!
When I was younger this upset me. I felt anti-social. I felt like a crank.
I’ve come to realize that I don’t necessarily hate humanity, and I’m not an old man who doesn’t want to shake his booty from time to time. Sometimes I just like a little me time.
And while the wild days and nights of adventure and debauchery get remembered and noted, I gotta tell you that some of my favorite days are having breakfast and coffee with Biff, then climbing on the couch together to nap and watch cheesy movies all day.
That shit’s the freaking best!
Friday, July 08, 2005
Dear Everybody,
I want to write something heartbreaking and honest. I want to write something shocking and so god damned funny you nearly pee yourself. I want to write something that makes you realize that, yeah, life is alright after all. I want to write something that makes you fall in love with everything again. I want to write something that puts a little wiggle in your stride, that gives you that little gleam in your eye that people passing jealously assume is some wonderful secret. I want to write something that makes you remember this moment of this day.
I want to write a love letter to all of my friends. I want them to feel the love they send coming back to them, clean and honest and true. I want you all to walk your days, nodding your heads in unison, all with the same great song playing in your heads.
And those smiles…
I want to write a love letter to all of my friends. I want them to feel the love they send coming back to them, clean and honest and true. I want you all to walk your days, nodding your heads in unison, all with the same great song playing in your heads.
And those smiles…
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Breakfast For 17
I would like an entourage.
Just for a little while, I would like to have people flock to me and attempt to weasel into my lifestyle, but not for being a rock star or a movie star or anything, just because I’m Billy.
It would be awesome to have nubile groupies frolicking in the aisles of Safeway as I go shopping for eggs and hamburger, a collection of sycophants agreeing with my every word and opinion while I pick out a movie at the video store, fanboys rushing to find old Nintendo systems so they could play The Legend Of Zelda in imitation. I think it would be tremendous for my ego to have a flunky show up at work and offer me grapes or paprika flavored Pringles while I’m taking telephone calls from disgruntled customers.
But ultimately I think the thrill is held for me in the chance to scream out, “leave me alone you leaches, you vultures!”
I have that sort of volatile relationship with my posse.
Just for a little while, I would like to have people flock to me and attempt to weasel into my lifestyle, but not for being a rock star or a movie star or anything, just because I’m Billy.
It would be awesome to have nubile groupies frolicking in the aisles of Safeway as I go shopping for eggs and hamburger, a collection of sycophants agreeing with my every word and opinion while I pick out a movie at the video store, fanboys rushing to find old Nintendo systems so they could play The Legend Of Zelda in imitation. I think it would be tremendous for my ego to have a flunky show up at work and offer me grapes or paprika flavored Pringles while I’m taking telephone calls from disgruntled customers.
But ultimately I think the thrill is held for me in the chance to scream out, “leave me alone you leaches, you vultures!”
I have that sort of volatile relationship with my posse.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Gerald Gets Coffee
Gerald, the slow-rotting Easter bunny, stumbled elegantly towards the mini-mall. He would be able to see a video store and a pizza place, a nail salon and various other identical looking store fronts if he looked in the right direction, but he had his eyes on the coffee shop. Gerald wanted caffeine, needed caffeine, in the worst way.
Catching his paw on the ledge of the sidewalk, Gerald let out such a foul litany of words and sexual suggestions that it made a passing phone sex worker blush and scarred her four year old son for life. Gerald rubbed his paw and hobbled on towards Hunter’s Grounds.
Throwing open the glass doors and shambling past a young couple sitting at a table, he made his way to the counter. The young woman made a face as though she were trying to pass a particularly large and hard starfruit while the young man grimaced horribly and vomited some of his cappuccino and cinnamon croissant back into his mouth.
At the counter, a middle-aged man named Robert was busy telling the coffee shop employee about how the area had changed in the last twelve years.
“There’s more and more used car lots. You used to be able to get yourself a sandwich for $1.50 and you could drive from here on out to Gravelly Point without seeing so much as a single copy place. Where are the libraries at? Do you know? Nobody knows! And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there sure seem to be quite a few more undesireables around here, if you know what I mean.”
“Undesireable this cracker!” Gerald bellowed as he shoved the man away. Robert fell to the ground with a face full of shock and fear and two fistfuls of matted rabbit hair.
“Check it, I need a quad Americano, and I need it stat! And hey, Bubba, toss a little raspberry syrup in there if you would be so kind.”
The young man looked down at the practically illegible words spray painted onto Gerald’s belly. He managed a trembling smile as he said, “I’m sorry…. sir, but we are out of raspberry syrup today.”
“How the fuck do you expect me to choke down a quad Americano without raspberry syrup? Jesus!” He glared down at Robert, still cowering on the floor. “Okay, make it caramel.”
The young man looked over to the woman making the drinks to make sure she had heard. She nodded her head and surreptitiously rolled her eyes. The young man put on another timid smile.
“Hey man, I don’t mean to insult you or get personal or anything, but did you know that you kind of smell like bad meat?”
“Yeah,” Gerald said with a nod. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know.”
Gerald grabbed his beverage and shambled out of the store.
Catching his paw on the ledge of the sidewalk, Gerald let out such a foul litany of words and sexual suggestions that it made a passing phone sex worker blush and scarred her four year old son for life. Gerald rubbed his paw and hobbled on towards Hunter’s Grounds.
Throwing open the glass doors and shambling past a young couple sitting at a table, he made his way to the counter. The young woman made a face as though she were trying to pass a particularly large and hard starfruit while the young man grimaced horribly and vomited some of his cappuccino and cinnamon croissant back into his mouth.
At the counter, a middle-aged man named Robert was busy telling the coffee shop employee about how the area had changed in the last twelve years.
“There’s more and more used car lots. You used to be able to get yourself a sandwich for $1.50 and you could drive from here on out to Gravelly Point without seeing so much as a single copy place. Where are the libraries at? Do you know? Nobody knows! And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there sure seem to be quite a few more undesireables around here, if you know what I mean.”
“Undesireable this cracker!” Gerald bellowed as he shoved the man away. Robert fell to the ground with a face full of shock and fear and two fistfuls of matted rabbit hair.
“Check it, I need a quad Americano, and I need it stat! And hey, Bubba, toss a little raspberry syrup in there if you would be so kind.”
The young man looked down at the practically illegible words spray painted onto Gerald’s belly. He managed a trembling smile as he said, “I’m sorry…. sir, but we are out of raspberry syrup today.”
“How the fuck do you expect me to choke down a quad Americano without raspberry syrup? Jesus!” He glared down at Robert, still cowering on the floor. “Okay, make it caramel.”
The young man looked over to the woman making the drinks to make sure she had heard. She nodded her head and surreptitiously rolled her eyes. The young man put on another timid smile.
“Hey man, I don’t mean to insult you or get personal or anything, but did you know that you kind of smell like bad meat?”
“Yeah,” Gerald said with a nod. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know.”
Gerald grabbed his beverage and shambled out of the store.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Hood Canal
My brother and I were talking about how neither of us were terribly excited about the 4th of July. I mentioned that when we were kids we would always go out to our grandparent’s place on Hood Canal, swim, go crabbing, sit by the fire and light off Indian reservation fireworks; it’s tough today to compete with those memories.
Seemingly unrelated, I had been thinking about my grandfather a lot this weekend. I realized that not only was Hood Canal my favorite place to go as a kid – a place of happy family memories, but it was probably my grandfather’s favorite place in the world. He and my grandmother had a fantastic house with a great stretch of beach that they were forced to sell so he could take care of his ailing mother.
Coincidence or not, things kept coming up over the weekend that were related to my grandfather. For instance, Biff and I were in a bookstore and she asked me a question about Louis L’amour who was my grandfather’s favorite author.
Later that day I was walking down Broadway – another glorious, summer day in Seattle – when I was suddenly hit by a total sensory overload. For a second there, just for a second, I was at Hood Canal. I could smell the fire on the beach and the briney water spray, I could feel the cold rush of the water and taste that distinctive salt water. It was so sudden and so complete, that I stopped in my tracks. I was so completely back in my childhood for such a short but powerful moment. I’ve never experienced a memory flash that powerful before.
Yeah, you could explain it as the mind culling up those sense memories, especially with those memories on my mind. And I’m not a particularly religious man, but I’d like to think Grandpa Carey had something to do with it. I think that for a second there he wanted me to remember what it felt like to be a kid again out there at Hood Canal.
Thanks Big Guy!
Seemingly unrelated, I had been thinking about my grandfather a lot this weekend. I realized that not only was Hood Canal my favorite place to go as a kid – a place of happy family memories, but it was probably my grandfather’s favorite place in the world. He and my grandmother had a fantastic house with a great stretch of beach that they were forced to sell so he could take care of his ailing mother.
Coincidence or not, things kept coming up over the weekend that were related to my grandfather. For instance, Biff and I were in a bookstore and she asked me a question about Louis L’amour who was my grandfather’s favorite author.
Later that day I was walking down Broadway – another glorious, summer day in Seattle – when I was suddenly hit by a total sensory overload. For a second there, just for a second, I was at Hood Canal. I could smell the fire on the beach and the briney water spray, I could feel the cold rush of the water and taste that distinctive salt water. It was so sudden and so complete, that I stopped in my tracks. I was so completely back in my childhood for such a short but powerful moment. I’ve never experienced a memory flash that powerful before.
Yeah, you could explain it as the mind culling up those sense memories, especially with those memories on my mind. And I’m not a particularly religious man, but I’d like to think Grandpa Carey had something to do with it. I think that for a second there he wanted me to remember what it felt like to be a kid again out there at Hood Canal.
Thanks Big Guy!
Friday, July 01, 2005
Urban Legends - And Not Old School Rap Superstars
I have a book that sits in my bathroom that is filled with urban legends written in comic book form.
It’s fantastic. In case you haven’t heard of the wonderful world of urban myths, they’re fantastic stories that are told over and over again as true, but are in fact not true.
The Richard Gere/gerbil story comes to mind.
Essentially, I know a lot of these urban myths because of this book and I just heard a coworker tell one as true:
“The one time my dad went hunting he spotted like a ten point buck. It was big, we’re talking like ten points on one side. So he takes a shot and gets it. He was so excited! He wanted to get a picture of it, so he puts the gun in the deer’s antlers. This was back when he was sill an alcoholic… So he puts his gun in the deer’s antlers and stands back to take a picture, and the deer jumps up and takes off with his gun! It was like so big that one shot couldn’t take it down!”
Good story, fun story, untrue story. I find it sort of sweet and sad that this woman’s drunken father told her a story about himself that was a lie. Usually that is sort of the job of that fun and drunken uncle. It was nice of dad to step up like that.
I wanted more than anything to turn around and tell my coworker, calmly and nicely: “That story’s an urban myth, it’s not true. Your daddy lied to you.” You know, in my best ‘I’m brilliant’ voice.
But what I’ve learned is that people do not want to hear when the stories they believe are true, turn out not to be. If I were a better writer, I would throw in some veiled reference to ‘ignorance is bliss’, but I won’t. I learned this the hard way when a roommate totally flipped when I pointed out that his story about his friend’s friend’s dad waking up in a strange place, drugged and missing a kidney, was an urban legend.
A lot of times people prefer to believe in a lie, and that’s cool.
It’s fantastic. In case you haven’t heard of the wonderful world of urban myths, they’re fantastic stories that are told over and over again as true, but are in fact not true.
The Richard Gere/gerbil story comes to mind.
Essentially, I know a lot of these urban myths because of this book and I just heard a coworker tell one as true:
“The one time my dad went hunting he spotted like a ten point buck. It was big, we’re talking like ten points on one side. So he takes a shot and gets it. He was so excited! He wanted to get a picture of it, so he puts the gun in the deer’s antlers. This was back when he was sill an alcoholic… So he puts his gun in the deer’s antlers and stands back to take a picture, and the deer jumps up and takes off with his gun! It was like so big that one shot couldn’t take it down!”
Good story, fun story, untrue story. I find it sort of sweet and sad that this woman’s drunken father told her a story about himself that was a lie. Usually that is sort of the job of that fun and drunken uncle. It was nice of dad to step up like that.
I wanted more than anything to turn around and tell my coworker, calmly and nicely: “That story’s an urban myth, it’s not true. Your daddy lied to you.” You know, in my best ‘I’m brilliant’ voice.
But what I’ve learned is that people do not want to hear when the stories they believe are true, turn out not to be. If I were a better writer, I would throw in some veiled reference to ‘ignorance is bliss’, but I won’t. I learned this the hard way when a roommate totally flipped when I pointed out that his story about his friend’s friend’s dad waking up in a strange place, drugged and missing a kidney, was an urban legend.
A lot of times people prefer to believe in a lie, and that’s cool.
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