Big Black Wave In The Middle Of The Sea

I felt it after it had hit me; the first wave of depression. I was tired and losing a battle to a cold when I started to go into a bit of panic mode.

The neighbors were having a birthday party for their 1 year old, born a scant month before Kickers. There was stress of trying to keep a very curious infant out of someone else’s expensive things, then add to that the birthday boy himself in a fit of yanking and hair pulling. Then add the grandfather’s continual bellowing to the children, in a stage worthy Long Island accent, as if they were deaf; or foreign language speaking visitors from another continent. Then add a large number of people in a one bedroom apartment. All of these things were putting me out of sorts.

Then add the feeling that all of the guests were young and professional types who seemed to be very into appearances and things they owned. Admittedly, I’m being very unfair here, I did not get the chance to actually know any of them or talk past a brief introduction, but it was a feeling that was coming to me in waves; it was the high heels and expensive clothing worn to a birthday party for an infant. Added to the almost claustrophobic feelings I was already having, well something was going to have to give.

Even the one obviously bored guy in a sweatshirt was solely focused on the football game playing on the mammoth flat screen TV. When it became obvious that Riley needed a nap, I gladly retreated; shaking.

I made the mistake of turning on the TV while I rocked Kickers to sleep. The flood of pill commercials, the sad celebrities clinging so desperately to some sort of fame, the dead smiles of the news anchors while they let me know of travesty after travesty, the constant buzzing of voices telling me to buy, buy, buy… Somehow the cynicism shield had broken and I was left to internalize it all, bad spoonfuls of everything wrong with the world. I began to have this sick and panicky feeling, a tired certainty that we’re not going to make it out alive, a weariness at having to protect my child somehow.

And then it made sense. It’s that same sort of breathless maladjustment you get when you’re depressed. It didn’t make any the problems better, but at least there was a feasible goal to work on before trying to fix the world. I realize there has to be those bits of depression, I truly feel it’s an important piece in our experience, a fantastic learning tool, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and fight it, try and elevate myself.

Trying to remember the altogether different breathless feeling that came with standing at 1st and Pine Friday night, cold as cold, and watching the last couple minutes of passionate red sunset over the Olympics, Puget Sound not quite ready to let the daylight out of the water, a lone flashing buoy in all that nearly glowing midnight blue. And then I turn around to walk home up the hill with a full moon painting the rooftops silver.

Trying to hold onto the feelings of a hug from an 11 month old and that hum of “Mmmmm” that accompanies it, how absolutely glorious it feels to have a baby asleep on you.

Trying not to take it all too damn seriously.


Rocktober song of the day: “Raw Power” by Iggy and the Stooges. You better believe it.

Accidentally 6th Street

So I’m walking on into work this morning, too sleepy to be cognizant of much, when I pass by the BMW service shop. I pass by it daily, there are typically some guys wandering around the lot, doing their BMW service shop things. This morning as I’m passing, I notice two guys detailing a Beemer with this crazy little car washing doohickey – it sort of looks the machinery that resets the pins in a bowling alley, but this sprays sudsy water on expensive cars.

At first I was thinking, “Huh, I’ve never seen machinery such as this. I wonder if this will count for my something to learn today.” Then I thought, “It’s six in the frigging morning. These poor guys have to detail Beemers at six in the morning.”

I have had some disgruntled moments in my career, moments where I question the amount of shitty work I’m doing while CEO’s give themselves a few more million in bonuses. But I have to imagine that washing someone’s expensive status symbol in the dark of the early, what with the water spray in the early winter cold, I’d be signing up for the draft for the building class war. “Yeah, smoke up Johnny,” I said softly to the detailer with the turned around baseball cap. “Why not?”

This then, for some reason, reminded me of my misspent days in Newport Beach, CA. When I was living in Orange County, I fell in love with Newport Beach. It’s odd as Newport is the center of conspicuous consumption in Orange County.

And no, to nip it in the bud, when I was living there, we did not call it the “O.C.” We did talk about an “orange curtain,” beyond which all good things could not get past – things like art and culture, things that would shock the deadened senses.

But yes, I was taken by the Balboa Strip, a thin stretch of land sandwiched between Newport Bay and the ocean. I was specifically taken by 6th Street. Things were a bit more rundown towards that end of things, there was the old Balboa Theater that played Rocky Horror on Friday and Saturday nights, there were alleys (one of which I used to conceal my vomiting of a large number of Kamikaze shots done on the beach) – you didn’t see a lot of alleys in my part of Orange County.

It was where I was when I smoked my first bowl, and I would return there to do so many times while watching storms blow in over the Pacific. It was often where I wished I was. I remember quite clearly standing outside a Western themed restaurant near Ojai while Captain MIA purged some more of his Santa Barbara excess into their men’s room toilet and thinking, “Man, I wish I as on 6th Street.”

Odd, the thoughts that car detailing will bring to mind.


Rocktober song of the day: “Fascination Street” by The Cure. It came out around the time of these misspent days and reminds me of them. It also reminds me of being all done up on hallucinogenics and thinking I was an amazing dancer. I may have been, it’s difficult to be objective with a head full of blotter acid.

For North Street

For the sadness that there is in realizing that there is so much north of North Street, so many miles that seem to get larger with each one you add to the belt.

For seltzer shots.

For twosies on said shots.

For hotel room microwaved Hot Pockets, and of course the discussion on having sex with these pockets that was naturally to follow.

For getting to share in the excitement of someone else’s success, in their major changes.

For the surly looking biker guy, wooed by a baby’s smile.

For the rather unexpected flood of emotions a city can bring.

For the word “home;” so many connotations and possible definitions, a word that strikes me in an emotional way all the time.

For various secrets and affirmations. Did Steve tell you that?

For the ability to sit, unconcerned with appearance, with weakness, with concerns, and feel the mad rush of shorthanded conversation, of unforced understanding, of love.


Rocktober song of the day: “Where I End And You Begin (The Sky Is Falling In) by Radiohead

Depressive Slide For The Wonder Twins

“Okay, seriously Jayna, if we’re going to do our part in trying to do something about the rampant consumerism that’s going on, we better get a move on.”

“Jiminy Christmas, you Donny Osmond looking mother fucker,” she replied while half heartedly flinging her hand his way.

“Wonder Twin powers – Activate!”

While Zan took a moment for to think up the bestest watery object he could muster, Jayne jumped in with a sarcastic lilt to her voice.

“Shape of a giant toad.” And as per usual, she turned into what she stated.

“Giant toad? You’re going with giant toad? Oh that’ll be really useful.”

“Do not mess with me today douche bag, I am not in the mood for your passive aggressive crap.”

“Sweet Poseidon’s puckered anus, you wanna see passive-aggressive Jayna? You wanna see passive-aggressive? Just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t mean that you need to force everyone else into one. Form of a giant ice toad.”

An exact replica of Jayna’s donkey sized amphibian, made of ice, appeared where Zan stood.

“How you like me now?” He asked.

“Do you realize that I could melt you with my frog pee? I’m out.” Jayna’s toad shuffled off.

“Where are you… But I’m… This is no way to fight crime and complacency! How am I gonna get anywhere?”

“If you can get that blue-balled monkey off your mom for long enough, maybe he’ll carry you.” She continued on, singing the newest piece she and her death metal group Shemp’s Tumor were working on, “These Are The Things That I See With My Eyes When I Look (Atchoo)”

“Hey that’s Gleek you’re talk… And it’s your mom too!”


Rocktober song of the day: “Divine Hammer” by The Breeders

Helping Friendly Billy

A short list of things not to give to a schizophrenic

Cutlery
Your address
The impression, even in jest, that you might want to marry them
Hallucinogens in their breakfast beverages
The new Smashing Pumpkins – it’s really not very good
Those transmissions you get from that Magic Bullet infomercial, you know the ones that message by message tell you how to dismantle time
Your debit card, your PIN and a ride to the closest IKEA, this is not a good way to get your place decorated
Advice on their imagined relationship with the tall, bald guy from “Night Court”
The option of white, wheat, sourdough or English Muffin
That patronizing, wide eyed, “you crazy” look you tend to give

Confidential to Loco in Leavenworth: No, under no circumstance should you recreate the Taj Mahal in feces.


Rocktober song of the day: “Forever For Her (Is Over For Me)" by The White Stripes

This Time It's Personal

Trying to sneak in a quick one while the baby sleeps, while the wife sleeps, but I keep getting caught up in watching the leaves falling outside. I keep closing my eyes to the simply strummed acoustic guitar of Mr. John Darnielle.

I feel that a lot of lately has been grasping at feelings and trying to put words to it; poor, clumsy words. I feel like everything is ripe with meaning and my head starts to spin trying to fit the meaning with the lesson; spins with trying to create a lesson. I feel this strange dichotomy of striving for more and absolute contentment with where I’m at and what I have; who I am. I feel like I’m taking on the season, I feel a dormancy coming on, a hunkering down, but below that the stirring of something yet unknown getting ready to burst out a bit down the road.

Without a show coming up on the near horizon, I feel this sort of useless wave coming over me. I think about all the free hours coming my way and I fear them a bit; I worry there will be no excuse to not use them well. I worry that there may be no show past the bit of horizon that I can see.

Thinking of previews that I’ve seen of direct to video releases and just how awful the acting is. I wonder if I sound as stilted and awkward when I do what I love. I think about those mid-line actors who aren’t horrible, but never make it to the pantheon of critically acclaimed or relevant enough to adopt an impoverished minority child; actors who make a good living making awful films. Let’s say the actors who made Jaws The Revenge.

Hold up for a second, some of the actors in Jaws The Revenge aren’t the type that I’m talking about, some of them were awful – porn worthy.

Jaws The Revenge is miserable, it’s awful and somewhat of a testament to what passes as a studio film. I will sit through some awful shark movies, I have sat through some awful shark movies, and the most recent of these was Jaws The Revenge.

Problems? Aside from the afore mentioned porn acting, there is the idea that a shark has taken it upon itself to stalk the family of the police chief who killed a great white in the first Jaws film. There’s the idea that said shark would go so far as to follow the family to the Bahamas where the water is too warm for a Great White to live. Let’s forget for a moment that the shark knew to go from New England to the Bahamas as if in a scene trimmed from the director’s cut, the great white had snuck into the Brody household to hack onto their personal computer and pull up their travel itinerary with those shifty, bad guy eyes before jumping back into the Atlantic. Hang on, I’m not done. There’s the shark itself who sometimes looks like a plastic chew toy in a miniature tank, and sometimes when it’s leaping out of the water (which is quite often), looks a lot like the awfully phony shark that scares tourists at Universal Studios.

Stir in the main heroine having sepia toned flashbacks of moments she was not there for, add a dash of shark EXPLODING when it is rammed with the prow of a boat, and top with a liberal dose of stealing the exact footage of the sinking carcass of the shark from the first film and you have a recipe for one big pile of celluloid crizzap.

Do I recommend it? Enthusiastically, with a twelver and friends who crave this sort of thing. Will I watch it again? Try and stop me.

I’m really unsure how I got here…


Rocktober song of the day: “Beginning To See The Light” by The Velvet Underground

Travelin'

There’s some sort of mathematical theorem out there , I know there is, in regards to the ratio of amount of eye makeup a young woman wears to miles away from a major urban area.

There’s strange gas stations, a lot of pressboard and none of the snazzy beer marketing, in strange little corners of the state, none too far from Seattle. Little bastions of civilization 10 miles from I5, found on a corner named, but supporting only two buildings, one of which seems deserted. Inside, I come across an older man disciplining a younger one who had apparently made some disparaging remarks to the Asian woman manning the register. Young man escapes to his truck full of muddied all terrain bikes and older man purchases his half rack of Schaeffer, which I didn’t even realize they still manufactured. I look at the laser sites and bullets available as impulse items on the counter where you would normally see breath mints and dried beef products. I walk back out to the car through a steady rain.

There’s these towns along two lane highways through the western wilderness that exist for a mile or so before thinning out to weed choked plots that used to be a parking lot or a mini mart of some sort. They’re these same little towns that you remember from passing through them a year before, somehow so vividly as if coming up in a town like this. You remember dreams where the geography is made up of these exact sort of places.

There’s an inordinate amount of bears made out of chainsawed trees.

There’s a number of towns up and down California’s northern coast; just stretches of well lit fast food signs and beckoning hotel/motel ads is all you would really see as your car passes through. We stop in one for the night, you can smell the ocean and I get that sort of winsome feeling of nostalgia realizing that I missed those windblown cypress trees from my time here. I walk past a kid on a smoke break from the McDonald’s right off the freeway. He sits sort of hunched, head down toward the asphalt. He glances at me for a second as I pass then takes another hit and eyes back to the ground. I wonder if he counts down the minutes until he can escape. I wonder if he resents the folks who come through to buy hamburgers and speed on out to somewhere else. I wonder if he wonders why I’m here, walking to the Safeway. I realize that maybe he’s happy to call this home, that he takes pride in a place where people know your name and nod hellos when they pass in the street. Maybe he dreams of opening a business, of raising a family, of petitioning for the freeway to move ten miles east and leave his town unscathed. Maybe he has vaguely disturbing dreams about sharing space with skyscrapers and ports, about how goddamn easy it is to hide in that anonymity of city living.

There’s a lot of beauty to be found in this country.


Rocktober song of the day: “C’mon Billy” by PJ Harvey

Walkers

I saw her shuffling along as I was coming down the hill and towards I-5. I sort of kicked the concentration into overdrive to make sure that I was indeed seeing a woman in short shorts. And I was; at six in the morning. And while it’s not quite winter yet, it is Rocktober for the love of Pete. It was cold enough in the predawn this morning make me think that my exposed hand was beginning to hurt with the chill and I might think about shoving it into my everlovin’ pocket.

Short shorts!

When she started walking again, I noticed the really bizarre gait she was using. It reminded me of a T.Rex – well, it’s the first thing that came to mind. I began to think maybe her legs were going numb on her, or maybe she was getting used to her new robot legs, perhaps even she’d been shot recently in the hips. But then I noticed, and wondered how the hell I’d missed them to begin with, the white stilettos. The heels were bigger than my head, well my head at age 9 let’s say. It was no wonder she was walking as though crossing a tightrope with a razor blade in her ass crack.

Now I don’t like to make assumptions, but…

Well, that is a ginormous lie. I like to make assumptions; big, inappropriate assumptions.

If that woman wasn’t a prostitute, she might think about looking into it as a gig. She has the appropriate wardrobe. It’s not the first time I’d seen a prostitute to be sure, but I was a little stunned by the location. Capitol Hill is more of a junky neighborhood than a sex worker one. I kept walking.

Down around Pike Place, I noticed a shambling woman crossing the street with a deflated piece of rolling luggage. I couldn’t hear her singing, as my headphones were on, but I could tell she was by the way her mouth bounced and arms flailed about. It was much like myself when I’m taken with a song and all done up and six kinds of . She was approaching one of the few other people on the sidewalk this time of morning, a man with a tie, nice overcoat. I again couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she threw her rolley bag down and reined in the flailing, meanwhile our nameless sharp dresser had a look on his face that was a combination of fear and smelling something bad. I kept walking, but…

Said woman stopped me a few paces later, tapping on my arm. I pulled the headphones out of my ears and waited.

“Hey man, do you think you can spare a couple bucks? I…”

“No,” I said, not waiting for the sad sack tale that was about to spill. “All kinds of no.”

“I’ll just keep following you,” she said with a sick little smile. “I’ll keep following you and bugging you.”

“Have at it,” I said. “I got about two more miles to go and headphones that will drown out pretty much everything.”

I popped said headphones back into my ears just as Velvet Underground’s “Sister Ray” was kicking in. Perfect. Rolley bag lady apparently wasn’t up for the challenge and continued on a different route. Oh early morning city trip, how I love thee.


Rocktober song of the day: “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations” by The Arcade Fire

For You

The douche bag who tried to merge your Mercedes Benz full bore into my car – the one with my infant son in the back seat - just so you could jump ahead a full car length in the traffic.

I realize that blowing a ridiculous wad on a car doesn’t necessarily make you a bad driver, it just seems to make you more of a dick face when you are one.

For being amazingly inconsiderate and endangering others I say, “lick it where it’s dirty.”

I hope it bleeds when you poop – a lot.


Rocktober song of the day: “Stop Breathing” by Pavement

I Can't Get That Sound You Make Out Of My Head

Before Portland, well at least before our last trip to Portland… Was there ever a before Portland? A B.P. that delineates some golden age from the heathen, dark days when there were no bridges slinging the Willamette like sutures? Wow, just barely out of the gate before I totally derailed myself.

As I had begun to mention, on Friday night – before going to Portland on Saturday – we went and saw us a little show. Kickers left with the grandparents, earrings put on Biff, parking procured for an astronomical price, and it was us for a night at the Showbox to see Camper Van Beethoven and Built to Spill.

After two quick whiskies and a couple of PBR tall boys (I said it, PBR tall boys), we got into a good position for the coming of CVB. Biff and I had gone to see Camper Van Beethoven when they reformed a number of years back and we were both pretty blown away by the show, so we were jazzed for another shot at seeing them live. Save for the bass player, these guys do not look like a band. Lead singer David Lowery, in his beard, glasses and paperboy hat, looks like one of those 40 something men who hang around coffee shops and speak to promises of a great writing career soon to come. Jonathan, the violinist, looks like any number of men you might see wandering the streets of any small burg in northern California; very long hair, untucked flannel shirt, crazed look in the eyes of just having ingested any number of psychotropic drugs. The bass player, in his short silver/gray hair, plays bass as if nothing else makes him feel sexier or cooler. I like that.

I get all hot over a band who does not have that cookie cutter, “I’m in a band” look and can rock it like nobody’s business. I was crazy down with the CVB from the get go, but when they invited Built to Spill’s Doug Martsch on to sing their “Good Guys & Bad Guys”… Well I was somewhere else altogether. I was pretty thrilled with the Camper Van Beethoven set, but when I realized that we were scant minutes away from Built to Spill, I got all tingly in my stomach.

I really don’t feel like I have developed any other words of praise to bestow on the good men of Built to Spill, I have not learned to explain a way that this band makes me feel any better than I could do last year. And yet I will vainly try again for a moment…

Built to Spill is one of VERY few bands that take me to another place altogether when I see them live. They give me that dry mouthed, adrenaline filled thrill of being caught in a moment that will never happen the same again ever. They give me that drugged up feeling without taking any drugs. A Built to Spill show for me is something I would equate to a tent revival – call it God, call it the infinite, call it magic, I am left feeling a hard sought connection and as though something has fundamentally effected my soul. It’s church, praise Jeebus.

The guys were on fire and seemingly having a good time. I remember at one point looking up at Doug while he tried to find God up there through closed eyes, apparently hanging around the crystal sculpture of guitar runs he had just left in the air, and I laughed an honest and true laugh. Hearing “Car” with Riley now in my life became an emotionally overwhelming moment – the line, “I wanna see it when you find out what comets, stars and moons are all about” made me hold my breath and cry. I can’t really explain it, but in that stoney/dream logic that holds true in the middle of an experience like this, I felt that this show was a necessary door to go through before we hit the road, a blessing from the boys for a good trip.

After the final notes of “Velvet Waltz” reluctantly shimmered out of existence, Doug walked around the stage, picking up his gear and talking to a handful of fans. I felt as though I was walking around in small little circles, enjoying the sense of fulfillment I was swimming in. When he sort of glanced my way, I waved up to him and called out “thank you.” He gave me that sideways wave and that smile.

Good show. Good, good show.


Rocktober song of the day: "I Would Hurt A Fly" by Built to Spill

Run For The Roses

Less than a year after having a baby, Biff went and ran herself a marathon this weekend. She’s a powerhouse and a force to be reckoned with. She’s a super lady.

Said marathon was in Portland, which is a three hour drive through less populated areas of Washington and into a whole other world altogether. Portland, and all of Oregon for that matter, has always had a very David Lynch feel to it for me. There’s this feeling that something horribly disturbing and funny can happen around any bend. I’ve only been to Portland a couple of times now, but there’s always this feeling like people are avoiding the sidewalks and hulking down for a storm coming any time. I always expect to hear the lonely whistle from a saw mill.

There was the added little bit surrealism with staying in Jen Jen and Michael’s place while they were not there. It was very kind of them to offer it up while they were in Spain, and it was comfortable, but I always somehow felt like a thief about to be caught where I shouldn’t be, their books and decorating choices staring down on me like judges. What doesn’t help these admittedly paranoid feelings is the person who has been tapped with the task of keeping the cats alive bursting into the apartment like some sort of vice cop on a bust. I jumped up, the baby (who had just finally passed out after a difficult night) awoke, and this woman – who was probably just as surprised as I – said she thought we would be gone by Saturday. She then said she needed to use the bathroom and jogged back towards it to do so.

Getting around a city to pay witness to a loved one running a marathon is not the easiest thing to do. Yeah, I realize that running 26.2 miles is also not all that easy either, back off. But there is a problem with maneuvering around marathon routes where they have closed off a large number of streets for the obvious safety of the runners; and in the case of Portland, this involved closing apparently very bridge that crosses the river to downtown where the start and finish lines are. Biff, feeling finally too aggravated and panicked to care, added an additional .8 to an already long run by bolting from the car and charging over the bridge on foot.

This left me and Kickers to slowly peruse the still sleeping streets of Portland in search of a grocery store. I was singing lightly to myself, feeling comfortable in the charming city. Kickers was babbling quietly in the back, apparently also taking in the sites along the Hollywood section of town. I realized that this was the sort of moment I had imagined before he was born, the two of us cruising a city in early darkness on some errand for mom. At one point I looked back at him and he returned an even glance, taking me in for a moment before smiling one of those smiles that erases any aggravation from the sleepless night before.

A couple of hours later, we found a way to other side of the river and took on the pursuit of meeting up with a marathon finisher. All those things that I mentioned above about the slight difficulties – add to that driving around a city you don’t know and a fussy baby. By the time I found a place to park the mighty Honda – illegally it turned out – Riley had fussed himself into a daze. I hoisted him up and hurried down the crowded street with him in my arms, this it turned out was a good time for him to sleep. He awoke while we waited at the reunion spot, that “what the fuck?” look on his face when he realized that the last time he had been conscious there was no one around him where now there were several hundred- most of them wrapped in foil, combined with the sweater print on his face from sleeping against my chest made me laugh out loud. Even the guy dressed as the Nestle Quick bunny wasn’t enough to shake his utter confusion. It did make me wonder though why there was a Nestle Quick bunny roaming the streets of Portland.

Biff came off her finish as though she had done nothing more strenuous than carrying a load of laundry up the stairs. Again, she’s a super lady and I’m crazy proud of her.


Rocktober song of the day: “Cracked Actor” by David Bowie.

C'mon Over, Do The Twist

Sweet mother of Jehosephat, this day…

I feel like I’m having an aneurism. I’ve never actually had an aneurism, but I sort of feel like this cinching belt in my neck, cruise missile razor blade tearing up my brain tissue must be reminiscent of what it might feel like to have an aneurism.

All of which has nothing to do with the awesome Nirvana song “Aneurism”.

I’m not going to be terribly surprised if I fall down into a convulsing, self-defecating mess with blood pouring with some authority out of my eyes. I also wouldn’t be surprised if I started speaking a language lost to the ages, lost to God, and barely heard by the few shocked coworkers who might notice my convulsive, eye bleeding fall.

I might not even be surprised to find my head splitting open with a tremendous cracking sound and a bloody Slinky bursting forth as if reenacting the birth of Athena from the head of Zeus, or the chestburster scene in ALIEN if you’re not all hot on Greek mythology. I imagine this Slinky doing its Slinky walk down the cubicle aisle, independent of gravity or floor grade. I imagine it somehow gaining a voice and singing the Slinky song with a sing-songy, faux child voice:

“What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs, and makes a slinkity sound?
A spring, a spring, a marvelous thing…”

At which point I hope to have the energy to mutter, the wherewithal to stop speaking in this forgotten tongue, and say, “you ain’t that marvelous.”

When this day began I was so excited about seeing Built to Spill tonight that I shot 4 ½ loads in my pants. Right now I’m generally numb to everything.


Rocktober song of the day: “Buick Mackane” by T. Rex.

The Last Day

I think that it’s fairly normal for people to develop a neighborhood bar, their meeting place, their hang out, their end up. I remember trying out a few places in San Francisco before its proximity to the office made the Crowbar the place of choice for awhile. I was smitten with the Hide Out on Nob Hill for a bit, but on my first few tempestuous years in the city it was The Last Day Saloon on Clement in the Inner Richmond that was home away from home.

I find it odd that this was the watering hole that we picked. We were living right next to SF State and the Inner Richmond, while not exactly a trip to Ohio, was a little far to go to get a drink. What is perhaps even more shocking was the complete lack of drinking establishments near a university. Not to exclude the Chevy’s at the Stonestown Mall of course.

The Last Day was a nice normal, neighborhood bar. There were big windows facing out to Clement that let in a lot of (typically foggy) light, so the place wasn’t nearly as dank as I tend to enjoy in a bar. There was a pool table and a jukebox, that I remember had a pretty good selection but all I can really remember was the Pulp Fiction soundtrack.

It was right across the street from Taiwan, so there was good, cheap food nearby. It was also close to the Coronet, so made for a pretty good place to pre funk before seeing the likes of The Matrix during it’s 8 ½ month run.

There was also an upstairs where bands would play. I remember the ceiling feeling remarkably close. I also remember seeing Dieselhed put on a damn good show there more than once. One of these nights included a blistering and immensely entertaining version of Pink Floyd’s “Time”.

But when I think back on those lost days at the Last Day, there are two occasions that really stick out. I remember sitting in the booth near the front window and looking across at Dave who had just shaved his head after years of wearing hair well past his shoulders. I could tell he was feeling a bit insecure without the protective sheath of curls. I kicked him lightly and told him softly to stop worrying, that he still looked cute with no hair. And he did… Incredible amounts of alcohol continued to flow.

I also remember the first night we met Sasha; Beth and I sitting in that same booth and splitting a to go carton Hot Sauce Noodles from across the street at Taiwan and sharing the secrets that a sparkling new couple shares. Later, Sasha would replay her first impression of us, splitting that Chinese food and occasionally looking at each other and smiling; she always said it was adorable. When I try to see it through her eyes, I bet that she’s correct, I bet we were adorable.

Eventually, Magnolia became our hang out, our end up. It solved the question of good food and great beer, and got about as close to a neighborhood bar as we got in the Haight. When I start to feel a little nostalgic about San Francisco, it’s typically for my people still there, for the Haight, for Magnolia. But the deeper, more fundamental sadness that comes with saying goodbye to place, or more accurately a time, comes from missing the Last Day, and Dave, and Sasha, the cheap Hot Sauce noodles and the Slurpee for dessert, the thrill from hearing the opening of Dick Dale’s “Misirlou” come through the jukebox. I miss the occasional quiet afternoon of driving up through the park, sipping a jack and coke, smoking generic cigarettes and playing a couple games of pool.

The last time I was in the city I noticed that The Last Day was no longer The Last Day. It had changed names, and as San Francisco was no longer home to me, it didn’t effect me greatly. But I do seem to remember feeling one of those sad little smiles find its way to my face.


Rocktober song of the day: “Thursday” by Morphine.

Dear Billy

Being it’s Wednesday and all, I would like to offer some helpful hints, some Big Ideas from Big Head Billy.

Some things not to do on a job interview:

• Use abbreviations or terminology specific to another job.
• Assume that it is a business casual office.
• Continually grab your crotch.
• Growl.
• Make the assumption that your interviewer also feels that everyone living in the bad part of town uses drugs.
• Mention how you left your last job because of constant arguments with the management.
• Wear a Speedo – and nothing else.
• Swear like a trucker, sailor and longshoreman rolled into one and enrolled in a swearing contest.
• Talk about that little pyromania problem you have.
• Lick a dildo.
• Fill all empty spaces in the conversation with a travelogue about Tampa, and how much you hate it.
• Sing your responses – to the tune of “Hard Knock Life” from Annie.
• Offer the interviewer a hit from your flask.
• Forget your name.
• Refer to former customers as “johns”.

Confidential to Broken in Texarkana: Next time, try some ready made pie crust. I think you’ll find the pain factor shrinks a lot!


Rocktober song of the day: “Down To The Well” by Pixies

Tiny Little Gift To Me

“We haven’t seen a storm like this since January,” the weather guy stated with a sincerity that was so intense it felt like it was made of stainless steel.

He said it as if we were perusing the annals of weather history to pull up the last storm of this sort of impact, this sort of destruction, and it was back in the winter of ’39 when the men feared for their very lives, when an entire rutabaga crop was lost to the communists... But it was 9 months ago. And the storm he was so excited about (he had a look in his eyes that spoke of a desire to mount said storm and hump it until one of them was bleeding from somewhere) amounted to a little rain and a little strong wind. All and all, it’s pretty typical weather for the area.

You wouldn’t guess it from the wide-eyed and glassy glare the man was projecting out there. You could practically smell the over the counter stimulants sweating out of his pores, see the coke dust in the wrinkles made by his gleeful twitching. That wind, that excitable wind, will come back momentarily. Wait.

I got home last night and stretched out on the couch. The plan was to nap away some cold time, watch Zodiac again. I was sort floating in a sick nap sort of head space, confusing early 70’s San Francisco portrayed in the movie with modern day San Francisco, then mixing both of them up with modern day Seattle. I was trying to force Belltown bars into Inner Richmond neighborhoods, North Beach restaurants into buildings near Pike Place Market. The brain rebelled at first, but then quickly lay down and just took it.

Something out the window caught my eye. At first I thought there were birds going apeshit out there. The gale force winds had come back (told ya) and had stripped some fall leaves prematurely. These yellow fragments, robbed of their chance for the fiery reds and oranges of fall, were made beautiful nonetheless by an impromptu flying lesson.

The narrow stretch of Denny Avenue that runs by our apartment was turned into a wind tunnel as the wind was funneled between brick apartment buildings and garish condos. Yellow leaves bounded from the ground and did effortless spins and twists two and three floors up. It made me smile to see it, feeling sick as I was. It was like a powerful troupe making due with the small quarters and performing to ends of their talents, it was a small but gratifying dance recital courtesy of nature.

I later went to sleep a little early and avoided the hell out of the weatherman.


Rocktober song of the day: “Napiers” by The Wrens

Feel It

Before anything else transpires here, before I derail myself with something else, let me first toss out a word of celebration, a word of joy, a word of such potent power that many have lain trembling before it:

Rocktober!

Yup, that’s right, welcome to, and happy, Rocktober.

Now to the whiny…

I’ve got a cold. I feel like a plus size stripper walked all over me in her plus size stiletto heels. I have aches that a cranky septuagenarian would consider using their endangered social security on just to have something of worth to complain about. And if you know of anyone in the market, I’m selling cheap.

This typically happens at the end of a show, as if a stress wall is carefully built with the rehearsal process, and the demolition is timed for roughly 12 hours after closing night. The wall implodes, with a bare minimum of mess, and the cold/flu that had been held at bay comes rushing in. And this, my friends, is no way to celebrate Rocktober.

So yeah, we closed the show Saturday to a packed audience that brazenly ignored fire codes to watch us actorate our asses off. I left the show, left the theater, on Saturday night feeling emotional to be sure, but oddly subdued. I believe it’s because I felt I really did some of my best work to date in this show, that I feel fulfilled and that there was little that I could do better.

But now it’s done and will be no more posts about it.

However, the pantsless dance party that followed? There may be more to come, who knows?

The wolves are calling. The traveling circus has come knocking on the door. The gods of quality assurance are seeking a sacrifice. ‘Til Tuesday.


Rocktober song of the day: “Whatever Happened To My Rock & Roll” by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club