Watch the first video, and then the heavy hitting second video remix:
Could be a crackhead.
January 07, 2009
January 06, 2009
Albondigas
I spent today eating and going to the grocery store. Rosca for all my latin american brothers and sister. Who ate a piece of the baby Jesus?
January 05, 2009
An old friend
I was doing my filing (all digital) and came across a story I wrote and I wish I had finished, back when I used to write a lot more than I do now. I wish I wrote now, but I hardly do outside of this blog and the occasional chains of lyrics. Anyway, here is a story I am working on.
Cutlass Sierra
Aforementioned bliss.
"It is a concrete concept, nostalgia for departed parts; a party, a hotel lobby, a smoking gun. A vestibule, friends and laughter, departures, whispers."
-----
I woke up, in Kansas, in the middle of a field. Stains on my shirt; on my collar, on my jacket; damp from the peak summer sun. Dusty from the road. Underneath a tree, underneath a blue sky rivaled only in dreams. Cumulous clouds unfurled and warm, acting as a muse.
I woke up, in a small brick room, the smell of cleaners and cigarettes loomed in the air, the coils of the bed-springs dug into my hip. Old, cracked. Cement floors mirrored the broken faces inside. Waking up in an unknown place, a recollection half erased.
-----
I wake up, alone, cold. Not cold and alone, no, rain-soaked.
I can feel the burn in my mouth, the swelling deep in my throat. My eyes roll back, the steam emits from my mouth, a rushing cloud of last nights dinner, drinks, and a few more dry heaves. I have now vomited all over my shoes, and can honestly say I have never felt more sorry for myself than at this moment.
-----
I wake up, sitting in a gray back seat. Where am I?
The Cathedral, the back woods, the Capitol, warm summer afternoons sitting on my hot tarred roof. All these; memories. All of these memories trying to be relived. A constant trek from unknown place to unknown place. I have ticket stubs. Bus tickets, plane tickets. Commuter trains. Tokens for subways, buses, bike rentals. One paddle boat rental receipt. Burger King, "Valued Customer # 47: Bac. Ch. Brg., Med. Fry, COKE."
I walk into a movie theater, I ask to use the bathroom.
Down the hall, to the right, third door. The carpet a menagerie of little animal prints, accompanied by crushed popcorn kernels, gum, icee stains... an exhibit unto themselves.
The mirrors are a dull yellow, making me look more sickly than I already am. I have about two weeks growth of a scraggly beard. A "crest white" smile, although that could be incorrect, it is still the dingy canary yellow of the mirror. There is a clipboard with initials at every hour mark guaranteeing these tiles' sterility.
Cutlass Sierra
Aforementioned bliss.
"It is a concrete concept, nostalgia for departed parts; a party, a hotel lobby, a smoking gun. A vestibule, friends and laughter, departures, whispers."
-----
I woke up, in Kansas, in the middle of a field. Stains on my shirt; on my collar, on my jacket; damp from the peak summer sun. Dusty from the road. Underneath a tree, underneath a blue sky rivaled only in dreams. Cumulous clouds unfurled and warm, acting as a muse.
I woke up, in a small brick room, the smell of cleaners and cigarettes loomed in the air, the coils of the bed-springs dug into my hip. Old, cracked. Cement floors mirrored the broken faces inside. Waking up in an unknown place, a recollection half erased.
-----
I wake up, alone, cold. Not cold and alone, no, rain-soaked.
I can feel the burn in my mouth, the swelling deep in my throat. My eyes roll back, the steam emits from my mouth, a rushing cloud of last nights dinner, drinks, and a few more dry heaves. I have now vomited all over my shoes, and can honestly say I have never felt more sorry for myself than at this moment.
-----
I wake up, sitting in a gray back seat. Where am I?
The Cathedral, the back woods, the Capitol, warm summer afternoons sitting on my hot tarred roof. All these; memories. All of these memories trying to be relived. A constant trek from unknown place to unknown place. I have ticket stubs. Bus tickets, plane tickets. Commuter trains. Tokens for subways, buses, bike rentals. One paddle boat rental receipt. Burger King, "Valued Customer # 47: Bac. Ch. Brg., Med. Fry, COKE."
I walk into a movie theater, I ask to use the bathroom.
Down the hall, to the right, third door. The carpet a menagerie of little animal prints, accompanied by crushed popcorn kernels, gum, icee stains... an exhibit unto themselves.
The mirrors are a dull yellow, making me look more sickly than I already am. I have about two weeks growth of a scraggly beard. A "crest white" smile, although that could be incorrect, it is still the dingy canary yellow of the mirror. There is a clipboard with initials at every hour mark guaranteeing these tiles' sterility.
1:00 - JH
2:00 - JH
3:00 - JH
4:00 - RM
Who cleans these mirrors? I laugh. Cold water splashes up to my face.
I am reminded of a young childhood fascination with face wash commercials. The models would splash their flawless complextions with handful after handful out of a pristine silver basin, dripping down in raisin sized drops. Flash a toothy smile. They'd walk away, dressed to the T's ready for their day. Whenever I would splash my face like that, water would get all over my shirt, in large blotches.
I slick my hair back with a little water, rub some under my armpits, leaving more water on my shirt.
I tear off my shirt and lock the door. Turn the sink on full blast, dunk my head underneath the faucet, squeezing ample amounts of anonymous pink liquid through my scalp. Over my face, through my beard. I rinse, I rinse, I rinse, doing a careful job to try and sweep some of the hairs out of the sink as I go. I have created a dam of debris.
On to the torso. I scoop handfuls of soapy water and rub them across my neck, my chest, my rib cage. The cold water trickles down my abdomen and onto the waistline of my pants, turning them a dark blue. I notice the little lines of brown giving way to a lighter tone beneath them. A few more minutes, a few more splashes.
I turn to look for the towel dispenser, hair dripping in front of my eyes, swept to the side by my finger comb. I go eyes wide, muffle a few words under my breath as I realize my dilemma. A small aluminum hand dryer, with a fixed nozzle. Hand dryer companies should have lawsuits piling up at their desks. Never have I clicked the dyer button on and had my hands remotely dry by the time the 30 second timer finished.
My body contorts in strange positions. Yoga has names for these. Kneeling elk, moaning cow, disgruntled vagrant... all while pushing the small dial repeatedly to keep the air flowing as I squirm beneath it to reach all of my nooks, and some crannies, drying my skin very slowly.
I go to the door, I slip on my undershirt, my t-shirt, my button-up gets buttoned.
Sweater, hooded sweatshirt, spring coat. I think, in a last minute moment, I think I should have just taken all of it off and washed everything.
For three hours I manage to sit at the very back row of this theater, air conditioned theater, I nap. I pay no attention. I wish I could have gone to a movie that was a bomb. A "Gigli." A "Doom." A single worded title. A quiet place.
I remember as a kid, my family would take trips to state parks. Big open lake sides, pine tree forests, birch bark and other unidentifiable wood chips surrounded giant probing sculptures we knew as playgrounds. Interwoven rope became spiderwebs, pyramids, bunkers. Slides became escape hatches. Intricate plans were hatched. Nostalgia.
I remember the good naps, the warm sun through the tinted blue windows of our rust bucket Cutlass Cierra. Hour, hour and a half, two and a half hour drives. Hot summer poured into the car, the front windows cracked, the smell of exhaust a pillow. Snack bags of crackers, browning apples, grapes. Individually wrapped string cheese. Personalized water bottles. Riding in th backseat with my siblings, jokes and pokes and imaginary borders drawn across the tattered upholstery. Long naps, furrowed brows and deep breathing naps.
I am awoken by a man with a flashlight demanding to see my ticket. I hand him the stub to a Grayhound bus from two years ago, a cross country endeavor, Denver to Boston. He is not impressed.
I spend the next half an hour talking to a 19 year old manager, 8 years younger than I, explaining company policies and lecturing on maturity. I apologize, and am left with a warning and a theater ban.
I am reminded of a young childhood fascination with face wash commercials. The models would splash their flawless complextions with handful after handful out of a pristine silver basin, dripping down in raisin sized drops. Flash a toothy smile. They'd walk away, dressed to the T's ready for their day. Whenever I would splash my face like that, water would get all over my shirt, in large blotches.
I slick my hair back with a little water, rub some under my armpits, leaving more water on my shirt.
I tear off my shirt and lock the door. Turn the sink on full blast, dunk my head underneath the faucet, squeezing ample amounts of anonymous pink liquid through my scalp. Over my face, through my beard. I rinse, I rinse, I rinse, doing a careful job to try and sweep some of the hairs out of the sink as I go. I have created a dam of debris.
On to the torso. I scoop handfuls of soapy water and rub them across my neck, my chest, my rib cage. The cold water trickles down my abdomen and onto the waistline of my pants, turning them a dark blue. I notice the little lines of brown giving way to a lighter tone beneath them. A few more minutes, a few more splashes.
I turn to look for the towel dispenser, hair dripping in front of my eyes, swept to the side by my finger comb. I go eyes wide, muffle a few words under my breath as I realize my dilemma. A small aluminum hand dryer, with a fixed nozzle. Hand dryer companies should have lawsuits piling up at their desks. Never have I clicked the dyer button on and had my hands remotely dry by the time the 30 second timer finished.
My body contorts in strange positions. Yoga has names for these. Kneeling elk, moaning cow, disgruntled vagrant... all while pushing the small dial repeatedly to keep the air flowing as I squirm beneath it to reach all of my nooks, and some crannies, drying my skin very slowly.
I go to the door, I slip on my undershirt, my t-shirt, my button-up gets buttoned.
Sweater, hooded sweatshirt, spring coat. I think, in a last minute moment, I think I should have just taken all of it off and washed everything.
For three hours I manage to sit at the very back row of this theater, air conditioned theater, I nap. I pay no attention. I wish I could have gone to a movie that was a bomb. A "Gigli." A "Doom." A single worded title. A quiet place.
I remember as a kid, my family would take trips to state parks. Big open lake sides, pine tree forests, birch bark and other unidentifiable wood chips surrounded giant probing sculptures we knew as playgrounds. Interwoven rope became spiderwebs, pyramids, bunkers. Slides became escape hatches. Intricate plans were hatched. Nostalgia.
I remember the good naps, the warm sun through the tinted blue windows of our rust bucket Cutlass Cierra. Hour, hour and a half, two and a half hour drives. Hot summer poured into the car, the front windows cracked, the smell of exhaust a pillow. Snack bags of crackers, browning apples, grapes. Individually wrapped string cheese. Personalized water bottles. Riding in th backseat with my siblings, jokes and pokes and imaginary borders drawn across the tattered upholstery. Long naps, furrowed brows and deep breathing naps.
I am awoken by a man with a flashlight demanding to see my ticket. I hand him the stub to a Grayhound bus from two years ago, a cross country endeavor, Denver to Boston. He is not impressed.
I spend the next half an hour talking to a 19 year old manager, 8 years younger than I, explaining company policies and lecturing on maturity. I apologize, and am left with a warning and a theater ban.
I wake up in Minnesota.
Here's your surprise for reading all of that (or being too lazy and scrolling down). Word up to Brad and Kurt for reminding me.
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