A lot of people dumped or dumped on them after Sam's Town came out. Hilarious. I remember reading an article that quoted Brandon Flowers saying something about the smoke clearing, somewhere down the road...Sam's Town would go down as one of the greatest albums ever recorded. Now, I'm not quoting and could be off base, but I remember reading that and applauding. That album was my soundtrack in South Africa. It's what I listened to as I trekked up Lion's Head alone, after it was closed due to fog, battling bouts of Vertigo, thinking I was being hunted/would soon be bit by a death dealing snake with no one to help and I would end on top of that fucking mountain.
Brothers and sisters, those tunes are etched.
That doesn't mean Hot Fuss isn't. It is remarkable, indeed. When I look back on memories tied to songs and albums and find myself picking between roaming the South of Africa and blackout nights in the Hollywood Hills, I gotta give grat that the former holds this heart.
Then they pulled together this album called Sawdust. I was a little hesitant at first, thinking it was mostly comprised of mash ups and cut tracks. It's not. Or, it is...but it's not. While every track deserves a listen, if you aren't going to listen to them at all, please grab tracks 3 and 4. Because I care about you.
The first time I heard the drop, drop in "Bourbon," I wept. It crippled me. A thousand times later, it still does. And though this coming video doesn't hold the exact clout of the studio version, it serves dual purpose in backing that The Killers are possibly the most inspired band playing the world today...and this clip - the exact reason YouFuckingTube was invented.
Please, just watch his hands.
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
June 12, 2008
June 06, 2008
This Town Ain't What It Used To Be...
Two nights ago, my friend Benny, a cook, was taking a break at my house of employment. He stepped out the side door to make a phone call, have a smoke, drink a beer…whatever. Three men approached. They asked about the food, the scene, cornered him against the wall of our pricey Beverly Hills boutique hotel. One of the men pulled a gun, pressed it against his forehead, took what he had.
No shots were fired.
As they drove away, Benny picked up one of our buffed deco stones and threw it at the fleeing car. And missed.
Los Angeles has long been known for its outstandingly bloody history. Our true pillars of violent excellence take up residence in the East and Southern lands. Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings...
But Beverly Hills? Our steaks go for 45. Martinis come in at 15. And about 20 yards from a table of two with a two hundred dollar check, some shithouse with a gun was taking Benny’s breath away. The math? Pretty fucky fucky.
It all started me thinking. I thought about dying…again. I thought about the idea of a drifting soul, one with the consciousness to look back on a life. I thought about the possibility of losing mine to men like this, after cooperating, after doing everything they asked of me. It made me want to scream, put my fist, face and foot through a wall. It made me want to tear the world apart.
I don’t know what I would have done if Benny and me swapped spots that night. Suppose no one can. But I imagined it. I imagined myself with a knife, the same pocketknife that sticks out from the wood in my desk, inches from my fingers that type as we speak. I saw this man on me with a gun...
He looks away for a second and I stab him in the neck. I put the knife away as he goes down, clutching his gaping and blood-spewing throat. But I don’t call for help…and I'm not exercised. I take his gun, turn it around and smash his face over, over, over. I get bored. I pull my clicky pen, the same pen I use to take orders and I stab his thighs, puncture them until the pen breaks. I go through a dozen pens. Then I stand over him, spit onto him until I can no longer. I kick dirt in his face, into his wounds before washing them clean with my urine. Out of breath, I call for help, to save him…so he can feel it all.
I’m not an angry person.
June 04, 2007
Willoughby & Sweetzer
I don’t remember the feeling exactly, or at least I couldn’t remember the feeling until I felt it again. Being a kid…seeing another kid cry, whether it was eating too much Play Doh or compound fracturing an ankle from excessive and careless Pogoballing. One child cries, they all cry. It’s a strange practice seeing as it’s only in rare cases that one can find pleasure in the pain that precedes a sobbing face. Then again, I suppose it’s about the release.
…
There’s a fruit man that sets up shop one block South and one block East of my Kings Road stomps. I often drive past his bags of Bing cherries, wondering both about his asking price and why I don’t stop on my way to work to pick one up. There are few greater pleasures in this world than spitting pits of Bing across Olympic for my usual 30 minute downtown joyride. Of course, these are the things of my useless daydreams. I often find him nestled between protruding roots of a tree that shades his grass top merchandise mart, asleep, maybe drunk. Quite recently though, as I floated past, it wasn’t Dr. Cherries that caught my attention…
On the opposite side of the street, there was something else. Entirely. Flowers, candles, grief. Two girls sat on the curb; carefree like the gum assuming anyone ever gave or gives a floating fuck about the 4 calories that come in each stick. These two girls…it was as if they were floating…or hopelessly trying to float away. Both their heads hung, one shielded by the wide brim of a Yankees hat. It took a moment, but when the moment came, I felt it for miles…days. They were in pain. Seeing these other kids, something twisted in my guts and nearly ripped me in. They looked up as I slowly passed through the stop sign. My mouth moved uncontrollably, formed the only word I could have imagined forming, “sorry.” Their heads fell as I passed through and all that came to mind…
Whoever this was was loved and now they’re dead and even though we both agree that at times you lack desire to know many or anyone on the face of this world for reasons that don’t trace back to an abused childhood or a struggling adolescence, you never knew them and now you never will and this is an undeniably nasty bite and why?
…
The next day, I took the same route, curious. There was a new pair, this time a He and She. They were strangers...I could tell. He rested a hand on her shoulder as She cried. As I floated through the stop sign, I heard her speak, “His smile just lit up the room.” I cringed, found myself wishing she had instead taken the road less trite…something like “He just wore the best shoes you ever saw, didn’t he?”
But in reality, I knew. Trite is life. What she said made it real. What else do you remember about people when they die early? It's the smile. Always the smile.
…
Tonight, I drove by the scene again, three days after I had first passed. Candles were still burning. I had hoped someone would be there, sitting on the curb, floating. Because for me, it’s the kind of thing I’d do on a Sunday…get out, ask. No one was. Someone had been recently. Recently, I don’t think they’ve stopped coming…and I don’t know what to think about that. My personal revelations are rare but then again, hardly.
…
Life is a view looking down from the top of a very, very tall building. It’s a building I selectively climb and selectively toe my feet to the leap. Since this process can be accomplished upon personal election, I hitch when trying to understand why such a thing would be refused. Often, it is...just never by me...
When the thin wind swirls my face and introduces me to pause, I ask myself how I got there but never why. Then, looking to my left, right, I see thousands...millions of faces until they blind and cease my worries and I remember the lovely view, looking out...even if all around, all the time, people are falling.
…
There’s a fruit man that sets up shop one block South and one block East of my Kings Road stomps. I often drive past his bags of Bing cherries, wondering both about his asking price and why I don’t stop on my way to work to pick one up. There are few greater pleasures in this world than spitting pits of Bing across Olympic for my usual 30 minute downtown joyride. Of course, these are the things of my useless daydreams. I often find him nestled between protruding roots of a tree that shades his grass top merchandise mart, asleep, maybe drunk. Quite recently though, as I floated past, it wasn’t Dr. Cherries that caught my attention…
On the opposite side of the street, there was something else. Entirely. Flowers, candles, grief. Two girls sat on the curb; carefree like the gum assuming anyone ever gave or gives a floating fuck about the 4 calories that come in each stick. These two girls…it was as if they were floating…or hopelessly trying to float away. Both their heads hung, one shielded by the wide brim of a Yankees hat. It took a moment, but when the moment came, I felt it for miles…days. They were in pain. Seeing these other kids, something twisted in my guts and nearly ripped me in. They looked up as I slowly passed through the stop sign. My mouth moved uncontrollably, formed the only word I could have imagined forming, “sorry.” Their heads fell as I passed through and all that came to mind…
Whoever this was was loved and now they’re dead and even though we both agree that at times you lack desire to know many or anyone on the face of this world for reasons that don’t trace back to an abused childhood or a struggling adolescence, you never knew them and now you never will and this is an undeniably nasty bite and why?
…
The next day, I took the same route, curious. There was a new pair, this time a He and She. They were strangers...I could tell. He rested a hand on her shoulder as She cried. As I floated through the stop sign, I heard her speak, “His smile just lit up the room.” I cringed, found myself wishing she had instead taken the road less trite…something like “He just wore the best shoes you ever saw, didn’t he?”
But in reality, I knew. Trite is life. What she said made it real. What else do you remember about people when they die early? It's the smile. Always the smile.
…
Tonight, I drove by the scene again, three days after I had first passed. Candles were still burning. I had hoped someone would be there, sitting on the curb, floating. Because for me, it’s the kind of thing I’d do on a Sunday…get out, ask. No one was. Someone had been recently. Recently, I don’t think they’ve stopped coming…and I don’t know what to think about that. My personal revelations are rare but then again, hardly.
…
Life is a view looking down from the top of a very, very tall building. It’s a building I selectively climb and selectively toe my feet to the leap. Since this process can be accomplished upon personal election, I hitch when trying to understand why such a thing would be refused. Often, it is...just never by me...
When the thin wind swirls my face and introduces me to pause, I ask myself how I got there but never why. Then, looking to my left, right, I see thousands...millions of faces until they blind and cease my worries and I remember the lovely view, looking out...even if all around, all the time, people are falling.
February 17, 2007
Butterscotch Aeroplanes, Rainbows...
I had initial trouble coping, coming back to the States.
Because it shudders me to think…the world I knew before I left and the world I know now. Like I was alone, lost in the middle of a lightless forest…convinced a ghost or angry variety gypsy monster was treading my steps. Like I could feel it gaining, 10 steps back…soon 8 to 6 to 4. I’d turn to face it, scream off the fear and yet nothing gave chase. I was alone and would be frozen forever, unable to move…so afraid to continue and face the possibility that it would return.
I would die uniquely, standing, unmoving…either tragically brilliant or brilliantly tragic. These things, as you might imagine…so difficult to discern.
…
I used to wake in the middle of the night in Camps Bay. There was a mirror at the head of the bed I slept. And half asleep, I would turn over and look into the mirror, see my reflection and run from it, screaming, awoken by a doubled heartbeat. It happened seven or eight times before I learned to sleep with a poster of dolphins over my head.
I never punched the mirror and looking back, what a waste of a richly oozing…and pricey…and bloody metaphor.
Though, I don’t think all of the parties sleeping in that bed would have found equal appreciation.
…
It’s not easy. The first night I’ve had with an open mind since returning, the only thought in my head is running the Houghton Steps until my legs shake. I think of easing into the arctic South African Atlantic, letting it seep inside until I’m comfortably erased...
And so I am.
Because it shudders me to think…the world I knew before I left and the world I know now. Like I was alone, lost in the middle of a lightless forest…convinced a ghost or angry variety gypsy monster was treading my steps. Like I could feel it gaining, 10 steps back…soon 8 to 6 to 4. I’d turn to face it, scream off the fear and yet nothing gave chase. I was alone and would be frozen forever, unable to move…so afraid to continue and face the possibility that it would return.
I would die uniquely, standing, unmoving…either tragically brilliant or brilliantly tragic. These things, as you might imagine…so difficult to discern.
…
I used to wake in the middle of the night in Camps Bay. There was a mirror at the head of the bed I slept. And half asleep, I would turn over and look into the mirror, see my reflection and run from it, screaming, awoken by a doubled heartbeat. It happened seven or eight times before I learned to sleep with a poster of dolphins over my head.
I never punched the mirror and looking back, what a waste of a richly oozing…and pricey…and bloody metaphor.
Though, I don’t think all of the parties sleeping in that bed would have found equal appreciation.
…
It’s not easy. The first night I’ve had with an open mind since returning, the only thought in my head is running the Houghton Steps until my legs shake. I think of easing into the arctic South African Atlantic, letting it seep inside until I’m comfortably erased...
And so I am.
December 22, 2006
Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zambezi...Niagara Is A Little Bitch and I'm an Idiot...
It felt like playing Edgebrook Saugenash in 9-year-old traveling baseball, driving with our cabbie from Victoria Falls airport to the border where Zimbabwe ended and Zambia began. The first taxi, in hindsight, was a godsend with likely 600,000 kilometers already in the can. Thinking back…at least it was a comfort to see that everyone in the customs line – Americans (us), Canadians, Aussies, South Africans – all had a stash of American dollars. It was the most accepted currency in this country of economic shambles (political too…if I were to speak or publish either one of the previous statements, I would be thrown in jail). Quickly, my mind shifted…there was nothing welcoming about seeing American dollars. More to the point, there was nothing welcoming about anything in Zimbabwe aside from the baboons, vervet monkeys and warthog families roaming the roads…which at that point was anything but a comfort. My Navigator and I buried cameras as we passed a “police checkpoint” (taking photos of any government activity is also reason to be jailed…only to be later freed after negotiating a sweet bribe). Countries of the world, hear this…Zimbabwe is an absolute pillar society. Did I mention getting hit with a 36-dollar check for 2 Fantas and fries at an airport restaurant? You could buy a car for 50 and I’m not even sure if that’s an exaggeration.
We negotiated a cab from the airport to the border of Zimbabwe for 30 (taken). From there, we crossed the border, hopped a cab through no man’s land for 5, passed over the Zambezi bridge -- home to the world’s 2nd highest bungee jump...
And began to work our way through Zambian immigration while 2 steaming cabbies fought over the fare to our final destination. When we came out, the bare footed and ultimately defeated of the two cabbies was screaming…
“Pirate! Pirate! Look at the car, he painted it blue. He’s a pirate! He’s robbing my fare!”
Though he had a point – it was obvious that our driver had thrown buckets of blue paint over his car and let gravity do its duty (blue is the color of the “official” taxis) – our bags were already in the “trunk.” We pulled away, chased by screams as the winning driver attempted to settle our minds…
“Your first time in Africa and this is what you see. This is your impression, the impressions you take back. He’s drunk, look at him. That man’s not even wearing any shoes!”
I assured him that first impressions really weren’t that important, that I already knew of Africa’s beauty when my Navigator began motioning to the empty bottle of Castle sitting on top of the parking break. I offered all I could…
“At least he’s wearing shoes.”
…
Zambia is a country of beautiful, kind people…all the way through. I also think it would be irresponsible to not defend the people of Zimbabwe – a land run by an “infantile guerilla” who fixes exchange rates and sinks the country into frequent tailspins. Maybe someday soon, he’ll be gone and a national identity will have the opportunity to reveal itself.
...
The Zambezi is mighty. Anyone that tells you different is either blind or special. It has this little generator behind it that goes by the name of Victoria Falls – a vision I took in with a setting sun, as the perpetual mist surrounding this wonder made for a rainbow so flawless I wanted to sob all over myself and nearly did.
But as mighty as the sight itself was, I couldn’t know what it was capable of until I rode it.
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We took rafts out on the 3rd day – two days after my Navigator suffered from a flash illness, one day after I rode a horse named Wheaty through Zambian farming villages – and it was on the 3rd day that I have never felt closer to death in my life. We rode 10 rapids with a native, deadlocked guide named Simba. The first three were a wild trip. On the fourth, I remember paddling into a swell, already out of breath when I found myself under water – trapped in swirling black without any hope of a sense of direction.
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Our raft had tipped and I was gulping water for air. The brain has a breaking point beyond calm where the body – in what felt like an involuntary reaction – thrashes for its own survival. I felt it for what felt like an eternity before I came up, tried to drink down every last drop of air in Africa. I remember gasping, satisfied for a partial second before gulping more of the Zambezi, going under again, getting trapped under the boat when suddenly, the water was calm and I was trying to figure if and when I had blacked out.
And the worst was yet to come...
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They call it Gulliver’s Travels, rapid #7 (which would be closed the next day after an upgrade to 6 – impassable). The longest and roughest, our raft was turned by the halfway point. Any sooner and we would have been in serious, serious trouble. I had learned my lesson from the previous encounter, got it far worse than anyone else and kept my mouth shut aside from one line of advice to suck deep wind before hitting the nasty stuff. Though, it’s one of those things you can’t know until you know. This time, everyone tasted the same nightmare. When I finally came up for air, we were nowhere near calm waters. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw as the burly Scotsman that was paddling right middle hit and caromed off a boulder in the center of Gulliver’s most daunting stretch. The water spun me around as I spotted the emergence of my Navigator, trailing 20 meters and nearing a rocky coast that would ultimately prove scarring. I tried to swim, but the current pulled us apart and all I could do - hope for a universal smooth fate, heads above water.
Eventually, our vests brought us up. Eventually, the 7 of us were back into a raft void of trust…broken down, ailing, afraid. On that day, the Zambezi had drowned my body, my strength of mind. The final rapid could not have been more welcomed. My Navigator and I got back, kicked back in the sun and launched ourselves into a reflective and aggressive poolside mid-day drunk with Mosi and Red by our side…with a new appreciation for air and serenity.
…
I didn’t sleep much the last night. It had nothing to do with the heat or the mosquito nets on the bed – I had grown accustomed. It wasn’t even the Temple of Doom millipedes I had earlier seen, worried would be a feast for the Lariam still lurking in my head. At 9 that morning, I had an appointment to jump off the Zambezi Gorge Bridge, the 2nd highest bungee jump in the world---
Yeah, I know, same person haunted by vertigo. Same person sent a check for 10,000 to appear on a TV show (never aired) exploiting my fear of heights (arrogance, charm, beauty…among other things). If there’s something I am or have been trying to learn in the most recent stretches of my life – fears are gifted…and what a tragedy it would be, coasting through life never facing them.
That morning, I didn’t eat, forgot to drink any water. Actually, I felt sick and a little hungover – but this was to be expected. After all, nerves can be powerful little beings.
Strapped and prepped in a blur, I toed the platform drenched in a panic sweat, trembling uncontrollably, adrenaline driving every inch of my body. The numbers 01 had been scratched in large green marker on my right forearm. The spotter, Danny, must have read it in my eyes. He spoke fast…
“Okay, okay…eyes on the horizon. Eyes on the horizon. First jump of the day, okay, you got it. I need you to do something for me, for all of us, for these people behind you. I need you to wake up the Zambezi, show her your pride. Yell, let that shit out.”
I screamed beyond capacity, so fueled and outside myself, it damaged my throat.
“Again!”
I did. And if you were listening closely from any part of the world in that moment, I’m convinced you could have heard me. From there, I dove off, came around to face a jagged ground below that would otherwise been eager to deal end life. And it was in this strangest of places that I found silence and a snapshot of a moment in suspension – as peaceful as anything I’ve ever seen and as afraid as I’ve ever been. Beautiful.
I spent the last day in transit, suffering from what I was worried to be the initial stages of a Yellow Fever tempted from an earlier post. Though, I’m pretty sure it was just dehydration…maybe exhaustion…maybe one of the thousand Zambezi parasites I had inadvertently swallowed while fighting for life.
...
It’s 10 in the morning, my last morning in Camps Bay and I'm still feeling remnants of sickness in my body. Today, I leave for Heathrow...tomorrow, Chicago. After trying to replicate small percentages of the comforts of home in 15 countries and countless more cities over the past 4 months, I’m finally going back to the home that grew me up.
I can’t explain exactly what I was after when I left…maybe because I don’t want to or because understanding would be a gift too generous. All I can say…
May every day break me, every turn blind me, never a moment escape me.
…
Oh, and fuck the world…it’s mine.
December 17, 2006
November 02, 2006
Santorini...
It was my first night in from Athens, fresh off a 7 hour ferry ride, that I found myself alone on the back side of this volcanic Greek island. From the port, they drove me to a quaint and quiet place called Villa Holiday Beach. I was given a private room, steppings from beaches of black sand and was told to pay upon check out - 15 Euros per day...distant cries from the 150 they fetch in swarms of peak season. I locked the door, dropped my stuff in the middle of the room and collapsed into the comfort of MY own bed in MY own room...luxuries I've long forgotten.
It wasn't until 7:30 that I woke from a 2 hour drift. Outside, night had come, and with it, the fury of an island storm. The streets were empty as Earth's ceiling strobed incessant warnings that lit surrounding mountains, the marshmallow and rushing sky. Nothing was open. No cars, few lights. The Perissa side of this island was a ghost town, I was convinced. Quickly, the streets became lonely and daunting, especially as the thunder began to tumble with such a power, I could feel it creeping through the pads in my feet. Drizzle quickly turned to a pour and I found myself wondering why I had drifted so far from the hotel when I knew - absolutely knew - this was going to happen.
My hair was soaked, my shoes, pants to my shins, torso. Drops of water formed on my brow, dripped as I would blink through gazings down the long, dark and empty road ahead. I was completely alone, a moment powerfully realized as the might of the storm showed no signs of letting up. It was growing, and with a continual balling fury. With nothing left on my body to salvage, I began to urge her on...sent my triple dog dare through the telepathic satellites of our universe. As she raged, my steps slowed to a crawl. I raised my hand high into the air, fist so clenched my knuckles ran past white to transparent...as if the whole of my hand no longer existed. And in the blackness of the streets and the blackness in moments of the soul, I begged for the storm to show me her might. I wanted to feel her charge through me. With every flash of momentary hope turned to denial, I shuddered deep - a shivering in the bones - with certainty that something, somewhere heard my every thought...an arrogant dare that wouldn't soon be forgotten. I lowered my outstretched hand, picked up a quicker step...jogged home to the first of three nights, shrouded in nightmare.
...
By every form and turn of the imagination, Greece is exquisite. And even on its most faulty days, Santorini is a postcard. This country is a perfect end to the beginning of a long journey. I left Athens after 2 days under the Acropolis to hop islands. In two hours, I leave port to return...mostly to tie up the one loose end I have left. News of note : I've decided to back out of the originally planned, "Run the Same Solitary 26.2 Miles We Now Call A Marathon Run By Some Ancient Greek That Died From the Very Mentioned Happening." Instead, being the Baron of Good Destiny / Dipshit Asshole that I am - there so happens to be an official Athens marathon this Sunday, the 5th. It's the day before I leave for Cape Town.
Though I've encountered some resistance in trying to register past said date, "Registration closed, no more applicants to be received," I can assure you that in one form or another, those 26.2 miles will be graced by these two feet on this particular Sunday. I'm going to run it officially, with a number on my chest. Life, I've found, doesn't enjoy being crude in cases where it need not be.
But if for some reason it...or the organizing members of the Athens Classic Marathon choose to be, then you better count on at least 1 renegade runner blazing a trail, ass on fire...riding off (running) into his last sunset (mid-day glow) of Europe.
It wasn't until 7:30 that I woke from a 2 hour drift. Outside, night had come, and with it, the fury of an island storm. The streets were empty as Earth's ceiling strobed incessant warnings that lit surrounding mountains, the marshmallow and rushing sky. Nothing was open. No cars, few lights. The Perissa side of this island was a ghost town, I was convinced. Quickly, the streets became lonely and daunting, especially as the thunder began to tumble with such a power, I could feel it creeping through the pads in my feet. Drizzle quickly turned to a pour and I found myself wondering why I had drifted so far from the hotel when I knew - absolutely knew - this was going to happen.
My hair was soaked, my shoes, pants to my shins, torso. Drops of water formed on my brow, dripped as I would blink through gazings down the long, dark and empty road ahead. I was completely alone, a moment powerfully realized as the might of the storm showed no signs of letting up. It was growing, and with a continual balling fury. With nothing left on my body to salvage, I began to urge her on...sent my triple dog dare through the telepathic satellites of our universe. As she raged, my steps slowed to a crawl. I raised my hand high into the air, fist so clenched my knuckles ran past white to transparent...as if the whole of my hand no longer existed. And in the blackness of the streets and the blackness in moments of the soul, I begged for the storm to show me her might. I wanted to feel her charge through me. With every flash of momentary hope turned to denial, I shuddered deep - a shivering in the bones - with certainty that something, somewhere heard my every thought...an arrogant dare that wouldn't soon be forgotten. I lowered my outstretched hand, picked up a quicker step...jogged home to the first of three nights, shrouded in nightmare.
...
By every form and turn of the imagination, Greece is exquisite. And even on its most faulty days, Santorini is a postcard. This country is a perfect end to the beginning of a long journey. I left Athens after 2 days under the Acropolis to hop islands. In two hours, I leave port to return...mostly to tie up the one loose end I have left. News of note : I've decided to back out of the originally planned, "Run the Same Solitary 26.2 Miles We Now Call A Marathon Run By Some Ancient Greek That Died From the Very Mentioned Happening." Instead, being the Baron of Good Destiny / Dipshit Asshole that I am - there so happens to be an official Athens marathon this Sunday, the 5th. It's the day before I leave for Cape Town.
Though I've encountered some resistance in trying to register past said date, "Registration closed, no more applicants to be received," I can assure you that in one form or another, those 26.2 miles will be graced by these two feet on this particular Sunday. I'm going to run it officially, with a number on my chest. Life, I've found, doesn't enjoy being crude in cases where it need not be.
But if for some reason it...or the organizing members of the Athens Classic Marathon choose to be, then you better count on at least 1 renegade runner blazing a trail, ass on fire...riding off (running) into his last sunset (mid-day glow) of Europe.
October 28, 2006
Pompeii...
Soundtrack of the afternoon: Guero
Theme: "Missing"
Scene: Pompeii, the city leveled by Vesuvius back in...way back when. Why Beck? He's whimsical, playfully genius and musically profound...like square dancing to Mozart.
Walking the streets through resurrection, I envisioned storms of blinding ash drifting sans warning. I envisioned roaring waves of magma swallowing (quite unlikely and likely impossible, imagined nonetheless) every brick. And I could see the people. They weren't running or afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. They were soaked in laughter...as if playing a children's game. I dubbed it - Run From Magic Melt You to Your Bones, Orangewater - though in hindsight, a name that would likley fail in finding traction. Morbid, I realize...simply found the moment too sweet to let go. But I've seen it before, should have known then as I've witnessed forever. All happy and fun games must come to an end.
I was halfway through the appropriate "Farewell Ride," exploring salvaged pots that spoke loud and clear - clearly the Pompeiians (?) scored high marks in dept. Arts & Crafts. They were stacked shelves upon shelves. Pots...vases...sculpterous endeavors that resembled cowering, deathly afraid people - people ready and accepting of their coming death...encased in, lava ---
The needle jumped, the soundtrack stopped. I saw their faces...this was no game.
...
The bus dropped me off at the base of Vesuvius. As I began to climb, I could feel but chose to ignore a fear that was tracing my steps. After a brisk and steep 30 minutes, I turned to my left, looked down into the face of this once mighty and merciless, now dormant crater. It was so vast and I was so high up, the first thing my body came up with...vertigo.
It came hard, fast. I quickly knelt, dusted my right across the gravel and dirt path as a means for correction. When I stood, the world was steady. My mind, though - elsewhere. There must be things in existence certain people find impossible to grapple. Maybe I had found one of mine. This terror, once capable of a wrath and rage so violent...beautiful, stunning. Contradiction like I've never seen. And in its days of glory? The things I'd give to see it spit, just once...to see the faces of the ancient and God fearing Romans...
Dude, the fuck did we do?
Theme: "Missing"
Scene: Pompeii, the city leveled by Vesuvius back in...way back when. Why Beck? He's whimsical, playfully genius and musically profound...like square dancing to Mozart.
Walking the streets through resurrection, I envisioned storms of blinding ash drifting sans warning. I envisioned roaring waves of magma swallowing (quite unlikely and likely impossible, imagined nonetheless) every brick. And I could see the people. They weren't running or afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. They were soaked in laughter...as if playing a children's game. I dubbed it - Run From Magic Melt You to Your Bones, Orangewater - though in hindsight, a name that would likley fail in finding traction. Morbid, I realize...simply found the moment too sweet to let go. But I've seen it before, should have known then as I've witnessed forever. All happy and fun games must come to an end.
I was halfway through the appropriate "Farewell Ride," exploring salvaged pots that spoke loud and clear - clearly the Pompeiians (?) scored high marks in dept. Arts & Crafts. They were stacked shelves upon shelves. Pots...vases...sculpterous endeavors that resembled cowering, deathly afraid people - people ready and accepting of their coming death...encased in, lava ---
The needle jumped, the soundtrack stopped. I saw their faces...this was no game.
...
The bus dropped me off at the base of Vesuvius. As I began to climb, I could feel but chose to ignore a fear that was tracing my steps. After a brisk and steep 30 minutes, I turned to my left, looked down into the face of this once mighty and merciless, now dormant crater. It was so vast and I was so high up, the first thing my body came up with...vertigo.
It came hard, fast. I quickly knelt, dusted my right across the gravel and dirt path as a means for correction. When I stood, the world was steady. My mind, though - elsewhere. There must be things in existence certain people find impossible to grapple. Maybe I had found one of mine. This terror, once capable of a wrath and rage so violent...beautiful, stunning. Contradiction like I've never seen. And in its days of glory? The things I'd give to see it spit, just once...to see the faces of the ancient and God fearing Romans...
Dude, the fuck did we do?
October 01, 2006
Brussels...
I must have fallen asleep without knowing it, knowing better than to fall asleep in the corridor of a 24 hour parking garage at 2:45 in the morning...but I did, nonetheless.
He was about a body's length away, swishing his shoes against the ground as he walked...a man I instantly and subconsciously named, Holy Shit. I leapt to my feet, drowsy, trying to figure from which side the shank strike would come. It didn't. Instead, he pulled a cigarette, lit it with shaking hands.
"Fucking cold out there, man."
Yeah, it certainly was. And not just cold, but angry. Every room save the 500 Euro suites at the Meridian were full. In most cities, the major train stations are open all night. I've found, as I did in Munich, that though they have some glaring holes in terms of accommodative quality, they more than suffice as a means to burn off hours waiting to jump ship to a new city.
Well, in Brussels...they close. And in Brussels, I found myself wandering, trying to find remotely safe places to read or write through the early hours of a new day...
Which delivers us to the point from which we began. I quickly discovered the impossibility of reading through an entire night on determination alone. It takes fear...and a compilation of such I would soon meet. I pulled a dip on Holy Shit, still reeling, and emerged from the parking garage into the face of a fight. Usually, I would stay and watch...pick the underdog and secretly root. But this was too much. After all, I had had no time for collection. It was delirium...then a flurry of blows, one after another.
My eyes shot through the scene, tried to settle mind on the next move when I noticed lights on top of their cars. Cabbies, crazed cabbies. They weren't drunk or drugged...at least that much credit I'll partially give. Finally, a moment of ease. Their confrontation faded after a punchless tussle over the cons of interplanetary warfare(likely, do I speak like I speak Belkriesch?). Soon after, Holy Shit emerged from my nest. I watched as he walked into a nearby park, took a piss and continued his pilgrimage(again, likely). I walked back into the tunnel, took a cold seat on the tiled ground and read and spilled ink for the next four hours.
...
The next day...or later that day, depending on your consideration, I found hell on Earth. Charleroi Airport. They call it Brussels south, which would be like calling yourself 100 pounds when you actually tip scale at 145...as if you could somehow justify that as a round down.
Thinking I could get an earlier flight out of town, I showed up 12 hours early...and would end up sitting there for 12 hours as the cattle calls of cheap flight fliers stormed through the terminal. Sometimes, for half hours at a time, I would drop head on my backpack and fall asleep. When I would wake up with knowing and glaring impressions across my face, I would stare at stare-ers with eyes, "What? I was born with this you inconside...find a mirror, YOU made THAT." I was steamed. It didn't matter that the airport music was pulled from the John Hughes' greatest hits soundtrack...however the fuck that came to be. I'd had enough of Belgium, this sweet country and experience I knowingly elected to turn on its head...again. Yes, the re-appearing themes here are glaring.
When the ticket agent stepped to the podium, the masses erupted. If ever you want to create lawlessness, simply don't assign seats to passengers. It was a perfect portrait of this place...Hell on Earth, yet on this day, it didn't even begin to scratch surface.
I gave in, stepped up. And in that unexpected moment where I joined the ranks of anarchy, I was saved. Saved by Sinead O'Connor...
"It's been so lonely without you here. Since you took your love away. Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah..."
I closed my eyes and imagined, against the dark backdrop of her video...singing with Sinead. Nothing compares to me, Sinead? I know this. She would sing to me and I her. We would share notes and she would, at first, think it adorable...my insistence to play with her bald head. Midway through the second verse, she would grow angry and storm off the set. I would be left there with no Sinead...the lights shining down...the cameras still rolling...the-
I opened my eyes. Window seat. One of the last ones on the plane. Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff...
Time to move me the fuck on.
He was about a body's length away, swishing his shoes against the ground as he walked...a man I instantly and subconsciously named, Holy Shit. I leapt to my feet, drowsy, trying to figure from which side the shank strike would come. It didn't. Instead, he pulled a cigarette, lit it with shaking hands.
"Fucking cold out there, man."
Yeah, it certainly was. And not just cold, but angry. Every room save the 500 Euro suites at the Meridian were full. In most cities, the major train stations are open all night. I've found, as I did in Munich, that though they have some glaring holes in terms of accommodative quality, they more than suffice as a means to burn off hours waiting to jump ship to a new city.
Well, in Brussels...they close. And in Brussels, I found myself wandering, trying to find remotely safe places to read or write through the early hours of a new day...
Which delivers us to the point from which we began. I quickly discovered the impossibility of reading through an entire night on determination alone. It takes fear...and a compilation of such I would soon meet. I pulled a dip on Holy Shit, still reeling, and emerged from the parking garage into the face of a fight. Usually, I would stay and watch...pick the underdog and secretly root. But this was too much. After all, I had had no time for collection. It was delirium...then a flurry of blows, one after another.
My eyes shot through the scene, tried to settle mind on the next move when I noticed lights on top of their cars. Cabbies, crazed cabbies. They weren't drunk or drugged...at least that much credit I'll partially give. Finally, a moment of ease. Their confrontation faded after a punchless tussle over the cons of interplanetary warfare(likely, do I speak like I speak Belkriesch?). Soon after, Holy Shit emerged from my nest. I watched as he walked into a nearby park, took a piss and continued his pilgrimage(again, likely). I walked back into the tunnel, took a cold seat on the tiled ground and read and spilled ink for the next four hours.
...
The next day...or later that day, depending on your consideration, I found hell on Earth. Charleroi Airport. They call it Brussels south, which would be like calling yourself 100 pounds when you actually tip scale at 145...as if you could somehow justify that as a round down.
Thinking I could get an earlier flight out of town, I showed up 12 hours early...and would end up sitting there for 12 hours as the cattle calls of cheap flight fliers stormed through the terminal. Sometimes, for half hours at a time, I would drop head on my backpack and fall asleep. When I would wake up with knowing and glaring impressions across my face, I would stare at stare-ers with eyes, "What? I was born with this you inconside...find a mirror, YOU made THAT." I was steamed. It didn't matter that the airport music was pulled from the John Hughes' greatest hits soundtrack...however the fuck that came to be. I'd had enough of Belgium, this sweet country and experience I knowingly elected to turn on its head...again. Yes, the re-appearing themes here are glaring.
When the ticket agent stepped to the podium, the masses erupted. If ever you want to create lawlessness, simply don't assign seats to passengers. It was a perfect portrait of this place...Hell on Earth, yet on this day, it didn't even begin to scratch surface.
I gave in, stepped up. And in that unexpected moment where I joined the ranks of anarchy, I was saved. Saved by Sinead O'Connor...
"It's been so lonely without you here. Since you took your love away. Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah..."
I closed my eyes and imagined, against the dark backdrop of her video...singing with Sinead. Nothing compares to me, Sinead? I know this. She would sing to me and I her. We would share notes and she would, at first, think it adorable...my insistence to play with her bald head. Midway through the second verse, she would grow angry and storm off the set. I would be left there with no Sinead...the lights shining down...the cameras still rolling...the-
I opened my eyes. Window seat. One of the last ones on the plane. Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff...
Time to move me the fuck on.
June 13, 2006
So Felix Died...
I never woke to sirens. There wasn’t an emergency call in the middle of the night. Paramedics never stormed our shared stairs. Instead, he slipped away in the same fashion he lived…tucked in the quiet corners of Cedars-Sinai, buried under the forgetting covers of a forgetting hospital bed. I imagine.
Yes, I’m guilty of stretching slivers of fact into epic dramatic rants. When I spoke of Felix in the past, though, know every word ran authentic. This man was a walking corpse.
So it didn’t surprise me when the apartment manager spoke the news. Truth, I took it in stride…at least to a certain extent.
By now, you better fucking know I’m not heartless…
Stay on Felix.
He was alone. All and completely. He died, and that was it. The manager accepted the responsibility of cremation. And inside his door, mere feet from where I’m sitting, remains proof of a man who borrowed time on this little blue pearl called Earth.
Word on the corner of Holloway/Hancock (me, the manager, his quasi wife) has determined that there will be no family coming to rummage through clutter or to scatter his memories. There will be no friends to issue lasting tributes or to give closure.
He just, died. I’m finding it difficult, wrapping mind around someone leaving without so much as a whisper. So for Felix’ sake, for our sake, we’ll do what I always do…
Slip into the magical land of Truth and Reality Very Optional. For you, I’ll also pretend this place is not my permastomps.
…
I’m at the podium, standing tall above the thousands of joyous eyes here to celebrate the man, the legend…Felix. The cliffs in Malibu overlooking the Pacific seem appropriate for a soul who lived and died through our world’s great natural treasures. This is sentiment I dish to break ice as the sun bends itself around golden clouds.
Felix was a good man. I was fresh in the city of angels with boxes yet unpacked when we first met. I remember my initial impression quite vividly. It went something like…so you’re not a 19-year-old Georgia transplant beauty queen concurrently suffering from a deep sweetness of the heart and a middle of the night no strings attached nymph rage complex?
We got along as well as neighbors do. Every month or so, we would exchange words and smiles. The infrequency fit the mold of our city. We’d often swap meteorological observations or discuss Los Angeles’ glaring lack of a respectable mass transit system. As time went on, his features began to deteriorate…
Though his smile, of the pre-blinding white teeth craze era, never did.
…
If you’ve been following, Felix was a big Sunday LA Times buff. The only problem was that he wouldn’t actually read it until the news had grown stale. It would sit outside his door until Thursday…Friday…Saturday.
I imagine in his times of health and youth, he consumed every word…burdened by the impatience of living in a world constantly spinning. But I imagine he read it on time. On Sunday.
Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, it’s a little sad…life as a newspaper.
…
Happy travels, Felix…
I’m stealing your paper.
Yes, I’m guilty of stretching slivers of fact into epic dramatic rants. When I spoke of Felix in the past, though, know every word ran authentic. This man was a walking corpse.
So it didn’t surprise me when the apartment manager spoke the news. Truth, I took it in stride…at least to a certain extent.
By now, you better fucking know I’m not heartless…
Stay on Felix.
He was alone. All and completely. He died, and that was it. The manager accepted the responsibility of cremation. And inside his door, mere feet from where I’m sitting, remains proof of a man who borrowed time on this little blue pearl called Earth.
Word on the corner of Holloway/Hancock (me, the manager, his quasi wife) has determined that there will be no family coming to rummage through clutter or to scatter his memories. There will be no friends to issue lasting tributes or to give closure.
He just, died. I’m finding it difficult, wrapping mind around someone leaving without so much as a whisper. So for Felix’ sake, for our sake, we’ll do what I always do…
Slip into the magical land of Truth and Reality Very Optional. For you, I’ll also pretend this place is not my permastomps.
…
I’m at the podium, standing tall above the thousands of joyous eyes here to celebrate the man, the legend…Felix. The cliffs in Malibu overlooking the Pacific seem appropriate for a soul who lived and died through our world’s great natural treasures. This is sentiment I dish to break ice as the sun bends itself around golden clouds.
Felix was a good man. I was fresh in the city of angels with boxes yet unpacked when we first met. I remember my initial impression quite vividly. It went something like…so you’re not a 19-year-old Georgia transplant beauty queen concurrently suffering from a deep sweetness of the heart and a middle of the night no strings attached nymph rage complex?
We got along as well as neighbors do. Every month or so, we would exchange words and smiles. The infrequency fit the mold of our city. We’d often swap meteorological observations or discuss Los Angeles’ glaring lack of a respectable mass transit system. As time went on, his features began to deteriorate…
Though his smile, of the pre-blinding white teeth craze era, never did.
…
If you’ve been following, Felix was a big Sunday LA Times buff. The only problem was that he wouldn’t actually read it until the news had grown stale. It would sit outside his door until Thursday…Friday…Saturday.
I imagine in his times of health and youth, he consumed every word…burdened by the impatience of living in a world constantly spinning. But I imagine he read it on time. On Sunday.
Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, it’s a little sad…life as a newspaper.
…
Happy travels, Felix…
I’m stealing your paper.
May 02, 2006
Mr. Next Door...
I come home on a Sunday night, a Monday afternoon, Tuesday evening to find that the Sunday paper still sits on my doorstep. This building is divided into 16 apartments. After living here for nearly two years, I know the names of 5 tenants. For those of you scoring at home, that’s a conversion percentage just over 30. Sad, either the state of my being or the state of this world.
I share stairs with an older gentleman. These stairs divide our two apartments…A and B. Estimation leads me to believe he tips the scale at 80 and 60. Years and pounds, respectively. Let’s call him…Felix. Felix has somehow convinced the L.A. Times route runners to hit our shared Holloway nook once a week. Sunday. I fail to see how this could be profitable on any level for the Times. Maybe for Felix, in his piteous state, this is a courtesy they happily extend.
Doubt it? Yeah, you and me both. Roll with it.
Sometimes, he’ll go out of town (slip into a pre-determined, self-medicated coma) and kindly slide a note under my door. “Out of town. Paper is yours if you want it. Enjoy.” It’s a nice gesture, one that involuntarily tucks itself into the back of my mind.
It’s the foolish things I never forget.
Other days, he’ll knock. This is rare. I always know it’s him from the distinctive lack of trauma he exerts upon my wooden door. The last instance, he shamefully asked if I would do him the great favor of getting his mail. When I opened the box, it was stuffed so tight a crowbar was nearly appropriate. He hadn’t walked the fifteen steps of our courtyard for weeks. I came to his door with my arms full and he spilled it. He hadn’t had the strength or faith to make it without collapsing…
I told him I’m always right next door…that I’m always a knock away if he needed anything. Anything. And…I think I was even sincere.
The next week, I found him sitting on the ground, halfway between his door and mailbox. He was spent. In a mess of sucking air and spitting words, he managed to share the uplifting news that he had fired his doctor and was feeling much better. Of course, any up-lift I had experienced instantly deflated when the visuals came rushing in. Looking down on him in that moment, I realized this was a man I could literally lift above my head and snap in two. It’s not possible for me to imagine a walking man in worse shape than this one.
Felix has been ill. Quite. When I first moved in, he carted an oxygen tank everywhere he went. Its old wheels would scream pitches to rupture eardrums as they hit revolution danger zones. I’m sure it bothered some of the tenants. Not this one. It afforded me prep time, albeit brief, for our impending conversations.
When you speak to a man that can barley take in enough sustainable oxygen to survive, KNOW immediately that you are destined to Shepard that and every conversation the two of you will ever have. I’m good with words, but speak to a dying man greater than 50 years your elder and also KNOW, take every drop of help you can get.
…
It’s Monday, eight minutes before midnight and that paper is still sitting outside his door. This tune is hardly fresh. Actually, it plays quite often around these parts. I sit here in my darkened apartment and let the melody fill my mind.
I think about the frailty of his life, the invincibility of mine and determine that reality falls somewhere between.
I look at the white wall separating my world from his and I wonder. What will the song sound like when I remember, long after Felix is gone, that his Sunday paper is actually being read on a Sunday?
I bet I’ll laugh. No, I’m sure of it.
I share stairs with an older gentleman. These stairs divide our two apartments…A and B. Estimation leads me to believe he tips the scale at 80 and 60. Years and pounds, respectively. Let’s call him…Felix. Felix has somehow convinced the L.A. Times route runners to hit our shared Holloway nook once a week. Sunday. I fail to see how this could be profitable on any level for the Times. Maybe for Felix, in his piteous state, this is a courtesy they happily extend.
Doubt it? Yeah, you and me both. Roll with it.
Sometimes, he’ll go out of town (slip into a pre-determined, self-medicated coma) and kindly slide a note under my door. “Out of town. Paper is yours if you want it. Enjoy.” It’s a nice gesture, one that involuntarily tucks itself into the back of my mind.
It’s the foolish things I never forget.
Other days, he’ll knock. This is rare. I always know it’s him from the distinctive lack of trauma he exerts upon my wooden door. The last instance, he shamefully asked if I would do him the great favor of getting his mail. When I opened the box, it was stuffed so tight a crowbar was nearly appropriate. He hadn’t walked the fifteen steps of our courtyard for weeks. I came to his door with my arms full and he spilled it. He hadn’t had the strength or faith to make it without collapsing…
I told him I’m always right next door…that I’m always a knock away if he needed anything. Anything. And…I think I was even sincere.
The next week, I found him sitting on the ground, halfway between his door and mailbox. He was spent. In a mess of sucking air and spitting words, he managed to share the uplifting news that he had fired his doctor and was feeling much better. Of course, any up-lift I had experienced instantly deflated when the visuals came rushing in. Looking down on him in that moment, I realized this was a man I could literally lift above my head and snap in two. It’s not possible for me to imagine a walking man in worse shape than this one.
Felix has been ill. Quite. When I first moved in, he carted an oxygen tank everywhere he went. Its old wheels would scream pitches to rupture eardrums as they hit revolution danger zones. I’m sure it bothered some of the tenants. Not this one. It afforded me prep time, albeit brief, for our impending conversations.
When you speak to a man that can barley take in enough sustainable oxygen to survive, KNOW immediately that you are destined to Shepard that and every conversation the two of you will ever have. I’m good with words, but speak to a dying man greater than 50 years your elder and also KNOW, take every drop of help you can get.
…
It’s Monday, eight minutes before midnight and that paper is still sitting outside his door. This tune is hardly fresh. Actually, it plays quite often around these parts. I sit here in my darkened apartment and let the melody fill my mind.
I think about the frailty of his life, the invincibility of mine and determine that reality falls somewhere between.
I look at the white wall separating my world from his and I wonder. What will the song sound like when I remember, long after Felix is gone, that his Sunday paper is actually being read on a Sunday?
I bet I’ll laugh. No, I’m sure of it.
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