Sunday, November 29, 2009
storm windows
a row of fractured and frustrating events leads me here.
dim-eyed, destroyed, and designed for disposal.
dinosaur dance on dining room table.
don't taze me.
hopefully im on the cusp of something great.
or at the very lowest least, something pretty good.
specifics run dry at times of emotional tire swings.
2 hot blond girls approached me last night, and i recognized neither.
the first said "trevor linden."
the 2nd said "you sang to me."
wicked band practice tonight.
a chance to sweat off my shames.
and construct complicated castles, then completely collapse them.
when i got home, my friend TV had some nice surprises in store.
adaptation into good will hunting on bravo.
2 of the best scripts in my lifetime.
yes, with commercials, but as i treat them, piss breaks.
a great movie is very much like a great album.
used in both celebration ceremonies and storm window assassinations.
background in times of breakdown, baked instead of burned.
here's me, overseas.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
if that's not my ceiling
then where did i sleep?
happiness is a dose drug.
controlled by the amount of prescriptions we forge for ourselves.
every morning i take a double dose of coffee and corn flakes.
it keeps me right, regular, and soaked in spectacular.
so, where do we go after the first song?
is the album any good? is the lead singer hot?
have you seen the blond chick with the tool shirt smoking pot?
growing is a progress word.
i go nuts when my speakers work.
cause normally they sing, instead of smirk.
falling off is easily blocked at scoffs hockey shop.
just ask cam, or my backup equipment sack.
they will both answer the same:
everything is great and all is amazing.
lets get real for a moment: my boss is picking me up at 8am at broadway station, for some crazy advertising party that i know nothing about, all they told me is that i cant bring my car, so im wearing my green freckled sweater vest, and apparently everyone turns into dinosaurs after the show.
ill make it, cause of book words and treasure trolls.
giving up is going down is getting old.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
fixed frequencies
the bouncer let me cross the dance floor to tell marty that i'd been kicked out, before kicking me out. to the best of my memory, i had done nothing wrong, like no spills, falls, or flips. but i had arrived hours earlier in a lavish party bus, and had been trying out a few new dance moves, so that pretty much explains it. anyway, while the bouncer was red-carpeting me out of there i said "i feel sorry for your girlfriend."
"i dont have a girlfriend."
"exactly."
not that i tamed any anistons myself, but it felt great to fight the power.
luckily he didnt smack me, and marty grabbed my john prine hoody from coat check.
the duke woke up with a black eye, and i woke up on a been bag in my brothers living room.
neither of us know how/when/why.
another sunday out of sight.
special cooking is required to engage the recovery process.
and nothing caps a hangover like KD with 14 other secret ingredients.
i call it 15.
"we're havin' 15 for dinner tonight, sweetheart."
lucky her.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
who is up and where is now?
i took it real easy tonight.
a few glasses of sharp yet affordable red.
godda stay calm, its my brothers birthday party tomorrow, ft. party bus.
my brother,
coolest guy at the party.
he is everything that i think my dad thinks my mom thinks she wanted with a 2nd son.
since their first son couldnt carry all the corn back to the stable, and thus, the party bus.
i know other good steves also.
my friend steve wrote that post, exactly 3 years ago, to the day.
i still quote it on a regular basis.
theo misses steve's regular writings too.
you can move far away from cities, and escape far away from realities, but your best friends will always track you down, with their fancy cars and able legs, no matter how far away you go.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
caulk the wagon, and float it
id love to get my hands on an old mac computer with oregon trail and transilvania, and cross country canada. id set it up in the corner with my stacks of cassette tapes and elementary school speech certificates. and always wear baggy jeans and dickies branders shirts from trick.
i caulked the wagon and floated,
with a patch on my eye, and a gut that is bloated,
i like my gold caramel coated,
and when my cannon fires, your boat gets exploded.
imagine if liquor was considered a form of currency.
accepted at meat shops and gas companys.
people would start brewing up their own money.
society would become saturated in liquid-love and there'd be longer lines at megabite, late at night.
and, as with real money, the conservatives will thrive.
with huge bunkers full of millions of gallons of good times.
they'll control the government, and create false idols for the idiots to worship.
the rest of us will be stuck saying things like: "shit man, i spent all my gas money getting gassed."
meet the drunk petting zoo.
a quality, new-age business that only accepts liquor as currency.
pet the animals: 1 shot.
ride the animals: 3 shots.
at some point later that evening we became the heavy petting zoo, and sang lots of NOFX songs.
i woke up on martys couch, still wearing the ears, and a shirt that said "i love denim."
another halloween victory.
colin 1 - drunk tank 0.
my 6 year winning streak continues.
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