yep. thats what i had for dinner last night. today will be a rough one.

“Oh hi,” Jack says, as he enters, duffle bag swinging from his arm “didn’t know you’d be here, with Scottie’s soccer practice and all”

“Scottie doesn’t have soccer practice on Wednesdays.” She says looking up from drying dishes.

“That’s right, how could I have forgotten?”

“How’s your eye?” She says knowingly, wiping the last plate.

“I tell you Hon, if it wasn’t for the rush it gives me,” setting the bag down “I wouldn’t even bother. They were tough on me at the dojo tonight.”

“Master Vargas is very demanding,” She says, hanging the dish towel “you’re just training for next week’s demonstration.” moving towards the foyer.

He looks down at the stack of mail, “Is that the mail? I’ve been expecting something.” Eyes darting over each postal code.

“Hon. The office called twice today, they were wondering where you were for over two hours this afternoon”

He flinches, as if punched, mouth almost grinning, then returning to a scowl.

“This afternoon…. I….” He says fondling his bruised jaw, “Had an appointment with Tony.” Nostrils breathing downward, “Secretary must’ve forgot”.

“They say it’s been happening more and more lately” she says, noticing the cut on his neck, as a drop of blood falls on the mail.

“New Secretary...I need to have a talk with her” he says, trailing off in a mumble.

“Jack,” she says “Do you really think..?” Her eyes widen with knowledge.

He responds with shrugged shoulders. “Wha…?” Grabbing a tissue and wiping blood off of the mail.

“How much do you pay her Jack?” she says, hands on hips, eyes right on him.

A tear forms, sliding down his face. He wipes it with his sleeve, revealing a bruise. To catch the mail as it slips out of his hands, he lunges forward, giving her a direct view of the large welt on his head. He sees her eyes move over the welt as his mouth manages a response.

“I need….” He says, scanning the ceiling for an answer.

“Help?” She says with neck cocked back.

“I called the Dojo, you haven’t been in weeks.” She leans on the spine of the couch, arms folded.

Jack opens his mouth. He looks out the window at the lights across the street. He sees the shadow of his neighbor home from work in the window, hugging his wife. He tries words but only skeletons come out. “I..” “Wa….”

She looks over on the couch and reaches for the magazine. She holds it in front of her chest. “Is this where you find happiness?”

"I never wanted this, you said I wanted this."

"I was only giving you what you wanted"

"maybe I didnt want anything, maybe I was happy the way things were"

"The way things were? Did you really think you could get by on that life you were living"

"I--"

"That little stinking rathole you lived in, can you really look me in the eye and tell me you were ok with that"

"I was"

"Take some time, don’t just rush out with an answer you know will smother me"

"I'm not trying to--"

"You know exactly what you are doing, you throw this little phrase out there"

"I say these things--"

"You say these things to shut me up!"

"Your damn right I do, I dont want to live my life under your microscope"

"My microscope, My microscope?! I just don't want to see you coming home drunk every night"

"That's not why I'm late"

"Who ever said anything about late?"

"Who ever said anything about those late nights until you did just now"

"You were asking me about"

"I was asking you about coming home drunk, I wasnt even talking about the late nights"

"What are you accusing me of?"

"Im not accusing you of anything, you’re the one who brought up the late night's?"



"I can --"

"Don't even say anything, I can read it all over your face"

"I know, I know every time you come home filled with compliments"

"I love you.”

"Don't bring that shit into this, trying to back your way out, I’m not going to fall for that again, Jesus Christ, are you out of ideas already"

"Honey!"

"Get out, get the hell out"

"but I haven’t.."

"I don’t need to hear anything, I can hear it in your voice, the deceit, the lies”

“I’ve always been faithful to you”

“You don’t even know how to lie”

People can be surprising.

I thought that Wade, the apprentice machinist who works on the presses around the corner form my machine, was a total idiot. He took three weeks to understand that when the extruder is running, stay the fuck away from it. About one in a hundred times the steel bar that slips through the press will kick back and, if you’re standing behind it.... well, let’s just say the worker’s comp pay isn’t going to cover a new ribcage. Yeah, Wade was a True Moron.

Well, there’s another reason I figured he was an idiot. He was a meth-head, a tweaker. Each and every lunch break he came back to work and couldn’t stand still. Buzzing’ on that crystal. Of course, you smoke or shoot that shit, you’re an idiot.

Turns out I was wrong. When I went out to smoke a Winston, Wade was sitting at the picnic table behind the plant reading a book. Unreal. I wasn’t even sure he could read. But there it was, a story in a bona-fide book by someone or other, and he was reading it.

Fuckin a. He wasn’t a total idiot after all, was my first thought.

But when I gave him a ride to the Minit-Mart after work, and he told me what the story was about, and what he wanted to do, I almost crashed my pickup.

Gotta get back to work now, but I promise to tell ya soon. Here's a hint- it involves a mental hospital and some syringes.


Courtesy of Ralph "Gunny" Gunderson, Union Steel Works, Carbondale, CA.

I saw a photograph the other day, of this old band I was in.

They all had long hair and acid-wash jeans.

We sang ballads about big haired jersey shore girls named Marie. We drove around town listening to the new echo and the bunnymen album. We felt right for our times, we had such high hopes back then. We wanted to have our own place, our own bar, where we could cover Billy Vera and the Beaters to our heart's content.

It wasnt just about the music, it was about the politics, backing Dukakis, no matter
how foolish we looked to our parents. When we saw him in the tank it was all over, our new Greek JFK was floundering at the bottom of a greek tank of Ouzo.

We drenched ourselves in blood the day Pat Robertson announced he would run for President. We went to the shore a lot that summer, mostly to rehearse for our upcoming tour of New Jersey coffee shops, the gig in Pines Bluff being the most memorable, two babes with fishnets talked to us after the show, we gave them a ride, and our numbers and never heard from them again.

I've got two kids of my own now, the band broke up a long time ago, but I still sing the originals, the ones about Marie, and that guido douchebag she was dating. What a slut.

I tell you man, you should have been there. When we were roaring, still joyous after two and a half pitchers, after the waitress stared at us with the “I know what you guys are thinking” glance. When we were joyously floating on air, downward over the hill, heading towards bottom, comfort, blankets, wine, and fall asleep drunk conversation. We even looked at each other; amazed at how much we had gotten away with, how far we had taken this. We were just about to laugh when I saw the Isuzu trooper, cowering in the shadows, stumbling at the starting gate.

For a moment I was still laughing, I think it caught me in mid breath. I think I was laughing when I heard my friend slip, just a slight hesitation, just a drop in tone. I think I was still thinking about the glass of wine waiting for me at home. My cat, I was still thinking about petting the goddamn cat, when the intoxicant level in my brain dropped, and I felt the entire west wing of my peripheries violently swing left, snap back right, too fast for eyes to follow locked on the Trooper’s side door.

The nanosecond of hope that at the last second we’d cut to commercial gone the moment I heard “oh shit” come from the left hand side, not attached to a voice, just the sudden implosion, the swirling eye of sound we were in as our car spinning, the prize fighter slipping the punch to the little colt, spinning around as bestial carnival sounds emanate from our supports as we dance around the SW 45th street sign. The Trooper now attached to our green welterweight, I hear Hub get out, “Are you Ok?” he asks two and a half times “Huh?” I manage to bring up, swishing my glass–blood wig awake. As he slumber steps towards the Trooper, our truck is losing its grip with each step, eventually detaching from the Isuzu, hypnotically rolling down the hill.

We are on a hill, I don’t realize this until the waves of shock wash over me, allowing me to see the smeared rouge lights introducing two way traffic, churning on in a cauldron of a highway despite my increased speed as I descend downward, belted to the passenger seat.

As I’ve dreamed of exactly this scenario, I rehearse and wait for space to perform my seventy-five mile an hour parallel parking job. Arms outstretched drag the steering wheel left, right, blurs of trees by my face, the ride over the curb, the feeling that I’ve been shaken awake by my father, slapped as I sleep having to decide on which side of the tree to hit, left as I’ve stopped and the cycle of momentum reverses and stops, as my next thoughts are on breath, and ache.

Walking out of the truck, I slam the door; proud of the heroic way my survival instinct displayed itself. Hands locked into a claw, resting among the glass shards and blood chunks walking uphill the martyr greets his people, rushing towards him, arms flailing, sound muted, like in those Bruce Willis movies.

And what I remember most from my journey up the hill towards the first impact zone was an anonymous call from the outer layer of reality I was no longer a participant in. “Hey man, thanks for not hitting my car.

Tampa to Tulsa

On the twelfth day of the tour I saw it in his eyes. The empty sockets, eyes fixed on the half creased cigarette, black baseball cap hiding brow. The smoke rising up next to him, the only true friend he’s got. Ragged purple shirt, black tatoo’s, behind him the everchanging view outside the tourbus, right now its palm trees. In a few hours it will be cacti, and the deserts of Arizona, the plains of New Mexico. I brought all the usual tools, 35 90 minute cassettes for the interviews, cartons of American Spirit cigarettes, the Indian insignia greeting me each time I take one of the packs out of my duffle bag. I stare at the ground of the tour bus as my hand slaps the back of the cigarette pack.

He hasn’t been the same since the last radio show, hasn’t been the same person since the old band broke up. He was so young back then; he didn’t even know who he was, doubtful if he still does.

-------------------scene starts, tape ends.----------------------------------------------------------

It’s just outside Barstow when I realize I am out of cigarettes. The bright blue package on the pack of American Spirits withers, and then falls to the ground as I remove the last cigarette. I know that Smokey has two cartons. Its’ part of the tour rider to have at least 4 cartons in the bus at one time. I think they’re over by the deli counter, but I too deep in thought to get up, circulate the legs, break the concentration. It’s a superstition, to break thought when you’re in the middle of an idea for a song, or an album, when I know the chord on my telecaster but I can’t put the feeling in my head. I know how it sounds, but I can’t reproduce it. Sometimes I think I’m overpaid, actually, I know I’m over paid. The last radio show was a disaster, and still I continue to sell records. Become more of an enigma and they will love you for it. Youll voice everything they’ve ever thought and they’ll want your thoughts, why would anyone want my thoughts. I cough, settle down into a E major chord change. I let the chord ring out. Set the guitar down, get up, stand outside, watch the train pass by the cliffs and palm trees. You’re in California. You always dreamed of this, or did I? Sometimes I read too many interviews with myself, I cant tell which part of me is journalist embellishing or what part of it is me trying to be an enigmatic little fucker.

It all comes out sounding like Neil Young at this time of the afternoon. I pour a plastic cup full of beam and ice and sit Indian style on my rug. The rug placed on the faux hardwood of the cabin to pretend like I haven’t been to 36 different towns in the last three months, when I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been through Tulsa even though I’m in San Lois Obispo, or Santa Cruz or San Diego, or Sioux Falls.

I keep having those dreams again “You sold out motherfucker”. I wake up to the sound of train whistles, like in “On the road”. I think about the last time I read that and actually felt young. I get up and stare out at the countryside forever coasting forward. Momentum, that’s what my life is about moving forward, being suspended in the forward movement by staying in my little cabin and writing songs, and trying to counteract the movement, try to get the car to move backwards solely through the power of song. My cap is filthy, I run hands through hair but cant feel the follicles and I wonder how much of my detachment is pot induced (having ingested my last joint 4 hours prior, when I didn’t even want to it was the roadies, right before we pulled out of LA) and how much of it is because of travel and how I miss my friends, my real (non showbiz friends and I remember when I that word entered my vocabulary)

My cell phone goes off. I know this because it rattles down by my balls. It vibrates the way a massager would. It carries on like this for a few minutes. I continue to stare out at the scenery, try to immerse myself in each shot that passes by. And I think about my friends who died. The band. When I was just a little fucking kid man, didn’t know all the other members would FUCKING DIE. And how come I’m not dead? How come I have to wander around with friends who kiss my ass and can’t trust anyone and this is some other asshole on the phone who wants something from me, “when is the new record coming out?”, “This album is shit.” “I cant market this Tony, I just cant.”, “Radio wont play this, shit I wont play this for my daughters, man.” “When are you going to clean up?” Too bad I cant ask them the questions I want to ask them. What’s it like to have a mother and father, what’s it like to be loved for who you are and not for some sort of marketable position in the charts? Too bad I can’t ask them how to be a man, whatever that is. I can’t show them, ‘cuz they’ll bleed me alive. Once they realize how lost I am in this its’ all over, the wolves will fucking rip me apart. So it’s up to me to fight all this from within and with my songs. And try to relax, and play with the session musicians, they’re ok guys, they just want to play, they play for the love of it, and sometimes after shows when its just us in the early morning hours doing Neil and Dylan covers, and I’m singing “Idiot wind” like I’m the one who just got divorced, and all the little plastic cups are filled with diluted whiskey and thanks to Bob and the booze and the late nights I’m convinced I have friends and can relate to people but it’s a lie when I wake up and were still in motion and there’s a grown man in charge of me waking up in the morning for Christ sakes. And it’s my manager on the cell phone and I totally know this, so I pour another drink and try to go to sleep but it’s no use. And when I finally fall asleep I dream of her, and I can’t have her because she’s dead and you can’t ever lose the past especially at 3am in another hotel room when all you can feel is the rough edges of the blankets, as they scrape my face. And even the womb of the comforter at the Holiday inn, with the little pill packets all over the floor can’t help me escape the feeling that the whole world is caving in and I wrote the soundtrack.

Exercise #1 : The Newlyweds

From the window one could see the glaciers, stark against the blue placid ocean, moving slowly at an invisible rate. Framing the window, a red curtain billowed in the wind. The air maintained a continuous breeze as it brushed across the amber tapestry, hovering over the white walls. Beyond the glaciers, green hills softly assumed their presence amongst scores of white puffin birds. One by one, each took turns diving from the hilltops, passing scores of branches, sweeping down into the sea to proclaim fish, quickly returning to the tops of the trees that dotted the hills. Shadowy landscapes were barely visible beyond the hills spilling out around their outer edges. From the porch, accessible through the first floor rear bay windows, bursts of sea spray could be seen behind the hills, above the distant craggy shoreline.

A tall tumbler glass, fresh with condensation, lay on the coffee table, absorbing light beamed in from the window. Ice cubes in the glass reflected a ceiling fan, swaying from the ceiling. A tall bottle of Vodka cast a shadow of the label onto an adjoining wall. “Viking Fjord” it read, prominent against the light stucco finish where two duffle bags shared the corner, immediately to the right of the door. A wet white towel lay between the two, embroidered with a black stripe running down the center. Wet footprints could be seen on the gray carpet coming from the opened shower, still steamy from recent use. Mirrors revealed two sinks, one with mirror wiped clean of steam by a man’s hand, so that the passes were uneven and quick, almost devoid of grace. The adjoining sink had no residue of shaving cream as its counterpart did. It did not feature the half dozen toiletries haphazardly set upon the white marble countertop.

Periodic gusts of fishy sea salt scented air would blow through the upstairs, twinkling the now invisible wind chimes, clanking the ice cubes in the glass threatening to knock the tapestry, a genuine Viking tableau of virility, off of the wall. As mid afternoon bowed into dusk, delicate sounds of chamber music intermingled with the light clinking of glasses and muffled laughter. Outside the window, distant rumblings of far away freighters could be heard, along with the incessant cawing of the puffin birds.

As the hours passed, a steady artic chill slowly replaced the balmy warm air of the afternoon. Wind gusts doubled in strength, toppling the vodka glass, sending melted ice cubes and diluted vodka into the dry carpet. The tapestry spun around its hook, landing face down in a pool of vodka water. The bathroom door slammed suddenly, as the entire room was now filled with a noticeable sea stench.

Exercise #1 : The Newlyweds

From the window one could see the glaciers, stark against the blue placid ocean, moving slowly at an invisible rate. Framing the window, a red curtain billowed in the wind. The air maintained a continuous breeze as it brushed across the amber tapestry, hovering over the white walls. Beyond the glaciers, green hills softly assumed their presence amongst scores of white puffin birds. One by one, each took turns diving from the hilltops, passing scores of branches, sweeping down into the sea to proclaim fish, quickly returning to the tops of the trees that dotted the hills. Shadowy landscapes were barely visible beyond the hills spilling out around their outer edges. From the porch, accessible through the first floor rear bay windows, bursts of sea spray could be seen behind the hills, above the distant craggy shoreline.

A tall tumbler glass, fresh with condensation, lay on the coffee table, absorbing light beamed in from the window. Ice cubes in the glass reflected a ceiling fan, swaying from the ceiling. A tall bottle of Vodka cast a shadow of the label onto an adjoining wall. “Viking Fjord” it read, prominent against the light stucco finish where two duffle bags shared the corner, immediately to the right of the door. A wet white towel lay between the two, embroidered with a black stripe running down the center. Wet footprints could be seen on the gray carpet coming from the opened shower, still steamy from recent use. Mirrors revealed two sinks, one with mirror wiped clean of steam by a man’s hand, so that the passes were uneven and quick, almost devoid of grace. The adjoining sink had no residue of shaving cream as its counterpart did. It did not feature the half dozen toiletries haphazardly set upon the white marble countertop.

Periodic gusts of fishy sea salt scented air would blow through the upstairs, twinkling the now invisible wind chimes, clanking the ice cubes in the glass threatening to knock the tapestry, a genuine Viking tableau of virility, off of the wall. As mid afternoon bowed into dusk, delicate sounds of chamber music intermingled with the light clinking of glasses and muffled laughter. Outside the window, distant rumblings of far away freighters could be heard, along with the incessant cawing of the puffin birds.

As the hours passed, a steady artic chill slowly replaced the balmy warm air of the afternoon. Wind gusts doubled in strength, toppling the vodka glass, sending melted ice cubes and diluted vodka into the dry carpet. The tapestry spun around its hook, landing face down in a pool of vodka water. The bathroom door slammed suddenly, as the entire room was now filled with a noticeable sea stench.