Candy Apple Red

Matt texted me a few days ago and asked me if my apartment had burned down. I told him that I hadn't been there in half an hour, but that I was pretty sure it hadn't. Then I was nervous for however long it took me to get home.

I bet he was talking about this other house, close by. At 10th and a half and Heights Boulevard. Just noticed it today, on a walk. Had to drop off some bills.

Now that house, that place was burned to the fucking ground. I walked all around it. Chimney shot up to the sky, all alone. It was a two story, and excepting for the one on the bottom-right, you could see into every single room. The colors of the walls, the shit hanging on the walls, the mantle, the stairs...you could literally see everything in the place. The furniture, a  ton of carpet, and a bunch of shit too far gone to recognize were all heaped by the side of the house. Next to a brand new Corvette. Found that odd- the Corvette.

But back to that bottom-right room. It was still entirely intact. No fire had touched it. I walked by it last, and that's when I saw it. Through the window, a TV screen was glowing. A flat-screen. A big one.

Someone was in that bombed-out, burned-down house, watching television. In the only room that still had a roof over it, a person was using electricity that still fucking worked and watching television. I recognized the show that was playing on the screen, almost instantly. In the time it took to walk one block, I forgot it. What a shame.


I've never done acid, never will. But people I know who have- they've described acid flash-backs to me. Seeing that TV playing in that house- that's as close as I'm gonna get. Fucking surreal.

The Billy Bob Tapes

The bad guys are nameless, faceless characters who you know goddamn well are just going to get killed by Handsome Actor X. It's not important who they are or where they came from, so as a result you're not afraid of the bad guy, and the feeling you get from the commercial movie is not profound. 

But if you see a mobster in a movie sitting down to dinner with his family, playing with his son, giving him a toy- a little rabbit or some shit- talking to his wife about how the power's gone out in the garage, all of a sudden you got a real guy. If you got three scenes of a real guy playing with his kids, fixing the garage door opener, watching Lucy and Desi on TV, and laughing at it because Lucy got into another mess and Ricky ain't going to let her sing, and then getting in his Cadillac to drive across town where he goes to a building and waits around the corner for a woman in a red dress who comes walking out and he comes up behind her and puts a .22 caliber hollow-point in the back of her head, then fixes his briefcase and gets back into his car, you're scared of that motherfucker- all because he gave the kid the rabbit. If you never saw him give the kid the rabbit, you're not afraid of him because he ain't real.

Yggdrasil

Taken at kickball in the 'Trose. Many moon ago. Old acquaintances becoming new friends.

Shot by Juan D. Who, incidentally, could have been shot. When he was robbed at gun-point. In Katy. He didn't get shot, though.

Which is, needless to say, the raddest.

Lot of Triggers

Tight Grip

Well, shit. This is one of my favorite (of a particular brand of) country songs. If it comes on, it stays on. If it comes on at the bar, I get to making an ass of myself. 

Wanted to share, so here it is. But Jesus, what a cheesy fucking video. Almost entirely negates the radness of the song. That's how it goes- couldn't find a version on the youtubers with just a decent screen shot. Which I would have infinitely preferred. 

Anyway, drinkin' and cheatin' songs are a monumental part of what makes (legitimate) country music so great. And this one is pretty high up there. Weak video. Great, great song.

Brian and I were at my (and his, I believe) favorite bar last week. On a Thursday. I must have said it fifty fucking times. To him, to others: This is a really good night. 

We got two seats at the bar, dead in the middle. Almost my favorite seats. The way Houston's growing, and as good as this bar does, that just doesn't happen much for us. We got to look at everyone who came in and out- I like people-watching. We got to chat with the bartenders- I like that too. We put umbrellas in our beers. We took the umbrellas out of our beers. Picked up some matches. Talked about all the whiskey we'll never get to try. We got two beers a piece for free, from a Lonestar Rep. As did almost everyone else.

We got our egos stroked, we stroked some egos. We got to hear some Buck Owens. I came up on some gossip that I do believe I have almost fully spread. I got a number I fully intend to never use.

It's not about having nowhere else to be. It's not about becoming a drunk. It's about getting out, and being with friends. It's about creature comforts, which for me are a few beers, some decent music, and a change of scenery. Maybe some pool. It's about meeting new people. Which fucking happens- you can only puss out so many times in a row before you finally chat her up. And when it's done, you're flying for a little bit. Very little beats a night at the bar when shit works out.

On The Walls. In The Walls.

I want you to look around and be interested. That is the goal.

"No Mushrooms. Well, Maybe One."

Jeff ordered the pie. "Large, that's right. Oh, and...think you can draw a dick on that for us? Sweet. Thirty minutes? Awesome, thanks."


Even incorporated the grease stain. Fucking professional, to be sure.

A Tropical Depression

Friends Dottie West, June Carter Cash and Loretta Lynn recalled Cline telling them during 1963 that she felt a sense of impending doom and did not intend to live much longer.

I think you five-0.

UNCLE ACID. Basic Concepts in Brainwashing.

Man is not at home in the universe, despite all the efforts of philosophers and metaphysicians to provide a soothing syrup. Thought is still a narcotic. The deepest question is why. And it is a forbidden one. The very asking is in the nature of cosmic sabotage. And the penalty is- the afflictions of Job.

Why do I sense hostility on your part? She asks softly, then sips her wine.

                Maybe because I'm hostile! He spits out.

You are being a lunatic. She says, shaking her head, now looking over the wine list.

                     Goddammit. What do you mean, being? I say. I fucking am one.

Never once had they opened the door which leads to the soul; never once did they dream of taking a blind leap into the dark. After dinner the dishes were promptly washed and put in the closet; after the paper was read it was neatly folded and laid on a shelf; after the clothes were washed they were ironed and folded and then tucked away in the drawers. Everything was for tomorrow, but tomorrow never came. The present was only a bridge and on this bridge they are still groaning, as the world groans, and not one idiot ever thinks of blowing up the bridge. 

Most of what my neighbors call good, I am profoundly convinced is evil.

It took me quite a while to realize that the real deal is to be able to be enough of a person on your own to know when somebody loves you and cares about you.       -SRV

Fucking quotable. Hence all of this. Boob.

Run. With. The. Pack.

...because they were more fun than Adam.

Too many people. They're asking questions, they're at every show. They're right in front of me, and right below. Too many fucking people. 

Combating the 'system' is nonsense. There is only one aim in life and that is to live it. In America it has become impossible, except for a few lucky or wise people, to live one's own life; consequently the poets and the artists tend to move to the fringes of society. We lead the lives of prisoners while we boast about free speech, free press, and free religion, none of which we actually do enjoy in full. 

I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a cub to bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you- and then you really were frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear- you could always turn him loose, or chop his head off. 

There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled. They go in even without revolver or whip. Fear makes them fearless. 

People are like lice- they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can't get permanently deloused. Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It's in the blood now- misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch and scratch- until there's no skin left...I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want everyone to scratch himself to death.