The 90s

Color without irony

Short letters to bass players

1. 

Your band is the Napalm Death of bands.I can also see how many times your singer clicks on this blog after searching his band's name.

2. 

Your pants look like lycra tights, and I think your drummer's dad wants to go home already.

3.

When you make that face, I want to laugh. I can see your wrinkles.

4.

There are too many of you, and dreadlocks are out.

5. 

You are not playing while you sing, and you are singing someone else's songs.

Man vs. Food

Oh boy. I think I've done it this time.

Oh boy. I think I've made a BIG mistake.

Did you se that?

Yeah. I don't think I should have eaten that, despite the challenge that had been issued.

I thinkk the guy said three pounds of egg.

How many eggs do you think that is?

Most people don't measure eggs in pounds.

Shit.

And if I sat up straight, that pile of  hash browns came up to my chin.

Oh boy.

I think.

I think you might need to call someone.

No, no. Not an ambulance.

But a doctor maybe?

I'm not going to die right now.

I'm not having a heart attack.

But I do NOT feel good.

No.

Oh man.

Shit.

Constantines in the Day Time

Holes in memories; The trip without the stay. Here's what remains:
Sitting in a van.
Arrested by a cop in a Camaro.
Falling down through the ceiling.
A picture of shotgunned beers.
Shoeless contrabass.
Stage frenzy !!!
Polyester pants.

Young and far away.

The mortality of waitresses

The mortality of wai
tresses, of bu
sboys, conven
ience st
or
e cl
erks.
The loving memories of bic
yclists, of pedis
trians, of the driv
er in the Ford passing me on the I-5 at 4:12 in the afternoon on a Saturday when I am tired from traveling, focused on the talk on the radio on my phone, wondering only why this man is passing me on the right, my only thought of him.
 The mortality of wai
tresses.
The finite life of a par
king enforc
ement o
fficer.
The fleeting moments of a groce
ry stor
e ca
rt wrangl
er.
Of a mai
lman.
Of my neighbo
r.
The forgotten plans of the ma
n who cooked my food, the ma
n who rented me a bicycle, who caught a football on the beach as I rode past, who traveled from Brazil to serve beer at a sports bar, who bent down to pick up his dog's shit as I averted eye-contact, who ordered the slice of pizza just before mine.
The mortality of wai
tresses.

Of billions.
The secrets they must have. The lives I don't notice.

The infinence of these labarythine paths. So many directions not taken.

An Old Neighorhood, A Former Place

It was a small world: Little Debbie snack cakes, quarter bags of Cheetos, old saltine crackers, oversized beers, ice cream, teenagers who knew his name, addicts, a conceptual barter system, consistently wrong change. The ends of a universe that were measurable, visible from the security camera behind the counter, daunting, suffocating.

It is the poison cup. It is too late.

It does not end in nothing. 

It ends calling forth to begin again. It ends with a promise, 400 years old.