Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Help From Matthew, Who Got Help From Michael

My friend Matthew...who I’ve told a countless number of times over the past 25-years, he shouldn't be wasting time reading works of literature and the criticisms of those books because it wasn’t really going to make him a smarter person or make him understand anything written by others any better...were resting on the dark black couch in the back room of a coffee joint in Chicago earlier this year, enjoying a cup of Joe while discussing what each believed to be the main goal of the Ricketts’ family to get their newly acquired Chicago Cubs to the World Series the upcoming season when he discovered an open notebook with something scribbled on the page beneath his copy of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. After examining it, he handed the left-behind work to me for a quick once over.

The following text was what Matthew found.
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Hello...God?

The hours that passed today were full of empty mind travels and fruitless scavenger hunts. She asked me years ago to stop playing, to come and live with her, to imagine the love we could share. And it confused me.

It’s not like I never understood her, or that I didn’t want to be with her, I just felt she only wanted me...well...the way she wanted me.

She left. I stayed.

I buy magazines and papers now just for the chance that I might see her face...or the face of another that reminds me of her. I listen to the radio in silence so I can hear a song that reminds me of the night she stayed in my arms under that great giant sky of Oklahoma. Or was it Nebraska? Or Colorado?

So bad I wish to speak with her about love again. The love that doesn’t die. The love that I still got. The love that musta ended years ago for her.

Dust fell atop that love God and crop circles formed around our hearts. Her love, oh that magnificent-sweet love, spun me ‘round in circles. Badly I wish for that again.

Busy streets stopped as we hoped and skipped by. Our quarrels in the courtyard were filled with amusement, temptation, fright, lust, shame and fear. Remembering the times we tried to play those games of hide and seek, so to find the way to move onto that next level of emotion. Sadly, when we found it, there was no emotion there.

I sit now, four hundred and twenty two miles away, worrying about the song that I’m trying to write just to let her know that if she wanted, the door would be unlocked for her to come back through, so that I could hold her head up out of the toilet like I used to.
Or maybe it was she holding me?

This guitar ain’t gonna pay the bills for ever, but if it could, wouldn’t that be somethin’?
I’ve stowed away my love for her in a box in the closet, but I keep findin’ ways to re-open it.
She needs to be here. I need to be there.

Sweeping sensitivities blinded me years ago when I slit my tips with the strings. What would she say if she knew how I felt? Would there be one more shot to give? It’s all I can think about anymore, that love I had for her, this love I still got for her...and her with my heart in her hands.

I hold her tones and listen to the words spill from her mouth each day when I wake:

—I DON’T LOVE YOU ANYMORE—

Remembering the times we’d watch re-runs of Saturday Night Live on the old fold-out couch, followed with a lick of her thigh. Thinking over and over and over about how it might have been, how it should have been, how it never will be.

So sad.


What am I gonna do? Keep on keepin’ on? Stop traffic with a hop, skip and a jump? Follow Red Rover, Red Rover till Freddy’s sent over? Jack Flash ain’t jumpin’ and there sure as shit ain’t no Saints Marchin’ In any day soon without her.

I wish her the best to fix the mangled heart I’ve left her. Please hear me, don’t let her change her mind anymore, it’ll only lead to another episode of her heart being broken by the douche bag she doesn’t love anymore. It’s gotta die, she and I.

I still hear her voice over mine God, as I look at the eyes she left behind in the mirror. She always said she loved my eyes. I loved her everything.
I think.

I’ll search the world over to find her. Just to hold her. To kiss her. To show her how responsible I’m not. To not let go until she tells me to.

As I stand on stage, I see her in the crowd smiling at me, singing along with the words of my soul, without her actually being there.

Is this because I didn’t know enough, God? Or because I knew too much? Probably both.

Just to hold her hand, to take one true breathe, one last greedy gasp in the coolness of the night, without words, I’d fade away to the shadows and circles I call my life.

She started the count down for me, I didn’t launch, she removed herself from the situation...it was fair warning.

So faded, I am. So dark...and worn...and faded.

She will never know I’m faded from our love. The love she knew was there. The love that I neglected to show.

Strangers scream “I Love You” from the floor. Panties and bras are tossed. They buy me drinks and slide their numbers into the pockets of my faded Levi’s......

I really miss her.

Maybe she knew all along the way we were to eventually be. I feel she may have. Strange.

FADED LOVER IN THE SHADOWS, DANCING IN THOSE NEON STARS, A TRYST IN THE LOBBY OF THE HILTON?

Thoughts of her crawl into my head everyday. Now, unlike the cockroaches that yell they love me, she hates me. Please don’t let her hurt anymore. Make her hate me in silence. Please, I beg of you God, her hate, don’t let me see it, or feel it or hear it.

All the compliments for this or that wont get me to my desired destination. Please, see what’s good for her God, and make her let go completely. No more chances. I’ll only devastate her again.

All the things I couldn’t or wouldn’t do for her have caught up to me. And I feel that it’s good that they have. I can finally see that I was never the man I pretended to be. And that she’ll never be my wife, I, never her husband. There will be no baby boy showered with love. No Christmas trees. No carved pumpkins. Without cranberry sauce and canned hams.

Love. Love. Love. Love.

Gamblers of life and fate, we musicians are. I’ll finally listen to her and put this old guitar down. Just send her back home to me so she can tell me that she hates me. I’ll know she doesn’t mean it. Unless this time...she finally does.

Thanks for listening God.
Amen.
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As I placed the notebook back down on the table in front of us, Matthew began to tell me the things he had decided the collaborator of the words was saying:

“You know, you’ve always told me I will never be able to understand the words of another by relying on some other persons beliefs. But I’m going to explain to you what this text means through the ideas held by Michael Foucault.”

“The author of this, and the female friend he is writing about, were in the middle of a power struggle to decide who it was holding the majority of the power in their relationship. I feel the man did because he denied her requests to stop playing the guitar and chasing other women. He wouldn't come and live with her and love only her. He exercised his power over her by doing whatever, and whoever, whenever he wanted, like in this passage here:

‘FADED LOVER IN THE SHADOWS, DANCING IN THOSE NEON STARS, A TRYST IN THE LOBBY OF THE HILTON?’

“He goes on and on about how much he loves and misses this woman, but at the same time, he is driven, in spite of himself, by the somber madness of sex itself. He constantly contradicts himself line after line. I believe he may love this woman, but he loves his freedom to do whatever he wants more than he loves her”.

“But with a power struggle entitles a person, or a group of people, as the dominator. Though it may seem hard to believe, domination is often an indirect happening. She wanted him to stop playing he guitar and partaking in trysts with these other women. He wanted to do what he wanted, but still have her to love. He may have felt she was trying to dominate him by asking him to stop playing. She may have felt he was dominating her by having the power to bring her back home to him each time she left. But domination can only happen when one or more parties involved lets themselves be dominated. The people who say, ‘No, don’t do that’ feel as if they are the dominant party involved. In a way, they are the dominant power. But they have the Negative Power, or the ‘power that says no’. But the people who are being told not to do something will try even harder to do it if it is something they truly enjoy. In this case, she asked him not to have relationships with other women and to leave the guitar alone. She thought she was the dominant party. But he couldn’t do it, at least wouldn’t let himself do it, so he took over control of the dominance. But it all changes. It is he who is begging for her return. He knows what he has done isn’t the right way to live. He knows he loves this woman. She has the power. She is the dominating group. Even if she isn’t there to see it, she has dominance over him. Realizing she is gone from his life, he now probably doesn’t have relationships, sexual or otherwise, with anybody. He sees his ideas were an errors and he wants nothing more than to show her how he has changed. That he hasn’t changed for himself. That he has changed for her, to prove his love.”

“Don’t get me wrong, this woman he writes about, he love her. He loves her because it is she he gave his virginity to perhaps. Listen:

‘Busy streets stopped as we hoped and skipped by. Our quarrels in the courtyard were filled with amusement, temptation, fright, lust, shame and fear. Remembering the times we tried to play those games of hide and seek, so to find the way to move onto that next level of emotion. Sadly, when we found it, there was no emotion there.’

“He’s talking about the stages which help to begin a sexual relationship:

1.) ‘Hoped and skipped by’ has to mean the stage of constant flirting with one another that all have endured before while trying to begin a relationship.

2.) ‘The quarrels had in the courtyard’, I feel, were the times that the two of them were trying to make the other person, either he to she, or she to he, realize that it was time, that they were both ready, to take that next step to new levels of sexual experimentation.

3.) ‘Tried to play those games of hide and seek’ can only be his repeated attempt at sexual intercourse with her, failing each time until she finally felt he loved her, and then after he finally did accomplish the goal set for himself, it made neither he or she feel any closer to the other.”

“These are nothing more than the words of a man who didn’t realize that he was in love with this woman until it was too late. He knew he loved her, yes, but he never knew he was in love with her. And if he did know, he didn’t make her see, make her know or make her feel, that he was in love with her. And it seems that this wasn’t the first time she has left. As he says,
‘...don’t let her change her mind anymore, it’ll only lead to another episode of her heart being broken by the douche bag she doesn’t love anymore. It’s gotta die, she and I.’

“He has cheated before, maybe with other women, maybe by telling this woman that he would stop playing, be it playing around with other women or playing that guitar, which probably led to him cheating with other women, for her, the woman that loves him. But he never did. Now, she’s found out about all those times, and reflected back on all of her pain and misery caused by his straying ways and has decided to leave him for the last time. She has left him before, it seems, but has changed her mind and decided to give him more chances to prove his love to her. But time after time, he has disappointed and failed to reach the goal that she has set for him. He had the power to get her to return to him so he could prove his love for her in the past, but now, as he sits wherever, she is gone and taken that power with her.”

“The man was engulfed with aphrodisia, the unity of sexual acts, pleasures and the desire of such acts. This intensity caused the relationship, the sexual relationship, to become problematic. There may have been no problems sexually between he and she, but the fact that he was constantly engaging in sexual relationships with other women, that is where the problem lied. It wasn’t the desire to have a plethora of sexual partners, but that he continually slept with other women while this woman was trying to make him feel her love. He had no enkrateia. Enkrateia is the power one must have hold to control themself and use aphrodisia correctly. If one doesn’t have control over themself and their aphrodisia, they will never be happy with the sexual partner, or partners, that they have. They will constantly be looking for more. To try and find out if there is better than that which they have out there. These people without this control will constantly seek to please themselves before all others.”

“In this relationship he writes about his relationship, and love for, both, this woman and his guitar. The guitar itself, yes, but more importantly, the females that he meets and has sexual relations with through the playing of his guitar, is very problematic. It seems that he understands that love is indeed a binary system (The History of Sexuality, 83) that allows for love to happen in a certain way, or on the contrary, not let it happen at all. He continually writes that he wants this woman to return to him so that he can show her how much he loves her. But he contradicts that each time when he writes about his on-goings with other women. He may have a different idea about what love is compared to the woman he wishes to return. It seems that he does, but now, he realizes that what he thought to be true, is a blatant lie that he has told himself for far too long.”

“Maybe he has changed since she has left. Maybe before she left, he was far worse than what it seems to us. Maybe he has cultivated himself, improved his way of life to better the relationship that he wishes to have again with this woman. Perhaps he has thought about his life, the things that are, were, included in it and removed the things that he felt needed to be removed. Perhaps he has undergone a ‘cultivation of the soul’(Care of the Self, 43) and now understands what it is, exactly, that he should or should not do to keep the love of this woman.”

“It seems that the love he held, or that he still holds, for this woman was/is indeed real and he could have lived and loved with her as his only woman, but because he has seen, or has been told, by other people, about the way he should live his life, he has the belief that everything with the same label, in this case a musician, needs to act the same way as everything else with the same label, which would be other musicians and their discourses of life,.To him, these discourses are seen as the practices of obeying certain rules (The Archaeology of Knowledge, 138). Certain rules that are imagined by himself. There is no hand book of rules for musicians to live freely. I’m sure that while he was growing up, he heard or seen, famous musicians had all the women that they wanted. And he heard about groupies and all other types of women that are so drastically drawn to musicians. And because of what he had heard growing up, or seen, he assumed that he would never be thought to be a true musician unless he acted like the other “true” musicians he has seen his entire life. This is a type of discourse formation. I don’t agree with this train of thought. Everything labeled as being the same, is not really the same, but we feel that it is, or should be the same, by the habit of thought. In this case, we think that all musicians have sexual intercourse with whoever they want, no matter if they are married or not. But we have no real evidence that what we believe is true. We just assume that it is true because it is what we, as well as a majority of others, feel to be true.”

“That’s another thing, this truth. He tells the truth about the things that she wanted, the things that he wanted, the things that he did do, the things that he should not have done and the things he would not or could not do. Did he speak these truths to her whole she was with him? No. He did, however, tell her with the songs that he wrote. The songs that he sang. Now, this is just speculation, but I’m almost certain that the songs her wrote were about the other women he had known or maybe the events that he had with these other women. Western man has become a confessing animal. (The History of Sexuality, 59) The obligation to confess is now relayed through so many different points, is so deeply ingrained in us, that we no longer perceive it as the effect of a power that constrains us; on the contrary, it seems to us that truth, lodged in our most secret nature, ‘demands’ only to surface.( The History of Sexuality, 60) He, like all men everywhere, and woman I would assume, no matter what deep sark secret it is that they try to hide from the masses, always feel the need to tell somebody what it is that they have done, or what they are planning to do. Some people will go to confession at Church. Others will write letters to themselves and hide the envelopes away so never to see them, or remember those thoughts again. He, most likely, did it through the songs that he wrote.”

“This entire relationship between the two was a power struggle; who had it, who holds it and who has the stronger hand. She tried to stop him from having relations with other women, like the vast majority of people would make their partner do. He felt this to be a bit forbidding. Maybe he felt that she couldn’t tell him what it was that he should do. That he was the only person that could do that. She wanted him to obey her wishes, her being the dominant party at the time, and he wouldn’t adhere to them and kept doing what It was that he wanted to do, the power switched hands and he became the dominant party. But because he wouldn’t change for her, she extinguished the relationship, and as we see here in these pages, he wants her to come home to him. Never mind what I said at the start of this about him having the power in the relationship because he would not listen to her and love only her. She is the power. She has all the power now. He can only get that power back in two ways. First, he can make her see that he has changed his lifestyle for her because he loves her immensely and uncontrollably. That he will not continue the relationships that he has had in the past with other women and that she will be the only woman that he loves. That he has seen what life was like without her by his side and that he would be a shattered shell of a man without her to love, and without her love, for the rest of his life. Secondly, he can think about all the times when she asked him, when she begged him, to become a better man and love only her. That all she wanted was his love. That all she needed was his love. That his love for her, and only her, would make the two of them, as a couple, stronger than either of them could be on their own. And realize that he had the best things in life with her; her heart, her soul, her everything, and he let it all slip away because he was too simple minded to realize that everything doesn’t need to be the way that it is assumed to be. That he lost the love of his life because he thought he needed to do this, to do that, or to do the other thing, to make himself feel like more of a man.”

After Matthew finished his long and tiring reflection about what the text meant to him, I sat back and thought about what it really meant to me. What it meant to me now after Matthew had explained it to me. Not just what I thought it meant the day I wrote it.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Merry Christmas BostonGirl

Too many moons ago to count, I read a post on some website that really made me laugh and realize that I wasn't the only person in the World who was living a stupid-crazy-idiotic lifestyle. She, the author of the funny post I read, and I wrote, no kidding, pretty much the same stories.

It made me feel good that I wasn't the only person that was willing to open up about the oh so many times I had been screwed over or the oh so many times I had been screwed under. (I'm not even sure if that makes sense, screwed under?)

I just want to say thanx, BostonGirl. Your stories always make me laugh, or they make me want to fly into Boston to find the douchebag that screwed you over so I can hand him his ass. I really miss your stories and hope that this new year that is sneakin up on us will bring you back to this make believe world of writing.

Merry Christmas Brianne. (That might just be the weirdest thing I've ever typed. I'm not too sure I've ever called yopu anything but BostonGirl or Boston?)

Hope all of your Christmas wishes come true and the Elves don't steal you.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

It's All About Sexy.

Maybe this Christmas, you have somebody to smooch under the miseltoe hanging from above. Ohh..who gives a shit...enjoy these quotes.

"Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. Yes is the answer."

"Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go, it's one of the best."

"Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place." --Billy Crystal

"Sex is just like hacking. You get in, you get out. And you pray you left nothing behind."

"Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation... The other eight are unimportant." --Henry Miller

"Sex is one of the most wholesome, beautiful and natural experiences that money can buy." --Steve Martin

"Having sex can burn up those calories you piled on during that romantic dinner."

"I believe that sex is a beautiful thing between two people. Between five, it's fantastic." --Woody Allen

"The psychiatrist asked me if I thought sex was dirty and I said...It is if you're doing it right." --Woody Allen

Friday, December 11, 2009

21 years already?

I find it funny when people say something that sounds like the title to this post. Sure, the years may have gone by fast, but you can't possibly mistake something that happened a large amount of years ago for something that happened yesterday. And yes, I know it's just a phrase that people use, but nobody can actually feel something many years passed like they did the day it happened.

Or so you would believe.

When I was 10, I saw my dad cry for the first time. Since then, I've seen him cry, maybe twice more: when his mother died, and when my sister got married. But that morning of December 10, 1988 as I stood in the kitchen and he answered the ringing phone, that one takes the cake.

15 seconds after he said hello, the phone was placed back on the hook, his head lowered. And I heard him begin.

"Dad...what's wrong," asked I?

He said nothing. And I stood next to him, scared and grabbed his hand.

"Dad..." whispered me.

"Louie got killed, Scott. Go get dressed, we're goin to the fire house," said he.

I went and dressed while I thought about the things the sentence my dad just said to me actually meant. At 10-years old, I had no clue what it meant. To this day, I'm certain that I still don't know what it meant to all that were involved.

You see, Louie was a guy on the volunteer fire department with my dad. And because the fireman in my home town were so close to one another, Louie was like family to me. He was one of my best friends cousins. Brother of one of my mom's friends. Best friends with another guy who was like family becuase, he too, was a fireman. There are far too many ways to describe how this guy was, in someway, part of the very large family that was our hometown.

He was one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Sure, when you're 10-years old, everybody is nice to you, but Louie made it a point to be extra nice to us little rats. Especially my kid brother Tim.

Tim is 27 now, so he was six the day of that call. Tim was impressed by Louie. Wanted to be like him everytime he seen him. For some reason, I'm not even sure my kid brother knows why, but he used to call Louie and Mike "M and M Jimited". M & M becuase both of their last names started with the letter M. Jimited? There has never been a clear reason but, back then, my kid brother had a little bit of a studer so we think he was trying to say M & M Limited. But even if he was trying to say that, I'm not sure why.

Anyway, when Tim would see Louie at the firehouse, or someplace else where we all used to get together, like white on rice, Tim was with Louie. Louie gave him the nickname that, to this day, a very large part of our hometown still knows him by: Timmy Dog.

M & M Jimited were, when together, a handful. If one came up with some crack pot idea, the other would just as fast come up with improvements to the initial idea and make it even more funny. Like these times I remember.

-They used to go to the Super Chevy Car Show each year. Most people would believe it to be a car show to show off your sweet ride. M & M Jimited made it a point to have the cookiest car there. Do all types of crazy things to the car before they evn pulled outta town. I can't remember if it was them or Louie's younger brother Joe and his cousin Stevie who did this but one year I remember a purple station wagon, with swirl painted on the hubcaps, a barber chair installed in the back with a plastic dome covering the hole in the roof with a giant squirt gun positioned out of it so to shoot at cars as they cruised down the road. Things like that were normal for M & M Jimited.

-They used to be a giving pair. I can remember two instances. The first was Halloween. The second, Christmas. During the week of Halloween, mom took Tim, our sister Tricia and me to the local pumpkin farm to get us one. We came home, carved it up real nice, put it on the porch and baked the seeds. The next morning as we walked out the door on our way to school, on our porch sat the biggest pumpkin I've ever seen in person. No lie, my dad had to get the neighbor to come over and help him move the damn thing it was so big. The second was, on the same porch, as we left for school one morning, a 20-foot tall christmas tree that M & M Jimited must have wrapped a chain around and pulled it out of the ground with a truck.
-Everything was left at the front door of our house. Not sure where things were left at other houses, but the "gifts" from M & M Jimited were always at our front door, begging our neighbors to come over and ask what the story was behind it. Like the time dad opened the door to scoop the Sunday paper off the front stoop and, much to his suprose, was greeted by a stop sign, with 10-foot pole still intact, and a great boulder of concrete at the bottom. They must have used the chain and the truck again!

But sadly, after the call that morning, it seemed like the funny things that happened so frequently, kinda stopped. Louie had died on a snowmobiling trip up North. And the family that he belonged to, and the families that adopted him as a member of their own, had to learn how to cope with that. His parents, his brothers, his sisters, his best friend, his cousins, aunts, uncles and my little brother, who knew nothing about life yet, all asking why Louie was gone.

So, Louie, 21 years have passed without you. But not a single day has gone by without somebody having a memory of you.

Lawrence "Louie" Moorman
Dec. 26, 1966- Dec. 10, 1988

Sunday, December 6, 2009

This is My Country

People say with the architectural history and parks, the city of Chicago is a beautiful place. For the most part, I agree with 'em. The skyline's amazing, but only if you're far enough away from Chicago to see it. The old school buildings are beautiful, but only if you know about old school buildings. On the other hand, there's a place which isn't Chicago, or any other large city in the world, which blows the whole lot of 'em outta the water when the topic of beauty is brought up. Nobody there is rushing to get anywhere. They take each day as it comes. Sit back, relax and enjoy their rides. It's called the country.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Things That Make Me Mad: Part V


The young and pretty are all confident. The old and ugly...ignored. But just because you've got more money and better suits than the cats who wear denim and white cotton t-shirts to work, doesn't really justify you as young and pretty, friend.

Corporations run this country and say they'll save us all. Mom and pop grocery stores are closing because of the imported goods sold by the corporations are cheaper. But just because you're a corporate cock sucker on your phone with your accountant, secretary or mistress and lying to us every chance you can to make us feel good so you, in return, can feel good about the horrible shit you do just to earn an extra buck, doesn't qualify you as a better person, fucker.

Some of the ugliest shit happens in board rooms, where the people who pretend to care about other people sit and sip their Espresso's and chit-chat about their monumental gains in the stock market or the fact that the company's work force has just been cut in half so they all could have higher salaries. When I say they, I mean the bitches who are sitting, sipping and chatting, not the they who have just been informed their best friends, the guys who've worked next to them for the last 35 years, have been let go because the company has decided to go with a younger work force. A younger work force who have no experience, determination or any fucking clue that $5.75 an hour ain't worth it.

These people, these leaders of the free world, these board members of America, all hold us close and pretend to listen when we speak. But, like statues of stone and gates of steel, the bastards can't hear us. Or at least they don't want to hear us.

Once I was told that all mistakes are learning experiences. But when these mistakes are made, and the results are for the better, shouldn't it be the person who did said "mistake" who gets the pat on the back and the credit and not the mother fuckers who sit, sip and chit-chat in those board rooms who reap the benefits for bettering a product?

Lesson learned from that "mistake" indeed sir, lesson learned.

All the lies are true, and all that's false turns out to be fact in these board rooms across the globe. OK, maybe not in all of them, but in a good 99.74529871243% of them.

Things That Make Me Mad: Part IV

Once upon a time, somebody who I once held very closely to my heart, told me that she'd love me forever. I believed her because, I too, thought that I would love her forever.

When she left me, I knew why she decided to do what she had. But like most 21-year old men, I pretended that I had no clue and blamed everything I could for her departure on people other than me.

After her, I fell in love with girls faster than a jar of baby food run through a 6 month old child. Now, I really don't know how fast that is, but it seems like those little shits, well, shit as fast as they eat.

The sad thing wasn't how fast I fell in love. The sad thing was that I barely even knew the girls who I convinced myself that I was falling in love with.

Sure, I knew their names, what school they went to, their favorite drinks and the bars that they enjoyed bull shitin"' with me at but other than that, I really knew shit about them.

But still, I could trick myself into having that great feeling of love, or even better, falling in love with them. This was all before I knew that there was a difference between love and lust.

Now, some 10 years later, I know that I never really loved them, nor was I ever falling in love with them. I was lusting them. I wanted to get them naked and do all the dirty things that only married couples were supposed to do. (BTW, I never thought that only married couples were supposed to do all those dirty things.)

Lets go through the list of girls that I was crazy about, shall we.

#1. Dez.
When I met Dez I was 21, she was ten years older than me. She was a bartender at a bar in the town I worked construction in. The first time I met her was when a went in for a couple beers with the guys I worked with. She walked over to me as soon as I sat down and told me that she was going to get me fucked up so that she could fuck me all night long. What? I didn't even order a beer yet and this sexy older woman was telling me that she would wake up next to me the next morning. Dez was about 5'7, long blond hair, huge fake boobs and an ass that looked like it belonged to an 18-year old. She was divorced, had two kids and fucked every which way to Sunday you could. Of course I thought that I loved her.

#2. Gina
She was a beautiful hair dresser/bartender in the city next to my home town. She was 5'10, had really short hair, angel wings tattooed on her back, a great personality, a smoking hot body and was older than me by five years. Every time I'd walk into the bar that she worked at, as soon as she seen me, she'd pour me a Guinness Lunch Box (Guinness, Orange juice and Amaretto-tastes better than it sounds) and grab me a Miller Lite. Because this beauty took care of me so damn well at the bar, I assumed that she was cool with me, that even though she was older than myself, somehow, I had a chance with her. And because I was 21-years old, I didn't know that bartenders, sexier than hell female bartenders, did that kind of stuff for guys so that they would get better tips. And better tips she did get from me. Fuck, on a Thursday night, a night that ALL bottled beer was only $1, I'd still end up spending $50. About twenty of which were beers for my buddies and myself, the other $30 to the beauty behind the bar.

#3. Leslie.
Leslie was younger than me. I met her when I was 23, she was 21,I think. She was a beautician and, surprisingly, a bartender. The night I met her I told her that I thought she was beautiful. She kissed me. She was 100% Italian, tall and had legs that looked like they went from the floor to her neck. She'd call me around two in the morning on Tuesday nights to tell me that she was going to the only 4 AM bar in town and wanted to see me. Of course I would go, she was hot. When I'd show up, we'd talk and drink and flirt like we had just gotten married. You know, when married couples still did that kinda shit at the beginning of their marriage. I was comfortable with her so I thought that she was the girl I was to love. Wrong.

#4. Tiff.
Tiff was the same age as Leslie. Went to the same school as Leslie. Even partied at all the same places as Leslie. And for good reason. Tiff was Leslie's best friend. She was tall, blond hair and had a nice body. The cool thing about Tiff, besides the already mentioned, was that she played guitar better than anybody I knew at the time. There was something sexy about that. Seeing her on stage with her Martin, strumming the strings, singing her song, all while looking directly at me. But, I read too far into that. As I thought that she was trying to tell me that she was into me by looking at me while singing, she really was just using me as her "focal point". Now, a "focal point", for those of you who don't know, is a spot, or an object that you look at while on stage to take your mind off of the crowd. She never did tell me why she chose me, but when I asked her to go for dinner, and refused, she never did use me again.

#5. Kell.
Kell was a massage therapist and, like 75% of the previous girls, a bartender. She wasn't really crazy hot, but she was that girl next door hot, which really made her crazy hot. Understand what I did there? She had a nice body, an amazing personality and the cutest smile of anybody I ever met. She bartended on Sunday's during Bears games at the bar I used to frequent. And I'd be there every Sunday at 10:30 in the morning to claim my seat dead in the center of the bar to catch the game. But really, I was just sitting there to catch a glimpse of her as she served beer in her very tight Neal Anderson jersey.

Now, except for #1 on this list, I never did date any of these women. Hell, I don't even think that what me and #1 did together each night after the bar would be considered dating now that I think about it. And none of these women ever knew how I felt about them really. I'm sure that if I did tell them that I thought that I was in love or falling in love with them, they would have smacked me in the face and told me that I was a creep. Or they would have used that old, tired excuse of "I like you too much as a friend. I don't want to screw up our friendship."

And now at thirty, I know that the girl who told me she'd love me forever, really did love me at that time. And I really did love her too, at that time. But the other women that I confused lust for love with, I never truly loved. I loved the idea of loving them. And the ways that they looked and acted. And the things that they did, in the bedroom or on the stage.

But I never really knew what the fuck I was thinking back then. Nor did I realize that I never had a chance with a single one. Something I wish I realized the night I met each.

Time to Move On

I've been looking at the past to try and determine what the future holds for me, all together, it doesn't look too pretty.

I've always believed that it was a waste of time to stay retained in the moments of yesteryear and the thoughts and hopes that were held so closely, that never did turn out the way you had hoped.

That one should move forward without doubt and without regret.

But sometimes, it's just too damn hard to forget the ones you loved, or still do love. And you pretend that you never really loved them as much as you truly did, but while doing such, you're the only person you're foolin'.

I finally moved on. And before we meet again, on some sunny beach a thousand miles away from nowhere, you too, need to realize that what we pretended to share oh so many years ago, was just a pair of young fools in love. Nothing more.

The love we had was real, but the hopes and dreams and wishes that we shared were only there when our eyes closed at night. And they were nothing more than hopes, wishes and dreams.

Baby, it's time to move on.

She aint comin' home

The crumblin' death of me for all the things I gave her; my heart, my soul, my mind and my trust, is unavoidable. It has eroded the four most precious things that I can give anybody, her truth has. She will not hear me say that I’m sorry for what I did. Nor will she hear my voice echoing in her ears ever again. I'm finally sayin' goodbye.

Close your eyes and sing a lullaby to yourself at night and dream of the freedom I give you by carryin' on, alone. Don’t cry because I’m gone, there will be no tears shed for you by me. It's so insignificant to me now when I look back, those turmoil’s I ventured through everyday, trying to find the right things to say and do, just to make you love me again. Sadly, I wasted far too much of my life trying to attain the unattainable things you have asked for.

I loved you truly, madly, deeply for so long, but as you read this letter, I despise you and everything you pretend to stand for and believe in so you can impress people that you don’t even know. What’s the point in that? What’s the point of trying to impress anyone? The one’s that say they hate you understand what you’re about. The one’s that say they love you don’t even know you.

There will be a wind, eventually, screamin' out your window and waking you in the darkness of a lonely night. That'll be me. Finally screaming and venting the anger you have filled me with the past year.

I'm sure you’ll be better off without me. And maybe whoever it is that you pretend to love next will accept the fact that you don’t really love him for him, but for what he has. I need to do this. I can’t live with myself knowin' that I continually disappointed you. You were a sleek fancy car for me to be seen with. I, your charity case.

Without a whole heart, a broken soul, a mind that has turned into a steamin' pile of Great Dane shit and without the ability to ever trust another person again, I bid you farewell.

Bye-bye my one time lover. Bye-bye....my never friend.

The One

I went to meet her family the other day, which was a surprise, seeing how she’s told me a countless number of times that she is an orphan. I’ve got an addiction I guess, and only certain people know about it.

I love it when she pulls the shades down and stops the moon from peeking its glaring eyes in upon us. She likes to wear dark make-up, which is pretty hot considering she has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, and that brighter than the sun gold cross she wears on her neck glistens ever so bright off her dark Italian skin.

Reminds me of the Seven Spanish Angel’s that Willie and Ray sang about in song years ago. You know that song? About a woman that loved her man so much that when he died in a gun battle against the old school South Federalalies, she picked up his gun, knowing that it was without bullets, just so the coppers would blast her down, so that she could go with her man to the promised land. Because she knew that she couldn’t live without him.

I hope that I make her feel the same way. She’s told me that she loves me. I know that I love her. But I can’t tell her. I’ve tried too, but each time the words just came out wrong. Perhaps I’ll tell her I love her in song? No. Did that for another years ago. New plan.

When I talk with her, I talk in riddles, unknowingly. When I answer, it comes out as a whisper. All the attention in the World isn’t enough for her. To her it is. But I need to give her more so I don’t fuck this up. The memories of yesterday keep getting jammed in my head and they scare me. I can’t take it anymore and I want them to leave. Memories of the things that I’ve done in the past to push the very few that I’ve loved away scamper into me at night. I hide under the blankets like a little boy afraid of the rain.

I gotta do the right thing. If it’s this or that, I don’t know. Holding her hand as she’s beside me, breathing the air from her lungs, looking at nothing in her eyes....nothing but the truth. I will hide in shadows no longer.

Nothing seems to brighten the dark and gloomy and wretched things I call my heart and soul any more than seeing her beautiful face, smiling, while she bounces about the floor with the happiness of a small child. We pretend that we’re alone. And her fingertips play the same song on the dance floor as I’m playing on the stage. She’s been hurt. I’ve been hurt. But I promise you, fuck, I promise her and I promise me, I will never have a reason to hurt her.

My heart feels like lightning, white lightning, burning brighter and hotter than anything else. I guess it’s about time to learn to live again. It’s about time to learn to love again.

But, in all the ways that she is like me, she’s not like me. And I don’t care. As long as she keeps coming with me, I don’t care what she’s done in the past. I’ll take her as is. I don’t mind and I don’t care what she was, as long as she doesn’t mind and she doesn’t care who and what I was in my past. And it seems that she doesn’t.

Maybe I was born to tell her "I Love You." And she, me. Maybe I was born in February of ‘78. And maybe I was born in May of ‘07, when I met her. In my mind, I’m still a little boy. She’s still a little girl. But I got a feeling that feels like the Devil is ripping a hole in me. The things I was ashamed of, I ain’t anymore. The things that I used to do, I don’t want to do anymore.

Sleeping naked, under the blanket of her soul, kissing her lips. I want her to pull me from the stage and take me home, before it’s too late. Just to drive me home. And let me fall asleep and wrap me in the blanket that is her soul.

Maybe she’s the angel I’ve been looking for? Could she be?

Held her in my arms as she slept, without makeup, and listened to her breathe. Watched her eye lids dance to the music that was playing in her dream. And even though she was dead to the world, her fingers still played. All musicians are the same. You can take the guitar away, but the music never leaves.

The alcohol dried in my veins. And as I stood in the early morning rain, smoking a cigarette, those cool, cleansing drops washed away my fears. I used to know what it all meant, this thing they call love. And I think that I’m starting to understand it again.

Kurt Cobain

These are all songs, odes to the woman I love, odes to the woman I want to love, odes to the women that I used to love or someday hope to love and a collection of things that I regret everyday are all from another blog of mine. That blog is for guys eyes, if you get my drift and didn't feel like keeping this stuff on there anymore. Ramble. Ramble.
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Have you ever found yourself wondering why Kurt Cobain is dead? I mean, was it he that did it, or was it somebody else?

In a spare room, above the garage of a Lake Washington home on April 8, 1994 the 27-year-old “leader and spiritual center” of the band Nirvana was found dead, apparently from a shot gun blast to the head.

But just what happened to Kurt Cobain on that day in April? There are many who believe he committed suicide due to a drug over dose. And there a many who believe that his loving wife, rocker Courtney Love, either killed him herself or hired somebody to do it for her.

Below, you will find information about his death, and who I think that it was that either killed him or orchestrated his murder.

In May, 1991, Cobain first met his future wife, Courtney Love, at a L7/Butthole Surfers concert in Los Angeles. And based on their love for the same music, and musicians such as The Vaselines, The Melvins, The Meat Puppets, The Wipers and The Raincoats and too many drugs to list, the two began spending much time together as a couple.

In 1992, Love found out that she was pregnant, Cobain trusted that the child was his, and married her on Waikiki Beach, Hawaii on February 24, 1992. Perhaps Love had an idea that the baby, named Frances Bean Cobain (because Kurt thought that she looked like a lima bean in a sonogram) born on August 18, 1992, would slow her husband down in both life, and his career.

Perhaps Love wanted to slow Cobain down with his music because she, herself, was also a rocker. But instead of having the ridiculous amount of fan support and the fan following that Cobain had with Nirvana, Love was very unpopular with the same people that loved her husband so much. Many say that Love was using Cobain to increase her fame so that to sell more of the records she and her band, Hole, were making. It has been talked about that Cobain wrote many of the Hole songs that they played, without ever getting as much as a thank you in the jacket of the albums. Many people compare the relationship between Cobain and Love to that of another famous musical couple, John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

And she perhaps did slow her husband down a bit after she arrived in Rome, March 3, 1994. Cobain was diagnosed with a severs case of bronchitis and an additional diagnosis of laryngitis and was sent there the last stop on Nirvana’s Termianl Enis tour from Munich, Germany to recover. Upon Love’s arrival to Paris, she had a prescription of Rohypnol filled and went to her husband. The next morning, Love found Cobain in a state of overdose after he swallowed Love’s pills with Champagne. Or perhaps, Love tainted her husbands glass with the crushed drug.

Two weeks after that morning, Love called the police to tell them that Cobain had locked himself in a room with a gun and he was suicidal. After the police arrived, Cobain, more than willingly, handed over all of the guns in the home and informed the officers that he was not suicidal. When the officers asked Love how she formulated her ideas, she told them that Cobain had never said that he was suicidal and never seen him with a gun. So, she made the whole thing up?

One week later, Love hashed together a group of Cobain’s friends, other musicians and recording company VIP’s to make him see that he needed to undergo a detox program for his drug addiction. Cobain was determined to prove that he had no motives to kill himself, or to hurt himself, and he said that “he wasn’t doing anything that was self destructive.” He still went to the detoxification program to please the people who loved him. Perhaps he did this just to please his wife. Perhaps he did it to build his rep, nobody knows for sure. But it sounds to me that Love was just trying awfully hard to make the man that she said she loved, vanish.

And vanish he did. Two days after checking in to Exodus Recovery Center in L.A., a nanny for his daughter brought her to see Cobain. Later that eve, Cobain went outside of the center to burn a smoke. While doing so, he also climbed a fence an bailed out of the clinic.

Because nobody knew of his where about’s and very few had seen him, Love hired Tom Grant, a private investigator, to locate her husband. The day after, while forging her husbands mothers name, she filed a missing persons report with the county sheriff. On the document that she filled out, she deemed that Cobain was suicidal and in possession of one of his shot guns.

On April 8, 1994, Cobain’s body was found by Gary Smith, a Veca Electric employee who was at the Lake Washington home to install security lights. Smith has said that there was very minimal blood in the room, only a small amount coming from Cobain’s ear. He has also said that he saw no visible signs of trauma, an altercation, or any other foul play. Though the Seattle Police Departments’ autopsy report states that Cobain died of a “self inflicted gun shot wound to the head”, some find this idea hard to believe. As they should. How did Love know that her missing husband was in possession of a shotgun if she hadn’t seen him?

The same private investigator that Love hired to find her husband believes that Cobain was murdered. He believes that “the level of Heroin in Cobains’ bloodstream was 1.52 milligrams per liter.” And he has stated that no matter how much of a tolerance Cobain had for the drug, he wouldn’t have been physically able to pull the trigger of the gun. This has also been backed up by several notable experts on Heroin addiction. Grant believes that the dosage of Heroin in Cobain’s blood was used to make him immobile before the killer pulled the trigger.

He also believes that the suicide note that was at the scene was a letter that was letting everybody know of his plans to leave Love, Seattle and the music business. Several hand writing experts have studied the note and some have found it a bit odd. One has said that the entire note was written by Cobain, three, have said that the letter was not Cobain that wrote it.

Also, Grant has stated that if the position the body was found in, and if the gun that was at the scene of the death was indeed used, it would have been remarkably hard for Cobain to pull the trigger because his arm would have been to short to reach down the barrel of the gun to reach it. Signifying, that if Cobain was his own killer, he would have had to pull the trigger of the gun with his toes while the barrel was lodged into his mouth. And if he had to pull the trigger with his toes, it would have been remarkably hard to perform such an action with both of his shoes still on his feet. Which, oddly enough, they both still were.

Maybe Cobain knew who his killer was. And because he knew them, he thought that this was the best thing to do, set a scene of suicide so that the killer could continue on because he loved her, or him, and maybe their baby so much.

I believe that Courtney Love killed Curt Cobain. And I believe that he was the type of man that would allow his name to be tarnished as a coward that killed himself, so not to hurt the woman that he loved.Or maybe, this is just another attempt by the Lizard King to amass the greatest collection of musical masterminds together, as one.

Jim Morrison

These are all songs, odes to the woman I love, odes to the woman I want to love, odes to the women that I used to love or someday hope to love and a collection of things that I regret everyday are all from another blog of mine. That blog is for guys eyes, if you get my drift and didn't feel like keeping this stuff on there anymore. Ramble. Ramble.
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The Lizard King


Being considered as one of the most charismatic frontmen in the history of rock and roll really has to build an ego beyond capacity of the human head. Perhaps just hearing the phrase would cause a guy to develop an altered state of mind, a second personality if you will. And when you are talented in many things, and develop your art, or arts, into what people eventually know them as today, that is a true symbol of your greatness.

Even if you don’t live to see it.

He was a musician, a singer, a song writer and an intelligent person that was drawn to literature, poetry, religion, philosophy, psychology and Beat Writers such as Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs and Michael McClure. McClure was impressed by his poetry as well, and encouraged him to develop it further. And with that support, he wrote some of the strongest poems of American poetry. It almost seems that he was telling his life story, the way that he was seeing it from the after world, before he died. For example:

“He sought exposure and lived the horror of trying to assemble a myth before a billion dry ruthless eyes. Ask anyone what sense he would preserve above all others. Most would say sight forfeiting, a million eyes in a body for two in the skull. Blind, we could live, and possibly, discover wisdom. Without touch, we would turn into hunks of wood. Mates are first chosen by visual, not order or rhythm or skin. It is an error to believe that the eye can caress a woman. Is a woman constructed out of light or skin? Her image is never real in the eye. It is engraved on the ends of the fingers.”

If that isn’t a way to express how he felt about the number of people who watched his every step to see what he would do next, and him looking for somebody to truly love, and for that person to love him back for who or what he was, I don’t know what it could be.

James Douglas Morrison was born December 8, 1943 and Mr. Mojo Risin’, an anagram of his name, may have died on July 2, 1971 after moving to Paris to concentrate on his writings and to take a break from the lifestyle that he had been living. But do to French law, since there was no evidence of foul play or an attack that killed him, there was never an autopsy performed. And, according to Stephen Davis and the biography that he wrote about Morrison and the life that he lived, Morrison, “had blood around his mouth and nose and large bruising on his chest”, signifying that The Lizard King may have had a horrendous hemorrhage due to tuberculous. And people who think that he is deceased believe that he died as a result of a drug overdose.

But, does this really mean that Morrison is gone? Beside Pamela Courson, the police officers on the scene, the emergency paramedics, the mortician and two other people, nobody ever witnessed his body. For a man that was followed like a God, that seems to be a very minuscule number of people that can actually say that he is dead.

As members of The Doors have said before, Morrison used to say to them that after the band had reached a desirable level of acceptance and fame, he would fake his own death, much like one of his favorite poets, Frenchman Arthur Rimbaud. He said that he would do this to escape from the eye of the public, to be able to live the remainder of his life not under scrutiny from them and the media. Morrison told his band mates that he would write to them with the name Mr. Mojo Risin. And it doesn’t matter that none have ever received a letter, it is still believed by fans that he is still waiting to resurface.

There have been rumors that Morrison committed suicide in the Paris bathtub his body was supposedly found in. There has been talk about him being assassinated by the CIA because of the amazing amount of persuasion that he held over the American public, the young public, to be exact. There are people who believe that he was murdered by a witch and some that believe that he died while using a toilet at Paris nightclub, Rock and Roll Circus. But none of these can be proven.

There are even people who believe that he is living in Africa, India and South America. And even some who believe he is a cowboy in Oregon, living above a Quick-Check in New Jersey, a cab driver in Los Angeles, a car attendant in Chicago or just living anonymously in the great plains of North Dakota.

Beside the great music and thought that this man played and held, he has been an enormous influence on many great musicians. Musicians such as: Glenn Danzig, Patti Smith, Jude Rawlins, Eddie Vedder, Scott Stapp, Perry Farell and Henry Rollings.

But there are people who question if he is dead or alive or if he will ever come back. And I have an answer for them:

Somebody, a great singer, a composer, a poet, once said that HE was the Lizard King. That HE could do anything. People laughed and people learned both, at and from, those simple words. With glass of red and joint in hand he spread his words across the land. People smiled more people cried the day he sat in the wash, and died. His body has gone but his spirit remains,WE are this Lizard King.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Rest in Peace, Friend.

One day in 1995, me and the girl I was dating went to the shopping mall to buy something, what it was, I've no idea and really couldn't care less, but we decided to stop by the pet store in the next town to have a look at all the cute little critters.

Walking in, neither of us knew that we were going to meet the The Best Damn Dog in the World.

It took about 3.6 seconds for me to fall in love with him, a little Beagle pup. I told her that we had to leave, asked the guy who was working if he could hold the dog I wanted, that I needed to run it by my parents before I bought him.

He told me that he couldn't do that, that there was a strict policy about holding animals for people who "might" make a purchase.

I drove the 17 miles home in under 37 seconds (OK, I'm exaggerating) to run it past ma and dad. But, just my luck, they were not home. I was angry and a lil' sad because the pooch I had just fallen in love with would be, without a doubt, gone to somebody else before I could return to claim him as mine.

About 45 minutes passed before the parents returned home. I was so excited for them to get in the house so I could ask them about the dog that I couldn't keep my ass in the chair. I walked to the kitchen to throw away an empty can of soda and as I stood at the trash can, mom hollered across the house.

"Scott...come and see what we bought."

As I turned the corner to see what they had purchased, that cuter than hell Beagle that I was ready to beg and plead for was standing on the floor infront of them.

For the next 14-years, I watched that little Beagle grow up to be a full sized pooch. He ate whatever he wanted, drank whatever he wanted and, pretty much, was my best friend.

He would sit and listen to me whenever I needed to talk about somethin; face on my lap, right paw on my leg, starring at me as I talked with his big brown eyes.

He never bit a single person. Never got into fights with other dogs. I can't remember him ever even barking at other dogs. He was a friend of the furry feline, Newman, that lives in Chicago with me. And best friend to Faith the Weiner dog that also lives at my parents house.

I wish his departure could have been avoided and he could have stayed here to meet my future kids. But his time had come. So he checked in to Doggy Heaven late last night and right now, he's probably lying on the cool floor of the basement, or eating a medium rare steak (the ONLY THING I ever heard him beg for while the family was eating), or drinking water from a pool of water in the grass in the yard, just waitin, for somebody to scratch under his chin.

I'll miss ya buddy. You were a damn good dog...and an even better friend.

My Best Friend Cody, 1995-2009

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Things That Make Me Mad: Part III

People, in general, are a collaboration and collection of heart beats that are all directed toward the same destination:

Piss Freddy off Land

Don’t get me wrong, it's not my belief, nor will it ever be, that I am the center of the universe. No matter how very nice that might be.

But everyday, people consistently continue to amaze me and push me to levels of anger that I never knew existed. And these people, their ideas, their thoughts and the stupid shit they do are as follows.

1. Automobiles with giant, over sized spoilers on them.

I often wonder, while driving behind a little Mitsubishi Eclipse piece of shit, if the driver even knows what the purpose of a spoiler is? They are to keep whatever they are attached to, on the ground with down pressure. But “Johnny Cool Kid’s” mommy got him the 3 foot tall spoiler to pimp his ride, so that he could pick up "dem hoes" and bang out in the Burger King Bathroom.

2. The fucking idiots who, after seeing that the light has just turned from green to yellow at the approaching intersection, put the petal to the floor to speed up and try to beat the light.

While the whole time all of this is going on, they know that they are going to slam on the breaks, slide five feet into the intersection and pull the wheel hard to the left to avoid colliding with Granny Smith and her dog as she walks home from the grocery with here bag of apples.

3. Commercials before a movie.

I don’t mean the commercials on the home movies or DVD’s, I mean the commercials before the movies in the theater. The point of a commercial is to get people motivated to go out, at that second, to purchase the “end all-save all” product that they have just seen on the screen, right? Why then, after I just paid $18 for two movie tickets, $27.75 for a tub of popcorn (extra butter and salt), a bag of Gummy Worms, a box of Snicker’s Bits and two large vats of Diet Coke (trying to watch the figure), do the dip shits running the theater think I’m gonna lift my ass out of the little cushy chair to go and purchase a new 18 inch fucking box fan?

4. And since were on the topic of movie’s, two more things.

First, why can’t these teenage douche bags working behind the counter selling the tickets speed their shit up? Is it so depressingly hard for you to hit a button, pull the ticket stub and move on to the next person in line?

Secondly, I understand that some movies are so damn good that people will go back for a second, third or any number you want to put here, viewing. But why do these asshole’s seem to find it an absolute necessity to blab about how the film is going to end five minutes into the damn thing? Shut your pie holes!!!

5. Smoking.

I smoke. You may not. And because of this, I will remove myself from the public common area to have my smoke. I’m not going to blow smoke at you or intoxicate your lungs with the carcinogens that I have decided to pollute myself with for the past 15 years. So, as I stand outside in the rain, snow or blistering heat, more than the mandatory boundary that the city of Chicago has passed (all smokers must be more than 15 feet away from the entrance to any public building) don’t you fucking dare fake cough as you walk by me. I might just punch you in the back of the head......bitch.

6. That little smart asshole/bitch that we’ve all had in class.

You know who I speak of, the dicks who pretend that they are disappointed in themselves after scoring a 95 and not a perfect 100% on a test. Listen, you little fuck, I scored a 75%, you want mine?

7. Morons who scream common names in the hallways.

HEY MIKE!” Thirty five people stop walking and turn around to see who it was that just yelled their name.

8. People who put lawsuits on companies for hurting them.

Well, not all people versus companies, but the idiots who have eaten a Big Mac a day and have smoked a pack a day for the past twenty years, suing MacDonald's and Marlboro for them being obese and having lung cancer. Shut up. You did it to yourself. Get over it.

9. Cursive penmanship.

Most likely, the people who write memo’s and letter’s in this manner, are the only people who can read them. And CEO’s of companies wonder why shit don’t get done.

10. Hallmark Holiday’s.

Mothers Day. Fathers Day. Christmas. All real holidays. Valentines day, Presidents Day, Earth Day. Are not. And if they are, why isn’t “Blowjob Day”, “Do Your Girlfriend and Her Hot Friend Day” or “Put it in Wherever You Want Day” included on this list?

11. Girls who say things like:
a- I think I'm fat. Do you think I'm fat?
b- My boobs are too tiny.
c- Do you really like me.

My answers:
a- If you think that you're fat, does it really fucking matter if I do? Why don’t you quit crying about it and start busting your ass in the gym?
b- Your boobs are not tiny, as a matter of fact, little titties are better than huge knockers. All you need is a handful, anything more is just a waste of flesh.
c- If I didn’t really like you, I would have answered yes when you asked if I thought you were fat or bought you bigger tits.

12. The people who look at their tissue after they blow their nose.

They understand that there will be snots, maybe some blood, wrapped within the tissue, but still need to have a peek. Do they think they will be able to analyze the holdings of their lungs with a once over on their boogers?

13. When people say that you have just made a “stupid mistake.”

Are their smart mistakes....smart ass?

14. Girls who cheat in games of pool so that they can win.

Well, actually, this does give a pretty good description of the cheating whore’s before we find them in OUR bed with some other guy that they shot pool with at the corner pub.

15. Puerto Rico not being a state.

It’s better than Indiana, and that shit hole’s a state.

16. Lincoln Park Trixies.

Enough said.

17. Writing essays for classes other than English.

Like the essay I wrote about the Civil War in high school. I got a “D” on it because of the grammatical errors and it not being a smooth flowing read. It didn’t matter that it included some of the best fucking information ever attained about the war or information that the instructor didn’t even know himself, because I didn’t do it with the AP Style book sitting on my lap, I got the poor grade. Thanx teach....cock sucker.

18. The phrase: “You gotta give 110% to win.”

Well coach, all I got is 100%, so if I’m gonna lose the game because my 100% wasn't enough, there really is no point of me getting out onto the floor now is there?

19. "Hands Free" devices.

Not really the devices themselves, but the people who have the “hands free” devices for their cell phones connected to their shirt collar, but still hold the fucking wire of thus “hands free” device in their hand while talking on it.

20. The fact that it is completely impossible to know if somebody is being sarcastic or not, on-line.

A Visitors Guide to Chicago

Each day of the week I see at least five people not from Chicago that came unprepared for the elements this city offers everybody. They may be by themselves or with large groups of people, with a back pack strapped on and a camera dangling around their neck. Every big city has tourists /visitors like this, but when they are here, close to none of them actually understand how this city works. And because of their ignorance, all travel agents should have this list of information about the Windy City.

F.Y.I. It’s not called the Windy City because of the wind off the lake. Politics is the true reason.

The first topic on this list is the climate. When it's a certain temperature in Chicago, it will mean a completely different thing than what said temperature means in your home town. A few examples:

- When it's 60 degrees here, Floridians wear coats, gloves, and woolly hats. People from Chicago hit Oak Street beach and sunbathe.

- When it's 50 degrees here, New Yorkers try to turn on the heat in their hotel rooms. Residents of the Chi plant gardens.

- When it's 40 degrees here, people from Nevada let their Italian cars heat up for 45 minutes. People of this city drive Chevy's, Ford's and SUV's with the windows rolled down.

- When it's 32 degrees here, distilled water all over the globe freezes. The body of water that is Lake Michigan doesn't, it just gets thicker. CHICAGO BABY--NO PLACE LIKE IT!

- When it's 20 degrees here, people from St. Louis shiver uncontrollably while Chicago people have the last cookout before it gets cold.

- When it's 15 degrees here, New York landlords finally turn up the heat to keep their tenants warm while we throw on sweatshirts.

- When it's 0 degrees here, Californians fly away to Mexico. But people from Chicago lick flagpoles (never said we were smart) and put a light jacket over our sweatshirts.

- When it's 20 below here, people in Miami cease to exist while the people of Chicago bust out our winter coats.

- When it's 40 below here, Hollywood disintegrates while the Chicago's Girl Scouts begin selling cookies door to door.

- When it's 50 below here, Santa Claus abandons the North Pole and Chicago people become frustrated when we can't thaw the keg.

- When it's 60 below here, Microbial life survives on dairy products while the cows of Illinois complain about farmers with cold hands.

- When it is 460 below here, ALL atomic motion stops. But the people of Chicago start asking others if it's "Cold 'nuff for ya?"

- When it is 500 below here, Hell freezes over and the Chicago Cubs win the World Series.

But it's not just the climate difference of Chicago from the rest of the country/world, there are other things too.

Things like:

-When you first land at O’Hare or Midway Airports, each person must learn to pronounce the city name correctly. It is Chi-ca-go, or Cha-ca-ga depending on if you are visiting places North or South of Roosevelt Rd.

-If your road map is more than a few weeks old, throw it out and buy a new one. Streets and roads, and the names of both, change here at least twice a month.

-Forget the traffic rules you learned elsewhere. Chicago has its own version of traffic rules... "Hold on and pray."

-There is no such thing as a dangerous high-speed chase in Chicago. We all drive like that.

-All directions start with, "I-94" ... which has no beginning and no end. The morning rush hour is from 5AM to noon. The evening rush hour is from 3PM to 10PM and Friday's rush hour starts Thursday morning at 7.

-If you actually stop at a yellow light, you will be rear ended, cursed at and possibly shot.

-When you are the first one on the line at a stop light, count to five after the light turns green before moving into the intersection so to avoid crashing into drivers running red lights.

-Construction on the Northwest Toll-Way is a way of life here and a permanent form of entertainment. We have so much fun with this construction, we decided to add the Elgin-O'Hare Expressway (which oddly enough, doesn't go to either Elgin or O'Hare) and I-355 to the mix.

-All unexplained sights are explained by the phrase, "Oh, we're in Cicero!"

-If someone actually has their turn signal on, it is probably a factory defect on the car.

-Car horns are actually "Road Rage" indicators.

-First Ave, LaGrange Rd, NorthWest Highway, (Rte’s. 12-20-45) all mysteriously change names as you cross intersections. Even though all three highways, are THE SAME FUCKING ROAD!
-If asking directions in Cicero you must know how to speak Spanish.

-If in Bridgeport, Mandarin Chinese will be your best bet. If you stop to ask directions on the West or South side you'd better be armed.

-A trip across town (east to west) will take a minimum of four hours. Though the city is only 10 miles wide

-The minimum acceptable speed on the Dan Ryan is 85 MPH. Anything less is considered downright sissy.

-The wrought iron on windows near Englewood and Austin is not ornamental.

-The Congress Expressway, commonly referred to as the Eisenhower Expressway,
is our daily version of NASCAR (though often at speeds that don't exceed 5 mph).

-The Dan Ryan Expressway is called "The Death Trap" for two reasons: "death" and "trap."

-If it's 100 degrees, it's the Taste of Chicago. If it's 10 degrees and sleeting/snowing, it's opening day at Sox Park.

-If it's rained 6 inches in the last hour, the Western Open Golf Classic is in the second round.

-If you go to Wrigley Field, pay the $25.00 to park in the "Cubs Lot" across the street. Parking elsewhere could cost up to $2,500 for damages, towing fees, parking tickets, etc. If some guy with a flag tries to get you to park in his yard, run him over and park the car.

Chicago, baby. My Kinda Town




Sometimes in this city of mine, you do get a chance for something pretty.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Just shut up!!!

As I sat in class this afternoon, the uppity "my life is so great" bitch who sits behind me kapet rambling on and on and fucking on about how glad she was that December had finally arrived.

I turned around at one point and asked her what, exactlly, made December fill her with so much glee.

"Well, there's Christmas, and then my birthday, and then the end of the year and the star of another. Everybody should love December. You get to see all the ones you love, open gifts, celebrate all the good things that happened the past twelve months, and say goodbye to all the bad things, too. It's not just becuase my birthday."

Well excuse me.

Oh. I'm glad that your life is so perfect that when the tree in your house is all decorated with twinkling lights, ornametns and tinsel, you'll be excited. Unlike me, who will probably just put the fucking tree against a wall in the corner waiting for somebody to come home and decorate it with me.

And I'm also glad that you can relive all your great momnets of the past 12 months and celebrate them. I, however, no matter all the good things that I can count from those months, will only relive the day that the woman I love more than anything told me that she didn't love me anymore as she walked down the hallway and out of my life.

Happy Fucking December.

Monday, November 30, 2009

I got a sickness...

...and I need for it to leave me alone.

It's not like I can take a pill or drink some cherry flavored syrup or have a needle jammed into a vein and my body filled with some type of healing serum.

The only thing that can cure it, unfortunately, is time. And sadly, I feel I may be running out of that.

The worst feeling I thought that I ever felt kicked my ass 10 years ago. Easily, I'd swap that pain for the sorry fucking pain I've got now.

I should have...I could have...I would have...none of that means dick now. It's over. An ice cube in hell has got a better shot than what I got. And at the same time I realize this, that same ice cube has got the same shot in hell as I do with getting over this.

Just to hear her say, "I love you Bear" one more time...to hold her tight against my body protecting her from the dragons that dance through my room...to see those long lashes colored black...those mahogany eyes staring at me...her perfect, well, her perfect everything...how did I let myself fuck it all up?

You can say to let her go and to get over her all you want, but you'll never know a thing about how I really feel. There is no way, no matter how good of a writer I pretend to be, that I could ever portray my love for her on this screen or a sheet of paper or lying on a couch talking to a shrink.

She's the only person in the world who knows how I feel. But what she doesn't know, or refuses to understand, is that I would wait as long as she wanted me to for her to come back home.

And I know she wont ever come back home. But I keep crossing my fingers, and praying, and making wishes at certain times of the day that she would.

Why, at 32-years old, do I have this fucking love like I'm 18 again? Why do I think that she is the only person on the planet that I will ever want to be with? Why is she the only one that I want to be with? Why can I let her have my heart, if she doesn't want the fucking thing?

I hated when she told me she was just a kid the last time we spoke on the phone. I hope she really doesn't think that about herself. She was one of, if not the strongest woman I've ever known. And I don't mean physically.

I've moved on, Waterbed. But it wasn't a fucking easy thing to do. Sorry I wasn't as strong as you were. Even though you're gone, and I know you don't want to be here with me, I had to stop lying to myself and pretending that I was over you. It took some time, but I got there.

The last time this kinda thing happened, I was 22. About 6 months after it happened that time, I had my wreck. To this day, I still swear that the wreck was what got me over that one. Glad I didn't have to die again to get over you.

But maybe that's what you wanted.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

You Crazy, Fucking Mess

Last evening, while killing time before I played guitar at a bar, a sexy little blond (+1 point), with green eyes (+1 point), above 5'8" (+1 point), a smoking hot body (+1 point) and a very unique name (+1 point [don't ask]) interrupted me as I drug the Marlboro smoke into my lungs.

"Excuse me" the lass said, "You're Freddy, right?"

I lifted my head a bit, looked at her, let it slowly drop back down and told the newest bar-chick-who-wanted-to-get-with-the-guy-who-plays-on-Wednesday-nights, yes.

"I've heard that you're a pretty good guitar player and an excellent singer," said she.

With such flattery, of course my interest in her began to rise.

"But you smoke. You're crazy if you think I'd ever fuck you," spoke her.

Did I start the conversation with her? Was my attraction so obvious to her to build the assumption of me wanting to skip my next set so I could take her back to my joint and bang out?

Nope.

She walked away from me. I blew the next drag of smoke toward the back of her head.

20-minutes later, she was back. And much to my confusion, she asked if I was Freddy again. Again, after nodding, she told me that I was crazy if I thought she was going to fuck me.

What? Did she suffer from some sort of disorder which made her forget she has already spoken to people?

I took the stage, played a set and re-took my stool at the bar for a short break. Withing minutes, the confused girl was back and before she even opened her mouth I told her I was Freddy and I didn't want to fuck her.

She made a silly face at me and walked away.

Another set I played, another break I took, yet again, another visit from the loco lady.

"Excuse me, are you Freddy?" says she.

I just looked at her with disbelief and tired of having the same conversation with her. Ignoring her and ordering another drink, I felt her hand on my back. As I turned to remind the crazy mess she had already told me I had no chance with her, and all the other fun shit she had said, she opened her mouth and told me that she wanted me to come home with her.

"What's your fucking deal," I say?

"I only said those things because I wanted you to want me. For you to think I'd be a challenge for you", says the goofy broad.

I'm crazy?

Because of You...

Because of you,
I'd lie motionless
on the floor
in the dark room,
waiting for your return,
just so you'd put me back in your mouth.

Because of you,
I'd sit patiently,
without words to anyone,
sipping drink,
burning a smoke,
just to hear you ask me to come home and
fuck you after you got off.

Because of you,
I let the one true love,
well,
what I have determined as my one true love,
stop loving me,
move on and marry,
just so I could hear you tell me
that I was the best you'd ever had.

Because of you,
I'd let myself drive after drinking
so that I could remind myself
we were nothing but fuck buddies
and never could be or would be
anything more.

But...........

Because of me,
you got angry and stormed off into the dark,
to climb behind the wheel
and speed off into the night.

Because of me,
your daughter can't talk to you
about the things I'll have no idea about,
and your parents
can't hold you in their arms.

Because of me,
there are flowers every Friday,
a song every Wednesday,
and the family that should have been
is not.

Because of me,
I never let myself see
that all the times you told me
that you loved me,
you actually meant it.