LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

AMANDA WORE A POLKA DOT DRESS AND THE HOT DOG LADY WAS FANTASTIC

ok.  i may or may not be drunk.   ok.  this may be repetitive or not.  ok.  so i'm shy.  sort of.  anyways, i went to this place called the echo.  its in echo park.  which makes sense.  i like that when things aren't so nonsensical.  anyway, i have a friend.  his name is khayeed.  we like to pretend we are the smothers brothers.  its pretty great.  anyway, phluid (i'm using that moniker because i'm not sure if i'm spelling khayeed right) is very direct.  which i like.  because i'm shy.  and i like to communicate everything in sideways glances.  anyway, i'm 33.  and i'm learning that some things matter and some things don't.  i'm handsome.  and a genius.  for serious.  its okay.  it doesn't make sense to me either.  you can stop reading this blog (five people) if this puts you off.  but seriously.  i'm shy.  or not.  anyways, i was looking at this girl with polka dots and a nice something.  i feel she was giving me the stink eye.  i'm 33.  i've had my head up my ass and my last girlfriend (it had been 12 years was very beautiful and smart but not so wonderful as far as safety goes.  and what not.  she is way ahead of the game as far as I go and I don't think I want any part of that game.  like croquet.  croquet is retarded.  it isn't even a sport.  and as far as things like that goes, i don't want it to be a sport.  today in wired magazine - wait esquire - my sister is in it posing naked - which is weird because she's my sister but things like this are important - because its esquire and she's been acting since she was five years old.  i think its pretty wonderful that she's still standing and kicking ass.  she's my sister and i love her.  but she is naked in esquire which is weird.  i'm working some stuff out right now.  which i ask that you don't hold against me.  but you can if you want to.  life is better that way.  when you can make fun or put some sort of something on someone for being very strange or not but its cool cuz i'm not a fan of disneyland either.  anyways, i was there at the echo and i went there because one of the nice ladies really gets all emotional and its quite beautiful when she sings.  i have to say, it really is something.  the band is called crooked cowboy.  from what i hear, the lady has this thing as far as things go and she may or may not be short for this world - but god damn - she really goes for it which made me all teary eyed while watching her - she had a red stripe across her chest and she wasn't wearing any shoes.  and at one point i was taking note of this and thought, she isn't wearing any shoes and seeing this makes me feel calm.

anyway, i was drinking.  i'm sorry.  or not.  but it may or may not be important.  the other day i think i heard somebody say something about me being a raging alcoholic but i don't know what that means.  i don't think i'm raging.  i'm not raging.  no way.  i'm not the type that rages.  ok.  maybe, i am but i never did anything to denote this, or maybe i did.  please send me an explanation in ten words, ok, maybe fifteen as to what "raging" means when speaking of someone who drinks. 

anyways, i'm done seeing lady with the thing that may make her short for this world that filled my eyes with tears because i like those people who are mindful but still scream and i find this kind of sighting to be inspirational and i kinda sorta fall in love all summer camp like - but it isn't.  i know this and i incorporate this into my approach - here it is - god damn - you are something - it may be just you but i have to admit it is more so the way you let it rip which may or may not have something to do with how i know - or not - time is short. 

i thought, at this point of a music video where there is a section where someone - like me - watches the lady's feet and gets lost then you time jump to another reality where it is = in no way shape or form anythintng like you imagined or hoped for.  this is consistent with art. 

anyways, i was out back trying to stand still.  something about the echo changed.  it was slanted.  and i noticed it.  and i asked about it.  and no one had any answers for it.  and i thought this was great because it is sort of a litmus test, of sorts, where, as far as gravity goes - my people will be at the end of the hill with me.  perhaps holding - or appreciating the way something verticle and made of chain link can be you ultimate defense. 

anyway, so i'm there in the back and there is this other lady wearing polka dots and i think she's giving me the stink eye because i'm most certainly giving her mine.  and we look and look and there is the unicorn moment and i don't have my seeing eye glasses because i left it in my parents car when we went to the farmers market in santa monica.  i hadn't talked to them for - actually that;'s a lie - i haven't hung out with them for a few months of my own volition = this revolving around a girl.  and something else which was really disconcerting but we won't get into that because i've realized you can't trust everybody. 

that's just retarded.  in the most pre p.c. of ways.  you get the point, right?  you've been to new york?  you've dreamt of amsterdam and read camus, right?  don't be a freaking robot.  retarded.  its only semantics. you know what i mean.  its okay if you stop reading this blog because of my lack of give a shit for things like this.  with gods speed and what not.  marco and polo and what not.  if you love something set it free and what not.  anyway .  . .

she was wearing a polko dot dress and we were giving each other the stink eye.  i was being a pussy.  for dramatic effect i'll say a twat.  looking looking looking - i'm 33 - looking and its fresh because i have no reputation - i'm going into it raw - like an organic item at the farmers market - where my parents and i went to when i lost my glasses -

you see what i mean.  you can stop reading again.  i'm rolling and it feels good.

anyway, i'm back there and this one in polka dots and atomic bomb era dress sits down after we keep doing the lock on and i balk.  i really do.  i just sit there.  it was wide and alive and plain.  i

AM NOT CRAZY I AM NOT SCHIZOPHRENIC MY INTUITION AND POWERS OF PERCEPTION IS SOUND

and in the case of things like this i'm 33 and i appreciate an honest interaction. 

anyway, phluid (aka kahyeed - so what, i'm a creative speller) was like - just bust into the crowd of those folks and speak your mind. 

so i waited and waited and waited and waited then it was time to leave (insert more eyes and trepidation - i'm 33) and i finally got the cue to leave, stood up on the bench on the hill that was slanted and walked right over into the crowd and was like :

hey.  i'm bryan.  she giggled and said she was amanda.  i said, i wanted to say hi before i leave.  your polka dots are very nice and i like you.  and she giggled then i was like, okay then.  i have to go - then left. 

i have to tell you, i feel very nice right now because it was freaking liberating - but i'll be honest = after i did the bold i bolted.

one can not fly in one day. 

but it was nice.  in retrospect, next time - i'll say, i'm a genius.  i would like to wrestle with you.  i think that would be great.  because that idea makes me smile real big too.

the end of this story ends with walking out in front of the echo and buying a hot dog.  the hot dogs in front of places here are fantastic.  they cook it on foil.  they are warm.  the lady had a nice hat on and she had onions and there was a table with every condiment on it including mayonaisse and PARMESEAN CHEESE!!

E GAD.  my lady friend picked it up and didn't understand it.  i did.  its paremesean cheese.  god damnit.  i turned that thing on its head and shook that freaking thing and freed it of its bounty like disneyland never ever existed - the pirates of the carribean - that big blockbuster that negated the musty smell that that little boat and water injected into my senses - god damnit - fuck it.  nothing can take away from that smell.  the next time you're at disneyland get on that fucker and pay attention.

anyway, i put the cheese on my hot dog and couldn't stop laughing at myself because that interaction felt good and i really like her face and smile and polka dots and the laughter was the prize and it made me laugh all the way home where i asked for cigarettes (i now have three laying on the table at 11:46 pm) because i quit. 

and now i'm at home thinking about the evening and the way i walked right into the midst of them and said hello - it was a victory - for better or worse - but more better than worse because that's just a turn of phrase like everything - and i'm smiling and laughing at myself because every thing worth anything drifts in through the open window. 

god damnit, i love sunday afternoons caring for nothing on the bed. 

i love the smell of fresh laundry. 

which makes no sense but drop any logic and think of that smell and sunday and an open window and you may or may not understand what i'm talking about.

i think i could have loved her but i will never know.  without my seeing eye glasses i won't know what she looks like without the dress and the context of the evening. 

but, its okay.  the poetry remains.  and the creek still babbles.  and you may or may not read this thing anymore - jackson five and the irregularity. 

its okay. 

i am going to smoke some cigarettes and drink some beer then wake up in the morning and learn about photoshop, dreamweaver, and all that other shit - and sit in on a conference call about credit card processing. 

daddy's gotta eat and nobody is going to take care of me.  and in the next year, i want a home for my dog.  and polka dots have significance this evening. 

i love those things.

polka dots and atomic bombs. 

like the fourth of july and a turkey sandwich. 

seriously.  drop the logic and think of that day when you eat that thing and watch things explode in the sky. 

you know? 

goodbye. 

amanda. 

hello. 

seriously. 

goodbye. 

TONIGHT, I MET RAY BRADBURY (the story)

Holy fuck, right?

He is an old cooter, in a wheelchair, with some fantastic medal from France around his neck (its a good one), A Pulitzer Prize and a whole lot of awesome with horn rimmed glasses. I expected his "chariot" to come with turbo boost. Sadly, it did not.

Nevertheless . . .

I went to go see a production of F 451 last night with some friends last night to go see a guy that one of my friends is friends with in the play. Honestly, it was a diversionary/obligatory field trip because the group of friends I was going with are trying not to be big gigantic enormous assholes and live the healthy life and what not. Later that night, we were supposed to go to another friend's b-day party (there is a trend here -- a whole lot of it -- perhaps the overuse of one word --- wait for it --- wait for it --- got it? yes. a whole shit ton of friends) and for the most part that meant that we had a 95% chance of reverting into asshole-ism.

There is something to be said that when a stranger asks how "all you guys" know each other or how did you guys meet that the best you can come up with is during the "goood time" period.

i'm sounding like an old fucker. god damn it. but the point is that i'm a drunk asshole and hate dickhead babies who can't just shut the fuck up or let the cock scowl roll off of their face and not say "nice vest nice vest nice vest well hmm -enter poorly crafted smug remark with cold handshake and cascading derisive cackle slash commentary within the earshot of A GOD aka, Little Rodney Perriwinkle - that's me.

wait. what was i saying. i think that's something else. wait. wait for it. wait for it.

i wrote "friendship" on a roll of toilet paper in the ladies bathroom while taking a standing piss and it made me smile - it distills the purveying sense of hostility - both ping and ponged and backsie forthsie - of the evening. i felt it in my heart-quake and drinking finger so as far as going to see the play to cut into the length of the evening went - I was drunk.

I say this because I think that it took me a second to remember that I met Ray Bradbury before coming to the party. The satellites were blaring. All was awkward. Subtlety was a dingleberry flipped up onto the tip of MLK's beautiful and prophetic nose and at things, like birthday's, there's love for the people you haven't seen for a while but also, quite equally - there is a reason why its been so long since you've seen them.

You dig?

Anyway, its like - how you doing - how you doing - what's going on - how was your day? And at moments like those you have to ask yourself - am I going to be truthful? Am I going to do the Positive Energy thing? Am I going to be clever and say something like "Unbelievable" - it is perfect for virtually any life situation. Am I going to do a double answer thing - I'm great (tonality a welcome mat saying come on inside watch my face - its got the pain of an afternoon struggling with opening up the mini-blinds on it but I've got an excellent money making opportunity that you can get in at the ground floor with) with a backwards reeeling - fine - ok - alright - shit man, things are fucking life. you know. life. l-i-f-e-. (cue the crickets).

Its hard for me. (I realize I'm rolling around from subject to subject all circular like but I am in the midst of a writers block and reconsidering my relationship to happiness and things of importance and things that are not so much). I'm realizing that the way I'm operating lately is that my gut tells me what to do in the matter of a split second - and if I can predict your response - I'm going to fucking run. For better or worse. As far as broken records go, I'm gonna fucking run. That being said - I feel my life is a broken record and the answer to "how you doing" can be tricky as far as that stuff goes. Especially when its gotten to the place where your strategy is to get out of your own god damn way (an abstract - undefined yet poignant phrase that defines my everything) is to go to see a play - in south pasadena - with no idea what kind of production its going to be and if your ass is going to hurt - yet happy that your not so obese because - unrelated - it really fucking blows when you are sandwiched in between two tiny midgets when you way 363 pounds. One may think its the other way around - fat guy crushing happy theater goers - which costs 20 bucks these days - but as much as the little people are uncomfortable the fat guy is equally uncomfortable (locally) however as far as the community goes - he feels their discomfort too.

RUNNNNNNN.

Anyway, its 7:36 pm. I'm finishing a cigarette while watching one of my friends look around to see if anybody is there - I didn't jump out to say "hi" because I am supposed to be quit smoking so that wasn't going to happen for a second even though friend wouldn't give a shit and as far as the "plan" went I was the one who broke the "pact" - apparently a bet was made, or more accurately an agreement - and I was the coin to be flipped and the side I landed on was . . . well. I joked I was either the hero or demon - synonymous with martyr.

e-gad. oh, well.

I get out. I say, "Hi". He says, Ray Bradbury is here. I say, "No shit." And he said, "Fer serious." And I was like, "Woah". Then we went inside.

There he was, in all his mobile splendor - sitting there (self evident for a wheel chair) and my friend was like, "you should ask him something" and i was like, "huh" -- because the truth is what can I ask a guy like that. Look at his life. His words. His legacy. The way he sits. The way he rolls. The way he is in some theater in South Pasadena - and you really have nothing to ask someone like that because the answer is there - in front of you - and if you have to try and come up with ONE concise question to ask someone to break open the secrets to everything you need a better relationship to everything and questions to ask.

The best one can do in that situation is either spy and memorize from a distance and listen to other people's questions - or go up to the brother from another mother or sister from another mister and shake mr. wonderful's hand.

(insert blank space of non writing where i go through the personal experience and goosepimples and head pops that one should have when on a date with anything theater - this word theater not limited to walls - more like a mutant sense of sight - but that's another rant another place another time. basically, its one of those experiences where you DISAPPEAR)

Reverse for a second.

Before the "insert blank space of non writing" experience, Ray rolled up to the front of the stage and spoke to us. Basically, this man - this literate, soulful, intelligent respected man told us, the audience - the mildly interested - the pedestrians of containment and remorse - that everything. I'm talking everything. Every decision he's made. Everything he's written. Every war he decided to fight. Every thing that kept him on track to where he sat right there in front of us - still alive and bright (this last sentence is my own "theatrical" spin on things) was about LOVE. It has always and always be about -- love.

Which changed the viewing experience from the cliff notes take on things about 451 being about "censorship" to something more tactile with breath and heart and a longing for contact in a cold world - love - skin - ideas - compliment - the connundrum ---- to talk about the devil so one can recognize the devil - a whole slew of ideas and concepts that I'm trying to organize (thus the disappearance) --

fucking shit, friend. Love.

Then the quick breakdown of resolve. Then the general distaste and satellites and the desire to escape it. Then the vest. Then the toilet paper roll. Then the defensive posturing of my new self over the old self's projections. A sharpie with the word friendship on it. A lot of terror and excitement. Gradations of good and evil. Significant and not. A writer's block of sorts. A great sadness for this . . . I'm confused friends . . . and then the question:

How you doing? Its been a while. What's been going on?

At some point, I realized I had the perfect answer for everything:

"Tonight, I met Ray Bradbury."

He’s still alive and he spoke of love.

ONE MILLION AND ONE

at any given moment
there are a million things
happening all at once.

for every million things   
there is always someone
to say one million and

ONE.

and i agree with them.
there is always a one to
be put on the top of the
million. 

like a cherry on a huge scoop
of shit. 

sometimes
some people
live somewhere
far apart from themselves
where they can see it swirling 
all the god damn time. 

this can be wonderful.
this can be too much. 
but this is how it is
so one has to learn
how to make the most
of it. 

sometimes the best we can
do is dumb ourselves down
for a second and drink like
nemo, wear nice shirts and
fuck like cyclists. 

(my favorite one of these mechanisms is love)

yes, it makes one dumb. 

from time to time it becomes very
important to utilize such things
and face absolute absurdity
with a concerted vacation. 

the necessity is sort of autonomic
like sleeping.   

sometimes to feel the
sensation of a substance
commandeer your body
like a thousand threads
brushed up against your
skin will turn the warmth
of something that whispers
into a lightening rod
that fuses you to yourself
like the equation:

element plus conduit = the preservation of your home

which

rests on the earth that houses
the worms that feed on your
ancestors who mix with the granite
that embraces the burning center so
that it warms instead of incinerates
your world.    

however,
one can only utilize the
lightening rod for so
long before it
turns.

this is not a theory.  this is an eventuality. 

if cover is the standard
it is unavoidable that at
some point the inverse 
will come for you.

SCREAMING. 

in
those moments when
the sight is amplified
and the electric illuminates
everything; you realize and
understand the futility of running.   

this is what happens when one clocks
the oracle cooking itself with the spoon
or any other creatively descriptive thing
less salty but lived in
as the bad ass
known
as your one million and one
self
lives on.

pretension rides bitch in the sidecar of your
triumph.   

this strikes like everything. 
disembodied you watch it.

ruined forever.

the psychodrama.
the music.

it becomes comedy
and its in the clear. 

to ignore this is unbearable. 

it is in these moments that
you can decide to go on
gasping and blowing trumpets
to summon the horses in tribute
to the “players”.   

or something less dramatic,
like grin. 

it is nice when Shake’s season
of discontent becomes less
spasmodic and we find a natural
pause in the commentary where the
dot drops like Christmas onto
the blank page of grandma’s
mitten.

i am here.  this is happening.  shut the fuck
up – and listen to otis redding, slightly buzzed, belly
full of meat –  and enjoy it. 

this is a convoluted and complicated way to  liken the
moment to catching a snowflake on the tip of your
tongue.

a fingerprint in your one million and one reality. 

which becomes quite beautiful and makes
perfect sense when you trade eyes with someone
who realizes they are being watched and loved
by you:  it returns to you, the one, like lightening.

it is special.  this reality.  and it is yours.  dear cherry.

there are wolves in the woods.   

try not to make a habit of squandering it. 

TONIGHT, I MET RAY BRADBURY

the power of an idea.
the conundrum one does not like. 
the ethos we pass on.
web fabric in the pursuit of love.
long ago, i realized the pitfalls
of zero talk. 
but not tonight.
some say its crazy talk.
i say its Fahrenheit 451.
which will make sense somewhere.
a moment that will pass.
drunk.
alone.

its closing time, you whores. 
myself included.
unrelated. 

contact please. 
the old man distilled
everything down to

LOVE.

which is weird for a man
who writes with virtually
no sense of humor.

but . . .

**********************************

for the story - more coherent behind this night/experience go here:

The Story of Me and Ray

MAXIM

do not sleep.
face your death with rebellion.
these days may be the last days.
pick something worthy
and
fight for it.
your armor is gone now.
do not wait for the metamorphosis.
do not wait for magic.
do not wait for illumination.
for them to wake up and
take action
and see
and give.
make your own openings.
it is not impossible.
you may not see it now.
but it is not impossible.
you are a far more creative
and resourceful person
than anyone has ever given you
credit for.
you will take care of many in your life.
resist the urge to speak death.
be medieval on your rot.
feed yourself good food.
drink clean water.
listen to music.
take vitamins.
take your medication.
love someone.
laugh.
think beyond what experience allows.
you have not yet arrived at
your true calling.
it is beyond anything
anyone has ever expected.
but
you have always known this to be true.
trust your intuition.
allow these things to work for you.