10-17
Something like 5 pm: Pennsylvania
"Lawrence County Line", snow on the ground, etc. Oh, Pittsburgh. ideas ideas.The trees all look spun from gold.
Eastern Pennsylvania is beautiful. This is one of those blessed days, listening to Loveless and watching snow fall in the mountains.
I've taken to writing the following day, it seems, rather than at the end of the night. Probably because the past few nights' ends have been drunken and busily euphoric. Euphorically busy?
We stayed at a huge house in Pittsburgh last night owned by a true Dudebilly named Junior. He had a full bar in his basement, and we stayed up late as he refilled shot glasses and got choked up talking about Wanda Jackson. I smoked Dirty Johnny's weed out of an apple with Timmy, and sat around bumming cigarettes and sipping glasses of Disaronno.
Junior's house was Frank Lloyd Wright's Hillbilly Pennsylvania Nightmare; an old, sprawling three story monster nestled on a cliff side overlooking a lushly tangled holler of glowing green weeds and wrecked Cadillacs. An oasis in the middle of a city that, for all of its industrial magnificence and tiered cityscape, will remind me mostly of being cold and wet, all the buildings the color of factory exhaust. I love it all, though. Everywhere is home.
Something like 6 am: Brooklyn
Spun, twisted, and confused in NYC. A splash of images, structure. Superstructure, infrastructure. I was a damn fool tonight, maybe, but I successfully navigated Manhattan bridge traffic for several drizzly hours, sweaty-palmed and smoking. There are no rules here. Ignore lane markings, speed limits, traffic lights. Honk for no apparent reason. Wave at New York's finest as you drunkenly carry beer out of the bar and stumble straight into them, or while you hotbox the van with a sweet big guy named Dirty Curtis. Shiver-fits. Coy glances and monstrous puke sessions. Lost under bridges, wondering about definitions.
Shea informs me tonight's a good night in Springfield. I'm in New York City, a million miles away, and I'm lonely. Loneliness is becoming a natural state for me, neither positive nor negative. Just natural. I can deal with it. I miss Springfield and I'm lonely and a million miles away. I'm in New York City, just another lonely kid in the loneliest city in the world.
I can deal with it. Sometimes you just have to free fall and pretend you're flying.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Rainclouds and Cigarettes: Bridges, Bridges, Bridges
10-16
Song ideas come and go. Everything is so immediate, one experience after another, each feeling or emotion being immediately replaced by another each time I take an on-ramp or pass under a bridge. "I see your name everywhere, on roadsigns and bridges and lakes" or something like that. It's all I've come up with, or all I can remember.
The drive into Athens was breathtaking. I fell instantly in love with the town and the gorgeous mountains that it is nestled within. It's apparently the most haunted town in America, but I saw nothing to hint at this sinister legend. It was crisp and serene, refreshing.
Met up with Ian, and we of course picked up right where we left off. Many beers, many shots of whiskey, and many bowls of the "best weed in Ohio", and I was fucked. Relying on the kindness of strangers, as always, we crashed with a nice couple who gave us beer and cigarettes, and cooked us hot sausage and gravy this morning, to be eaten with great relish as we watched old episodes of Tales from the Crypt.
Money in my pocket, I'm free to eat a little better. I cherish each meal as if it's fit for a king, or like a death row inmate's last request. A stomach full of warm food is my chief concern each day, and I take none of these divine meals for granted.
I ran into Dirty Johnny and Jeff, from the Makebelieves, in Athens, having completely forgotten that they were from the area. Dirty Johnny gave me a nickelbag of weed in gratuity for my having given them a place to stay in Springfield, which seems like a lifetime ago.
I'm never going home. Each day I feel further and further from the individual who left Memphis just seventeen days ago. Not even three weeks. Some convictions have been bolstered and reinforced, some have been dashed on the rocks and tossed out the window like a cigarette butt. I'm softening, and I'm hardening. Transformation, all that. No greater catalyst for growth, for better or worse, than days upon days of alienation, blinking under bright gas station lights, staring at highways and horizons, dreaming about girls and guitars, unsatisfied and totally content. Plenty of time for thoughtful solitude despite the constant camaraderie that whirls about the van and the crash pads like a horny, sweaty tempest.
The follows us still, but that didn't affect the graceful roadside beauty of Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania today. I don't know what we've dubiously dubbed the magnificence of this area (Alleghenies? maybe?), but that's beside the point. Bridges and turning tree.
Pittsburgh is dark, gloomy, wet. I'm sitting in the van drinking cold coffee and listening to rain on the roof and the mediocre rockabilly bleed from the bar's window. Inside there is free beer, beautiful young ladies, friendly faces and backslaps and warmth, but I'm where I want to be, keeping silent sentry in this driver's seat, the only place I feel comfortable anymore, and squinting under the dome light.
No idea where we're staying tonight. You wish I was there to warm you up, and I wish the same. New York tomorrow. I wish I'd brought a warmer coat.
Song ideas come and go. Everything is so immediate, one experience after another, each feeling or emotion being immediately replaced by another each time I take an on-ramp or pass under a bridge. "I see your name everywhere, on roadsigns and bridges and lakes" or something like that. It's all I've come up with, or all I can remember.
The drive into Athens was breathtaking. I fell instantly in love with the town and the gorgeous mountains that it is nestled within. It's apparently the most haunted town in America, but I saw nothing to hint at this sinister legend. It was crisp and serene, refreshing.
Met up with Ian, and we of course picked up right where we left off. Many beers, many shots of whiskey, and many bowls of the "best weed in Ohio", and I was fucked. Relying on the kindness of strangers, as always, we crashed with a nice couple who gave us beer and cigarettes, and cooked us hot sausage and gravy this morning, to be eaten with great relish as we watched old episodes of Tales from the Crypt.
Money in my pocket, I'm free to eat a little better. I cherish each meal as if it's fit for a king, or like a death row inmate's last request. A stomach full of warm food is my chief concern each day, and I take none of these divine meals for granted.
I ran into Dirty Johnny and Jeff, from the Makebelieves, in Athens, having completely forgotten that they were from the area. Dirty Johnny gave me a nickelbag of weed in gratuity for my having given them a place to stay in Springfield, which seems like a lifetime ago.
I'm never going home. Each day I feel further and further from the individual who left Memphis just seventeen days ago. Not even three weeks. Some convictions have been bolstered and reinforced, some have been dashed on the rocks and tossed out the window like a cigarette butt. I'm softening, and I'm hardening. Transformation, all that. No greater catalyst for growth, for better or worse, than days upon days of alienation, blinking under bright gas station lights, staring at highways and horizons, dreaming about girls and guitars, unsatisfied and totally content. Plenty of time for thoughtful solitude despite the constant camaraderie that whirls about the van and the crash pads like a horny, sweaty tempest.
The follows us still, but that didn't affect the graceful roadside beauty of Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania today. I don't know what we've dubiously dubbed the magnificence of this area (Alleghenies? maybe?), but that's beside the point. Bridges and turning tree.
Pittsburgh is dark, gloomy, wet. I'm sitting in the van drinking cold coffee and listening to rain on the roof and the mediocre rockabilly bleed from the bar's window. Inside there is free beer, beautiful young ladies, friendly faces and backslaps and warmth, but I'm where I want to be, keeping silent sentry in this driver's seat, the only place I feel comfortable anymore, and squinting under the dome light.
No idea where we're staying tonight. You wish I was there to warm you up, and I wish the same. New York tomorrow. I wish I'd brought a warmer coat.
Rainclouds and Cigarettes: Hungover and Hungry
10-15
Hungover. A rainy morning in Cleveland. Didn't write anything last night, too busy staying up with an impossibly pretty punk chick named Lauren, drinking beer with the boys and listening to Blatz.
Columbus was weird. Some drunk moron punched Doyle in the back of the head. This story doesn't deserve to be elaborated upon, but I'm not stroking my own dick when I say I handled the situation expertly.
A kid named Frank showed us around Columbus yesterday. He had lived on the streets, in and out of jail, for about twelve years, and had the jittery mannerisms and general physical appearance to prove it. His face was covered with tattoos, dominated largely by a criss-cross of railroad-track stitches to give the impression of a sad little sewn-together ragdoll.
The rain seems to be following us again after several days of relative sunshine.
The thought of a warm meal dominates my thoughts and dreams. I walk around gas stations staring at the rotating hot dogs, the gross little cardboard trays of fried chicken. Timmy and I sat at the bar in Chicago, watching television for the first time in weeks, and we had to turn away at each commercial for food. Heartbreaking. We take warm meals for granted. You have no idea how good a hot Sonic cheeseburger can make you feel until you've spent the previous two days living on almonds and oatmeal bars.
I've been completely out of money for about a week and a half now, but today in Athens I'm picking up a couple of paychecks as well as getting some money from Ian. I am salivating at the thought of a warm meal, all fat and grease and salt, paid for out of my own pocket. Reminds me of "Hunger", by Hamsun, and the protagonist driven mad by hunger, chewing on scraps of wood to try to satiate his panging stomach.
Lydia Loveless (Columbus, OH)
Linden (?): jolly fat kid from the rockabilly band (Rockabye Ransom? maybe?), said he'd help out with Cleveland shows.
15th House - Columbus DIY venue/punk house. Timmy and I got stoned as hell smoking resin with a cute little girl with Clash tattoos named Morgan. She plays drums in Rag Rage.
10-13
Surreal moments: Listening to opera while watching the Indiana landscape swing wildly between lonely and serenely dull countryside and the fire-breathing industrial wasteland.
the Pogues - Hell's Ditch
Hungover. A rainy morning in Cleveland. Didn't write anything last night, too busy staying up with an impossibly pretty punk chick named Lauren, drinking beer with the boys and listening to Blatz.
Columbus was weird. Some drunk moron punched Doyle in the back of the head. This story doesn't deserve to be elaborated upon, but I'm not stroking my own dick when I say I handled the situation expertly.
A kid named Frank showed us around Columbus yesterday. He had lived on the streets, in and out of jail, for about twelve years, and had the jittery mannerisms and general physical appearance to prove it. His face was covered with tattoos, dominated largely by a criss-cross of railroad-track stitches to give the impression of a sad little sewn-together ragdoll.
The rain seems to be following us again after several days of relative sunshine.
The thought of a warm meal dominates my thoughts and dreams. I walk around gas stations staring at the rotating hot dogs, the gross little cardboard trays of fried chicken. Timmy and I sat at the bar in Chicago, watching television for the first time in weeks, and we had to turn away at each commercial for food. Heartbreaking. We take warm meals for granted. You have no idea how good a hot Sonic cheeseburger can make you feel until you've spent the previous two days living on almonds and oatmeal bars.
I've been completely out of money for about a week and a half now, but today in Athens I'm picking up a couple of paychecks as well as getting some money from Ian. I am salivating at the thought of a warm meal, all fat and grease and salt, paid for out of my own pocket. Reminds me of "Hunger", by Hamsun, and the protagonist driven mad by hunger, chewing on scraps of wood to try to satiate his panging stomach.
Lydia Loveless (Columbus, OH)
Linden (?): jolly fat kid from the rockabilly band (Rockabye Ransom? maybe?), said he'd help out with Cleveland shows.
15th House - Columbus DIY venue/punk house. Timmy and I got stoned as hell smoking resin with a cute little girl with Clash tattoos named Morgan. She plays drums in Rag Rage.
10-13
Surreal moments: Listening to opera while watching the Indiana landscape swing wildly between lonely and serenely dull countryside and the fire-breathing industrial wasteland.
the Pogues - Hell's Ditch
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Rainclouds and Cigarettes: Cats
10-12
Harry: $2 (coffee)
Walt: $ .50 (jelly beans)
Timmy: $6.00 (chili)
An off day in Chicago. We walked for hours, explored various shops and alleyways, and were witness to a car jacking.
Tonight we're staying with a bizarre older lady who has several cats. The apartment smells like cat shit, and she refuses to let us shut the bathroom door for any reason, being that her cats' food is in there. This creeps me out, so Walt and I took a brisk walk in the rain to a nearby gas station to use their incredibly horrific facilities (dubbed the "Bathroom Chainsaw Massacre" by Walt). A small price to pay for modesty and seclusion while dealing with personal physiological functions.
Just as I have pledged not to turn down any free food or drink, as there is no shame in accepting charity in these times of vagabondism and diminished returns, so shall I take any opportunity to crash a little earlier if need be, and to get some much-needed extra rest. Particularly after a night that ended only at dawn, and particularly when the situation is so uncomfortably weird that an early retirement seems to be the only way to avoid any further anxiety. Bring on the dawn. I want to awake refreshed and free to shit and shower as I damn well please. It's a matter of principle, and I am a man of principle.
She spoke disdainfully of cigarette smokers with the angry, gleeful zeal of a racist, and likewise of dope smokers, knowing full well we were both. All of her shoes had giant lifts, some as tall as seven inches she informed us. I have no idea why.
And the cats. She kept referring to us as her cats' "new boyfriends". I try so hard to keep an open mind and not begrudge others of their customs or opinions, but when those rituals infringe upon my own comforts and interests as a modest and righteous individual, wary of his own safety and comfort (within reason, mind), a line must be drawn. This is especially true when I feel I am being subjected to inane ritual with a completely bullshit justification. I hate to beat a dead horse to a second death, but there are so few instances in which a human should be cheated out of basic amenities and and comforts for the sake of the relative comfort of a cat.
As I said, I try to keep an open mind, and to be respectful of others' convictions, but I've also been taught to not tolerate bullshit. This I cannot abide.
Morning Summation: Though I may have simply been falling victim to my own paranoia and neurotic insecurities, she did sit outside the (open) bathroom door and talk to each of the boys who dared to shower, as they showered. I waited until this morning, while she was at work, and took a wonderfully long, hot shower, disturbed not by cats nor cat ladies, and took full advantage of the surplus of fragrant and botanically-based soaps, gels, balms, and unguents that she had stockpiled in the shower. Now I smell like a whore.
Harry: $2 (coffee)
Walt: $ .50 (jelly beans)
Timmy: $6.00 (chili)
An off day in Chicago. We walked for hours, explored various shops and alleyways, and were witness to a car jacking.
Tonight we're staying with a bizarre older lady who has several cats. The apartment smells like cat shit, and she refuses to let us shut the bathroom door for any reason, being that her cats' food is in there. This creeps me out, so Walt and I took a brisk walk in the rain to a nearby gas station to use their incredibly horrific facilities (dubbed the "Bathroom Chainsaw Massacre" by Walt). A small price to pay for modesty and seclusion while dealing with personal physiological functions.
Just as I have pledged not to turn down any free food or drink, as there is no shame in accepting charity in these times of vagabondism and diminished returns, so shall I take any opportunity to crash a little earlier if need be, and to get some much-needed extra rest. Particularly after a night that ended only at dawn, and particularly when the situation is so uncomfortably weird that an early retirement seems to be the only way to avoid any further anxiety. Bring on the dawn. I want to awake refreshed and free to shit and shower as I damn well please. It's a matter of principle, and I am a man of principle.
She spoke disdainfully of cigarette smokers with the angry, gleeful zeal of a racist, and likewise of dope smokers, knowing full well we were both. All of her shoes had giant lifts, some as tall as seven inches she informed us. I have no idea why.
And the cats. She kept referring to us as her cats' "new boyfriends". I try so hard to keep an open mind and not begrudge others of their customs or opinions, but when those rituals infringe upon my own comforts and interests as a modest and righteous individual, wary of his own safety and comfort (within reason, mind), a line must be drawn. This is especially true when I feel I am being subjected to inane ritual with a completely bullshit justification. I hate to beat a dead horse to a second death, but there are so few instances in which a human should be cheated out of basic amenities and and comforts for the sake of the relative comfort of a cat.
As I said, I try to keep an open mind, and to be respectful of others' convictions, but I've also been taught to not tolerate bullshit. This I cannot abide.
Morning Summation: Though I may have simply been falling victim to my own paranoia and neurotic insecurities, she did sit outside the (open) bathroom door and talk to each of the boys who dared to shower, as they showered. I waited until this morning, while she was at work, and took a wonderfully long, hot shower, disturbed not by cats nor cat ladies, and took full advantage of the surplus of fragrant and botanically-based soaps, gels, balms, and unguents that she had stockpiled in the shower. Now I smell like a whore.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Rainclouds and Cigarettes: Sea-Salt Chicago
10-11
A drowsy day spent admiring the marshy Wisconsin countryside, and dodging deadly yuppie traffic outside of Chicago.
Now I am in a Chicago drug circle, resting cross-legged on olive green carpet on the fourth floor of an apartment building. Blunts are being rolled and bongs are being loaded. I'm a little drunk and a lot exhausted, and frankly have no patience for this sort of thing tonight, but I'd rather have experiences peppered with regret than dull nights of relative comfort and rationale, lost to the tide of true sea-salt memories.
(proving my point. . . .)
That was all hours ago, and now the sun is coming up through a pearly blue Chicago sky, blue like a smokey ocean. I'm being rocked to sleep by the rattling roar of passing buses.
bands:
the Dumpster Babies (Chicago, IL)
Wrong Crowd (Kansas City, MO)
venues:
Whitewater Tavern (Little Rock, AR)
Red Barn (Peoria, IL)
ledger:
Harry: $10 (Cracker Barrel)
Timmy: $2.oo (hot cocoa)
*the Cramps - 1st record
*Echo and the Bunnymen - Songs to Learn and Sing
A drowsy day spent admiring the marshy Wisconsin countryside, and dodging deadly yuppie traffic outside of Chicago.
Now I am in a Chicago drug circle, resting cross-legged on olive green carpet on the fourth floor of an apartment building. Blunts are being rolled and bongs are being loaded. I'm a little drunk and a lot exhausted, and frankly have no patience for this sort of thing tonight, but I'd rather have experiences peppered with regret than dull nights of relative comfort and rationale, lost to the tide of true sea-salt memories.
(proving my point. . . .)
That was all hours ago, and now the sun is coming up through a pearly blue Chicago sky, blue like a smokey ocean. I'm being rocked to sleep by the rattling roar of passing buses.
bands:
the Dumpster Babies (Chicago, IL)
Wrong Crowd (Kansas City, MO)
venues:
Whitewater Tavern (Little Rock, AR)
Red Barn (Peoria, IL)
ledger:
Harry: $10 (Cracker Barrel)
Timmy: $2.oo (hot cocoa)
*the Cramps - 1st record
*Echo and the Bunnymen - Songs to Learn and Sing
Friday, November 13, 2009
Rainclouds and Cigarettes: The North Country
10-10
I didn't write anything last night because I felt awful, naively drank a bottle of 'tussin, and promptly lost my mind. I still feel weird today, though a rib-sticking dinner at Cracker Barrel helped me feel a little more human.
We sliced cleanly through Northern Missouri yesterday, and though I myself am certainly guilty of a bias on the subject, I believe the general consensus was that it was the prettiest drive so far on this trip.
Tonight we're freezing our balls off in the North country. The bar the boys were supposed to play at wouldn't even let Timmy in the building, as he's just a pup at twenty, so while the rest sat inside and tried to figure out what the fuck was going on and got soused on the free beer, Timmy and I bundled up and wandered the chilly streets of downtown Milwaukee. We smoked cigarettes and drank hot chocolate, talked about girls and God and Dinosaur Jr and all the other important things in life, and pressed our chapped faces to the darkened windows of closed record and comic book stores.
I am the master of run-on sentences.
So now here we are. Milwaukee. We're sitting in the van, sucking on cough drops and spinning the radio dial. The van's heater feels so good.
Lake Michigan at night is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
I didn't write anything last night because I felt awful, naively drank a bottle of 'tussin, and promptly lost my mind. I still feel weird today, though a rib-sticking dinner at Cracker Barrel helped me feel a little more human.
We sliced cleanly through Northern Missouri yesterday, and though I myself am certainly guilty of a bias on the subject, I believe the general consensus was that it was the prettiest drive so far on this trip.
Tonight we're freezing our balls off in the North country. The bar the boys were supposed to play at wouldn't even let Timmy in the building, as he's just a pup at twenty, so while the rest sat inside and tried to figure out what the fuck was going on and got soused on the free beer, Timmy and I bundled up and wandered the chilly streets of downtown Milwaukee. We smoked cigarettes and drank hot chocolate, talked about girls and God and Dinosaur Jr and all the other important things in life, and pressed our chapped faces to the darkened windows of closed record and comic book stores.
I am the master of run-on sentences.
So now here we are. Milwaukee. We're sitting in the van, sucking on cough drops and spinning the radio dial. The van's heater feels so good.
Lake Michigan at night is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Rainclouds and Cigarettes: Kansas/City
10-8
I am getting sick in Kansas City tonight, battling illness with garlic and Bloody Marys. My nose has been running all day.
Still don't feel like writing. I like the town we're staying in tonight. It reminds me of home. I think it's called Silver Creek. We're staying with a big fat dog named Bojo, and his folks are sweet as hell and very accommodating.
So far, everything that gnaws at me or causes anxiety during this tour has nothing to do with touring or anybody I'm spending every day with. I'm exhausted, but ironically enough the promise of a five hour drive, and a nightly bout of drinking and music, are the only things that drive me onward.
I've gotten over heartache and headache before, and I have faith that all the old anodynes will prove just as effective as they've ever been. Bitterness and the open road. We'll cast our grievances to the wind.
This entry sucks shit. I'm going to bed.
10-7
Driving through Arkansas was beautiful today. Our passing through the Ozarks coincided perfectly with that supernaturally serene turning of the leaves. Fall in the Ozarks is held close to my heart, and I take delight in being witness to a small part of it.
I can't really write tonight. It's been such a busy evening, what with Shea meeting us in Lawrence and all. Fuck it, the muse is not with me tonight, no matter how pleasant the Kansas rain felt on my back.
I love the crusty dreadlocked chick whose house we're crashing at, and how she insisted on calling me Hank Williams all night.
I'll write you a letter tomorrow
Tonight, I can't hold a pen
W. C. Williams - collected poems (the revised 80's edition)
Frank Miller - "Ronin"
Mojave 3 - "Excuses from Travellers"
ledger:
Walt - $2.75 (chicken gizzards, potato salad)
Timmy - $5 (records in Lawrence)
I am getting sick in Kansas City tonight, battling illness with garlic and Bloody Marys. My nose has been running all day.
Still don't feel like writing. I like the town we're staying in tonight. It reminds me of home. I think it's called Silver Creek. We're staying with a big fat dog named Bojo, and his folks are sweet as hell and very accommodating.
So far, everything that gnaws at me or causes anxiety during this tour has nothing to do with touring or anybody I'm spending every day with. I'm exhausted, but ironically enough the promise of a five hour drive, and a nightly bout of drinking and music, are the only things that drive me onward.
I've gotten over heartache and headache before, and I have faith that all the old anodynes will prove just as effective as they've ever been. Bitterness and the open road. We'll cast our grievances to the wind.
This entry sucks shit. I'm going to bed.
10-7
Driving through Arkansas was beautiful today. Our passing through the Ozarks coincided perfectly with that supernaturally serene turning of the leaves. Fall in the Ozarks is held close to my heart, and I take delight in being witness to a small part of it.
I can't really write tonight. It's been such a busy evening, what with Shea meeting us in Lawrence and all. Fuck it, the muse is not with me tonight, no matter how pleasant the Kansas rain felt on my back.
I love the crusty dreadlocked chick whose house we're crashing at, and how she insisted on calling me Hank Williams all night.
I'll write you a letter tomorrow
Tonight, I can't hold a pen
W. C. Williams - collected poems (the revised 80's edition)
Frank Miller - "Ronin"
Mojave 3 - "Excuses from Travellers"
ledger:
Walt - $2.75 (chicken gizzards, potato salad)
Timmy - $5 (records in Lawrence)
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