Big Mama

It was a party night in Chicago. Dan drove hurriedly through the streets pointing out landmarks along the way. We were headed to The Baton for a song and dance review.

As Dan told tragic stories of Cabrini Green, I stared at the wet street zipping by and wondered if I was ready for my first drag show. I was not sure what to expect. Was it going to be fat guys with five o’clock shadows dressed in cheap thrift store cocktail dresses lip-syncing badly to It’s Raining Men. Was it going to be erotic and sensual thus making all the straight people a little nervous.

There was an ill-tempered little man working the door of the club as we tried to enter. Refusing to show even the slightest sign of a smirk he alternated scowls towards me and then at my out of state ID. Eventually after a consultation with some sort of management figure, I was allowed to pass through the doors.

It was dark. There were low red lights hovering above the tables and a few scattered white lights behind the bar, but mostly it was just dark. It was also the best smelling bar I had ever stepped in -- and I have stepped into many, many bars. It smelled like Christmas. After all the presents are open and there is that paper and sweat and joy in the air. All of that with a hint of bubble gum and gin lingering just beneath.

I sat down at a small table with a gin and tonic in front of me. I noticed the crowd all seemed to know each other. There were lots of hugs and smiles. There were many good vibes in the air. The sound system was pumping out some smooth jazz muzak tunes. This was a surreal environment.

The lights flickered moments before the stage lights came on. A woman of considerable girth strutted to center stage, glared at the crowd, and instantly took control of the room. It was Big Mama, the MC of the evening’s performance. Of course, technically, Big Mama was more suited to be a papa, but she was a diva. She sang a song and oozed attitude through out its length. The other “girls” came out and danced and shimmied and pranced.

As the show continued, I noticed the performers were actually very beautiful. You could tell they were men, but they were oddly sexy. As I was pondering this revelation, I began to notice the crowd in more detail. The beautiful women were actually beautiful men.

The songs went on. There were girls lip-syncing solo, there were duos and trios as well. They performed Billie Holiday and Aretha Franklin. They performed sultry jazz numbers and rave-up disco anthems. Each song built on the last and the momentum continually lurched forward. The crowd was in rapt attention; clapping and yelling wildly every chance we got.

The finale came in the form of a group performance from all the girls that included a chorus line and some Broadway choreography. The last beat hit and the lights went down as the audiences hands went up.

I felt like I was in a movie. The lush surroundings of this red lit bar and electric joy that pumped through all of us infused our mind and bodies with a natural euphoric high. There was diverse cast of characters roaming the bar. None of us knowing gay from straight. We were unable to differentiate genders. This was actually very settling. It took a burden off your shoulders. They were things that didn’t matter inside the four walls of this club.

We left the club and adjourned to a local pub. It was a pub full of stereotypes and prejudices. We assumed everyone was straight. Everyone’s gender was clearly assigned. I thought of the fears I had a few hours prior and realized how naïve they were. I was actually a bit regretful to leave. I was jealous of a community that exists outside of everyday society standards. I wondered what goes on behind closed doors all across the country. I learned that fun is fun, no matter the situation, or whom you love, or what you feel sexy wearing. I learned that men can be gorgeous woman.

Left Hand

Back when I would leave my land
I could take on any man
Using nothing but my left hand

Now I don't see the light
Except when it cuts through the dark
And I can't narrow my eyes enough to fight

Barstool of choice

Larry had been frequenting his pub of choice, The Shamrock, since he moved to Fridley last summer. It was the kind of establishment where mullets, white tennis shoes, and denim were accepted and encouraged. The first time he walked in to the bar, Motorhead was blasting from the jukebox. Therefore, Larry became a regular.

He started coming twice a week, then three or four times a week, eventually he was here pretty much every night. He drank Michelob Golden Light and smoked Marlboro reds.

The Shamrock was a local’s kind of place. Everyone knew each other, even if they didn’t necessarily speak to each other. It was a comfortable domain.

Then one night things changed in a peculiar way. A beautiful man walked through the door to the tune of Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town”. Larry would not normally call a man beautiful, but that is the word that immediately came to the front of his brain. The man was with two other squirrelly looking men. They came in sat in a corner booth and kept to themselves until closing time. They were drinking Guinness and smoking American Spirit cigarettes. All the regulars went about their routine: shooting stick, playing cards, and pumping quarters into the jukebox for Motorhead. All the while keeping one suspicious eye on that corner booth.

The next night all the regulars came back plus the beautiful man and his friends. Then something crazy happened, two young, thin, blonde girls opened the front door. They apprehensively scanned all the bodies in the building until their search found it’s aim. Once their eyes locked on to the beautiful man’s they strolled in as casually as two giddy blondes could. They sat at the adjacent booth the beautiful man and his squirrelly entourage and ordered a couple shots of courage.

The following nights followed the same pattern. Within a week, the place was packed nightly with young woman trying their luck at wooing the beautiful man. Larry sat at his barstool of choice, facing the front door, trying to glean insight from the bar chatter. Apparently, the beautiful man was a film actor. Larry heard the man’s name was Colin Farrel. Larry had never heard of him.

After a month, The Shamrock had turned into an MTV-spring break-girls gone wild kind of place. Tanned young ladies baring their boobs in tabletop dances. Mickey the bartender furiously scanning his bartenders guide to find recipes for exotic mixed drinks. Colin sitting quietly in the corner, unfazed.

Then the actor stopped showing up. The nubile young princesses quickly receded. Larry walked in on Wednesday night to a silent smattering of locals, sat down at his end of the bar, ordered a Guinness, and lit an American Spirit.

Bad Luck

So I was thinking about wolves this morning on the

drive to work.



That wolf in little red riding hood was kind of a

freak. Sneaking into little old ladies houses and

putting on their clothes. He is a cross-dresser. It

reminds me of silence of the lambs. What kind of story

is that to tell kids.



The wolf in the three little pigs. That guy caught a

bad break. You can't blame him for trying to eat the

pigs. He is a carnivore. He is hunting.

How did he know that the three pigs he was tracking

were actually construction engineers of varying

degrees. I mean imagine you are a wolf trying to hunt

down some dinner and all of a sudden your dinner is

building a fortress to keep you out.



The wolf probably improvised all that "huff and puff

and blow your house down" crap. But really he was

probably in shock. Looking back on it I bet he is

embarassed by it, but he was put on the spot by those

three clever swine.



It was unfortunate for him that there was a

documentary crew there to witness the events. I am

sure he was the laughing stock of the den when that

book came out.



It was scandalous.

Disintegration

When I was fifteen I started writing a movie. It was not very good. At fifteen I didn't know much about the world (hell, at thirty-one I don't know much about the world). It was basically a woeful tale of teenage depression.

What better muse for a movie of teenage depression that The Cure. I was obsessed with the album Disintegration. I listened to on my headphones on the bus to and from school. I would rewind the tape replaying the song Disintegration over and over.

I had the whole movie mapped out as a companion to the album. It was kind of like Pink Floyd's The Wall -- except at that point I had never seen The Wall. I don't remember any of what the movie was exactly. Luckily, that and most of my writing from those years are missing. Hopefully destroyed.

(Maybe one day when I am famous someone that finds those notebooks in the attic or something will sell them on eBay for thousands of dollars.)

I listen to that album now and I feel nostalgic for that morose teenage life. It just can't affect me in the same way. I feel the sadness. The album is still fucking great. But there are things that being a jaded thirtysomething takes away.

bye bye seventh street

The greatest rock club in the world has shut down. I am thinking it will only be a temporary closure but it is scary nonetheless. There have always been rumours of it's demise floating around the city. I don't think anyone thought this club could die.

They have been experiencing many difficulties lately. Lots of lawyers involved and feelings getting hurt. The recently ousted managers are rumoured to be taking over ownership once the current owner is shown the door. Hopefully Steve McClellan, manager for something like thirty years can right the ship as owner and manager.

We'll see. For now first ave stays dark.

XO

One year ago today I called my boss in the morning and told him I had some stomach problems and wouldn’t be making it in to the office that day. In actuality I had heart issues.

Elliot Smith stabbed himself in the chest with a kitchen knife.

I read the headlines and I read the message boards professing their love for him. There were many people who claimed to be unsurprised by an obvious end to Elliot’s life. I never thought he was capable of it.

Of course I know the sadness and desperation of his lyrics and the melancholy in those giant melodies. I always thought that there was a sliver of hope in those songs; or maybe I just hoped. I thought that he wrote songs about wanting to find a place to hide so that he did not have to find a place to hide.

I stayed home all day and listened to records. I found some interviews and memorials online that I listened to. I drank some booze and felt miserable by myself.

I still don’t know why it moved me so much. I didn’t know him. I didn’t really even know that much about him. There are scores of fans out there that knew his music more intimately than I. Still though, it hit me like a family member had died.

Elliot was like that older cousin that had seen things and done things you wish you had the guts to do. You wondered how you had the same blood. You worshiped him and feared him at the same time. And then he is gone.

Twilight.

www.sweetadeline.net

like blood off the backs of ducks

Larry opened his eyes and saw drops of blood raining down on the dirt below. The drops beaded and then soaked into the earth. He was not sure how long he had had his eyes closed. His hearing came back and he listened for sounds; the scuffling feet and the whispering voices. He felt he was alone.

He lifted his head to look...

People Have The Power

So you are 19-year old Conor Oberst sitting in your parents basement writing songs about your little brother drowning in bathtubs. Your audience consists of young indie kids dressed in black and in fact they look a lot like you. You are traveling around the midwest in vans playing small bars that you are not even allowed to drink in yet.

Jump ahead five years.

There are rumors about you and Winona Ryder having "relations." You are playing on Late Night talk shows. You are the buzz of the indie world and trying to shake the wunderkind title. Bruce Springsteen knows who you are. You are invited to play on the vote for change tour playing for mostly middle aged liberal boss fans. So here you are five years removed from singing about Nebraska cornfields and you are trading verses with Michael Stipe, John Fogerty, Bruce, and Neil Young in front of 18,000 fans on a Tuesday night in St. Paul, Minnesota.

You were dreaming in your dreaming.

www.saddle-creek.com

The mountain and the lake

I took a deep breath and the smell of coming rain filled my lungs. My little Ford Escort was pointed west. I was so thrilled that I could fit everything I owned into the backseat. I was headed to Minneapolis to live with Brian, an Air Force buddy of mine. The plan was to live through a Minnesota winter and then head to California in the spring. I had spent the last four years traveling the world. It seemed a perpetual force was pushing me along. That is the way I was looking at it; twenty-four years old and I just wanted to keep pushing. I gazed towards the sky as it ripped wide open. The cool drops of rain ran off the ends of my hair and my face and the tips of my fingers.

I drove out past the spacious farms and empty space and began to climb into the mountains. Driving those twisting turns and the exaggerated ups and downs, I felt there had to be something special on the other side. I noticed the sweet smell of the mountain air; it was the cold air you could taste from your mouth to the bottom of your stomach.

I wanted to feel this air on my skin. I stopped in a small Virginia town named Reginald. There was a dark building on top of a hill with a plain sign that read, “diner.” I walked in to find checkerboard floors and plush, red, vinyl booths. It was dark and dusty and smelled like old grease. I liked this place instantly. I sat down and picked up the well-worn menu. I ordered a burger and sat back to try to soak it all in. I couldn’t help but smile at the big-bottomed waitress marching around the place, as content a waitress as I had ever seen. I imagined a farmer gathering up his family to go out for a special meal at the diner. The big waitresses would be in their pink and white uniforms flirting with the father. Meanwhile Momma would be dancing to the jukebox with little Johnny. Everyone would have smiles as big as can be. I was thinking of this simple life as my food arrived. The tastiest burger I had ever had. Stacked tall with plenty of grease. I left a big tip and walked out in love with the world.

I started out on my way down the mountain. Things started getting flatter and I was racing towards the vastness of the Midwest. I drove as the sun shone down on the green of Kentucky. The skies began to darken through Illinois and by the time I reached St. Louis, it was night.

I decided I’d had enough driving. I was going to check out downtown. I found a quiet street to park on and walked until I found a bar. It had a neon tiger in the front window. I ordered a pitcher and some potato skins from the bartender. There was a basketball game on the television and I lost my feel for time for a bit. I don’t recall anything extraordinary about the inside of the bar. It looked like any other sports bar in any other city, filled with local team posters and dartboards and pool tables. Booths were filled with all sorts of men drinking and laughing. I felt lonely for the first time on this trip. I was feeling drunk and tired. The road had worn me thin and the beer was about to knock me out.

I fell into the passenger seat of my car and tried to lay it back as far as I could. With a back seat filled with everything I owned, I couldn’t move it much. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and fell asleep fast and hard.

I woke soaked with sweat. It took me a moment to find my memory. It was only three hours later. I didn’t know where I was or why I was there. It was startling enough to send me back behind the wheel. I headed northwest through Missouri towards Iowa. I started thinking about the dream I had woken so suddenly from. I was starting a new job as a ferryboat pilot. I showed up for my first day and all my family and friends were there. It was great; I was taking them across a serene lake and everyone was grinning. Then I realized no one was speaking to me and the grins were actually grimaces. My passengers were beginning to yell and they were coming towards me with ropes and broken beer bottles. I was forced to dive into the lake that was now raging and the color of blood. As my head dipped below the crimson waves I saw the ferryboat mob staring, except where their eyes were supposed to be there were just empty sockets.

My head was buzzing. The tiredness was putting up a good fight, but there was no way I was giving in. I was pointed north; towards Minnesota. I leaned forward and gunned past the small highway towns as the sun’s glow appeared all around.

God Bless Lemmy!

Larry had his black Fendi wraparound sunglasses on as he rolled down interstate 394 towards downtown Minneapolis. He was wearing a black Motorhead T-shirt and rust colored corduroy pants; this was what he wore almost everyday. He drove his PT Cruiser into the sun, put up the devil horns, and glanced towards the sky for a moment, as if mugging for the state highway camera.

The PT Cruiser was Larry’s dream car. He had saved for a solid year, taking a second job bussing tables at IHOP in addition to his daytime warehouse gig. He knew exactly what he wanted: the 2003 GT model with smoke gray leather interior, chrome features on the dashboard, and a six speaker Alpine AM/FM/MP3 6-disc CD changer although he rarely listened to any disc besides the 1980 classic “Ace of Spades”, by Motorhead. He wanted the exterior of the cruiser to be all black except for some painted flames licking up from the undercarriages as if the car was stalled on the side of the highway to hell.

In the middle of the dashboard Larry had meticulously placed a Motorhead sticker. It was the winged demon skull that appeared on the cover of the “Hammered” album by Motorhead, it also appeared as a patch on the back of Larry’s denim jacket with the leather sleeves.

Larry was quite fond of Motorhead; possibly obsessive. He had a way of bringing Motorhead into his everyday vocabulary. When he was peeved he would mutter, “god bless Lemmy”. When he was happy he would rejoice with the refrain, “God, bless Lemmy”. When he was frustrated, “God, Bless, Lemmy!”. As he pulled up to the stoplight and saw the Motorhead tour bus outside of First Avenue he stammered to himself, “God…Bless…Lemmy”.

The Photo

My imagination tells me that it was a warm spring Saturday morning. You can see the diffused sunlight that has been fractured by the clouds. The picture shows green grass and my Dad and I in short-sleeves. I don’t remember when or where this picture was taken. I do know it captures a time when everything was new and unspoiled.

I was maybe four years old and my Dad was probably in his early thirties, a little bit older than I am now. His hairline is beginning it’s journey into oblivion and his waistline is in the beginning stages of the bowl of jelly it would become. I am standing in his Navy duffel bag as he begins to lift me up. My eyes are full of wonder and awe that a boy has for his father at his age.

This photograph always makes me wonder what it felt like. I have made up my own stories and thought to go with the image. I know for sure it was a different time. I think of how much regret and angst had passed between us since that picture was taken. We never quite lived up to the expectations that we had for each other.

Now it is almost thirty years later, but we stand forever hopeful in that photograph. When I think about what I would take with me if I had to leave, and could only take a handful of things, I don’t know if this would be the first thing that I reached for. I do know that if I didn’t take it I would forever regret not having it with me.

The picture came into my possession only a year and a half ago. I found it as I thumbed through an old photo album while I was home to attend my father’s funeral. I could probably ask for more details about the picture, like when and where it was taken, but I prefer to keep the story in my head. I keep it as a secret shared between my dad and me.

*

I could write a song
with the words you use
to say goodnight
to say I am lonely without you

LFP

How empty a life must be without Craig Finn in it?

I feel sorry for people who haven't heard Lifter Puller. I don't trust people who have heard Lifter Puller and don't think they are the best band on the planet. Sangre de Stephanie, Nassau Coliseum, Let's Get Incredible, they are all so fucking good that it hurts your brain. I got to see their reunion gigs last summer and it made life worth living. I have never been rocked like Lifter Fucking Puller rocked me. I can't even write a decent paragraph about it because they just leave me in constant awe.

Go listen to lifter fucking puller.

www.lifterpuller.com

Corporate Speak

I was thinking about the nineties today.

I remember when grunge was cool, when slacker was an accepted and welcome term, and when us Generation X'ers thought we were going to change the world. I remember flannel, Pepsi clear, and In Living Color. I also recall loving Pavement and Dinosaur, Jr. and Douglas Coupland and Kevin Smith. It seemed like artists were being taken seriously for their art and not for their commerce. Independent record labels were started daily and some did pretty well. People were willing to go find great music and books and cinema. We were willing to choose good over convenient. Something happened.

The record labels started getting bought by the majors. The independent art house theaters started getting bought by chains. The zines gave way to websites and blogs. The indy radio stations got bought by the giant corporations. We now go to Best Buy to get our CDs. For our books we go to Barnes and Noble or Amazon-dot-com. The stores and shops that didn't get bought by the giant corporate beast are scraping to stay alive, relying on fetish record collectors and local diehards to keep their bottom line above water. Ruminator books was just forced to close. Is Treehouse records or the Electric Fetus next?

I know there was a lot of crap in the nineties too. Each generations forgets the bad stuff and remembers the great things. I just fear that an independent voice will eventually be stifled with the 3000 pound corporate gorilla that is eating all the unique businesses across the nation. It is already happening in small towns. Small Town, TN looks the same as Small Town, CO; Wal-Mart, McDonalds, Home Depot, Best Buy. It is Deja Vu in every city across the land.

synapse to synapse

Emo is a bad word.

Most emo bands would in fact deny that they are emo, but we all know what it is when we hear it.

A few years ago, when I was unemployed, I became obsessed with Death Cab For Cutie. I bought "The Photo Album" right after I was laid off from the airline. This coincided with the beginning of a gray Minnesota winter. I would sit in my tiny downtown apartment and listen to DCFC almost daily. Healthy? Probably not. It was therapeutic and a perfect backdrop for that moment in time.
I went to a DCFC show and I think I was the only one there over twenty-five. Maybe the music wasn't written for me. I am a little too old to be a sniffling emo-kid. I am, however, not ashamed.

randomness

Twins win
Twins win
Twins lose
work sucks
school is starting
puppy rocks
cold summer
Friday afternoon
start recording tonight

deadBrain

Whose brain is dead?

I am Brain-Dead.

One day on the farm

Who will carry dirty water up over the hill?

We have been here for a year now and we are getting scared. Upon our arrival we thought we'd found Heaven. Now the floods are just starting to recede. The sunshine we once bathed in daily now shines in spurts. We need someone to carry the dirty water up over the hill.

Rant

Dear Petsmart pet store employee,

I know that even though I declined to sign up for a Petsmart saver card four times in the previous forty-five seconds you may have still been confused. I appreciate you asking for the fifth time and pushing me over the edge. I want you to know how good it made me feel to scream at you, "Dude! Can I just buy my shit and get out of here?". I know it is this kind of resolve that you wish to see. I stand strong in my defiance of your saver card.

My question for you is this: why don't you just give me the dollar off my dog treats instead of making me sign away my life to some secret society? I am sure the card is meant to promote customer loyalty, but why don't you tell your marketing geniuses that if you just make the product a dollar cheaper to begin with, people will probably buy that product.

Why is it like this in any store now? Would you like to use your Target Visa today? Would you like to apply for a Kohls card? How about would you like to fucking let me give your company some money and leave your whorish little pet store and go play with my dog?

Time

Time is torture.

It goes by too fast. It goes by too slow. I have too much time. I don't have enough time. I think about how I will utilize the time ahead. I ponder and regret the time I have wasted in the past. I think about how time was different in 1984. When time was my own. Now, time is shared with work and girlfriends and pets and school and words and music and beers and TV and the planes flying overhead and the traffic gridlock I sit in twice daily.

Time is torture.

What would happen if we were allowed to take a half-hour weekly or monthly and do with it what we want. And that time would not be counted in the 24 hours of a day. It would not count as a half-hour closer to death.

The Idaho Connection, Pt. 1

It started as just a small bump in my flesh. It was like a little push-button-pimple. It was painless and it did not worry me at all. It was at the left edge of a scar on my lower right abdomen. Sometimes, when I lay in a sleepless bed, my hand would find it and rub and scratch it. I woke one morning to find a small sharp nub protruding through the small push-button-pimple. I was curious. I called and made an appointment to see my doctor the next morning. Sitting on the cold steel exam table I sheepishly held what had bloomed; a green fern leaf. Doctor Pushwood came in and looked intently and let off a few guttural moans. He left the room silently.

Why Robots? Why, Robots? Why? Robots.

I think people are fascinated by robots because they are like humans except they don't have hair and zits and genitalia. Also because they don't suffer from foot odor.

Hello

I am not sure what this space will hold. I may give up after a couple silly posts. I may write novels of information and anecdotes and opinions. I may just type dirty words so I can see them on my computer screen and snicker.

I will wait and see.