June 1, 2002

I spent the day in Parma, OH helping my mother-in-law move. It was exactly how it reads. Sometimes no explanation is explanation enough. I do love physical labor, though, and I got plenty of it today.

Today’s BLOG is a loving tribute to the greatest fan that I have ever owned – the super fan. The super fan is a giant brown metal fan given to me by my father but the rest of its origin is unknown. It is a damn good fan. Nobody could ever smash this fan.

This piece is weird to me because I have never gone into a restaurant or coffee shop by myself just to order coffee and I have never had a conversation with anybody who worked at a restaurant or coffee house besides that standard how are you. I used to write about coffee a lot. I don’t love coffee as much as Thea – not even close – but maybe I loved smoking cigarettes so much that the coffee seemed better. I don’t know.

One

I have a poison monkey in my pants. I have a demon possessed nun in my head. She is scolding me. She is hitting my brain with a ruler. She strikes my frontal lobe with hard fast swats.

I bolt straight up in my bed.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

“I don’t know, baby doll. I can’t relax. My hopes and dreams are at war again. I whish that one of them would raise the white flag so I could get some sleep.”

She looks at me with her caring mother or worried lover eyes and puts her hand on my shoulder. Her hand is warm and reassuring. She rubs my back with gentle wave-like strokes. I loosen up and fall back into the pillow.

“It’s not so bad,” she says.

“No it isn’t. Nothing is ever that bad. But it is never good either.”

“I’m good.”

“Yeah. You are. As good as gold.”

She is right. She is pretty damn good. She was one of the best things to ever happen to me. She was, at one point, the song in my heart. Now. She is merely an accessory – just another appliance in my apartment. The TV is for watching. The stereo is for listening. The microwave is for cooking. She is for fucking.

She is part of the scenery – a fixture. There should be advertisements in male lifestyle magazines encouraging coupling. Man of the nineties. You have a car. You have a loft. You have a computer. Now, get a woman. She will make you look better than the shoes you just bought. Can we get the ad counsel to sponsor this program? I will be the spokesman.

The super fan is blowing hot air like a Texas twister. The air is not getting any cooler but the blast of hot air on my feet give me the illusion of comfort. My father gave me this fan two years ago. In its prior life, it was used to ventilate the kitchen of his favorite restaurant – The Smiling Fat Man. My father bought the fan off of the owner of The Smiling Fat Man, also known as the smiling fat man, when the smiling fat man won big at the harness racing track and, in an uncharacteristic fit of compassion for the retarded dishwasher, upgraded the ventilation system into the seventies. My dad, who has a complete inability to pass on a garage sale, flea market or liquidation sale, offered the smiling fat man ten bucks for an authentic piece of greasy spoon history. The fan had been on twenty-four hours a day since just after World War II. It had enough grease on it to completely re-lubricate an Oldsmobile. My dad ended up buying the fan for twenty dollars.

The super fan did not pass my mother’s test of household safety – an obvious fire trap. My dad gave it to me and said to take care of it. It’s a piece of history.

Although it could not keep the kitchen of The Smiling Fat Man below 106 degrees Fahrenheit, it was more than enough fan to turn my bedroom into a raging windstorm. The only bad thing about the fan was that I had to keep my eye on it so one of the sparks that shot from it semi-sporadically did not light the curtains on fire.

“I am freezing. Could you turn the fan off?”

“Sure, honey.”

I walked over to the window and set the fan on a milder setting. The mechanical tempest sputtered while it switched gears and then relaxed into its new setting – tropical storm as opposed to full on hurricane.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, baby doll.”

I stared out the window to the ground floor – four stories below. Our gay neighbors were laughing at gay jokes. It is two in the morning and the disco beat still pumps out of high tech boom box. The men are sitting around a picnic table drinking fruity cocktails or wine coolers. A lone joy boy dances with himself on the immaculate lawn. He embraces himself occasionally and sings along to the music.

The noise of the super fan on high was enough to drown out their tea party. On low, I can still hear them giggling. Go on girl.

“Hey ladies. Keep it down down there.”

“Are we being too loud for you, sweety?”

“Yeah.”

“We are so sorry. Turn down the music, Todd.”

I walk away from the window. Their Shirley Temple giggles sound like chipmunk’s squeaking.

“Fuckers.”

“Try and get some sleep, sugar.”

I lie there on the bed looking up at the ceiling. I could still hear them talking. I guess they were talking about me.

Two

“What are you up to, Chuck?”

“Wasting time, my friend. Wasting time.”

“Can I get you something?”

“Large. Regular. Black.”

“To go?”

“No. I am going to sit down for a minute. Read the paper.”

I don’t like to hang around bad restaurants all day but I seriously had nothing to do. Not working at my job has been getting painfully dull. I read the paper once already today but I figured that there had to be an explosion story or murder blurb that I missed the first time. I had just killed two hours wandering the streets for no reason except to kill time. I scowled at the businessman and winked at the lady. It is 11:30 a.m. That is almost enough time to drink a cup of coffee before the businessman lunch crowd fucks up the place. I wish that my boss would give me some shit job to kill an hour or two but he is out of town and everything is done.

“Here you go, Chuck.”

“Thanks, Joe. Are you going to the Skwak show Saturday? Broken Pencil is opening. It should rock.”

“I don’t think so, man. I am getting buried by homework. Finals are next week. I am lucky if I get three minutes to jack off.”

“Make time. Where the fuck are your priorities? A man needs some time to himself,” I said as I walked over to a corner table – spilling hot coffee on my hand and shoe.

(1995)


posted by Thea at 10:49 PM

May 31, 2002

Today was my last day at office number two. I start office number three on Monday. This week was weird. I had plenty to digest and think about and not enough time to do it. I worked too much and did not get enough sleep.

I wanted to remember certain things about office number two. That is normal. I usually go into memory preservation mode with the thought that this was the last time I was going to experience a specific item, so I had better make it count. What I did different this time was as soon as I thought of something in particular that I wanted to remember – say my walk through Tower City first thing in the morning – I did not do it again. You see, I did not want my memories distorted by an attempt to capture the moment or unchecked emotions. That would have given me a false onion ring memory with manufactured significance. I don’t want that. I thought of something that I wanted to remember and then completely avoided it. I don’t know why I bothered with this but it seemed like a good idea. I hate pictures that are posed and I don’t want staged memories.

Incidentally, I don’t remember writing any of these small items from the wild ride that was 1995.

Come a little closer to me. No. Closer. Yeah. In fact, why don’t you try and get your ear as close as you possibly can to my mouth. I have something very important to tell you. I think that you will find what I am about to say very interesting. I doubt that my words will ever find any impact in the arena of the world. But to you – I think that they might mean something. I have been wanting to tell you this for a very long time – ever since we were kids growing up. We have known each other for a while. We have been through a lot together. We went to the same schools. We worship the same God. We walk down the same streets. We practically are family. But I have to tell you this. Get a little closer so you can hear me better. That’s good. Can you hear me? Yes? Good. Now, listen to me very carefully. I don’t like you. I never have and I never will.

(1995)

I constructed a model society in my parent’s bath tub for an extra credit project when I was in grade school. I built an island of mud and garbage at the center of the tub. I filled the tub with lukewarm water. The island eroded a little but basically held its shape. Next, I tried to replicate the plant and animal life that I saw on television’s “Planet Earth”. I did a pretty good job without resorting to model railroad diorama objects. I am an artist. I need to create. I don’t want to buy my art at a hobby store. I tried using the shower for rain and the island remained, more or less, in one piece.

After a few days of testing where the island held it together, inhabitants were needed to complete the scene and really score the points with my teacher. I made tiny humans based on my child’s image of man. Comic books, movies, TV and a minimal amount of actual human contact were my templates. I, to this day, think that I created a fairly accurate and reasonable representation of the world. Drunken abusive mother. Policeman. Mad scientist. Religious fanatic. Paranoid mole men. Serial killer. Twisted schoolboy. Whore. Clown. Grocery store clerk. Me. Superman.

A picture of the sun with the word “God” on it was the divine being of my bathtub world. I hung the picture of the sun on the shower nozzle. I got ten extra points from my teacher. The extra credit project is still in my parent’s bathtub today.

(1995)

Every fantasy that I have involves me sitting at the kitchen table with the morning sun bursting through the window. I am reading the paper, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I can sit forever. The sun doe not stop shining and never have to go to the bathroom.

(1995)

Talking Bullshit Relationship Blues

My woman says she loves me
And I don’t know
Whether to laugh out loud
Or run down the street
Like a man with his pants on fire
Mall pants
I bought them at the Gap
With money that my grandma gave me for my birthday

My woman says that I don’t care about her
And I don’t know
Whether to smile at her with my best love me tender eyes
And reassure her of my good intentions
Or admit to her
That I don’t really give a shit about anything
Except my story
I hope it is a good one
Because all of the goddamned drama
Is wearing me down

My woman says she wants a house
And I don’t know
If that house will be a nuthouse
Or a maximum security prison
With a white picket fence to keep me in
I would walk around my well manicured lawn
For exercise
Exorcisms are good
I have got a devil in my bedroom

My woman says we don’t communicate
And I don’t know
Why I should put down my book
To listen to her babble
When I can flush the toilet
For the same effect

My woman says she thinks of me
And I don’t know
If she’s telling the truth
It is like a deaf man
Telling me that he heard me singing
Or a blind man
Taking my picture with a Polaroid

(1995)

posted by Thea at 8:27 PM

May 30, 2002

My desire to BLOG is in direct conflict with my lack of desire to type.

Tuneless Blues #1

I have spent a lifetime
Twenty plus years going strong
Believing wholeheartedly in
The myths
Every time my bladder stops up
At a truck stop or a bar
I dwell on the myths
It will get better
The fear will go away

(1995)

Tuneless Blues #2

Oh my Lord
I can’t get no relief
From the pain
And the worry
Inspired by
This cruel
Mother
Earth
I can tell they are talking
I can see their mouths move
Static
Lord
Just static

(1995)




posted by Thea at 6:51 PM

May 29, 2002

This blip was inspired by the movies “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer” and “Monty Python – the Meaning of Life”. I liked both movies. I will say, as a point of contrast, that I thought the Henry character was totally unbelievable. I could get behind Otis or whatever that hilljack’s name was but Henry was just too milk toast. I need more kook in my kookie serial killers. I am pretty sure that is what I was thinking when I wrote this.

A note personal triumph: I have a slate roof. It is a pain in my ass. If there is a leak, you can't just put some roofing tar on it and go to bed. You have to actually fix the slates. It is a pain in my ass. I spent almost all day on Monday fixing the roof. It is a pain in my ass. Well, it is raining now and everything seems to be dry.

A note of personal defeat: Plagued with doubt, I will never be able to relax knowing that the roof truly is fixed.

Think of the harm a man could to do if he had no fear of consequence.

If there was one man born on earth who had absolutely no hint of belief in God, the afterlife, a devil or any type of ultimate cosmic repercussion for their actions, he would conquer the world. Even the strongest atheist has his doubts. Don’t tell me that he doesn’t. And even if there was some sort of super atheist or evil devil worshippers who believes that the world is his for the taking – the idea of the sanctity of human life always gets in the way.

Nobody can completely rid himself completely of thought that every sperm is sacred. Serial killers don’t kill their mothers and there are always partners in crime.

(1995)


posted by Thea at 9:37 PM

May 28, 2002

Work is bad if it does not get in the way of my life. If it infringes on me (or any of the various definitions of me that I use) in any way, it is intolerable. I would go on but I have just wasted an otherwise nice evening complaining to my wife and it needs to stop for a minute.

The Euclid Tavern on Monday evenings in the early nineties was my first and only taste of any type of regular nightlife just for the sake of going out. I have never had a bar or claimed any other place as a regular. Although I was not a scenester in any sense of the word, I did go to the Euclid Tavern pretty frequently no matter who was playing back in the day (back in the day). This was (sort of) written about that. Big ups to Derek Hess and anybody else in Cleveland, OH who saw Tar more than a couple of times.

So, I am lying next to her. She is asleep. She is breathing steadily. Her chest falls with each sigh-like release. I don’t know if it is safe for me to make a move or if I should just lie there for a few minutes. I am surprised that she fell asleep so quickly. It is days like today, days when I need to get out more than usual, that she will remain awake for hours. She stares at the ceiling. I stare at the ceiling. She breathes. I breathe. If I look at her, she will return my look coldly – reminding me to stay put. But tonight is good. She is dead to the world and I am anxious to get going. I get out of bed. I am careful with my weight so I won’t make too much noise. I step into the adjoining bathroom and get into my work clothes: Levis, flannel, Doc Martens and a pair of socks whose thickness is more suitable to the Antarctic than to Northeast Ohio. I brush my teeth and leave.

It is not that I am sneaking out. She knows my schedule. She just needs to be asleep in order for me to get going. It is only 10:30 p.m. and she does not wake up until 6 a.m. I have plenty of time to myself. In fact, I have more real time to myself than I have ever had in my life. It is just a trade off. One form of freedom for another. As I commence with my departure, I make sure that the coffee is set for tomorrow. Is there enough milk? Are there still bananas? There is. I exit.

It is just a few blocks from the house to BP Station where I’ll wait for my man, Frank. Frank and I have been doing the Monday night/Euclid Tavern things for a couple of years and tonight is not the exception. It used to be that we would only go out when there was a band that we wanted to see but these days it does not matter who is on the stage. “Bludgeoning Mondays” (as it was named with heart) is our boys night out and the crowd at the Euclid Tavern on Monday nights is more regular than the crowd on “Cheers”.

Frank pulls into the BP station. He is late – as usual. He does not care that he is late – as usual. Frank’s 1979 Honda Civic is running like shit but it is as much better than last week when it was running like horse shit as opposed to this week’s human shit – human shit being not as plentiful as horse shit in mass.

Frank and I exchange grunts and greetings.

“What’s going on?” Frank asks.

“Not too much,” I respond.

“What did you do today?”

“Nothing.”

“How’s the bitch?”

“If you mean my better half, she is doing OK. She was crabby at dinner but settled down during television. How was work?”

“You know, OK.”

“Do you know who’s playing tonight?”

“I don’t know… some AmRep band… I think… I don’t know.”

(1995)

posted by Thea at 9:04 PM

May 26, 2002

I started working again today after a massive one day break. I feel refreshed and rejuvenated and eager to get back at it. I like to work, Ernie, it makes me feel good. I wrote in the morning and then my wife Laurie and I worked on the yard for five hours. I imagine that this is going to be every Sunday for me until Labor Day so I had better get used to it. I am doing the BLOG now and then we are going to eat dinner and go for a walk and watch TV. My life is so high impact with the yard work and the walking that it is no wonder to me that I am fainting at tattoo conventions. You probably almost fainted just reading about my explosive day.

I found something I wrote back in 1992 that somehow got misfiled in 1995, so I thought that I would start the revisiting old material BLOGS with that.

What follows is a pretentious (and I edited plenty of pretense out of it while typing) slice of life from the fall of 1992, which was the fall that I met Thea. That quarter of college started the entire Assholier than Thou mission of life. Monumental. In 1992, I was very serious about being taken seriously.

I woke up this Sunday morning more tired than before I went to bed on the couch in my room. It was like I was fighting for fifteen rounds under my comforter. Being the first of my three roommates to wake up, I went downstairs to the dark kitchen. The light. The search for cockroaches. As the coffee brewed, the first hit of my Camel sent me into a state of fogginess that would only be lifted from the first sip of sludge black coffee. I made myself two pieces of wheat toast with apple butter to go with the coffee. Ate. Smoked another cigarette. Washed my face. Put in the contacts. Found the warmest jacket I could find. Took off out the door to walk the day away. I headed up to Detroit and turned towards Downtown Cleveland. Past the Dairy Mart on W. 89th St. - the most robbed store in Cleveland. Past Chuck’s – the junk food heaven of the West Side. Past the churches. Past McDonald’s. Past porn shops. Past antique (junk) shops. It is funny that the same near west side streets that inspire so much fear at night with the drug busts and domestic disturbances seem so pathetic in the morning sun. Everyone is walking to their respective corner stores for milk and the newspaper. Hair – more out of place than normal. Tongues as black as if covered with tar. Eyes bugged. Like survivors of a nuclear holocaust. But only six hours before they were drunk as sin and whooping about the election or sports or some other false shit. They, same people who screamed, “Hey Faggot”, out the car window at me are now back on Earth and worse yet in the armpit of America, the doghouse of the city of Cleveland. The prison with a front porch that they call home sweet home.

I, the man, me, not some bullshit creation of somebody else’s head but a person – worse yet – the only person that I know, kept on going. The crispness of the air, the desolation of the faces, the stink of garbage got my blood going more than the coffee. I reveled in it. My pace (and my heart) increased with each that I took into the once and future ghetto. No longer the hillbilly slums. The near west side is a melting pot of broken lives. I heard Mozart’s Fortieth Symphony bounding in my heart and, curiously, felt above it. I walked over the Detroit/Superior Bridge. I looked over the side of the bridge at the flats. The once striving industrial area has turned into an entertainment destination. The former manufacturing works that once dumped chemical waste in the Cuyahoga River now hosts human waste right on there on the dance floor. They are trying to forget about it for a minute. Whether it be a Miles Davis record and some pot in the living room or a ton of beer and a fist fight in the parking lot of a meat market dance club, we are all trying to escape for a minute. It is all the same. We all need to escape from the shadow of reality that clouds each day. I go to the Flats too, sometimes, to see a band and I always ask myself after I leave – what is the point? It is a gathering of the lost – a pow wow of white Indians who don’t dance around the fire but take a piss on it and laugh with the guy pissing next to him about how long his piss is. No wonder. Just cheap thrills.

After mulling around Public Square waiting for the library to open, I decide to try and find another cup of coffee somewhere. Pointless. I sat down on the stairs of the library and pretended to read a book of chess openings. After a few minutes, the doors to the library are opened. I returned a book by Anthony Burgess and got another for the ride south to where I used to live on the RTA. I went back to the square. It was a three cigarette wait for the bus. The bus driver was a long hair, new to the job and a supporter of Ross Perot. His love of Mr. Perot stemmed from the fact that he was the only candidate with a plan. He had a plan for the deficit, a plan for the poor, a plan for the schools, for the military, for taxes, for foreigners, for the country, the USA. This man is going to make things happen. His plans will make Congress work. I imagine President Hillbilly – the man with the plan – and try to phase out the talking bus driver as the bus moves slowly south down Broadway.

(1992)



posted by Thea at 3:55 PM