“Detouring Vol. 3”
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
Our theory about Señor Raygun is this: the best acting that guy ever mustered was acting like a head of state. Fairly convincing, he was. You know, except for the falling asleep while hosting foreign diplomats and calling Nancy “mommy” and shit. Neither one of us, Adam nor myself, are old enough to truly remember the man’s time as the 40th President of the USA, but unanimously, we can say that he has influenced the worst parts of contemporary American society. The “Yuppies,” the “Reagan Democrats,” the “Brat Pack,” “Reaganomics,” all of that which came to characterize the decade of my birth; all of it a shrine to everything that my 25 year old self is not; rebels against, even.
That aside, let it be said that I owe my very existence to the "Gipper." His election in 1980 forced my mother to make the decision she’d been itching to make: moving to England. Of course, at that time, Britain had become “Thatcherland.” Not a whole lot of difference there. To this day she laments her judgment. But she did meet my father. I was born not long after.
We’re sitting in the dark. Night has fallen. Milady is gone. Scared off by our counterreactionary politics. We've been sitting here awhile. And now the guy who owns the store tells us we should leave soon because we're scaring off the paying customers. Buy some fucking gum or leave.
Reveling in our repulsiveness, we finish the cigarettes and stand. I decide that I’m not in the mood to drink. Adam is surprised but himself undecided.
The wind takes us the way we came. Westward on Live Oak. We're quiet. Stepping past the tilting STOP sign at Ross, I yawn. It's been a long day comprised of nothing. I already want another smoke. Adam breaks in with, "I want a drink. Wanna hit Elbow Room? I bet we can talk ourselves into a pitcher of piss."
"That's a possibility."
"What kind of alcoholic are you?"
"The kind who'd rather drink alone than mix it up with a bunch of drunken strangers that I'd just as soon shit on."
"Now you sound like an asshole."
"And the transformation is near complete!"
The truth is becoming clear. I'm getting sick of people. And I can pinpoint the exact moment the asshole in me came out. I used to wait tables for a long standing local dinner theater establishment. I'd been having an affair with the owner's daughter. And the owner's daughter's daughter. But at the same time, I had the warm fuzzies for the girl who had trained me. She was engaged to be married. Admittedly, I've never been very principled when it came to affairs of the heart or penis. If the attainment of a woman's affection or the chance to get laid hung in the balance, you can bet I played every card at my disposal. The issue in this situation was that I'd let myself get in too deep.
Then, just as now, as I walk my ass toward eventual inebriation, I was perpetually hard up for cash. I wanted to do something special for she who had trained me-- in hopes that I might be able to outdo a trust fund baby-- and I needed to make rent. These two things were not going to happen if I was only getting two shifts a week, yanking in a meager $2.14 an hour (for 4 hours of work) plus tips that I had to split with the kitchen (who made over $6 an hour).
The owner's daughter, who was also my manager, always seemed weirdly, perhaps unduly impressed with me. My only motivation was a desperate want to keep my job, but since the turnover of waitstaff prior to and after my arrival was largely abysmal, my longevity was refreshing-- at least that was her reasoning. One night as I was cleaning my assigned station, she approached me and said she'd put me on 6 nights a week if I did her a few favors.
Yeah, the favors were sexual. So there I was, sexing a woman pushing 60. I will not say that I enjoyed it because older women are oh so experienced. I enjoyed it because: what kind of guy doesn't enjoy essentially being paid for sex? Besides, it's not like I'm built like Adonis. So, it was a fairly good deal all around.
I complicated matters when I for some reason decided it'd be a great idea to also hit the owner's daughter's smackhead daughter. It was kind of an accident, actually. She'd just broken up with a guy that I graduated hs with, and she was unhappy with her clingy sugar daddy, so when she decided to suck me off during one of the Saturday night shows while I was serving beers at the bar, I didn't say no.
For my part, there was no intention of ever going any farther with her. I figured she'd just gotten her fix and needed something to occupy herself with, but apparently she'd had designs on me for awhile. This worried me. After all, I was fucking her mom. But I hadn't gotten that much action since freshman year of college! Shit! I was getting nowhere with the girl who'd trained me.
The owner's daughter's daughter wasn't going to pay me. In fact, she wanted me to fuck her and buy her nice things. And be funny. Because apparently she found me infinitely amusing. Request three was easily doable. One and two; after much thought, I decided that I could make one happen, and one night I did. Two would never happen.
So I was waiting tables every night but Sunday, pulling in nearly $300 a week, and fucking the owner's daughter and the owner's daughter's daughter. One Saturday night the girl who trained me offered me a cigarette (I had quit at that point), and I very easily caved taking it and lighting it with zest. She said that I was dragging ass and that I looked like shit.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said, exhaling.
"Wrong. I think Sam Sam is right. You're fucking Lea."
"What?"
"He's never seen her so happy. And... and he's been knocked off the rotation twice for you. Wanna tell me the truth?"
I didn't but I did. So I did. I fucking spilled it. Laughing the whole time. She maintained a grave expression. After some minutes of silence, she blew smoke in my face and laughed. She tossed her butt and went back inside without saying anything. I sat there. It was cold. The cigarette was killing my throat and giving me a headache. The more I thought, the more pissed I became.
I felt weak. Compromised. I'd wrenched myself. I'd also given away my motive in the process. When I realized that was what prompted the laughter, I went inside, grabbed a bottle of that overpriced shit they call wine ($30 for $8 wine!), and simply made for the front exit. I walked home. Drinking the wine and cursing the whole way (it had the twist off top).
The next morning I was hung over, and had six missed calls. "Fuck you!" I yelled at the phone and turned it off.
I did make an old lady happy, though.
While crossing N. Beacon Ave. we hear noises. Music. Shouting. Party. Adam trots faster in the direction of the sound. I'm following him past the hedge that overhangs the sidewalk as fast as I can, slapping leaves from my face. The sounds are emanating from the apartments with the nicely groomed shrubberies lining the path to the doors; from the unit on the end, whose concrete path lies between Live Oak and Bryan Pkwy.
The music is shaking the building at its very foundation and there are people crowding the ingress between us and possible inebriation. A couple of girls are shouting at Adam. "Strange! It's you!"
He runs up and hugs them. One is chubby and wearing a frilly, oh so short skirt with polka dots, the other is skinny, tattooed from head to toe (it seems), and has a martini glass in one hand and is clutching a cigarette butt with a long stream of ash drooping downward in the other. She is more his type. I examine the chubby girl from afar. Adam calls to me. Fuck it. I love booze! I love sex!
I'm making my way up the path when the chubby girl staggers slightly under the door frame. I'm getting closer. She is fucking blitzed! She's wearing high heels. This is not a good combo, I think. I get about three feet from her, and she touches her right foot to the concrete. As she attempts to whip her left foot over the threshold in kind, the heel on the right foot shoe gives. She topples sidelong, diagonally falling into the shrubbery.
Everyone around her bursts into laughter. I help her out of the bush and ask her if she's alright. She looks at me dazed, looks at the palms of her hands, laughs, and shows them to me. They are cut up. She kicks off her heels, kisses me on the cheek, tells me I'm sweet with a chuckle, and then bends into the bush and spews.
Adam thrusts a cup of mystery liquor in my face, I grab it and sip while watching the chubby girl blow chunks into the shrub by way of her hair.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll
(2009)
22.7.09
Unsolicited Criticisms
Unsolicited Criticisms
Hi, I’m Adam Strange and I’ll be your guide today.
Meet Dallas, the shimmering city on the prairie.
This richly diverse city offers leading arts districts (that only the pretentious go to), countless luxury accommodations that (no one can actually afford), professional sports teams (that are overpaid and have no heart) and trendy entertainment districts (where can have your choice of being stabbed by a bum or beaten by a skinhead)
Fact: Dallas is actually an acronym for D list LA.
Feel free to visit our many exciting neighborhoods each with their own special brand of entertainment. Such as…
Deep Ellum. Ya, there’s been nothing there since the Deep Ellum Foundation forced the city into driving out all the businesses to lower the selling price. But this place is all about the memories (and getting stabbed by bums or skinheads.)
Fact: Dallas leads in the nation in pre-op transgender prostitutes.
And as long as you’re in our wonderful city, don’t forget to check out…
The Bishop Arts District. Once the meeting place for homosexuals in the charming community known as Oak Cliff through out the 90’s, it has re-imagined itself as a posh arty neighborhood where you can enjoy a wonderful dinner and night out only blocks away the murder capital of Dallas.
Fact: Dallas’s own Lew Sterrett affectingly known as "LuLu” has received national attention as the safest county jail in the nation.
I hope you’re not tired because while here you can’t forget…
Lower Greenville. Located at the corner of Greenville and Ross, this tiny neighborhood sees more action in one night than every other neighborhood sees in a month. Whether it’s grumpy old men looking for a little statis in their old age (do I even have to say the asshole’s name) or the surprising number of white supremacists currently calling Billard Bar home, you are sure to have an action packed night. Remember just because he/she was cute at Taco Cabana doesn’t mean he/she will be cute when you wake up.
Fact: In 2007 Dallas was the first major city to elect a man with no penis.
And please while you’re here try also to make time for…
Knox/Henderson, Uptown and West Village. No reason to pick which one since they're all the same. If you have khaki’s and a polo shirt you can have your pick of any one of the beautiful Barbie-esque future trophy wives. Remember it’s only prostitution if you pay in cash.
Fact: There isn’t a single black city council member who hasn’t or currently in the process of selling out the black community.
For those of you, who are into more forbidden pleasures, don’t forget to check out…
Cedar Springs. Dallas’s long time gay district has been partying non-stop since the 70’s. Thank the cocaine. Here you can enjoy getting screwed in the bathroom AND on your tab. Don’t forget to enjoy the many pleasures of this thriving community. Like the Maple Projects, where you can buy crack off an authentic drag queen. And only here can you experience an authentic Texas Fag-Bashing; don’t forget your insurance card.
Well, that’s enough for one session. Please check out these wonderful destinations and remember the Dallas city motto.
“LIVE LARGE! THINK BIG!”
Ya, we don’t know what it means either.
Hi, I’m Adam Strange and I’ll be your guide today.
Meet Dallas, the shimmering city on the prairie.
This richly diverse city offers leading arts districts (that only the pretentious go to), countless luxury accommodations that (no one can actually afford), professional sports teams (that are overpaid and have no heart) and trendy entertainment districts (where can have your choice of being stabbed by a bum or beaten by a skinhead)
Fact: Dallas is actually an acronym for D list LA.
Feel free to visit our many exciting neighborhoods each with their own special brand of entertainment. Such as…
Deep Ellum. Ya, there’s been nothing there since the Deep Ellum Foundation forced the city into driving out all the businesses to lower the selling price. But this place is all about the memories (and getting stabbed by bums or skinheads.)
Fact: Dallas leads in the nation in pre-op transgender prostitutes.
And as long as you’re in our wonderful city, don’t forget to check out…
The Bishop Arts District. Once the meeting place for homosexuals in the charming community known as Oak Cliff through out the 90’s, it has re-imagined itself as a posh arty neighborhood where you can enjoy a wonderful dinner and night out only blocks away the murder capital of Dallas.
Fact: Dallas’s own Lew Sterrett affectingly known as "LuLu” has received national attention as the safest county jail in the nation.
I hope you’re not tired because while here you can’t forget…
Lower Greenville. Located at the corner of Greenville and Ross, this tiny neighborhood sees more action in one night than every other neighborhood sees in a month. Whether it’s grumpy old men looking for a little statis in their old age (do I even have to say the asshole’s name) or the surprising number of white supremacists currently calling Billard Bar home, you are sure to have an action packed night. Remember just because he/she was cute at Taco Cabana doesn’t mean he/she will be cute when you wake up.
Fact: In 2007 Dallas was the first major city to elect a man with no penis.
And please while you’re here try also to make time for…
Knox/Henderson, Uptown and West Village. No reason to pick which one since they're all the same. If you have khaki’s and a polo shirt you can have your pick of any one of the beautiful Barbie-esque future trophy wives. Remember it’s only prostitution if you pay in cash.
Fact: There isn’t a single black city council member who hasn’t or currently in the process of selling out the black community.
For those of you, who are into more forbidden pleasures, don’t forget to check out…
Cedar Springs. Dallas’s long time gay district has been partying non-stop since the 70’s. Thank the cocaine. Here you can enjoy getting screwed in the bathroom AND on your tab. Don’t forget to enjoy the many pleasures of this thriving community. Like the Maple Projects, where you can buy crack off an authentic drag queen. And only here can you experience an authentic Texas Fag-Bashing; don’t forget your insurance card.
Well, that’s enough for one session. Please check out these wonderful destinations and remember the Dallas city motto.
“LIVE LARGE! THINK BIG!”
Ya, we don’t know what it means either.
20.7.09
Not Every Movie Experience Has to be a Bad One
As for me, I have found that unless I take in a movie at 11pm on a weekday, that wont be the case. But then again, who actually has the luxury of attending a 2-3hr movie at a 11pm showing? Much less be able to afford the ever rising cost of tickets ranging from 7-9 dollars per person now. Having discovered that Tinseltown in Grapevine charges 4 for a Sunday matinee ticket, my boyfriend and I decided to take in Harry Potter at a 3:20pm showing.
We stopped to get snacks, and after my boyfriend bought a soda, beef jerky, and candy, 10 dollars later we were on our way. Now, let me preface something. My boyfriend is the junk food King of the World. He used buy a $7 tub of popcorn, 5 bag of m&m's, two $5 hot dogs, complete with a $ 6 soda, all without batting an eye at spending $20-30 at a concession stand. Adding up the cost of tickets and food, your looking at spending at least $50.00 each time! That was until I pointed out to him, that $20 could buy a bar tab, a t-shirt, or even dinner somewhere. Being a man, of course he didn't listen, until he too started feeling the pinch of the economy and realized that he would rather drink his money away rather that give it to the movie theaters. Now, hes on board for filling my bag with stuff to snack on without breaking the bank. Sure, some people might even compare this social faux pas to bringing your own food to a restaurant. However, if you're on a budget, you tend to worry about the practical things in life, rather than the superficial.
At first, it took us a while not to feel guilty and cheap as we walked in the movie theater with a bag stuffed to capacity. I will admit, there were a couple of times when I thought I was surely busted, and was certain I was going to get kicked out. Of course you stop to wonder who actually decided it was socially unacceptable to bring your own snacks to a movie theater. Is there some social police who is going to stop and ticket you for exercising your right to BYOS? (Bring Your Own Snacks) Chances are, no. The pimply faced teenager is already overwhelmed with taking tickets from screaming children, annoying adolescents, and pestilent soccer moms, that chances are: they don't care. Plus, what do they gain from being a movie theater Gestapo? Certainly not an increase on their paycheck.
Having arrived to the movie theater an hour early for whatever unknown reason, we got decent seats at the top in the middle rows. Jay, having inhaled his snacks in the first 10 Min's, while we sat in boredom watching stupid commercials on the screen, decided he wanted to check out the concession stand. He must have been thinking really hard about his choices because the movie theater filled up by the time he came back. And then to my horror, I realized why, it is a bad idea to see a movie theater in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. Families with children and babies; screaming ones that sound like banshees. Wails at such high pitches only dogs should be able to hear those shrills cries. Oh good lord. You and your children are ruining my much anticipates Harry Potter experience. I cannot get into my Hogwarts mindset because you are ruining my zen.
I swallowed it, remembering our tickets only cost $4.00. I waited patiently for Jay to come back, when a man and his son threaten to take Jays seat. Being the Americans that we are, we had chosen to isolate ourselves by leaving one seat open next to me, and one next to him. Everyone does it. Its like choosing a urinal; heaven forbid you get stuck next to someone, forced to make eye contact, or even awkward small talk. I politely pointed out that seat was taken. He then asked me who was seated on the right of me. No one was sitting next to me, duh! W e purposely got here on time, in order to strategically choose our seats. He then proceeded to stare me down for 5 minutes, thinking he was going to intimidate me into letting him have those two seats. Being the stubborn girl that I am, he didn't get his way and he retreated back into the top row. I would like to point something out now: we got to the movie theater on time in order to avoid situations like having to find seats. Had he simply asked nicely I would have graciously moved Jay's soda into the other seat. It was his narcissistic behavior where he was self-entitled to take whatever he wanted was what offended me in the first place. Of course I kicked myself later because as soon as he sat down this rather fat teenager sat in Jay's seat. I politely moved the soda. There, I am not such a bitch after all.
Which leads me to this, despite my confrontation, not every movie experience has to be a bad one. Through trial and error I have found the following survival tips are helpful if you are going to survive watching a movie with a bunch of idiots surrounding you. Remember, the average cost of a movie ticket is around $9.00, so you want to insure you get the maximum experience for your moneys worth.
1. If you don't care to consume 400 calories in one sitting with one soft drink, you do have options. Personally, I have found that a movie is more tolerable when I with pack my own bag with two bottles of wine or beer, and two bottles of water, just in case. I saved $10 dollars right off the bat, and you also make nice with the people sitting next to you if you offer up some. Please remember to be discrete and clean up after yourselves, so as to not ruin it for everyone else.
Tip for Wine: Many gas stations have started carrying wine, and the latest rage is screw top. It is easy and convenient. We usually also take plastic cups from the gas station where we buys the food from. There is a great variety of screw top wine under $10 that taste great.
Tips for Beer: I have found that individually placing beer in cloth bags or grocery recycle bags are durable enough to carry glass. Seeing as how you live in 2009, man bags are quite fashionable and most importantly acceptable. Take advantage and stuff the crap out of it.
2. BYOS- If you are like me and don't care for all that sodium and sugar, pack your own snack in a bag. You'll find that your wallet will be quite grateful in the long run. Plus how many of you have shown up to a movie on mind altering substances? Chances are, you will get the munchies. Avoid the paranoia about every looking at you while it takes you ten minutes to figure out exactly how much butter is enough on your popcorn and bring your own pre-made.
3. Pick a Proper arrival time- Use common sense when it comes to choosing movie times. i.e. don't go watch Harry Potter on a Sunday afternoon if you don't want to be stuck in the middle of a day care, but also don't go watch a pothead movie on weekend nights when douche bag teenagers are going to be constantly talking throughout the movie. Arrive with proper time to stake your claim on your seats. If you are rich enough to do so: pay a proxy to save your seats. If your like me and hate commercials, you will be able to skip right through them. Or you can just opt to watch a movie at off- peak times and spare yourself the previews.
4. Do not be afraid to confront a cell phone talker, loud eater, and crying babies. I know I found it very hard to get in my Hogwarts mind set with all those screaming kids. If you are like me and trying to get in your serious watching zone, you'll want to prevent any one from ruining your movie watching experience. Be warned: pick your battles. Some situations will be out of your hands, however, you will find that if you voice your opinion in a courteous manner some people are likely to oblige. I call it movie karma, and sooner or later it will reciprocate.
Blogger Bunny
original here: http://bunnylopez.blogspot.com/
We stopped to get snacks, and after my boyfriend bought a soda, beef jerky, and candy, 10 dollars later we were on our way. Now, let me preface something. My boyfriend is the junk food King of the World. He used buy a $7 tub of popcorn, 5 bag of m&m's, two $5 hot dogs, complete with a $ 6 soda, all without batting an eye at spending $20-30 at a concession stand. Adding up the cost of tickets and food, your looking at spending at least $50.00 each time! That was until I pointed out to him, that $20 could buy a bar tab, a t-shirt, or even dinner somewhere. Being a man, of course he didn't listen, until he too started feeling the pinch of the economy and realized that he would rather drink his money away rather that give it to the movie theaters. Now, hes on board for filling my bag with stuff to snack on without breaking the bank. Sure, some people might even compare this social faux pas to bringing your own food to a restaurant. However, if you're on a budget, you tend to worry about the practical things in life, rather than the superficial.
At first, it took us a while not to feel guilty and cheap as we walked in the movie theater with a bag stuffed to capacity. I will admit, there were a couple of times when I thought I was surely busted, and was certain I was going to get kicked out. Of course you stop to wonder who actually decided it was socially unacceptable to bring your own snacks to a movie theater. Is there some social police who is going to stop and ticket you for exercising your right to BYOS? (Bring Your Own Snacks) Chances are, no. The pimply faced teenager is already overwhelmed with taking tickets from screaming children, annoying adolescents, and pestilent soccer moms, that chances are: they don't care. Plus, what do they gain from being a movie theater Gestapo? Certainly not an increase on their paycheck.
Having arrived to the movie theater an hour early for whatever unknown reason, we got decent seats at the top in the middle rows. Jay, having inhaled his snacks in the first 10 Min's, while we sat in boredom watching stupid commercials on the screen, decided he wanted to check out the concession stand. He must have been thinking really hard about his choices because the movie theater filled up by the time he came back. And then to my horror, I realized why, it is a bad idea to see a movie theater in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. Families with children and babies; screaming ones that sound like banshees. Wails at such high pitches only dogs should be able to hear those shrills cries. Oh good lord. You and your children are ruining my much anticipates Harry Potter experience. I cannot get into my Hogwarts mindset because you are ruining my zen.
I swallowed it, remembering our tickets only cost $4.00. I waited patiently for Jay to come back, when a man and his son threaten to take Jays seat. Being the Americans that we are, we had chosen to isolate ourselves by leaving one seat open next to me, and one next to him. Everyone does it. Its like choosing a urinal; heaven forbid you get stuck next to someone, forced to make eye contact, or even awkward small talk. I politely pointed out that seat was taken. He then asked me who was seated on the right of me. No one was sitting next to me, duh! W e purposely got here on time, in order to strategically choose our seats. He then proceeded to stare me down for 5 minutes, thinking he was going to intimidate me into letting him have those two seats. Being the stubborn girl that I am, he didn't get his way and he retreated back into the top row. I would like to point something out now: we got to the movie theater on time in order to avoid situations like having to find seats. Had he simply asked nicely I would have graciously moved Jay's soda into the other seat. It was his narcissistic behavior where he was self-entitled to take whatever he wanted was what offended me in the first place. Of course I kicked myself later because as soon as he sat down this rather fat teenager sat in Jay's seat. I politely moved the soda. There, I am not such a bitch after all.
Which leads me to this, despite my confrontation, not every movie experience has to be a bad one. Through trial and error I have found the following survival tips are helpful if you are going to survive watching a movie with a bunch of idiots surrounding you. Remember, the average cost of a movie ticket is around $9.00, so you want to insure you get the maximum experience for your moneys worth.
1. If you don't care to consume 400 calories in one sitting with one soft drink, you do have options. Personally, I have found that a movie is more tolerable when I with pack my own bag with two bottles of wine or beer, and two bottles of water, just in case. I saved $10 dollars right off the bat, and you also make nice with the people sitting next to you if you offer up some. Please remember to be discrete and clean up after yourselves, so as to not ruin it for everyone else.
Tip for Wine: Many gas stations have started carrying wine, and the latest rage is screw top. It is easy and convenient. We usually also take plastic cups from the gas station where we buys the food from. There is a great variety of screw top wine under $10 that taste great.
Tips for Beer: I have found that individually placing beer in cloth bags or grocery recycle bags are durable enough to carry glass. Seeing as how you live in 2009, man bags are quite fashionable and most importantly acceptable. Take advantage and stuff the crap out of it.
2. BYOS- If you are like me and don't care for all that sodium and sugar, pack your own snack in a bag. You'll find that your wallet will be quite grateful in the long run. Plus how many of you have shown up to a movie on mind altering substances? Chances are, you will get the munchies. Avoid the paranoia about every looking at you while it takes you ten minutes to figure out exactly how much butter is enough on your popcorn and bring your own pre-made.
3. Pick a Proper arrival time- Use common sense when it comes to choosing movie times. i.e. don't go watch Harry Potter on a Sunday afternoon if you don't want to be stuck in the middle of a day care, but also don't go watch a pothead movie on weekend nights when douche bag teenagers are going to be constantly talking throughout the movie. Arrive with proper time to stake your claim on your seats. If you are rich enough to do so: pay a proxy to save your seats. If your like me and hate commercials, you will be able to skip right through them. Or you can just opt to watch a movie at off- peak times and spare yourself the previews.
4. Do not be afraid to confront a cell phone talker, loud eater, and crying babies. I know I found it very hard to get in my Hogwarts mind set with all those screaming kids. If you are like me and trying to get in your serious watching zone, you'll want to prevent any one from ruining your movie watching experience. Be warned: pick your battles. Some situations will be out of your hands, however, you will find that if you voice your opinion in a courteous manner some people are likely to oblige. I call it movie karma, and sooner or later it will reciprocate.
Blogger Bunny
original here: http://bunnylopez.blogspot.com/
18.7.09
Flâneur Fiction: "Detouring Vol. 2"
“Detouring: Vol. 2”
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
We are walking east now. We have crossed onto the south end of Live Oak, and have every intention of stopping by Danger's. I ask Adam if Romeo will be fucking Juliette any time soon.
"Maybe," he responds.
I start thinking about my blog. What little income I pull comes from doing articles for this magazine called Artology. I know fuck-all about art, but they like the pseudo-intellectual posturing, the prolixity, and verve of my style. Generally, I have no respect for visual art, and I hate writing for those golden-spoon in mouth troglodytes. But what they pay keeps me sheltered (if nothing else) in my poverty.
A couple of days ago, I got a call from Delaney about interviewing that guy who does all the body part shit. Let me say it: I hate interviewing people. Especially visual artists. Painters and Sculptors and shit. I hate smelling them, I hate hearing them breathe, and I especially hate talking to them. How many fucking times do I have to hear about Picasso or surrealism or expressionism, et al? Those are the ones who went to or go to school and feel that because they are so passionate about what they do and the history of it, that that must mean everyone else is. Wrong.
Then there are the “outsiders.” These talented but willfully ignorant assholes, one might say, are worse because they have a natural ability to convey their thoughts and emotions by way of visual communication, but they won’t go to school and apply themselves toward something more practical and lucrative.
But I shouldn’t be too critical about that. I dropped out of college. Delaney and a couple of the other editors have said several times that my ability as a writer is the only thing keeping me around, and if they thought they could find someone with a degree as experienced and dedicated as myself, they’d drop me like a clingy fuck-buddy.
On my blog I write about walking. Specifically, I write about being a Baudelairean flâneur. Except I don’t write poetry. Perhaps I’m Debordian? But I’m no revolutionary. I’m no philosopher. And I still don’t understand Howls for Sade. Rimbaud. He’s interesting. We share the same birthday. But I don’t write poetry.
Will Self.
I'm like Will Self. A sesquipedalian cum journalistic ambition. Eh, not even. He is a journalist. I’m just an amateur. I’m not even a good sesquipedalian. In person my vocabulary is limited unless I’ve spent time contemplating and mapping out responses.
For terse wit, that most Mametesque of verbal exchange, my vocabulary usually reflects that of the person who I am interacting with; drowning in colloquialism. Slang. Idiom. Cliché. Maxim.
“Really?” I think to myself.
“Nah.”
The longest distance I’d ever walked was from my apartment in East Dallas to the area of Oak Cliff where I grew up. According to Google Maps, the distance from my address to S. Hampton Rd. is slightly less than 11 miles. I don’t know. It was no London to New York City, that’s for certain.
We are walking away from the sun. It dips closer to the horizon and the clouds take on a darker hue. Adam pulls out his cell, transparent as its hot-pink cover has chipped away from abuse, attaches the number pad and dials. A sad state of affairs. I light another cigarette. The silence I was beginning to enjoy is now bugging me.
“I have an idea.”
“Danger’s not answering,” Adam says, tucking the phone back into his pocket. And then, “What?” A belated rejoinder.
“Let’s keep walking east,” I suggest.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
So the exchange goes.
Adam wants a cig. I acquiesce. He suggests we try knocking on Danger’s door. Again, I acquiesce. We step farther east, crossing Peak and turning south in the direction of Swiss.
Deep down I know that Danger will not answer. And why should he? He's probably splayed out drunk on his queen size bed while a nameless drunken barfly chick sits on the edge, a half empty bottle of vodka wedged between her ass and the incline of the indentation, snorting coke on one of those trendy coke mirrors one can purchase online or if so inclined: at Hot Topic. And of course, she won't answer because he implored her not to let anyone in, not even his mother, who she wouldn't know even if she saw her.
Bukowski-esque imagery aside, it's important to note that Danger himself is not a user. At least not anymore. He's now relegated himself to cigs and drink-- easy enough in his service oriented world; and the silence in answer to Adam's hammering fists upon the door are an ominous affirmation of the validity of my detailed supposition.
Adam looks at me and says, "Fuck."
We bear eastward on Swiss. We're broke, but not without hope. I ask Adam if he remembers the night we celebrated the 2008 presidential election. "Yeah," he says, "it all ended so quickly we had to take our sober asses to Elbow Room."
"Next time, we drink every time one of the candidates' names is mentioned."
"Next time it'll be over in half an hour if the Republicans put up who I think they will."
"No way they're that stupid," I add, now trying in earnest not to step on a crack, a difficult thing, considering the condition of the sidewalks on this particular stretch of Swiss before the Fitzhugh intersection.
"Remember the piss puddle race?" Adam asks. Laughingly, I say, “Wasn’t much of a contest. The streams ended up joining.”
“You giggle like a bitch when you’re drunk,” he said.
That much is true. We get to Fitzhugh and cut north to Live Oak. Adam tries to call Jameson (named after the whiskey). There’s no answer. Now he’s dialing random girls I’ve never heard of. We’re definitely looking to mooch. We need a hookup or we’re destined for Saturday night sobriety. Tragedy. Travesty. Prevailing travail.
I suggest to Adam that we make a stop at one of the bookstores I frequent. See who's working. He acquiesces, and we continue on our way. After the Munger intersection, the apartments that characterize many of the blocks on the west side of the street are replaced by large, looming mansions; open houses.
"If I had the cash...," Adam trails off.
"I'm getting a call," I say, digging in my pocket for my phone. I have 17 minutes remaining.
It's Jameson and he says that Adam's phone is a piece of shit, so he called me, and what do we fucking want because he's busy watching movies on his new big screen television. I relay to Adam. He laughs. "Daddy's boy."
Jameson tells me he's going to a party tonight and that if we're interested, he can come pick our broke, no car having asses up. I tell him that we'll consider it and get back to him. Now I have 14 minutes remaining. Such is the way of the prepaid phone.
We pick our heads up and follow the slight northeastern trend of Live Oak. The mansions and the leaning trees on either side of the street create an interesting fusion: man in the background of nature. The mansions seem dead or dying, longing for the inhabitance of human bodies, while the trees form a beautiful living canopy over the road so that when the sun comes out, a kaleidoscope effect is achieved.
On the southern side of the street, the first block we pass is Dumas St. It dead ends into Live Oak. Both sides, west and east, are bookended by fancy modern apartment homes. More prime real estate. Silence.
A little farther east, on the north side of Live Oak, Bryan Pkwy dead ends. Some more nice apartments, possibly expensive, with neatly groomed rows of shrubbery extending from both sides of the front doors to the sidewalk rest on the intersection.
“Fun,” Adam says.
“Fun?”
“Fun.”
I think for a moment.
“Oh. Yeah, being drunk and navigating that...” I start and then laugh. I pull out my cell phone and look at the time. My phone will start beeping soon as my battery bars are down to one. The next block is a light. Going south is Lindell Ave. and going north it is N. Beacon Ave.. The houses are older. Some of them are even deteriorating due to abandonment or negligence or both. The trees aren’t as prominent and the sidewalks look recently paved.
The next intersections are imbalanced and dead end as well: Hudson St. going north and Glendale going south. The sky is slightly darker, and we step cautiously across Live Oak and walk toward Ross Ave., which forks strangely, coming from the east there is an entrance going north, and an exit going west that comes from the north. Ross will eventually level into a east-west running street, but not before some jerky twists and turns.
We stand briefly on the grassy mound between the forks and he asks me about my story.
“I wish it was that simple. I have to interview the guy.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s fucking insane. They say the body parts are real. I don’t know. Jeff has refused to interview the guy. So they’re giving it to me.”
“You are the bitch.”
He’s right. I am Artology’s bitch. It depresses me. But what else is there for me? I’ve had worse luck than Adam on the publishing front. Tons of rejection letters. No money to self publish or start a mag. So fuck it. I’m getting frustrated. I want to keep walking. But now I’m not so certain I want to be in a bookstore; especially not one that is home to a local Writer’s Garret.
So we continue. A walk toward inspiration. There is a liquor store on the south side of Live Oak. At the next block, Live Oak will corner slightly to the northeast and become Skillman. A few shops up in this direction, and hidden by parking lots is a small street called La Vista. Tucked away in the back is a little bookstore.
We pull ourselves up the incline. There are boxes of tattered books along the sidewalk leading to the entrance. On the brick lined wall below dirty windows is poorly scrawled graffiti that reads: Buy your books here; learn how to read them elsewhere... we’re not your fucking teachers.
Rounding the corner, we are confronted with more boxes. Adam reaches into one of them and pulls out a MAD magazine. No price. Out in the open. He rolls it up and tucks it into his pocket.
"Is that the one where Alfred E. Neuman is featured prominently in all the cartoons?" I ask.
"Cartoons? This is art. Have you read MAD? Get your shit together."
In the immediate entrance, we are confronted by lavender walls, a staircase, elevator doors, stacks of books and racks of magazines-- tucked impractically between one wall and the right hand railing of the stairs-- events postings along the walls, and a solitary, dying rose in a vase on the in-table directly to the left of the door going into the secondary entrance.
The place smells of books. We both inhale deeply and exhale with relief. Adam disappears into the trade/paperbacks section, and I move forward to the counter. Milady is there. Literally. Her name is Milady. Hippie parents and such.
She recognizes me, and skipping the friendly smile, she jumps halfway over the counter to hug me. I laugh, we exchange greetings, and I ask her if her boyfriend is hiding somewhere amongst the gardening books, shelved behind me. Another laugh.
“I’m signing you up for open mic night sometime, I swear!” she exclaims.
“You’ll regret it.”
“So, what brings you here?”
“Just hanging with a friend. You?”
A glare. She asks me about this imaginary friend, and I make a smart remark about masturbation in the erotic fic section. Another glare. We talk about school; she’s taking a shit ton of classes and working at the bookstore on weekends. She asks about my latest female obsession (because I have a new one every time I see her).
“No comment,” I say.
“Must be serious.”
“You can say that. Here, let me introduce you to my friend. Strange! Get your ass in here!”
Her face strains with thought. Familiarity. Recognition. As if to say, “Strange?” Adam appears from around the the corner, and that is all she needs! She yells his first name gives him the same hug she gave me. Noticing the rolled up mag in his pocket, she tsks at him and he exclaims that it’s an Observer.
“Sure it is. Anyway, you guys wanna get some coffee or somethin’? I’m off soon,” she says, smiling.
“How do you know one another?” I inquire.
They met working at Elbow Room. Adam worked in the kitchen there for about a year. Milady was one of the several young women who waited tables briefly. Apparently he made several plays for her over the course of that time.
We shoot the shit across the street at that little convenience store on Skillman with the fancy tables and chairs in front of the entrance. She buys us coffee. We listen to her vent about her academic situation, her ridiculous boyfriend with ugly tattoos and natty dreds-- Adam’s description, not hers-- and her existential dilemma of what she wants to be when she grows up. She’s 29.
Adam is flirting with her. My opinion of her is sinking with every revelation. Not that I have any designs on her. She’s attractive, but I am more interested in having a female subject to bounce my personality off of as opposed to actually developing feelings for at this point.
Is this gratitude or torture? She buys me a coffee, so I have to listen to her carp and moan about things I care nothing about? No thanks. I’m getting antsy. I pull out my pack of cigs, offer both of them a smoke. She declines. Adam accepts. She tells me that she didn’t know that I smoke. They’re bad for you, of course. Thank you Raphaella Nader. Shit.
I’m looking at her differently. Like, I want to fucking kill her. Whine, whine, whine. On and on. Now she’s talking about how she’s personally happy that the city is cracking down on all those evil folk who enjoy a smoke now and then. Adam is becoming more and more silent. Probably realizing that he doesn’t know this woman at all.
A test.
“Ronald Reagan,” I say. “Discuss.”
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll
(2009)
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
We are walking east now. We have crossed onto the south end of Live Oak, and have every intention of stopping by Danger's. I ask Adam if Romeo will be fucking Juliette any time soon.
"Maybe," he responds.
I start thinking about my blog. What little income I pull comes from doing articles for this magazine called Artology. I know fuck-all about art, but they like the pseudo-intellectual posturing, the prolixity, and verve of my style. Generally, I have no respect for visual art, and I hate writing for those golden-spoon in mouth troglodytes. But what they pay keeps me sheltered (if nothing else) in my poverty.
A couple of days ago, I got a call from Delaney about interviewing that guy who does all the body part shit. Let me say it: I hate interviewing people. Especially visual artists. Painters and Sculptors and shit. I hate smelling them, I hate hearing them breathe, and I especially hate talking to them. How many fucking times do I have to hear about Picasso or surrealism or expressionism, et al? Those are the ones who went to or go to school and feel that because they are so passionate about what they do and the history of it, that that must mean everyone else is. Wrong.
Then there are the “outsiders.” These talented but willfully ignorant assholes, one might say, are worse because they have a natural ability to convey their thoughts and emotions by way of visual communication, but they won’t go to school and apply themselves toward something more practical and lucrative.
But I shouldn’t be too critical about that. I dropped out of college. Delaney and a couple of the other editors have said several times that my ability as a writer is the only thing keeping me around, and if they thought they could find someone with a degree as experienced and dedicated as myself, they’d drop me like a clingy fuck-buddy.
On my blog I write about walking. Specifically, I write about being a Baudelairean flâneur. Except I don’t write poetry. Perhaps I’m Debordian? But I’m no revolutionary. I’m no philosopher. And I still don’t understand Howls for Sade. Rimbaud. He’s interesting. We share the same birthday. But I don’t write poetry.
Will Self.
I'm like Will Self. A sesquipedalian cum journalistic ambition. Eh, not even. He is a journalist. I’m just an amateur. I’m not even a good sesquipedalian. In person my vocabulary is limited unless I’ve spent time contemplating and mapping out responses.
For terse wit, that most Mametesque of verbal exchange, my vocabulary usually reflects that of the person who I am interacting with; drowning in colloquialism. Slang. Idiom. Cliché. Maxim.
“Really?” I think to myself.
“Nah.”
The longest distance I’d ever walked was from my apartment in East Dallas to the area of Oak Cliff where I grew up. According to Google Maps, the distance from my address to S. Hampton Rd. is slightly less than 11 miles. I don’t know. It was no London to New York City, that’s for certain.
We are walking away from the sun. It dips closer to the horizon and the clouds take on a darker hue. Adam pulls out his cell, transparent as its hot-pink cover has chipped away from abuse, attaches the number pad and dials. A sad state of affairs. I light another cigarette. The silence I was beginning to enjoy is now bugging me.
“I have an idea.”
“Danger’s not answering,” Adam says, tucking the phone back into his pocket. And then, “What?” A belated rejoinder.
“Let’s keep walking east,” I suggest.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
So the exchange goes.
Adam wants a cig. I acquiesce. He suggests we try knocking on Danger’s door. Again, I acquiesce. We step farther east, crossing Peak and turning south in the direction of Swiss.
Deep down I know that Danger will not answer. And why should he? He's probably splayed out drunk on his queen size bed while a nameless drunken barfly chick sits on the edge, a half empty bottle of vodka wedged between her ass and the incline of the indentation, snorting coke on one of those trendy coke mirrors one can purchase online or if so inclined: at Hot Topic. And of course, she won't answer because he implored her not to let anyone in, not even his mother, who she wouldn't know even if she saw her.
Bukowski-esque imagery aside, it's important to note that Danger himself is not a user. At least not anymore. He's now relegated himself to cigs and drink-- easy enough in his service oriented world; and the silence in answer to Adam's hammering fists upon the door are an ominous affirmation of the validity of my detailed supposition.
Adam looks at me and says, "Fuck."
We bear eastward on Swiss. We're broke, but not without hope. I ask Adam if he remembers the night we celebrated the 2008 presidential election. "Yeah," he says, "it all ended so quickly we had to take our sober asses to Elbow Room."
"Next time, we drink every time one of the candidates' names is mentioned."
"Next time it'll be over in half an hour if the Republicans put up who I think they will."
"No way they're that stupid," I add, now trying in earnest not to step on a crack, a difficult thing, considering the condition of the sidewalks on this particular stretch of Swiss before the Fitzhugh intersection.
"Remember the piss puddle race?" Adam asks. Laughingly, I say, “Wasn’t much of a contest. The streams ended up joining.”
“You giggle like a bitch when you’re drunk,” he said.
That much is true. We get to Fitzhugh and cut north to Live Oak. Adam tries to call Jameson (named after the whiskey). There’s no answer. Now he’s dialing random girls I’ve never heard of. We’re definitely looking to mooch. We need a hookup or we’re destined for Saturday night sobriety. Tragedy. Travesty. Prevailing travail.
I suggest to Adam that we make a stop at one of the bookstores I frequent. See who's working. He acquiesces, and we continue on our way. After the Munger intersection, the apartments that characterize many of the blocks on the west side of the street are replaced by large, looming mansions; open houses.
"If I had the cash...," Adam trails off.
"I'm getting a call," I say, digging in my pocket for my phone. I have 17 minutes remaining.
It's Jameson and he says that Adam's phone is a piece of shit, so he called me, and what do we fucking want because he's busy watching movies on his new big screen television. I relay to Adam. He laughs. "Daddy's boy."
Jameson tells me he's going to a party tonight and that if we're interested, he can come pick our broke, no car having asses up. I tell him that we'll consider it and get back to him. Now I have 14 minutes remaining. Such is the way of the prepaid phone.
We pick our heads up and follow the slight northeastern trend of Live Oak. The mansions and the leaning trees on either side of the street create an interesting fusion: man in the background of nature. The mansions seem dead or dying, longing for the inhabitance of human bodies, while the trees form a beautiful living canopy over the road so that when the sun comes out, a kaleidoscope effect is achieved.
On the southern side of the street, the first block we pass is Dumas St. It dead ends into Live Oak. Both sides, west and east, are bookended by fancy modern apartment homes. More prime real estate. Silence.
A little farther east, on the north side of Live Oak, Bryan Pkwy dead ends. Some more nice apartments, possibly expensive, with neatly groomed rows of shrubbery extending from both sides of the front doors to the sidewalk rest on the intersection.
“Fun,” Adam says.
“Fun?”
“Fun.”
I think for a moment.
“Oh. Yeah, being drunk and navigating that...” I start and then laugh. I pull out my cell phone and look at the time. My phone will start beeping soon as my battery bars are down to one. The next block is a light. Going south is Lindell Ave. and going north it is N. Beacon Ave.. The houses are older. Some of them are even deteriorating due to abandonment or negligence or both. The trees aren’t as prominent and the sidewalks look recently paved.
The next intersections are imbalanced and dead end as well: Hudson St. going north and Glendale going south. The sky is slightly darker, and we step cautiously across Live Oak and walk toward Ross Ave., which forks strangely, coming from the east there is an entrance going north, and an exit going west that comes from the north. Ross will eventually level into a east-west running street, but not before some jerky twists and turns.
We stand briefly on the grassy mound between the forks and he asks me about my story.
“I wish it was that simple. I have to interview the guy.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s fucking insane. They say the body parts are real. I don’t know. Jeff has refused to interview the guy. So they’re giving it to me.”
“You are the bitch.”
He’s right. I am Artology’s bitch. It depresses me. But what else is there for me? I’ve had worse luck than Adam on the publishing front. Tons of rejection letters. No money to self publish or start a mag. So fuck it. I’m getting frustrated. I want to keep walking. But now I’m not so certain I want to be in a bookstore; especially not one that is home to a local Writer’s Garret.
So we continue. A walk toward inspiration. There is a liquor store on the south side of Live Oak. At the next block, Live Oak will corner slightly to the northeast and become Skillman. A few shops up in this direction, and hidden by parking lots is a small street called La Vista. Tucked away in the back is a little bookstore.
We pull ourselves up the incline. There are boxes of tattered books along the sidewalk leading to the entrance. On the brick lined wall below dirty windows is poorly scrawled graffiti that reads: Buy your books here; learn how to read them elsewhere... we’re not your fucking teachers.
Rounding the corner, we are confronted with more boxes. Adam reaches into one of them and pulls out a MAD magazine. No price. Out in the open. He rolls it up and tucks it into his pocket.
"Is that the one where Alfred E. Neuman is featured prominently in all the cartoons?" I ask.
"Cartoons? This is art. Have you read MAD? Get your shit together."
In the immediate entrance, we are confronted by lavender walls, a staircase, elevator doors, stacks of books and racks of magazines-- tucked impractically between one wall and the right hand railing of the stairs-- events postings along the walls, and a solitary, dying rose in a vase on the in-table directly to the left of the door going into the secondary entrance.
The place smells of books. We both inhale deeply and exhale with relief. Adam disappears into the trade/paperbacks section, and I move forward to the counter. Milady is there. Literally. Her name is Milady. Hippie parents and such.
She recognizes me, and skipping the friendly smile, she jumps halfway over the counter to hug me. I laugh, we exchange greetings, and I ask her if her boyfriend is hiding somewhere amongst the gardening books, shelved behind me. Another laugh.
“I’m signing you up for open mic night sometime, I swear!” she exclaims.
“You’ll regret it.”
“So, what brings you here?”
“Just hanging with a friend. You?”
A glare. She asks me about this imaginary friend, and I make a smart remark about masturbation in the erotic fic section. Another glare. We talk about school; she’s taking a shit ton of classes and working at the bookstore on weekends. She asks about my latest female obsession (because I have a new one every time I see her).
“No comment,” I say.
“Must be serious.”
“You can say that. Here, let me introduce you to my friend. Strange! Get your ass in here!”
Her face strains with thought. Familiarity. Recognition. As if to say, “Strange?” Adam appears from around the the corner, and that is all she needs! She yells his first name gives him the same hug she gave me. Noticing the rolled up mag in his pocket, she tsks at him and he exclaims that it’s an Observer.
“Sure it is. Anyway, you guys wanna get some coffee or somethin’? I’m off soon,” she says, smiling.
“How do you know one another?” I inquire.
They met working at Elbow Room. Adam worked in the kitchen there for about a year. Milady was one of the several young women who waited tables briefly. Apparently he made several plays for her over the course of that time.
We shoot the shit across the street at that little convenience store on Skillman with the fancy tables and chairs in front of the entrance. She buys us coffee. We listen to her vent about her academic situation, her ridiculous boyfriend with ugly tattoos and natty dreds-- Adam’s description, not hers-- and her existential dilemma of what she wants to be when she grows up. She’s 29.
Adam is flirting with her. My opinion of her is sinking with every revelation. Not that I have any designs on her. She’s attractive, but I am more interested in having a female subject to bounce my personality off of as opposed to actually developing feelings for at this point.
Is this gratitude or torture? She buys me a coffee, so I have to listen to her carp and moan about things I care nothing about? No thanks. I’m getting antsy. I pull out my pack of cigs, offer both of them a smoke. She declines. Adam accepts. She tells me that she didn’t know that I smoke. They’re bad for you, of course. Thank you Raphaella Nader. Shit.
I’m looking at her differently. Like, I want to fucking kill her. Whine, whine, whine. On and on. Now she’s talking about how she’s personally happy that the city is cracking down on all those evil folk who enjoy a smoke now and then. Adam is becoming more and more silent. Probably realizing that he doesn’t know this woman at all.
A test.
“Ronald Reagan,” I say. “Discuss.”
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll
(2009)
13.7.09
Flâneur Fiction: "Detouring Vol. 1"
“Detouring: Vol. 1”
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
The mattress and box spring I sleep on are never covered. They rest on the floor, the former covering the latter slightly diagonally. If one were to remove the ceiling to look down on it, there would no doubt be discovered symmetry. Symmetry that is not aesthetically pleasing, but symmetry nonetheless. The bed frame is leaned against the wall under the window. I'm missing a crucial support piece, so the chances of me having a real bed are slim to nil.
Books and clothing are littered randomly about the room. Boxes remain packed in corners. I've lived here for four and a half months. I usually sleep with my feet pointing southward and my head pointing to the window, which looks north into an alleyway. The alleyway separates the mansions on Swiss from our little favela on Gaston. That’s America for you. The moneyed aren’t content with protecting their riches, no. They want to see us poor bastards suffer our paycheck to paycheck existences, so they smile and wave to us as we move hither and thither-- from work to home and home to work, day in and day out-- with our apartment complexes only a monument to poverty.
On cold nights I wrap myself in a comforter and assume the fetal position. Most nights I drink myself to a slinky, rubbery consistency, try to read The Gift of Death or Crime and Punishment, fail, and go to sleep. Comatose. So it goes. The cycle.
Usually I wake up at noon, wrench my eyes shut to defend them against the rays of sun that filter through the slats of the horizontal blinds, get up on the left side of the bed, limp to the bathroom, take a shit, wash my face, brush my teeth, and if necessary, shower and shave. But on this particular morning I was rousted from dreamland by the urge to piss. Only hours before I’d taken two lithium, four ibuprofen, and drank a handle of Chilean plonk.
I stand under the cold, sobering spray of the shower and wonder to myself how the hell my bladder could penetrate two lithium tablets and all that fermented grape juice. Then I remember the girl who gave me the pills warning that polyuria is a side effect, so I shouldn‘t “worry my pretty little head about being pregnant.” Har-d-fucking-har. Combined with the wine guzzling, my actions were tantamount to taunting my bladder and liver thusly: “Hey, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. So I issue to you a challenge. Wake me from a sound sleep for a piss! I don’t care! Do your fucking worst!”
Forthrightly speaking, perhaps pissing off my liver and bladder aren’t the smartest of actions given their biological necessity.
On the toilet I sit, my teeth clattering against themselves, drying off my frostbitten toes. Cold water + A/C = probable shock. I lean over to the hamper and pull out a pair of underwear. I’m not getting laid anytime soon. If Tracey Emin can proudly display her dirty knickers in an installation, certainly I can wear once worn unwashed boxer briefs. They’re at the top and aren’t entombed in dirty shirts and socks, they pass the smell test, and I have talcum. All bases covered.
I’m still feeling drunk. The shower was not sobering enough, apparently! I quickly cover my genitalia with powder, slip on the boxers, and put on the shirt and jeans that are leaning on the back of a seldom sat in chair. They‘re clean. I think. I check the clock. Fifteen ‘til one. Lovely. Breakfast consists of a Belgian waffle-- cold in the center-- and a glass of water. I’m positioned in front of the tube, pretending to watch television en español. They’re trying to sell “trocas” again. The eye candy in the orange top and skirt is cute.
“I know she’s a human being,” I say aloud to no one in particular, justifying to myself those hedonistic little thoughts that cause one so much inner turmoil. Ha, right.
Saturdays are the kind of days where one such as myself does little more than sit around and wait for an exciting proposition to come his way. Per usual, my friend Adam the Strange delivers. By phone. I have one new text from “the Strange,” the icon reads after a couple secs of vibration.
“En route. Get your shit together,” the message reads. Brusque.
Now, when Adam calls or texts to say that he’s on his way over, there’s no real way to determine exactly when he’ll show up. See, neither of us have vehicles. We proudly boast this to our friends, most of whom have cars or are smart enough to utilize the public transport that our glorious city affords us. Yes, those big yellow sardine cans manned by careless drivers only made confident by stupidity and the fact that they are in the biggest vehicle on the road.
The mystery of the ETA is sacred to us both as we are capricious individuals and sometimes we don’t think to notify the other person until we’re halfway there, or already there, or close by, but distracted by a woman or a bar or a woman we have followed into a bar. The point is: I don’t know when he’ll be here.
For awhile he lived with a woman whom we’ll refer to as his girlfriend. The day he moved in with her seemed as if perhaps it would be one of those oft bolded watershed events-- you know, it‘s usually a vocabulary word in history textbooks-- that change drastically the landscape of existence as it is known; a change none of us in his immediate circle of friends expected to happen.
But Adam the Strange is not a man to be tied down. “We weren’t built to last,” he confessed over a drink. “I can’t write. She throws off my rhythm. It’s almost like... well, she’s always around and familiarity through sex breeds a lot more things than just contempt.”
“Like what?” I asked, curious.
“Comfort. I‘m not used to such... everything‘s in its place shit.”
“Oh, well then, can I have a go?”
“She’d kill you. Seriously. You seen my back? You’re a pussy.”
He was right. Woman’s a beast. Best I could hope for would be mercy. And I wouldn’t get that. Besides, she’s fond of Mexicans with Mohawks, and it’s a mold I could never possibly hope to fit.
The spiral notebook sat under my glass. I set the drink aside and opened it. I read the first page that was legible. It was shit. Completely uncharacteristic shit. Undeniably awful. Unabashedly base. His self published This isn’t a suicide note... was so far away from the mess thrown onto those whiskey stained pages that I wanted to hug the guy.
Celebrity was local and brief for him. It was a nice little wave that died out way too soon for his liking. The girlfriend thing was a coping mechanism, which I guess is why it caught everyone who knew him by surprise. “'the Strange’ has a girlfriend? No way!”
“I know it sucks,” he said, looking me directly in the eye. He wet the tips of his fingers, as he does when his mind moves faster than his mouth. “The only thing that could make it more than nonsense is covering up the bullshit with a gimmick.”
“So, bury the bullshit in bullshit? I like it.”
He laughed.
We were walking south on Akard in the direction of his place. City Hall stood, lurching over the reflecting pond like a child admiring itself, teetering dangerously close to the edge, but never quite falling in; and just then Adam blurted, “let’s just get some of my shit and keep going.”
And that’s what we did. “Goodbye,” he said to the beautiful hardwood floor, “goodbye,” to the beautiful high ceilings, “goodbye,” to the beautiful gas stove, “goodbye,” to the beautiful view of Downtown Dallas from the communal patio, and least (and most) of all, “goodbye,” to the eccentrically beautiful woman who had taken him in and fucked all the talent out.
Of course, she was asleep. Passed out. I checked to make sure she was still alive. The woman did a lot of coke; even claimed to have had a heart attack when she was twenty four. She was breathing.
“At least she doesn’t snore,” I said, pocketing a small bag of coke and the rolled up dollar bill.
All I see now are scantily clad young women gyrating to Latin rhythms. I am enjoying it too much. Or not enough. I change the channel. Too much stimulation too soon makes me boring and one dimensional. At least that’s what the postmodernist loving lit major I dated said. She would read my blog and regurgitate phrases or words I used; always striking mockingly, never drolly. The tongue sharp but somehow witless. I curse her and her stupid observations.
Now I’m thinking about my blog. To update or not to update? That’s the question. The answer is that I haven’t brought my virus protection to current, and because I can’t afford a Mac (not an endorsement), I'm open to any PC STD out there. So there it is. My laptop sitting closed on the table in front of me. I'm still paying for the piece of shit.
I tap a fresh pack of smokes against my palm and walk to the door. The peephole is grimy and therefore an unreliable representation of the world immediately in front of my door. I glance down at the nicotine twenty in my hand, separated from the flesh of my palm by plastic and cardboard.
For a moment I struggle. Man against manufacturing. After some ticks of the second hand, the wrapping is off and the top is flipped. I sit back down, remove the shiny paper, extract a cigarette, place it between my lips and light it.
The metal knocker clacks against the door. Adam. He's the only one who uses it. I again shake myself free of the couch's metaphorical shackles and answer the door. He's smiling. "What the fuck's up?" I ask.
"I'm homeless!"
He steps in. I gesture for him to sit down. He demurs the invitation and asks for a cigarette. "If nothing else, you've got tobacco and booze."
"Regretting running away?"
"She's got an 'Amber Alert' out on me. Her friends, mostly assholes I don't even know, are texting me,” he says with a laugh. “But one of them mentioned a party tonight somewhere between here and Lakewood.”
“Well, we can’t miss that,” I say, suddenly perky.
We are both hungry, so we decide to pool our resources and get tacos from Jack in the Box. He has $2.76 cash and I have $2.16 plus something like three or four bucks in the bank. In wadded up tender and change, we have a total of $4.92, which is enough for six tacos (as per the 2 for 99¢ deal, which has been in affect for as long as I can remember), or four tacos and two small drinks. We laugh.
“That, I think, is as good as your math will ever get,” he says.
We do a couple of lines of coke and hit the door. A little boy with nothing but a diaper covering his ass runs past us squealing while his mother yells in Spanish. I say “aww,” lock the door and we head through the parking lot into the alley. The sun is slowly heading west and so are we. Not a creature stirs, nary a crackhead nor bum, just the Tejano music throbbing softly behind us.
Silence, compatible though it is with sedentary solitude, is incompatible when walking in company, so I say to Adam, "What were you thinking when you wrote that shit?" A couple of steps pass, and he stops. I stop as well. He looks at me and smiles.
"Man, I don't know. I wrote This is not a suicide note... when I was rooming with Danger. Our schedules differed to the point where we were rarely in the apartment together. With the girlfriend... all we did was go out and drink and come home and fuck.”
“Yeah,” I said. We walked on, turning northbound on N. Collett. “But in this economy, one shouldn’t give up pussy.”
Adam asks, “Swiss or Live Oak?”
“Swiss, I think.”
Selecting Swiss Ave. is a way for us to simultaneously address grievances while treating our aesthetic senses, and starting each sentence with “If I had the cash...” as each block westward disappears beyond our peripherals.
“How is Danger these days, anyway? Thought about crashing with him?” I ask.
“Still on Greenville. He told me I lost a step, too.”
“That writer’s block shit in the novel was self-fulfilling.”
He scoffs.
I persist, “No really, the narrator is you and you are him. Slim with the tilted brim...”
“It’s not a block. It’s just..." He realizes the reference. In the key of gangsta rap. "What’s my muthafuckin’ name?? Adam the Strange!”
“And you are not even drunk yet. I always liked ‘Adam the overly animated Mexican.’”
“Too long. Not believable.”
“You think Mexicans aren’t prone to excitement?”
“In Spanish, yes. I don’t speak Spanish.”
For the next couple of blocks, I am forced to admit I am more Mexican than him and Danger combined. “Remember that time we were at Fiesta and you bought all that Mexican candy?”
“It’s cheap and delicious, man. That’s my defense. If it makes me Mexican, so be it. I‘m more Mexican than you and Danger combined.”
A woman with a near perfect ass jogs past us going east.
“Irish, Mexican... it’s all the same,” he says. “That is the most distracting ass ever.”
“Yeah. You think Danger will lend us some cash? If we’re going to a party, we might as well make an effort to not show up empty handed.”
Crossing Swiss onto Fitzhugh, we are heading north to the next east-west street, Live Oak. Passing us, going south on Fitzhugh is a metro-sexual looking guy walking two small dogs. One is a poodle, the other is a Yorkie. Fuck it. The terrier is tiny. The guy, with his head up and nose pointing slightly to the heavens, is wearing shades-- those big, annoying bug-eyed ones that ugly chicks always wear for the fact that they cover up 60% of their face-- that give him what he might perceive as an air of cool, but the general consensus concerning these type of guys is that they‘re all pricks. Adam laughs.
“Gay or punk?” I ask. No laughter this time.
“Probably more punk than that guy Steve.”
Good one. Steve was a huge, really scary punk asshole who bounced bars on Lower Greenville. He beat the shit out of me once. I was drunk, hopped up on coke, and apparently I hit on his girlfriend. The worst part was that he was already pissed at me for starting rumors about his “anything antithetical to homosexual” façade being a means to cover up his raging desire to suck every cock in the vicinity.
The back-story to that is the whole fiasco where he got macho with me because I became slightly indignant over him manhandling my driver’s license. Examining it, bending it to the point of alteration. Words were exchanged. From that point forward I was personae non-gratis at the particular bar where he bounced.
“What’s big, dumb, and less punk than Little Richard?” I would chirp drunkenly, tactlessly at whomever I thought was listening. Honestly, I thought everyone was. This went on for a few weeks. I would lob cute little barbs at Steve’s reputation, and there would be no response.
But that particular night my good friends: coke, alcohol, and my big mouth-- not to mention my undersexed penis-- got me beat up.
The story is that I was homesteading in front of the bar his girlfriend was tending at the joint next door (where he bounced many a disagreeable and belligerent motherfucker down the road for a living), and lacking the cash necessary to settle my tab, I offered to take her out back and “eat her out.” Naturally, she was revolted by my proposition and the cheekiness that accompanied it, grabbed me from over the counter, and slapped me several times about the face while yelling. Steve’s attention had been successfully aroused. His rebuttal was neither swift nor graceful.
Drunk and loose as I was, I couldn’t get away from the fucker. Understand: I’m 6’1. That guy had at least five inches on me. That didn’t include the nine inches of spiked Mohawk lined perfectly from his widow’s peak to the nape of neck. And man did his maulers pummel into whatever part of my body faced him! Good show for the patrons. Weeks of pain and numbing euphoria for me (oh the glory of non-prescribed Meperidine A.K.A Demerol!). But that’s how it always is. Inebriation keeps the pain at bay until sobriety rules the day.
Even now, I take shit from my friends for it. At Fitzhugh and Live Oak we stop at the light. “Think that guy could take Steve?” I question with a chuckle.
“Yeah. I do. You were a drunk asshole about it, but it was just a bullshit fad to him. You listen to more punk than that guy,” he trails off and then mutters, “Sex Pistols... gimme a fuckin’ break.”
"He still kicked my ass. But I'll take the street cred."
"You got your ass kicked. Street cred means shit. Just think about it like this: who was more drunk?"
“I was pretty wasted,” I admit.
The light changes. We cross Live Oak and continue west. The skyscrapers of Downtown Dallas can be seen in the distance. The blocks we tread going west pass with little verbal exchange, which means no grandstanding. Every time we open our mouths it’s to impress ourselves or intimidate those around us, so this is out of character. But frankly, I’m tired of talking about the night I got my ass beat, with good reason, by a moronic goliath. Right now, I just want to count my steps. I want to enjoy being sober.
N. Carroll Ave.. Because we’re hungry, the only thing that grabs our attention is the olfactory stimulation from the Burger King that sits on the northeast corner of N. Carroll and Live Oak. We know it’s too rich for our blood. We’re coming up on Peak. It’s the next light. I say to Adam, “Maybe we should see if Danger’s got money, and then find somewhere better to eat. I’m not so sure I want tacos now.”
“Let’s save extravagance for liquor,” he says.
"Do you know exactly where the place is?”
“What fun would that be? Follow the noise, I always say.”
Westward on the north side of Live Oak we walk, Downtown Dallas magnifies ahead of us with each step. Some older black gentlemen are sitting under one of the DART (Dallas Area Rapid Transit-- not always apropos, but not always oxymoronic either) bus shelters. These shelters were conceived to protect waiting riders from the elements, but in reality do little to accomplish such a thing. Rain never comes down from a single angle and cold and heat are allowed several entry points (through hollowed out dot-matrix type entrances-- or if there’s glass, it varies-- through cracks and empty panels), hell the metallic material the fucking things are made of conduct both elements! Clearly, these men would be fucked were it not for the beautiful spring day.
They solicit us for cash as we pass. Adam pulls the linty pocket lining from his jeans and shrugs as if to say “I’m more broke than you are. Don‘t fucking ask.” One of the guys mumbles “God bless you“ while the other waves us off disappointedly. We keep walking. “Look at that,” he says. “They didn’t want to put a tape measure to poverty.”
The Jack in the Box exists comfortably on a concrete bed at the corner of Live Oak and Washington Ave. At this moment we have run out of grass. I notice the concrete bench with “DART” etched into its sides. In front of it is a metal pole-- sprouting from more concrete-- that has a sign made of something I think is much like fiberglass affixed to it. It also reads “DART.”
“I guess they make up for Exall Park’s inexcusable overabundance of grass!” I exclaim. “The park has more than enough fucking grass! It’s Texas, everyone loves sun, what bigger lover of sun than concrete!”
Adam shakes his head.
Inside we are greeted by an empty restaurant. Most of the employees are fooling around: the manager is texting and grinning to himself, the fry cook is flirting with the prep station girl; all of them are doing absolutely nothing to keep their awful jobs-- and in any other situation would likely be summarily fired-- save for the pale girl at the register who is smiling at us, playing well her part, anxious to serve.
Adam sees the slight outlining of one of her tats drooping underneath the hem of her shirtsleeve. He points to it. She smiles and lifts up the sleeve. It’s a cross. He cringes and says, “Nice. Can I get six tacos and two cups, please?” He turns to me. “Water’s cool, right?”
“Sure,” I answer. “Water is the source of life.”
“Really? I thought it was sex.”
“That too,” I add with boredom.
The girl smiles at us. “That’ll be $3.14,” she says with a voice that’d glow if it could be seen. I scramble through my pockets, pull out the two wadded bills. Adam reaches back into his wallet and retrieves two crisp bills, gently laying them in her hand. I can’t believe it! He’s flirting!
She gives us our change and thanks us. 86¢. Three quarters, a dime, and a penny. We sit down and wait on our order. I spin the penny on the table. I think about saying something I always say-- sounds something like, “plastic salt shakers, too bad they don’t have them here... blah, blah, blah”-- I think better of it.
The dining area around us is split into three sections, each one with a ceiling fan turning at medium speed, quietly above. As most of the restaurant is glass, what little wall space there is, is covered with "humorous" send-ups of classic paintings and photos that feature the chain's "mascot" or "commercial identity."
"I don't think half the people who dine at this place get the intended humor of these posters," I say.
"I don't even get half of them," Adam mumbles. His attentions are focused on the girl behind the counter. She's staring at the front door, waiting for the next customer.
"She's ugly, dude. And a Christian."
"Christians have vaginas, too."
"What about ugly girls?"
"The same. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
I am ignoring his usage of a cliché because our tacos are ready. I get up and walk to the counter. She says, "Want hot sauce?" Of course I want hot sauce. Hot sauce is the best part. I nod. She dumps several packets in and then rests her elbows on the counter, propping her head up with the palms of her hands.
I drop the tray onto the table between us. Adam tears into the bag. One of the napkins has a series of digits poorly scrawled in ink on it. I point this out to him. He picks it up and reads her name and number aloud. Her name is Juliette. Juliette the pale tattooed Christian.
(2009)
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
The mattress and box spring I sleep on are never covered. They rest on the floor, the former covering the latter slightly diagonally. If one were to remove the ceiling to look down on it, there would no doubt be discovered symmetry. Symmetry that is not aesthetically pleasing, but symmetry nonetheless. The bed frame is leaned against the wall under the window. I'm missing a crucial support piece, so the chances of me having a real bed are slim to nil.
Books and clothing are littered randomly about the room. Boxes remain packed in corners. I've lived here for four and a half months. I usually sleep with my feet pointing southward and my head pointing to the window, which looks north into an alleyway. The alleyway separates the mansions on Swiss from our little favela on Gaston. That’s America for you. The moneyed aren’t content with protecting their riches, no. They want to see us poor bastards suffer our paycheck to paycheck existences, so they smile and wave to us as we move hither and thither-- from work to home and home to work, day in and day out-- with our apartment complexes only a monument to poverty.
On cold nights I wrap myself in a comforter and assume the fetal position. Most nights I drink myself to a slinky, rubbery consistency, try to read The Gift of Death or Crime and Punishment, fail, and go to sleep. Comatose. So it goes. The cycle.
Usually I wake up at noon, wrench my eyes shut to defend them against the rays of sun that filter through the slats of the horizontal blinds, get up on the left side of the bed, limp to the bathroom, take a shit, wash my face, brush my teeth, and if necessary, shower and shave. But on this particular morning I was rousted from dreamland by the urge to piss. Only hours before I’d taken two lithium, four ibuprofen, and drank a handle of Chilean plonk.
I stand under the cold, sobering spray of the shower and wonder to myself how the hell my bladder could penetrate two lithium tablets and all that fermented grape juice. Then I remember the girl who gave me the pills warning that polyuria is a side effect, so I shouldn‘t “worry my pretty little head about being pregnant.” Har-d-fucking-har. Combined with the wine guzzling, my actions were tantamount to taunting my bladder and liver thusly: “Hey, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. So I issue to you a challenge. Wake me from a sound sleep for a piss! I don’t care! Do your fucking worst!”
Forthrightly speaking, perhaps pissing off my liver and bladder aren’t the smartest of actions given their biological necessity.
On the toilet I sit, my teeth clattering against themselves, drying off my frostbitten toes. Cold water + A/C = probable shock. I lean over to the hamper and pull out a pair of underwear. I’m not getting laid anytime soon. If Tracey Emin can proudly display her dirty knickers in an installation, certainly I can wear once worn unwashed boxer briefs. They’re at the top and aren’t entombed in dirty shirts and socks, they pass the smell test, and I have talcum. All bases covered.
I’m still feeling drunk. The shower was not sobering enough, apparently! I quickly cover my genitalia with powder, slip on the boxers, and put on the shirt and jeans that are leaning on the back of a seldom sat in chair. They‘re clean. I think. I check the clock. Fifteen ‘til one. Lovely. Breakfast consists of a Belgian waffle-- cold in the center-- and a glass of water. I’m positioned in front of the tube, pretending to watch television en español. They’re trying to sell “trocas” again. The eye candy in the orange top and skirt is cute.
“I know she’s a human being,” I say aloud to no one in particular, justifying to myself those hedonistic little thoughts that cause one so much inner turmoil. Ha, right.
Saturdays are the kind of days where one such as myself does little more than sit around and wait for an exciting proposition to come his way. Per usual, my friend Adam the Strange delivers. By phone. I have one new text from “the Strange,” the icon reads after a couple secs of vibration.
“En route. Get your shit together,” the message reads. Brusque.
Now, when Adam calls or texts to say that he’s on his way over, there’s no real way to determine exactly when he’ll show up. See, neither of us have vehicles. We proudly boast this to our friends, most of whom have cars or are smart enough to utilize the public transport that our glorious city affords us. Yes, those big yellow sardine cans manned by careless drivers only made confident by stupidity and the fact that they are in the biggest vehicle on the road.
The mystery of the ETA is sacred to us both as we are capricious individuals and sometimes we don’t think to notify the other person until we’re halfway there, or already there, or close by, but distracted by a woman or a bar or a woman we have followed into a bar. The point is: I don’t know when he’ll be here.
For awhile he lived with a woman whom we’ll refer to as his girlfriend. The day he moved in with her seemed as if perhaps it would be one of those oft bolded watershed events-- you know, it‘s usually a vocabulary word in history textbooks-- that change drastically the landscape of existence as it is known; a change none of us in his immediate circle of friends expected to happen.
But Adam the Strange is not a man to be tied down. “We weren’t built to last,” he confessed over a drink. “I can’t write. She throws off my rhythm. It’s almost like... well, she’s always around and familiarity through sex breeds a lot more things than just contempt.”
“Like what?” I asked, curious.
“Comfort. I‘m not used to such... everything‘s in its place shit.”
“Oh, well then, can I have a go?”
“She’d kill you. Seriously. You seen my back? You’re a pussy.”
He was right. Woman’s a beast. Best I could hope for would be mercy. And I wouldn’t get that. Besides, she’s fond of Mexicans with Mohawks, and it’s a mold I could never possibly hope to fit.
The spiral notebook sat under my glass. I set the drink aside and opened it. I read the first page that was legible. It was shit. Completely uncharacteristic shit. Undeniably awful. Unabashedly base. His self published This isn’t a suicide note... was so far away from the mess thrown onto those whiskey stained pages that I wanted to hug the guy.
Celebrity was local and brief for him. It was a nice little wave that died out way too soon for his liking. The girlfriend thing was a coping mechanism, which I guess is why it caught everyone who knew him by surprise. “'the Strange’ has a girlfriend? No way!”
“I know it sucks,” he said, looking me directly in the eye. He wet the tips of his fingers, as he does when his mind moves faster than his mouth. “The only thing that could make it more than nonsense is covering up the bullshit with a gimmick.”
“So, bury the bullshit in bullshit? I like it.”
He laughed.
We were walking south on Akard in the direction of his place. City Hall stood, lurching over the reflecting pond like a child admiring itself, teetering dangerously close to the edge, but never quite falling in; and just then Adam blurted, “let’s just get some of my shit and keep going.”
And that’s what we did. “Goodbye,” he said to the beautiful hardwood floor, “goodbye,” to the beautiful high ceilings, “goodbye,” to the beautiful gas stove, “goodbye,” to the beautiful view of Downtown Dallas from the communal patio, and least (and most) of all, “goodbye,” to the eccentrically beautiful woman who had taken him in and fucked all the talent out.
Of course, she was asleep. Passed out. I checked to make sure she was still alive. The woman did a lot of coke; even claimed to have had a heart attack when she was twenty four. She was breathing.
“At least she doesn’t snore,” I said, pocketing a small bag of coke and the rolled up dollar bill.
All I see now are scantily clad young women gyrating to Latin rhythms. I am enjoying it too much. Or not enough. I change the channel. Too much stimulation too soon makes me boring and one dimensional. At least that’s what the postmodernist loving lit major I dated said. She would read my blog and regurgitate phrases or words I used; always striking mockingly, never drolly. The tongue sharp but somehow witless. I curse her and her stupid observations.
Now I’m thinking about my blog. To update or not to update? That’s the question. The answer is that I haven’t brought my virus protection to current, and because I can’t afford a Mac (not an endorsement), I'm open to any PC STD out there. So there it is. My laptop sitting closed on the table in front of me. I'm still paying for the piece of shit.
I tap a fresh pack of smokes against my palm and walk to the door. The peephole is grimy and therefore an unreliable representation of the world immediately in front of my door. I glance down at the nicotine twenty in my hand, separated from the flesh of my palm by plastic and cardboard.
For a moment I struggle. Man against manufacturing. After some ticks of the second hand, the wrapping is off and the top is flipped. I sit back down, remove the shiny paper, extract a cigarette, place it between my lips and light it.
The metal knocker clacks against the door. Adam. He's the only one who uses it. I again shake myself free of the couch's metaphorical shackles and answer the door. He's smiling. "What the fuck's up?" I ask.
"I'm homeless!"
He steps in. I gesture for him to sit down. He demurs the invitation and asks for a cigarette. "If nothing else, you've got tobacco and booze."
"Regretting running away?"
"She's got an 'Amber Alert' out on me. Her friends, mostly assholes I don't even know, are texting me,” he says with a laugh. “But one of them mentioned a party tonight somewhere between here and Lakewood.”
“Well, we can’t miss that,” I say, suddenly perky.
We are both hungry, so we decide to pool our resources and get tacos from Jack in the Box. He has $2.76 cash and I have $2.16 plus something like three or four bucks in the bank. In wadded up tender and change, we have a total of $4.92, which is enough for six tacos (as per the 2 for 99¢ deal, which has been in affect for as long as I can remember), or four tacos and two small drinks. We laugh.
“That, I think, is as good as your math will ever get,” he says.
We do a couple of lines of coke and hit the door. A little boy with nothing but a diaper covering his ass runs past us squealing while his mother yells in Spanish. I say “aww,” lock the door and we head through the parking lot into the alley. The sun is slowly heading west and so are we. Not a creature stirs, nary a crackhead nor bum, just the Tejano music throbbing softly behind us.
Silence, compatible though it is with sedentary solitude, is incompatible when walking in company, so I say to Adam, "What were you thinking when you wrote that shit?" A couple of steps pass, and he stops. I stop as well. He looks at me and smiles.
"Man, I don't know. I wrote This is not a suicide note... when I was rooming with Danger. Our schedules differed to the point where we were rarely in the apartment together. With the girlfriend... all we did was go out and drink and come home and fuck.”
“Yeah,” I said. We walked on, turning northbound on N. Collett. “But in this economy, one shouldn’t give up pussy.”
Adam asks, “Swiss or Live Oak?”
“Swiss, I think.”
Selecting Swiss Ave. is a way for us to simultaneously address grievances while treating our aesthetic senses, and starting each sentence with “If I had the cash...” as each block westward disappears beyond our peripherals.
“How is Danger these days, anyway? Thought about crashing with him?” I ask.
“Still on Greenville. He told me I lost a step, too.”
“That writer’s block shit in the novel was self-fulfilling.”
He scoffs.
I persist, “No really, the narrator is you and you are him. Slim with the tilted brim...”
“It’s not a block. It’s just..." He realizes the reference. In the key of gangsta rap. "What’s my muthafuckin’ name?? Adam the Strange!”
“And you are not even drunk yet. I always liked ‘Adam the overly animated Mexican.’”
“Too long. Not believable.”
“You think Mexicans aren’t prone to excitement?”
“In Spanish, yes. I don’t speak Spanish.”
For the next couple of blocks, I am forced to admit I am more Mexican than him and Danger combined. “Remember that time we were at Fiesta and you bought all that Mexican candy?”
“It’s cheap and delicious, man. That’s my defense. If it makes me Mexican, so be it. I‘m more Mexican than you and Danger combined.”
A woman with a near perfect ass jogs past us going east.
“Irish, Mexican... it’s all the same,” he says. “That is the most distracting ass ever.”
“Yeah. You think Danger will lend us some cash? If we’re going to a party, we might as well make an effort to not show up empty handed.”
Crossing Swiss onto Fitzhugh, we are heading north to the next east-west street, Live Oak. Passing us, going south on Fitzhugh is a metro-sexual looking guy walking two small dogs. One is a poodle, the other is a Yorkie. Fuck it. The terrier is tiny. The guy, with his head up and nose pointing slightly to the heavens, is wearing shades-- those big, annoying bug-eyed ones that ugly chicks always wear for the fact that they cover up 60% of their face-- that give him what he might perceive as an air of cool, but the general consensus concerning these type of guys is that they‘re all pricks. Adam laughs.
“Gay or punk?” I ask. No laughter this time.
“Probably more punk than that guy Steve.”
Good one. Steve was a huge, really scary punk asshole who bounced bars on Lower Greenville. He beat the shit out of me once. I was drunk, hopped up on coke, and apparently I hit on his girlfriend. The worst part was that he was already pissed at me for starting rumors about his “anything antithetical to homosexual” façade being a means to cover up his raging desire to suck every cock in the vicinity.
The back-story to that is the whole fiasco where he got macho with me because I became slightly indignant over him manhandling my driver’s license. Examining it, bending it to the point of alteration. Words were exchanged. From that point forward I was personae non-gratis at the particular bar where he bounced.
“What’s big, dumb, and less punk than Little Richard?” I would chirp drunkenly, tactlessly at whomever I thought was listening. Honestly, I thought everyone was. This went on for a few weeks. I would lob cute little barbs at Steve’s reputation, and there would be no response.
But that particular night my good friends: coke, alcohol, and my big mouth-- not to mention my undersexed penis-- got me beat up.
The story is that I was homesteading in front of the bar his girlfriend was tending at the joint next door (where he bounced many a disagreeable and belligerent motherfucker down the road for a living), and lacking the cash necessary to settle my tab, I offered to take her out back and “eat her out.” Naturally, she was revolted by my proposition and the cheekiness that accompanied it, grabbed me from over the counter, and slapped me several times about the face while yelling. Steve’s attention had been successfully aroused. His rebuttal was neither swift nor graceful.
Drunk and loose as I was, I couldn’t get away from the fucker. Understand: I’m 6’1. That guy had at least five inches on me. That didn’t include the nine inches of spiked Mohawk lined perfectly from his widow’s peak to the nape of neck. And man did his maulers pummel into whatever part of my body faced him! Good show for the patrons. Weeks of pain and numbing euphoria for me (oh the glory of non-prescribed Meperidine A.K.A Demerol!). But that’s how it always is. Inebriation keeps the pain at bay until sobriety rules the day.
Even now, I take shit from my friends for it. At Fitzhugh and Live Oak we stop at the light. “Think that guy could take Steve?” I question with a chuckle.
“Yeah. I do. You were a drunk asshole about it, but it was just a bullshit fad to him. You listen to more punk than that guy,” he trails off and then mutters, “Sex Pistols... gimme a fuckin’ break.”
"He still kicked my ass. But I'll take the street cred."
"You got your ass kicked. Street cred means shit. Just think about it like this: who was more drunk?"
“I was pretty wasted,” I admit.
The light changes. We cross Live Oak and continue west. The skyscrapers of Downtown Dallas can be seen in the distance. The blocks we tread going west pass with little verbal exchange, which means no grandstanding. Every time we open our mouths it’s to impress ourselves or intimidate those around us, so this is out of character. But frankly, I’m tired of talking about the night I got my ass beat, with good reason, by a moronic goliath. Right now, I just want to count my steps. I want to enjoy being sober.
N. Carroll Ave.. Because we’re hungry, the only thing that grabs our attention is the olfactory stimulation from the Burger King that sits on the northeast corner of N. Carroll and Live Oak. We know it’s too rich for our blood. We’re coming up on Peak. It’s the next light. I say to Adam, “Maybe we should see if Danger’s got money, and then find somewhere better to eat. I’m not so sure I want tacos now.”
“Let’s save extravagance for liquor,” he says.
"Do you know exactly where the place is?”
“What fun would that be? Follow the noise, I always say.”
Westward on the north side of Live Oak we walk, Downtown Dallas magnifies ahead of us with each step. Some older black gentlemen are sitting under one of the DART (Dallas Area Rapid Transit-- not always apropos, but not always oxymoronic either) bus shelters. These shelters were conceived to protect waiting riders from the elements, but in reality do little to accomplish such a thing. Rain never comes down from a single angle and cold and heat are allowed several entry points (through hollowed out dot-matrix type entrances-- or if there’s glass, it varies-- through cracks and empty panels), hell the metallic material the fucking things are made of conduct both elements! Clearly, these men would be fucked were it not for the beautiful spring day.
They solicit us for cash as we pass. Adam pulls the linty pocket lining from his jeans and shrugs as if to say “I’m more broke than you are. Don‘t fucking ask.” One of the guys mumbles “God bless you“ while the other waves us off disappointedly. We keep walking. “Look at that,” he says. “They didn’t want to put a tape measure to poverty.”
The Jack in the Box exists comfortably on a concrete bed at the corner of Live Oak and Washington Ave. At this moment we have run out of grass. I notice the concrete bench with “DART” etched into its sides. In front of it is a metal pole-- sprouting from more concrete-- that has a sign made of something I think is much like fiberglass affixed to it. It also reads “DART.”
“I guess they make up for Exall Park’s inexcusable overabundance of grass!” I exclaim. “The park has more than enough fucking grass! It’s Texas, everyone loves sun, what bigger lover of sun than concrete!”
Adam shakes his head.
Inside we are greeted by an empty restaurant. Most of the employees are fooling around: the manager is texting and grinning to himself, the fry cook is flirting with the prep station girl; all of them are doing absolutely nothing to keep their awful jobs-- and in any other situation would likely be summarily fired-- save for the pale girl at the register who is smiling at us, playing well her part, anxious to serve.
Adam sees the slight outlining of one of her tats drooping underneath the hem of her shirtsleeve. He points to it. She smiles and lifts up the sleeve. It’s a cross. He cringes and says, “Nice. Can I get six tacos and two cups, please?” He turns to me. “Water’s cool, right?”
“Sure,” I answer. “Water is the source of life.”
“Really? I thought it was sex.”
“That too,” I add with boredom.
The girl smiles at us. “That’ll be $3.14,” she says with a voice that’d glow if it could be seen. I scramble through my pockets, pull out the two wadded bills. Adam reaches back into his wallet and retrieves two crisp bills, gently laying them in her hand. I can’t believe it! He’s flirting!
She gives us our change and thanks us. 86¢. Three quarters, a dime, and a penny. We sit down and wait on our order. I spin the penny on the table. I think about saying something I always say-- sounds something like, “plastic salt shakers, too bad they don’t have them here... blah, blah, blah”-- I think better of it.
The dining area around us is split into three sections, each one with a ceiling fan turning at medium speed, quietly above. As most of the restaurant is glass, what little wall space there is, is covered with "humorous" send-ups of classic paintings and photos that feature the chain's "mascot" or "commercial identity."
"I don't think half the people who dine at this place get the intended humor of these posters," I say.
"I don't even get half of them," Adam mumbles. His attentions are focused on the girl behind the counter. She's staring at the front door, waiting for the next customer.
"She's ugly, dude. And a Christian."
"Christians have vaginas, too."
"What about ugly girls?"
"The same. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
I am ignoring his usage of a cliché because our tacos are ready. I get up and walk to the counter. She says, "Want hot sauce?" Of course I want hot sauce. Hot sauce is the best part. I nod. She dumps several packets in and then rests her elbows on the counter, propping her head up with the palms of her hands.
I drop the tray onto the table between us. Adam tears into the bag. One of the napkins has a series of digits poorly scrawled in ink on it. I point this out to him. He picks it up and reads her name and number aloud. Her name is Juliette. Juliette the pale tattooed Christian.
(2009)
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll
10.7.09
Comix & Shit
Happy Birthday, a strip by my friend,
Robby Mexico
From left to right, round and round!:
"Hey, since the economy's crumbling, wanna get fucked up animation style?"- Robby
"Fuck Yes" - Jill
--Time Passes-- Caption: SOON
Caption: MANY HOURS LATER:
"Oh shit. Robby, what time is it?" - Jill
*cough* 4:20
"Shit, I have to go to work" - Jill
"Not in animated land, you don't." - Robby
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
"Robby, is this what you do all day?" - Jill
"No... Yes." - Robby
--
Given the UST/Houston nature of this post, I want to show respect for, and give "shout-outs" to "Booze Sleeve Crew", Robby, Brian Husband, Shana Copeland, Ally Taylor, Christian Kawas, Bill Higgins, Matty G., Michelle S., Elaine Harwell, Sam Garza, Anthony (Fat Tony), D ee R ai L, Steven Vaughn, Ace, all the fez kids: Lorena, Jessica, my roomates Yasushi and François, etc, etc...
Robby, if you have any to add, do in comments. I'm forgetting people.
8.7.09
Living up to what you replace: Why I Fucking Hate What I'm Seeing on Good Latimer
Why I Fucking Hate What I'm Seeing on Good Latimer
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
People have argued about art since the birth of the artist, which was followed shortly by the birth of the critic. If you've seen History of the World Part 1, you probably get that reference. If not, I'm afraid there's no help for you.
Cut to:
I have been a Dallas resident for the bulk of my existence. Dallas is one of those cities that, for someone who has lived here long enough, you really want to love but you can't help but hate. You hate the weather. You hate the city government. You think--
Isn't that annoying? When you read something, and the author is telling YOU what emotions YOU are shifting through?
Anyway, bad thesis statement aside, what I want to write about is our long gone, beloved, "Good Latimer" tunnel that was destroyed a couple of years ago to make room for another train station-- another step in DART's plans for expansion and eventual conquest of the world via North Texas-- and what they have added in an attempt to quell the public's desire to have the tunnel replaced with something beautiful.
Exposition:
Because I am a terrible journalist, I can't highlight the historical significance of Deep Ellum to a T, but it was the site of a Southern Renaissance that ran concurrent with the Harlem Renaissance in the '20's and '30's. Most of the great blues and jazz artists played Deep Ellum at some point.
Any cursory internet search can supply one with that kind of information, but like many others here, I have my own experiences of the area which I shall imbue with the proper sentiment of "nostalgia" if you get me in conversation.
But it kind of boils down to this:
Of course, aside from some killer live shows at Tree's (I was always there when The Dillinger Escape Plan brought their shows to D/FW), which was one of my favorite venues, and my memories of getting blasted in whatever bar (I think the most fucked up I ever got was at St. Pete's Dancing Marlin: a restaurant)-- but honestly demands that I admit that I've had way more fun on Cedar Springs when it comes to just getting completely loaded and meeting/talking to girls-- tranny jokes are welcome; in fact, I insist-- I think what I dug most about the area was the idea. Especially the artistic idea-- accumulation/collaboration-- , of which the "Good Latimer" tunnel was perhaps the best respresentation. Deep Ellum, ideally, is one of the best things about being a Dallasite.
These photos have been gathered for perpetuity to facilitate the demand for nostalgia, which, for Dallasites who live and work in the area, has to be flooding back. In the last couple of weeks, the DART station on Good Latimer has been gradually unveiling (though not officially) the pieces of artwork that are to make the station "Ellum friendly." One is on the east side of Good Latimer on Swiss Ave. and the other is on the west side on Gaston Ave..
Apparently it's a three piece:
http://www.nbcdfw.com/news/local/DART-spends-more-than-a-1-million-on-art-despite-fare-hike.html?corder=&pg=1
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
People have argued about art since the birth of the artist, which was followed shortly by the birth of the critic. If you've seen History of the World Part 1, you probably get that reference. If not, I'm afraid there's no help for you.
Cut to:
I have been a Dallas resident for the bulk of my existence. Dallas is one of those cities that, for someone who has lived here long enough, you really want to love but you can't help but hate. You hate the weather. You hate the city government. You think--
Isn't that annoying? When you read something, and the author is telling YOU what emotions YOU are shifting through?
Anyway, bad thesis statement aside, what I want to write about is our long gone, beloved, "Good Latimer" tunnel that was destroyed a couple of years ago to make room for another train station-- another step in DART's plans for expansion and eventual conquest of the world via North Texas-- and what they have added in an attempt to quell the public's desire to have the tunnel replaced with something beautiful.
Exposition:
Because I am a terrible journalist, I can't highlight the historical significance of Deep Ellum to a T, but it was the site of a Southern Renaissance that ran concurrent with the Harlem Renaissance in the '20's and '30's. Most of the great blues and jazz artists played Deep Ellum at some point.
Any cursory internet search can supply one with that kind of information, but like many others here, I have my own experiences of the area which I shall imbue with the proper sentiment of "nostalgia" if you get me in conversation.
But it kind of boils down to this:
Of course, aside from some killer live shows at Tree's (I was always there when The Dillinger Escape Plan brought their shows to D/FW), which was one of my favorite venues, and my memories of getting blasted in whatever bar (I think the most fucked up I ever got was at St. Pete's Dancing Marlin: a restaurant)-- but honestly demands that I admit that I've had way more fun on Cedar Springs when it comes to just getting completely loaded and meeting/talking to girls-- tranny jokes are welcome; in fact, I insist-- I think what I dug most about the area was the idea. Especially the artistic idea-- accumulation/collaboration-- , of which the "Good Latimer" tunnel was perhaps the best respresentation. Deep Ellum, ideally, is one of the best things about being a Dallasite.
However, the reality isn't so pretty. The reality is that the tunnel is gone...
it was a haven for grafitti artists. Some were good, others not as much. But it was the expression that counted. This wasn't gang banger scribbling or artless tagging shit, either. Well, there was some, but just fucking believe me, okay? Here, look at some pictures (the mating call of the terrible journalist*):
http://www.flickr.com/groups/goodlatimermurals/These photos have been gathered for perpetuity to facilitate the demand for nostalgia, which, for Dallasites who live and work in the area, has to be flooding back. In the last couple of weeks, the DART station on Good Latimer has been gradually unveiling (though not officially) the pieces of artwork that are to make the station "Ellum friendly." One is on the east side of Good Latimer on Swiss Ave. and the other is on the west side on Gaston Ave..
Apparently it's a three piece:
http://www.nbcdfw.com/news/local/DART-spends-more-than-a-1-million-on-art-despite-fare-hike.html?corder=&pg=1
Perhaps I'm being hasty considering the project has not yet come to completion, but these pieces look like monstrosities. They appear to be aluminum or steel, and while they tie together a unifying theme, the fact that they are not in the same vein as the original works that were removed reeks of corporate plasticity (Strange talks about this often, and I think what I'm seeing-- doubtless what anyone else who drives, walks, or rides a bus through that section is seeing-- is conformation of this). I suppose we should thank DART for making an attempt to replace what they've shamelessly destroyed, and maybe it will, in the long term, bring Deep Ellum "back to life," but for now, I think it looks like shit, and I don't have a lot of hope for an aesthetic improvement.
If anyone else has any insight or information as regards this project please comment. I'm interested in getting all the info I can.
*I'm not knocking photojournalism, by the way. Gordon Parks was an amazing photographer, and he was one of my favorites.
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