The Devil Blues

Dust clouded the air behind the van as it pulled off the street in front of the worn gas station on the edge of Robinsonville, Mississippi. The die door slide open and three young men wearing the stereotypical uniform of wanna-be rock stars stepped out and stretched their legs. The driver started pumping gas as the others walk into the store, one holding a guitar without a case.
“You boys on your way to New Orleans for the festival?” ask the attendant, an elderly black man whose name tag identified him as Dusty.
“Actually we’re looking for a cemetery that’s supposed to be around here. You know the one I’m talking about?” asked the one with a guitar.
Dusty studied him for a minute. The kid was about 6’3” with spiky black hair, a sleeveless black band shirt and dirty jeans that look like it was only pair. Could’ve been any one of the musicians making their way to Louisiana for the big festival, except for those eyes, those coal black eyes, so filled with pain and hate. Dusty knew those eyes and knew what he was looking for.
“Ain’t no cemetery around here. Go home kid.”
The guitarist smirked. This one was hell bound. Most who come looking here are, that’s why their here. Any other fanboy, would be at Greenwood trying to figure which of the three graves hold their idol. But every now and then, someone comes down here, not out of respect for the late great blues singer who supposedly honed his skills at a cemetery outside of town here, but to find the devil himself. Robert Johnson’s Devil.
The kid started picking at his guitar, a nervous habit, but this time with a purpose. He picked his way through most of “Me and the Devil,” when Dusty spoke up. “Not like that boy, like this.” Dusty took the guitar from him and started playing the same song only much better. All of the notes were the same, but the feel of them carried a much more menacing tone. The two musicians stared in wide open shock. They had traveled throughout all of the United States, Europe and Japan, barely escaping fame. Had made a name for themselves as the hardest most musically adept metal band, not signed to a major label. Had opened for the greats of the genre. But, never had either of them seen anybody play like this before. It was as if they had been transported to another dimension by supernatural means. A realm of pain and anger not of this earth. In this old man’s music they had found the true meaning of fear.
And just for a moment, Dusty wasn’t Dusty anymore. What once was an old black man was a shining being of pure light, except the light gave off no warmth. The being didn’t speak because it didn’t have to. But, it wasn’t so much the hate or rage that effected them, it was the over powering feeling of loss. Whatever this being may have been, it knew pain. Pain not in the physical sense, one got the impression that nothing ever come close to actually harming this thing. No, this was a pain that was known though out the universe. The pain of someone that loved another with all it’s being. True love. Completely and honestly loved someone else that it hurt an infinite time more than any physical pain ever could. To love so completely and be tossed aside. They say Hell has no fury like a woman scorned, but hearing this being’s story you understood, knew with a terrifying certainty that Hell’s fury was that of a lover scorn.
And as quickly as it started it was gone. No more than a few minutes had passed, but the effect was as if it and eternity had passed. The two boys standing in that gas station were forever changed, tears flowing freely down their respective faces. Dusty looked hard into the eyes of the guitarist and found what he was looking for, compassion. This mortal child understood and actually sympathized with that unholy being that even now was fading from they’re memories.
Dusty handed the guitar back. “Go to a crossroad near Dockery Plantation at midnight. Go by yourself and bring your guitar.”
The boys left without saying a word. They got into the van and simply stared ahead. The dumb founded driver who had been outside the whole time got in the car and very confused drove off down the street.
Dusty sat back down in his chair and picked up his Field and Stream and looked at his watch, 3:30, those boys would need to hurry if they wanted to make it on time. But, Dusty wasn’t worried, they’d get there. They always do.

On Expo and Parry.

On expo and parry, I watched the world end.
An everyday apocalypse, it painted the world bright and surreal, giving the air a taste of intimacy, bathing us in the angry rays of a nuclear sunset.
Bright eyed hipsters and moody vagrants lounge about, unsure of their own beauty that blinds the passing crowds who come here to stare at these alien gods.
We take sacrament of alchemical concoctions and blessed herb and offer our prayers to our many temples of ultimate beauty and worship each other in beautiful blasphemy, happy in our sacrilege
Seeking even greater highs, I prick my skin with the same oils I paint with and reimagine myself as an ancient warrior priest and dance wildly to the throbbing music that constantly plays so as to drown out the cries of distant wars.
In an oasis of peace, miny wars are fought with passive aggressive taunts and childish proclamations, always striving to hurt, but fearful of actual violence.
In the shadow of Hiroshima, left without a world, we created our own, armed with paint, brushes, LSD and MDMA.
In our little corner of the plastic city, memories are like currency, to be hoarded, while men in suits try to rebuild and forget.
We found the singularity in a cast iron pation chair, redemption in a Pabst and a reason to live to in one shiny moment when everything feels like its gonna be OK.

random shit

so this is what we're here for . you're sitting at your computer reading some asshole opinion and this makes you informed. every asshole has opinion. Fuck. are you that much a useless tool you have to agure with me.Go outside. Read a book. Live your fucking life. Ask some fucking questions retard. When it's time to vote, take the day off and tail gate your local poling station. STOP BEING A FUCKING TOOL. IF you hate the way we've become, create your own government. Use your friends and family. All society is is a word. I please allegiance to the nation of ______. I pledge to fight ________ in any and all chooses ___ makes and constantly contradict ______. I pledge to be selfish when I have to be and not when I can. In t e name of the_____, my own personal goddy thing, different from all other goddy thing in that he has an amazing goatee, to do whatever it is people who are angry do. You know what fuck you I'm gonna masturebate.

The nature of disappointment

When my Swiss miss girlfriend broke up with me a couple of weeks ago, I only felt the sarcastic pangs of indifference, that ever-so-facetious twinge of, "Oh, whatever shall I do?? Now I'll have to grovel at the ugly feet of all those who I've rejected if I want some play!" It's ludicrous to imagine that I'd be hurt by such an event. It's no use being disappointed by inevitabilities. Because nothing lasts forever. ¡Qué cliché! Women will come and go, and you too, as a man, will come and go, and there will be another in your stead. That's the way it is.

But something has been bugging me these last couple of days. I have one of those digital cable boxes, and for me, it's almost as good as the basic cable Tio Carlos used to get us for free when we lived in Oak Cliff. I mean, a lot of times the reception is terrible, and sometimes channels will disappear or malfunction terribly, but it really beats the hell out of the constant static and three channel selection of the old analog. Before exposition turns to full-on digression, I will go ahead and say that I am heartbroken to report that my favorite channel on the box, 33-2, or LATV, is no longer available.

Yes! Tengo un corazón roto. I really don't understand this. I mean, I don't think ANYONE would miss 33-1, or The CW, what with its re-runs of Family Guy, The Simpsons, and Two and a Half Men, its crappy news (although, Amanda Salinas es la REINA), or ANY of its original programming, but here we are, nevertheless, seeing the cliché "the good die young" exerting its presence, its reality, all in our fucking faces.

LATV could've done some beautiful things had it been given the opportunity. It could've made being bilingual cool and not just a way for dealing with drug cartels or buying Tijuana prostitutes. It could've introduced a whole new audience to Spanish music with brains y alma como: Julieta Venegas, Calle 13, Belanova, etc. Okay, maybe I'm being steretypical and grandiose all at once, but seriously, Me voy a extrañar esa canal más que cualquier mujer que tal vez déjame en ruinas.

Pounding Nails in the Floor with My Forehead

June 24, 25, 26 @ 7 P.M.

El Centro College, Arena Theater

I am performing nine monologues from "Pounding Nails in the Floor with My Forehead" by Eric Bogosian. It's dirty, it's offensive, it's alienating! Come see it and GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Fun With Ad Slogans

“Red Bull. It Gives you the Shits.”


Finals week

Pulling “all-nighters”

Popping Adderall

Blah blah blah

You slam down energy drinks

“Nerve”

“Brain”

“Cuckoo”

“Slam”

And so on

Different flavors

But then there’s “Red Bull”

You had a case of it

Now there’s two left

It’s 6 A.M and you’ve been up

All night

Your paper’s due at 8 A.M

You have two pages done

You need six

All you want to do is sleep

Because you’re crashing hard and fast

But first you have to shit

You’re sitting on the can

Pushing out soft, somewhat watery shits

And you can’t stop

When you do, there’s a calm

And in the calm your asshole burns

And you fall asleep on the toilet

With your head in your hands.

I want to be a cult phenomenon.

Hi.

So, I have a story up here (thanks to the ladies at Sleep Snort Fuck):

http://sleepsnortfuck.blogspot.com/2010/05/old-enough-my-wants-wont-kill-me.html

Read it, comment, follow the blog, submit yourself.