Manifesto - noun, plural -toes. - a public declaration of intentions, opinions, objectives, or motives, as one issued by a government, sovereign, or organization.
Normally, a manifesto comes before any sort of action. Having written in this blog for about ten months, writing a manifesto now is akin to firing then aiming. Be that as it may, I still feel as though I should let you know what my intentions are with this blog. If it sounds like you are a parent interviewing a pimply teenager that is trying to date your daughter, it's because what I aim to do here isn't that far off. No, I'm not trying to date a teenager. No, I don't have pimples. But, I do want to make a connection. I want you to connect with what I write. I want that connection to solicit some sort of reaction. Any reaction. Happiness, sadness, inspiration, thought, anger. Something.
The first job of a writer is to notice. A writer notices the smell of a college professor's office that is full of shelves packed with old textbooks that haven't been dusted for months. A writer notices the feeling of a sick mother trying to be strong for her young sons, even if she's terrified. Writers notice. I notice. Notice is a derivative of the latin "notus," which means "known." I will write what I know. What I've experienced. What I've felt.
I want my writing to resist paraphrase. I want to capture what has avoided capturing. I am a camera.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
It's the Way Your Elbow Fits the Groove of the Bar
For Ashley.
I've determined that in 1866, the stars aligned. During that year, in New Orleans, William M. Levy was born. At the age of 21, he moved to St. Louis and took a job as a draftsmen at an architecture firm, Grable & Weber. Five years later, he opened his own office and worked as an independent architect. Will Levy is most known for designing over two dozen buildings in the Central West End. There is, however, another, less well known building he designed. At some point prior to 1919, Will Levy constructed a building in the city's garment district. It served as a garment shop in its early days, and stayed that way, even after the loft rehabbers came in the early 1980s. Since 2000, the building has been Anatol's Fabric outlet and a vintage clothing store. It's a fairly simple design. It has two large glass windows in the front, with a door sunk a few feet back in between them.
***
On some nondescript Friday night during the summer of 2009, I was looking for something to do. I had recently graduated from the University of Missouri and moved to an apartment on 4th Street. A long relationship had just come to an end and I needed some distracting. My roommate and I took off down Washington Avenue, looking for a new bar to take on. It was still early, maybe eight o'clock, and as humid as only a St. Louis summer can be. We walked block after block, passing bar after bar until we came to 13th and Washington. It was a simple building, two large windows in the front, with a door sunk a few feet back in between them. The Open sign was glowing in the window on the left, and there was a poster that read "Live Music Every Thursday at The Sidebar".
We walked in.
I had never been there before, but it felt familiar. It felt comfortable. I thought about what I wanted for a minute. You see, going up to the bar is like closing a menu, you don't do it until you're ready to order. I made up my mind quickly and approached the bar. I noticed two things right away. One, it has a brass rail at the base of the bar for you to rest your foot on. Two, Your elbow fits the groove of the bar perfectly. I assumed my bar stance position. One foot on the rail, one arm in the groove, eyes watching for the bartender to give me the go ahead to order. A cute blonde walks up the bar and stands opposite to me. She looks right at me.
"What're you drinkin'?"
"Whiskey coke, please."
She grabbed a glass, scooped the ice and poured the whiskey while simultaneously pouring the Coke (Sidebar actually uses Pepsi products, but I digress) from the fountain. Just as I slid my debit card across the bar, my drink was placed in front of me.
"Thanks. Keep it open."
As soon as she walked out of ear shot, I turned to Sean.
"Did you see her?! My God!"
I couldn't see the stars that night, but I'm sure they were identical to that day in 1866.
***
So began my infatuation with Sidebar. It just has something that makes it great. Whether it's a Thursday night watching the house band, Optimus Prime (who are really rad guys), a raging Friday night, drinking on Saturday to keep the hangover from killing you, or recovering with a slinger on Sunday, Sidebar just has "it." I go to Sidebar for every occasion. I've celebrated my last two birthdays there. I've been part of bachelor parties there. I've been there after putting a friend to rest, doing pink shots just for her. I went there after a friend was laid off, and we nearly drank them out of whiskey. I have more stories from Sidebar than I do from anywhere else and I'm sure the staff has some stories about me. Probably even some stories I don't know exist.
Speaking of the staff, I consider all of them friends. I see them at least once a week. Julia, who has, without a doubt, one of the best smiles this side of the Mississippi. Bri (lovingly called Bri B), who's presence lights up the bar and is required to give me a hug every time I arrive. I rarely go to Sidebar without texting her "You working tonight?" She always makes me feel better, even if I'm already having an excellent day. Ashley S., the only one who's there for me when I go to Sidebar on a Sunday afternoon. She has a laugh that cures my hangover. Kate, whose impeccable taste in style and music is only matched by her talent in fashion design. Audrey, who hides a fierceness behind that pretty face of hers. A truly wonderful girl who can also kick your ass. Just ask the bartender at Mandarin. Brittany, one of the few girls who will do a shot of Jameson with me and keep tending bar like nothing happened. The new girl, Brooke, who I haven't had the pleasure to meet yet, but since she works at Sidebar she's already cool. Nell, who can make me laugh so hard, whiskey comes out of my nose. And, of course, Justin, who, somehow, makes me feel cool by just giving me the head nod when I walk through the door.
There have been a few who left the bar after leaving their mark on its story. Sidebar wasn't quite the same after Emily left. The combination of her and Ashley behind the bar was magic. Last call has always felt less threatening since Emily stopped screaming it. Luckily, I've had the great fortune of drinking with her on the other side of the bar a few times since she left.
That leaves us with Ashley. The same Ashley at the beginning of this post. I think the crush I had on her when I first started frequenting Sidebar was the worst kept secret in St. Louis. Since I was out of town and missed her last day, something I was shocked to hear, I dedicated this entry to her. How flattering! She's infinitely cool and I could always count on her for a smile and a wave when I walked through the door. She would always have my drink waiting for me by the time I got to the bar. So, Ashley, I hope the move went well and I wish you nothing but success at your new job. The next time you're at Sidebar, I owe you a drink - from the other side of the bar.
Whenever you walk in, you feel welcome. It feels familiar. It's not the drinks that make Sidebar great, although they are remarkable. It's not the food, although it is delectable. It's not the music, although it always seems to be playing the right song. You see, that "something" that Sidebar has is the people. William H. Levy built it, The staff makes it, the regulars keep it, and I walked in it one day. Sidebar is great because of the people that are a part of it. Combine the people with the way your elbow fits the groove of the bar and you've got something pretty special.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Just As I Imagined It
"Rob, as soon as that seat belt light turns off, I want you to run as fast as you can."
That's when vacation started for me. It was exciting and seemed, albeit ridiculous, dangerous. There was a real possibility we could miss our connection. We had just landed in Atlanta and we had exactly 42 minutes to get to our connecting flight to Punta Cana. My brother had been nervously checking his watch and then looking at the departure time for our next flight for the last fifteen minutes. During our decent to Atlanta, we discovered, thanks to the map in the back of Sky Magazine, that our departure gate was the exact furthest spot you could get from our arrival gate. Add that to the fact that Atlanta's airport is massive, and the result is my brother stating the plan above.
The seat belt light turns off. I get up and run. Two rows. Everyone else on the plane piles in to the aisle ahead of me, putting an abrupt end to our hastily devised plan. I look back at my brother and his shoulders slump in defeat. We wait. After the plane finally deboards, the race begins anew. My family and I zig and zag through the other travelers in Terminal E. We get on a train and take it to terminal T, the other end of the airport. We all check our watches, our phones, any clock we can lock our eyes to. We get off the train, wheeling our luggage behind us as we continue to scurry through other travelers.
There it is. T42. We've arrived. We board and take our seats. In just over 3 hours, we'll be landing in paradise. The engines spin and scream. We take off from Atlanta and fly over the North Atlantic. Since I don't wear a watch and airlines require you to turn your cell phone off, I lose all sense of time in planes. Instead, I keep track of time by the number of pages I read. 160 pages later, we're touching down in Punta Cana.
We navigate through various lines, one of which includes paying a $10 entry fee to the country. That's correct. The Dominican Republic has a cover charge. It's fitting really. The entire country is one giant bar, essentially. After paying, we locate the shuttle to our resort, The Majestic Colonial, and get on. We nearly died no less than four separate times on that ride. Traffic laws are more aptly described as traffic suggestions in Punta Cana. Cars were veering into on coming traffic with no regard. My mother had the great fortune to be sitting shotgun on the shuttle. So, she had special exposure to each near death experience. Each time we all held our breath and made our peace with God, the shuttle driver would laugh and say something in Spanish. It would take a few hours after we arrived, but we would eventually find the humor in the situation.
We finally arrived at the resort about 2 hours after we landed. It was just as I imagined it. Open air, thatched roofs, palm trees, pools, fountains, drinks, everything. We checked in and went to our room. Upon entering my room, which I shared with my brother, I went immediately to the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped it, and proceeded to drink it. Only then, did I examine the room. One bottle of champagne, two beers, four bottles of water, two chocolate bars. Excellent. The beer, El Presidente, was pretty tasty. It was a welcome refreshment after the fate-tempting shuttle ride. I had arrived to the resort alive and El Presidente was my prize. The best part about my prize? It's restocked every morning.
After checking out the rooms, we all went to dinner. Each dinner is a buffet, and every buffet has a theme for the food that they prepare and serve. I don't recall what the theme was on this particular night, but it was delicious.
After dinner we retired to our rooms and went to bed.
The following morning we went to the beach. We stayed there all day. I finished reading No One Here Gets Out Alive and started reading Life, Keith Richards' memoir. There's something about the sea breeze and the rolling ocean that gives me the ability to burn through several books in a very short period of time. I love it. I could get used to this lifestyle. The Dominican is very laid back, very go-with-the-flow. Just like me.
The next day, we went to the beach for a few hours and then to the pool. My brother opted out of the pool. He was burned pretty badly on our second day on the beach. At the bar at the pool, I ordered my first drink in Spanish.
"Red Label y roca, por favor." Johnny Walker Red on the rocks.
Just then, a Pina Coloda is spilled at the bar right in front of me and a distinctly British voice cursed.
"Shit!"
She picked up the cup as my whiskey was being handed to me. She looked at me and apologized. She was striking. I have that moment in my memory like a snapshot. Like an instagram photo. Her hair was up in a ball behind her head, with a few strands down and curled behind her ears. Her eyes were a vibrant green forest that you could get lost in for days. She had freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across her face. Her cheek bones were pronounced, which gave way to a smile that could send you to heaven or hell. It was both mischievous and beautiful at once. It was punctuated on both ends by dimples and filled with teeth whiter than the sand on the beaches just feet from where we were standing. She was stunning.
"I didn't mean to get in your way," she said apologetically. I wasn't quite back to the situation yet. I was some where between her eyes and her freckles.
"Oh! No, it's completely fine. I spill drinks all the time."
What? Smooth, Rob.
"What are you drinking?" I'm still not over the accent. That accent gets me every time.
"Red Label."
"And?"
"Ice."
"You Americans and your whiskey. You're brave." If I wasn't already enamored with this girl, what she said next sealed the deal.
"Would you like a shot?"
"Absolutely! I'm buying."
This is funny because it's an all inclusive resort. She laughed. I think it was more because it was corny. I'll take it either way. We did a shot of rum and hung out at the bar for a while. Her name was Veronica. She was on vacation with her family to celebrate her finishing her graduate degree at the Royal Academy of Music in London. She has a Master of Music in Performance. She plays the piano. She wants to teach music. I explain to her why we're on vacation. My brother and I are both graduates. We're the first siblings in our family to both graduate from college. This vacation is a celebration of that. That and it's my parent's 30th wedding anniversary.
We kept drinking. We talked about music, college, what it was like in London, what it was like in Missouri, where she grew up, where I grew up, what we want to do when we grow up. The conversation moves from the pool to the liquor store to the beach. We take pulls from Dominican rum and continue talking as the sun sets in the Caribbean.
It's interesting. Although two people come from countries that are a world apart, they can still share similar experiences or struggles.
"Do you ever feel like your just floating along? All our lives we were working toward something. When your young, you work toward grammar school, then university. After that, then what? I went to get my graduate degree because I didn't know what I wanted to do. I didn't know what was next. I don't know how to handle that."
Grammar school. University. I love that. The accent strikes again.
"Just because you don't know how to handle something doesn't mean you aren't handling it right. I still don't know what I want to do. I'm 26. Sometimes I feel like you should have things figured by now. Other times I think, how boring would it be to have your life figured out when you're 26?"
She laughed, "That's one way of looking at it!"
We got up and walked down the beach to where the tide meets the sand, bottle in hand, still trading swigs. We talked more.
"I just got done reading this book about Jim Morisson, and I gotta tell ya'. I think The Doors are better than The Rolli..."
She kissed me. Mid sentence. As I was getting ready to bash what is arguably the best thing to come from the UK next to Posh Spice. She pulled back and looked at me. Her head was silhouetted against the dusk of the sky over the North Atlantic. At this time in the evening, it's difficult to tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins. She smiled again, lighting up the dimples in her face.
"I've been wanting to do that for a few hours," she said. "C'mon, let's go. I should get back before my family starts worrying about me."
We walked back up the beach, leaving the bottle of rum in the sand. We parted ways by the pool. I went my way and she went hers.
The next morning I woke up with a slight hangover. Nothing I couldn't handle. Nothing a little El Presidente couldn't repair. Mid way through my drink I realized something. I don't have any way to get a hold of Veronica. I don't know her room number. I don't know her e-mail address. I don't even have a last name to go by. Neither does she. We must've been just drunk enough to not realize it. My only hope is that I run into her again - totally up to chance. I cross my fingers, then I finish my beer. We spend the day at the beach and the pool again. After dinner, where we had the Domincan's version of sushi and Asian pork, we went back to our rooms and went to bed. No sign of Veronica.
When I woke up, something was not right. I wasn't quite sure what it was yet, but it wasn't right. I went to the pool with my family. Fifteen minutes later, I'm sprinting from the pool to my room, past my red brother laying burned on the bed, and into the bathroom. I've been struck by the Scourge of the Dominican. Montezuma's Revenge. Without getting into too much detail, just know that it was hell. It was foul. It was 12 hours of something awful. It would eventually tear through my entire family in the next 36 hours. I stayed in for the rest of the day. Still no Veronica.
It rained the next day as the Scourge continued to rip through my family. On Sunday, we ate breakfast and checked out. The bellhop loaded our bags into the shuttle and we boarded. As the rest of the passengers took their seats, I looked out my window. I couldn't believe it. Walking up the stairs to the lobby was Veronica. She was wearing a fedora, but it was definitely her. She couldn't see me through the tinted glass of the shuttle windows. Even if she could, she was probably too far away to notice. I'll never see or hear from her again. It's okay, though. It was only one evening. A couple of hours. It was nothing. But, like all great things in the world - women and religion and the sky - you wonder about it. And you don't stop wondering about it.
It's okay. In about 160 pages, I'll be landing back in the States and this will all be a good story about a family vacation to the Dominican Republic. That is, if we survive the shuttle back to the airport.
Everything in this story is true. Except the part about Veronica. I completely made that up. I wanted to try my hand at fiction. I bet I had you going, though.
That's when vacation started for me. It was exciting and seemed, albeit ridiculous, dangerous. There was a real possibility we could miss our connection. We had just landed in Atlanta and we had exactly 42 minutes to get to our connecting flight to Punta Cana. My brother had been nervously checking his watch and then looking at the departure time for our next flight for the last fifteen minutes. During our decent to Atlanta, we discovered, thanks to the map in the back of Sky Magazine, that our departure gate was the exact furthest spot you could get from our arrival gate. Add that to the fact that Atlanta's airport is massive, and the result is my brother stating the plan above.
The seat belt light turns off. I get up and run. Two rows. Everyone else on the plane piles in to the aisle ahead of me, putting an abrupt end to our hastily devised plan. I look back at my brother and his shoulders slump in defeat. We wait. After the plane finally deboards, the race begins anew. My family and I zig and zag through the other travelers in Terminal E. We get on a train and take it to terminal T, the other end of the airport. We all check our watches, our phones, any clock we can lock our eyes to. We get off the train, wheeling our luggage behind us as we continue to scurry through other travelers.
There it is. T42. We've arrived. We board and take our seats. In just over 3 hours, we'll be landing in paradise. The engines spin and scream. We take off from Atlanta and fly over the North Atlantic. Since I don't wear a watch and airlines require you to turn your cell phone off, I lose all sense of time in planes. Instead, I keep track of time by the number of pages I read. 160 pages later, we're touching down in Punta Cana.
We navigate through various lines, one of which includes paying a $10 entry fee to the country. That's correct. The Dominican Republic has a cover charge. It's fitting really. The entire country is one giant bar, essentially. After paying, we locate the shuttle to our resort, The Majestic Colonial, and get on. We nearly died no less than four separate times on that ride. Traffic laws are more aptly described as traffic suggestions in Punta Cana. Cars were veering into on coming traffic with no regard. My mother had the great fortune to be sitting shotgun on the shuttle. So, she had special exposure to each near death experience. Each time we all held our breath and made our peace with God, the shuttle driver would laugh and say something in Spanish. It would take a few hours after we arrived, but we would eventually find the humor in the situation.
We finally arrived at the resort about 2 hours after we landed. It was just as I imagined it. Open air, thatched roofs, palm trees, pools, fountains, drinks, everything. We checked in and went to our room. Upon entering my room, which I shared with my brother, I went immediately to the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped it, and proceeded to drink it. Only then, did I examine the room. One bottle of champagne, two beers, four bottles of water, two chocolate bars. Excellent. The beer, El Presidente, was pretty tasty. It was a welcome refreshment after the fate-tempting shuttle ride. I had arrived to the resort alive and El Presidente was my prize. The best part about my prize? It's restocked every morning.
After checking out the rooms, we all went to dinner. Each dinner is a buffet, and every buffet has a theme for the food that they prepare and serve. I don't recall what the theme was on this particular night, but it was delicious.
After dinner we retired to our rooms and went to bed.
The following morning we went to the beach. We stayed there all day. I finished reading No One Here Gets Out Alive and started reading Life, Keith Richards' memoir. There's something about the sea breeze and the rolling ocean that gives me the ability to burn through several books in a very short period of time. I love it. I could get used to this lifestyle. The Dominican is very laid back, very go-with-the-flow. Just like me.
The next day, we went to the beach for a few hours and then to the pool. My brother opted out of the pool. He was burned pretty badly on our second day on the beach. At the bar at the pool, I ordered my first drink in Spanish.
"Red Label y roca, por favor." Johnny Walker Red on the rocks.
Just then, a Pina Coloda is spilled at the bar right in front of me and a distinctly British voice cursed.
"Shit!"
She picked up the cup as my whiskey was being handed to me. She looked at me and apologized. She was striking. I have that moment in my memory like a snapshot. Like an instagram photo. Her hair was up in a ball behind her head, with a few strands down and curled behind her ears. Her eyes were a vibrant green forest that you could get lost in for days. She had freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across her face. Her cheek bones were pronounced, which gave way to a smile that could send you to heaven or hell. It was both mischievous and beautiful at once. It was punctuated on both ends by dimples and filled with teeth whiter than the sand on the beaches just feet from where we were standing. She was stunning.
"I didn't mean to get in your way," she said apologetically. I wasn't quite back to the situation yet. I was some where between her eyes and her freckles.
"Oh! No, it's completely fine. I spill drinks all the time."
What? Smooth, Rob.
"What are you drinking?" I'm still not over the accent. That accent gets me every time.
"Red Label."
"And?"
"Ice."
"You Americans and your whiskey. You're brave." If I wasn't already enamored with this girl, what she said next sealed the deal.
"Would you like a shot?"
"Absolutely! I'm buying."
This is funny because it's an all inclusive resort. She laughed. I think it was more because it was corny. I'll take it either way. We did a shot of rum and hung out at the bar for a while. Her name was Veronica. She was on vacation with her family to celebrate her finishing her graduate degree at the Royal Academy of Music in London. She has a Master of Music in Performance. She plays the piano. She wants to teach music. I explain to her why we're on vacation. My brother and I are both graduates. We're the first siblings in our family to both graduate from college. This vacation is a celebration of that. That and it's my parent's 30th wedding anniversary.
We kept drinking. We talked about music, college, what it was like in London, what it was like in Missouri, where she grew up, where I grew up, what we want to do when we grow up. The conversation moves from the pool to the liquor store to the beach. We take pulls from Dominican rum and continue talking as the sun sets in the Caribbean.
It's interesting. Although two people come from countries that are a world apart, they can still share similar experiences or struggles.
"Do you ever feel like your just floating along? All our lives we were working toward something. When your young, you work toward grammar school, then university. After that, then what? I went to get my graduate degree because I didn't know what I wanted to do. I didn't know what was next. I don't know how to handle that."
Grammar school. University. I love that. The accent strikes again.
"Just because you don't know how to handle something doesn't mean you aren't handling it right. I still don't know what I want to do. I'm 26. Sometimes I feel like you should have things figured by now. Other times I think, how boring would it be to have your life figured out when you're 26?"
She laughed, "That's one way of looking at it!"
We got up and walked down the beach to where the tide meets the sand, bottle in hand, still trading swigs. We talked more.
"I just got done reading this book about Jim Morisson, and I gotta tell ya'. I think The Doors are better than The Rolli..."
She kissed me. Mid sentence. As I was getting ready to bash what is arguably the best thing to come from the UK next to Posh Spice. She pulled back and looked at me. Her head was silhouetted against the dusk of the sky over the North Atlantic. At this time in the evening, it's difficult to tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins. She smiled again, lighting up the dimples in her face.
"I've been wanting to do that for a few hours," she said. "C'mon, let's go. I should get back before my family starts worrying about me."
We walked back up the beach, leaving the bottle of rum in the sand. We parted ways by the pool. I went my way and she went hers.
The next morning I woke up with a slight hangover. Nothing I couldn't handle. Nothing a little El Presidente couldn't repair. Mid way through my drink I realized something. I don't have any way to get a hold of Veronica. I don't know her room number. I don't know her e-mail address. I don't even have a last name to go by. Neither does she. We must've been just drunk enough to not realize it. My only hope is that I run into her again - totally up to chance. I cross my fingers, then I finish my beer. We spend the day at the beach and the pool again. After dinner, where we had the Domincan's version of sushi and Asian pork, we went back to our rooms and went to bed. No sign of Veronica.
When I woke up, something was not right. I wasn't quite sure what it was yet, but it wasn't right. I went to the pool with my family. Fifteen minutes later, I'm sprinting from the pool to my room, past my red brother laying burned on the bed, and into the bathroom. I've been struck by the Scourge of the Dominican. Montezuma's Revenge. Without getting into too much detail, just know that it was hell. It was foul. It was 12 hours of something awful. It would eventually tear through my entire family in the next 36 hours. I stayed in for the rest of the day. Still no Veronica.
It rained the next day as the Scourge continued to rip through my family. On Sunday, we ate breakfast and checked out. The bellhop loaded our bags into the shuttle and we boarded. As the rest of the passengers took their seats, I looked out my window. I couldn't believe it. Walking up the stairs to the lobby was Veronica. She was wearing a fedora, but it was definitely her. She couldn't see me through the tinted glass of the shuttle windows. Even if she could, she was probably too far away to notice. I'll never see or hear from her again. It's okay, though. It was only one evening. A couple of hours. It was nothing. But, like all great things in the world - women and religion and the sky - you wonder about it. And you don't stop wondering about it.
It's okay. In about 160 pages, I'll be landing back in the States and this will all be a good story about a family vacation to the Dominican Republic. That is, if we survive the shuttle back to the airport.
Everything in this story is true. Except the part about Veronica. I completely made that up. I wanted to try my hand at fiction. I bet I had you going, though.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Whiskey Ginger
Five o'clock finally finds it's way on to my watch
Finally, finally Friday
I zip through traffic, sharing a concrete ocean with perfect strangers
Faster, faster, finding my way to you
I imagine you at home, in the city, in the loft
Beautiful and soft, waiting and smiling, anxious for what the evening will bring
Waiting for me
But the reality is, you're not there, in the loft, in the city
You never were
So, when I get home, I'll head to the bar
Down the steps and across the street
I'll put my foot on the rail and my elbow in the groove
"Whiskey Ginger"
There I'll wait
For you
I'll take solace in the thought that
You're on you way
And you'll get here as fast as you can
Finally, finally Friday
I zip through traffic, sharing a concrete ocean with perfect strangers
Faster, faster, finding my way to you
I imagine you at home, in the city, in the loft
Beautiful and soft, waiting and smiling, anxious for what the evening will bring
Waiting for me
But the reality is, you're not there, in the loft, in the city
You never were
So, when I get home, I'll head to the bar
Down the steps and across the street
I'll put my foot on the rail and my elbow in the groove
"Whiskey Ginger"
There I'll wait
For you
I'll take solace in the thought that
You're on you way
And you'll get here as fast as you can
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Filler Posts. I Hate Filler Posts.
I've started writing a few things, but can't seem to figure out where I want to go with them. So, you are stuck with this.
Smith Magazine is a storytelling magazine. They launched a project called Six Word Memoirs. Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a short story in six words. Smith Magazine went with it and started a literary craze. The first memoir? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn". They've published a few books of collected memoirs. So, to stir up some activity in my brain, I'm going to post a few six word memoirs.
"Everything once wanted, no longer needed"
"Received talent, ignored it. Fuckin' A"
"All the good times involved whiskey"
"If I'm not here, check Sidebar"
"Nineteen ninety eight, that changed everything"
"Doing scary things. Yep, I'm alive!"
"That broken heart saved my life"
Give it a try.
Smith Magazine is a storytelling magazine. They launched a project called Six Word Memoirs. Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a short story in six words. Smith Magazine went with it and started a literary craze. The first memoir? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn". They've published a few books of collected memoirs. So, to stir up some activity in my brain, I'm going to post a few six word memoirs.
"Everything once wanted, no longer needed"
"Received talent, ignored it. Fuckin' A"
"All the good times involved whiskey"
"If I'm not here, check Sidebar"
"Nineteen ninety eight, that changed everything"
"Doing scary things. Yep, I'm alive!"
"That broken heart saved my life"
Give it a try.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Cliche Suicide: The Death Of A Wannabe?
I've been wanting to write a short story or a novella for a while now, so I'm thinking posting it on this blog from time to time could help me actually do it. Here's what I have so far. I guess you could call it chapter one. Whenever I don't have anything interesting to write about from real life, I'll add to this. It's kind of long, so get comfortable and grab a drink. I recommend Jameson or Templeton Rye. The picture is of Bryan Roach from Autovein. I highly suggest you go see them and The Pretty Reckless in St. Louis at The Firebird on February 22nd. Shameless plug - over. I thought this was a cool picture to go with the story. It's from one of their chows at Cicero's. Enjoy!
Miles nailed the last note of the set perfectly. His lungs were empty and every emotion in his body had been poured into the microphone and echoed across the venue to hundreds of adoring fans. The lights went out and the crowd continued to roar. The venue smelled like sweat, smoke and stale booze. The front man clipped the mic back to the mic stand and walked back stage, being careful not to trip over cables as he did. He nodded to the venue's staff and fans with backstage tickets as he stepped by. The band has been on tour for 7 months straight. They started by headlining their own tour in support of their latest record at the end of May. They caught Warped Tour for August and September and are now co-headlining another tour. Touring is exhausting. The days blur together and take their toll on every aspect of your life. You don't have a home, relationships are strained, sleep is scarce, time alone is even more scarce. You live and die by per diems, showers when you can get them, and fresh laundry when you're lucky enough to do it. It's not as glamorous as the movies, magazines and MTV make it seem. It's work.
The seasons have changed and the temperature has gone from warm to bone-chattering cold. This show in St. Louis was especially cold. One more show tomorrow night and he could go home for the first time in 7 months. Miles sat down on the grimy couch in the dressing room, warn from years of other wannabe rockstars sitting in it, riding all their hopes and dreams on one show, one stage, and this couch before them both. He leaned over and opened the mini fridge next to it. What he wanted wasn't in the fridge though, he didn't know why he bothered opening it. He looked on the counter in front of the massive, wall sized mirror. There it was. Jameson. He grabbed a plastic cup, dropped a few ice cubes in it, twisted off the cap and poured a drink.
He slouched back on to the couch. He thought about the year so far. It had been rough. He struggled to write the last record, hadn't been home much, and a very dear friend of his had died from cancer. He felt worthless. He had become a professional hazard. He had a voice, a guitar and a half finished college degree. He drank too much. At that thought, he took a swig. He fucked too many girls. Another swig. The whiskey burned his throat. He gritted his teeth and took in a breath and let the whiskey soaked air out. He squandered most of his money on alcohol. He always thought musicians were paid more. Maybe the good ones were. The only time he really felt alive was in front of three hundred fans, hiding behind a mic, screaming out every mistake he made, every insecurity he had, and every memory he wanted to erase.
He kept thinking about how he got here. The things he gave up. What would it be like if he hadn't fucked around so much in college? A desk job? A steady pay check? He always told himself things aren't always greener on the other side. It made him feel better until he thought about it again. He replayed most of his life on that couch, staring into a rapidly emptying Solo cup of Jameson. "God damn, not even glass" he thought as he took another sip. He remembered love, family, music, triumphs, failures and a lot of half completes. He was thankful this was the first show each band member had their own room so he could spend some time alone. Otherwise, the room would currently be filled with several girls looking to party. He would gladly give them what they were looking for. He'd even put on a smile while he did it. It was all hollow. The girls just wanted to be able to say they fucked a rockstar. He'd played that game before. Too many times.
He poured another glass. He was starting to get drunk now. He picked up an acoustic guitar in the dressing room and started playing one of the first songs he ever wrote. He remembered writing it in the basement of his parents' house in Pennsylvania during a break between semesters in college when he was 20. He wrote it about some girl he had fallen fast and hard for. He didn't play the song to remind him of her, although he remembered her vividly. He played it to remind him of simpler times. He played on, going back years and years to familiar places and familiar faces. Each chord melting away a layer of compunction and self-reproach. The only audience in the room were the four pale walls dimly lit from florescent bulbs and various empty beer bottles scattered through out the tiny room. He wasn't singing out loud, but he remembered all the lyrics. The song ended with a line he loved, "Anyone have a spare gun? I've got a bullet." When the song was over, he came spiraling back to his half drunk reality. He set the guitar on the couch cushion next to him.
There was a story behind the line in the song. In one of the first apartments Miles rented in college, while trying to fix a loose plank in the wooden floor in his kitchen, he found a bullet underneath. He kept it, vowing to do something cool with it. It mainly stayed on his kitchen counter when he wasn't showing it off to someone. It was a hit for drunk girls at a party. He wrote the song shortly after he found it. A bullet with no gun, how rock and roll? Weeks later, another floor board became loose. When fixing that one, he uncovered a pistol. A .38 Special from the 1930s. It had a wooden grip, and the gun was black metal. The serial number, 214914, could be seen easily. There was one other unique quality to the gun. On the bottom of the grip someone had carved "The Kiss Off". It still fired, as he discovered a few days later after a professional cleaning and a trip to a gun range. He took it with him on the road. So rock and roll he thought. A mobster's pistol on the road with him. That pistol had inspired quite a few lyrics to Miles. He wouldn't be caught dead writing a song about a revolver called "Russian Roulette," though. Or, even consider using that word in a song that also included the word pistol. It's too cliche.
He stood up from the couch, grabbed the guitar by its neck, and walked to the counter with the Jameson on it. He dropped a few cubes in his cup, twisted the cap and poured another drink. He took a sip, cup in one hand, guitar in the other. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize who he had become in the last five years. There he stood, looking over the rim of the world into the eyes of the blurry, bourbon saturated reality he had crafted for himself. He realized exactly what he was doing. Another whiskey drenched diatribe of self loathing and how depressed he was and how fucked his life is. The truth was, there wasn't a single problem in his life that he hadn't created for himself. He made his life one giant cliche. A depressed wannabe rockstar. He wanted to be something real. To feel something real. Instead, he rocked and fucked his way to his apocolypse. He was Kurt Cobain, but not half as cool.
He picked up a bag from the counter and carried it back to the couch with him. He set the guitar back on the cushion next to him. He took a deep drink and unzipped the bag. Digging around, he found it. He pulled the pistol out of the bag by its grip. It was always heavier than he expected. He pushed in the latch, releasing the cylinder. He gave it a spin. The matte, black metal didn't give off much of a glare. He ran his fingers across the grooves of the serial number. Reaching back in to the bag, he pulled out a single bullet, placed it in the cylinder, gave it another spin, and closed it. He slwoly pulled back the hammer, it cocked with a click. He finished his drink with a long, deep pull followed by silent, airy burp that tasted like Jameson. "Fitting," he thought to himself "I always said I was going to do something cool with this bullet." He placed the barrel of the .38 to his right temple. He clenched his jaw and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. As he squeezed he could faintly hear the crowd, still in the venue.
"Encore, encore, encore!"
He stared at a picture on the counter, next to the bottle of Jameson before gently closing his eyes. He pulled the trigger the rest of the way. The hammer slammed down. The sound was deafening.
How cliche.
Miles nailed the last note of the set perfectly. His lungs were empty and every emotion in his body had been poured into the microphone and echoed across the venue to hundreds of adoring fans. The lights went out and the crowd continued to roar. The venue smelled like sweat, smoke and stale booze. The front man clipped the mic back to the mic stand and walked back stage, being careful not to trip over cables as he did. He nodded to the venue's staff and fans with backstage tickets as he stepped by. The band has been on tour for 7 months straight. They started by headlining their own tour in support of their latest record at the end of May. They caught Warped Tour for August and September and are now co-headlining another tour. Touring is exhausting. The days blur together and take their toll on every aspect of your life. You don't have a home, relationships are strained, sleep is scarce, time alone is even more scarce. You live and die by per diems, showers when you can get them, and fresh laundry when you're lucky enough to do it. It's not as glamorous as the movies, magazines and MTV make it seem. It's work.
The seasons have changed and the temperature has gone from warm to bone-chattering cold. This show in St. Louis was especially cold. One more show tomorrow night and he could go home for the first time in 7 months. Miles sat down on the grimy couch in the dressing room, warn from years of other wannabe rockstars sitting in it, riding all their hopes and dreams on one show, one stage, and this couch before them both. He leaned over and opened the mini fridge next to it. What he wanted wasn't in the fridge though, he didn't know why he bothered opening it. He looked on the counter in front of the massive, wall sized mirror. There it was. Jameson. He grabbed a plastic cup, dropped a few ice cubes in it, twisted off the cap and poured a drink.
He slouched back on to the couch. He thought about the year so far. It had been rough. He struggled to write the last record, hadn't been home much, and a very dear friend of his had died from cancer. He felt worthless. He had become a professional hazard. He had a voice, a guitar and a half finished college degree. He drank too much. At that thought, he took a swig. He fucked too many girls. Another swig. The whiskey burned his throat. He gritted his teeth and took in a breath and let the whiskey soaked air out. He squandered most of his money on alcohol. He always thought musicians were paid more. Maybe the good ones were. The only time he really felt alive was in front of three hundred fans, hiding behind a mic, screaming out every mistake he made, every insecurity he had, and every memory he wanted to erase.
He kept thinking about how he got here. The things he gave up. What would it be like if he hadn't fucked around so much in college? A desk job? A steady pay check? He always told himself things aren't always greener on the other side. It made him feel better until he thought about it again. He replayed most of his life on that couch, staring into a rapidly emptying Solo cup of Jameson. "God damn, not even glass" he thought as he took another sip. He remembered love, family, music, triumphs, failures and a lot of half completes. He was thankful this was the first show each band member had their own room so he could spend some time alone. Otherwise, the room would currently be filled with several girls looking to party. He would gladly give them what they were looking for. He'd even put on a smile while he did it. It was all hollow. The girls just wanted to be able to say they fucked a rockstar. He'd played that game before. Too many times.
He poured another glass. He was starting to get drunk now. He picked up an acoustic guitar in the dressing room and started playing one of the first songs he ever wrote. He remembered writing it in the basement of his parents' house in Pennsylvania during a break between semesters in college when he was 20. He wrote it about some girl he had fallen fast and hard for. He didn't play the song to remind him of her, although he remembered her vividly. He played it to remind him of simpler times. He played on, going back years and years to familiar places and familiar faces. Each chord melting away a layer of compunction and self-reproach. The only audience in the room were the four pale walls dimly lit from florescent bulbs and various empty beer bottles scattered through out the tiny room. He wasn't singing out loud, but he remembered all the lyrics. The song ended with a line he loved, "Anyone have a spare gun? I've got a bullet." When the song was over, he came spiraling back to his half drunk reality. He set the guitar on the couch cushion next to him.
There was a story behind the line in the song. In one of the first apartments Miles rented in college, while trying to fix a loose plank in the wooden floor in his kitchen, he found a bullet underneath. He kept it, vowing to do something cool with it. It mainly stayed on his kitchen counter when he wasn't showing it off to someone. It was a hit for drunk girls at a party. He wrote the song shortly after he found it. A bullet with no gun, how rock and roll? Weeks later, another floor board became loose. When fixing that one, he uncovered a pistol. A .38 Special from the 1930s. It had a wooden grip, and the gun was black metal. The serial number, 214914, could be seen easily. There was one other unique quality to the gun. On the bottom of the grip someone had carved "The Kiss Off". It still fired, as he discovered a few days later after a professional cleaning and a trip to a gun range. He took it with him on the road. So rock and roll he thought. A mobster's pistol on the road with him. That pistol had inspired quite a few lyrics to Miles. He wouldn't be caught dead writing a song about a revolver called "Russian Roulette," though. Or, even consider using that word in a song that also included the word pistol. It's too cliche.
He stood up from the couch, grabbed the guitar by its neck, and walked to the counter with the Jameson on it. He dropped a few cubes in his cup, twisted the cap and poured another drink. He took a sip, cup in one hand, guitar in the other. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize who he had become in the last five years. There he stood, looking over the rim of the world into the eyes of the blurry, bourbon saturated reality he had crafted for himself. He realized exactly what he was doing. Another whiskey drenched diatribe of self loathing and how depressed he was and how fucked his life is. The truth was, there wasn't a single problem in his life that he hadn't created for himself. He made his life one giant cliche. A depressed wannabe rockstar. He wanted to be something real. To feel something real. Instead, he rocked and fucked his way to his apocolypse. He was Kurt Cobain, but not half as cool.
He picked up a bag from the counter and carried it back to the couch with him. He set the guitar back on the cushion next to him. He took a deep drink and unzipped the bag. Digging around, he found it. He pulled the pistol out of the bag by its grip. It was always heavier than he expected. He pushed in the latch, releasing the cylinder. He gave it a spin. The matte, black metal didn't give off much of a glare. He ran his fingers across the grooves of the serial number. Reaching back in to the bag, he pulled out a single bullet, placed it in the cylinder, gave it another spin, and closed it. He slwoly pulled back the hammer, it cocked with a click. He finished his drink with a long, deep pull followed by silent, airy burp that tasted like Jameson. "Fitting," he thought to himself "I always said I was going to do something cool with this bullet." He placed the barrel of the .38 to his right temple. He clenched his jaw and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. As he squeezed he could faintly hear the crowd, still in the venue.
"Encore, encore, encore!"
He stared at a picture on the counter, next to the bottle of Jameson before gently closing his eyes. He pulled the trigger the rest of the way. The hammer slammed down. The sound was deafening.
How cliche.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A Haiku With Laces
Whenever I don't get my ass kicked in negotiations, have my car broken in to, get nostalgic, or have anything interesting to write about, I'm going to post parts of a story I've been working on. A little prose, if you will. I'm not quite ready to post the first part yet. So, until then, enjoy this haiku about Chuck Taylors:
Stars and Laces
There are lots of shoes
And then there are Chuck Taylors
They rock really, really hard
I know, I know. It's awesome.
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