The Official Hog Blog
Sunday, June 30, 2002
The air was hazey and the cab ride was a dream. Cabbie behind the wheel had a beret on and the stereo was playing something in French. We crammed ourselves into the car with five of us in the back seat and two in the front. Cab drivers dont like to take fares like that, and we had to con our man with extra cash. Our cups were filled. We'd settled into a fine buzz. I was lucky enough to be seated beside C____, who had a set of legs I'd eyed for years and here she was wrapping them around mine in this orgy of drunken hipsters trying to save some money sharing one cab when we should have taken three. Her frame pressed against me as the car turned tight corners. "Sorry, about that," she said, wincing as we came face to face. Her hair fell into my eyes from a set of bobby pins and I had to keep myself from admitting to her my unadultered obsessions. Good God! Did she realize how many times I'd seen her at a grocery store, on a train, even at the bookstore, without finding the courage to even say hello? Did she begin wearing that particular scarf because it drove me mad, or have I been going mad since seeing her in it? And how many times had I caught glimpses of that scarf in a crowd, only to realize that she wasn't the only woman owning one?
Careening through the city, each turn of the wheel caused us to lose our balance, until her hands rested against my chest keeping her from falling straight into me. Laughing along the way, her toothy smile could have disfigured me for life if we had hit the right bumps, but I wouldn't have cared. This steadying herself, though, was too much for me to take. My heart was beating a million miles a minute, and I started to shake. It would have been hardly noticable, except for these tight confines. This cab ride was holding so few secrets, I could tell how much change she had in her pocket. "Are you cold?" she asked me, "or am I making you uncomfortable?" I was silent as she stroked the crown of my head, hoping to calm me down, but I couldn't help myself from fidgeting. The cab driver rolled down a window to give us some air, and I made an idle excuse about the fog being colder than I was used to. She stared me down until the shaking quit.
Friday, June 28, 2002
I was laid off, and when my boss told me I couldn't rely on my current position as Data Analyst, I immediately freaked out. It was a meager living at 12 dollars an hour, so I hadn't been able to save enough for an emergency like getting laid off. Sure, I'd been looking for a new job. One that pays me what I'm worth and where I can afford some nice clothes or even a night out on the town. But, nothing had panned out. I re-worked my resume. I wracked my brain for days over money-making schemes like selling my body on Polk Street, or harmonica playing on the Embarcadero. I even considered getting to Hollywood and Vine and demanding the uppermanagement of Capitalist Records to hear my new cd, in an unadultered attempt to selling out, which up to this point had been the last thing I wanted to do. Now, on the other hand, selling out in a big way didnt seem so big a deal. IN fact, I already had my eyeliner picked out.
Fortunately for me, I was accepted by the Employment Development Department for an extension on my benefits. That's right, I am once again unemployed and living on welfare. Wherein, I will be pursuing the art of living modestly while sleeping in and writing in my journal and practicing my drums and chasing after girls, possibly hopping on a train and seeing my family (I hope I hope I hope). My bandmates are gonna be stoked because now I can spend my days promoting the new cd. Have you heard it?
While most of my rhetoric may lean towards the anarchic chaos of a punk ethos, I am now proudly hailing the American Welfare system as today's saviour. Thank you, my fellow americans, for working hard and giving me the leniency that an old and in the way musician needs to make ends meet. I promise to do my utmost to become an integral facet of the world. But First, I'm gonna go find a right bar to celebrate this accomplishment and get myself good and drunk. Again, God Bless America.
A new form of political correctness has been reported in the news of late. Its found in the pages of the Chronicle , and its found in Reuters and you'll be seeing it on your television. Quasimoto, the stature challenged focal point of the Hunchback of Notre Dame is being referred to as the Bellringer of Notre Dame in a British adaptation of the story so as to not offend people with scoliosis. What does that have to do with this nice picture of a woman's chest doused with water? absolutely nothing.
I'm so fond of it, tho... I think I will go out and have Bar-B-Cue ribs for lunch.
Monday, June 24, 2002
Familiarity: Anything can happen today, right? Well, sure, I said. See this scar on my lip? I asked him. yeah, he said. This cute girl finally looked at me close enough to see this scar, and I've had it forever. Since I was four, man, and I can't even remember how I got it. I've only heard stories about it. How during my grandfather's funeral, my babysitter had to rush me to the hospital after I bashed my head into a rocking chair. I've always wondered how you can miss seein' this one when you look at me straight on. But she finally saw it.
This reminded my friend that sometimes that which is expected can be comforting. No surprises can be a warm invitation, he mused, like when you know what's for dinner by its smell on the way home from baseball practice and that mom will insist on saying grace before letting anyone touch their utensils. Or the cat's mewing and pawing in the middle of the night which was annoying at first, but once you got to know the cat itself, and how it brings in a caught mouse in the fall, that mewing and scratching was kind of nice.
Cicadaes are kind of like that, he said. Some nights the sound of 'em will keep me up for all the night. Other nights the humming can rock me gently. It kind of depends on the heat of the evening and the humidity in the air. He said this and I was certain a ghost passed right through him. He didnt turn sheet white, like in the movies, but a glimmer of nostalgia gathered in the corner of his eye so much that he winced from it. He looked off into space for a moment.
It was at that point that I stepped into a pile of dogshit.
Aww, man. I bet you didnt expect that! he said and laughed as I stumbled along the sidewalk, dragging my shitty foot in the grass to wipe it clean.
Sunday, June 23, 2002
I've just got a few minutes before I pass out from exhaustion. Fojimoto, along with the help of our close friends (John O'brien and Splintered Tree) put on a benefit to raise funds for the Middle East Childrens Alliance earlier this evening and I'm plum tuckered out. I'll try not to narcoleptically fall asleep at the helm.
With that disclaimer to prelude, I'd like to say one thing. Bad music is hurting the youth of today. Please do not endorse wimpy rock bands that sound every bit like The Goo Goo Dolls only younger. Instead put on your chuck taylors and rock out with yer cock out to Tsar. Those guys are rad. Or, if you are feeling a little S&M you might want to put on a Monster Magnet record and laugh along to the words "Suck the Cock of The Fire God." I did. When you see the little fuckers in that band called Saves the Day or in Dashboard Confessional... punch them in the face for me, cuz those whiney little sucks deserve it. They are personally ruining my day. Do not buy the album, instead go write your own songs, record them on a hand held recorder and send it to me, cuz I need to find something to get their songs out of my musical landscape.
And while I'm at it... have you seen the Hives? Are they as contrived as I think? And why are people so hot about them. I would much rather listen to Delta 88, Royal Trux, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, or any number of great rock and roll punx. Support true punk music, folks. Its the only way to enjoy your life.This new wave of so-called punk music is like a sack of shit set on fire. Its becoming the next big thing, like Grunge was in 1992. It really sucks. And so does Dashboard Confessional. I hope the lead singer gets into a shellfish accident and breaks out in hives. and I hope that cute lead singer in the Hives eats as much food as their guitarist soon, so he gets all fat and bloated and can't jump up and down and swagger.
Listen To Fugazi. Listen to Buck Owens. Listen to Greg Vaine. Listen to Beach Wood Sparks. Listen to The Mother Hips. Listen to Ornette Coleman. Listen To Joe Henry. Listen to Tsar. Listen to Trans Am. Listen to Audio Learning Center. Turn off MTV.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
I spend a lot of time underground in the tube on a train between San Francisco and Berkeley these days. The silent humming lulls me into a very serene place. In the morning, business folks in suits and ties shift uncomfortably in their seats, or (if its during the rush at 830 or the rush at 530) stand up straight and narrow holding tightly to a bar above our heads to keep from falling into the persons around them. Rarely do people talk with each other. The train also gives me the time to do character studies and to hone in on what makes us tick... or at least it gives me insight into everyday people doing their natural things. Here's a little anecdote about a man named Finnegan:
Red Faced Finnegan
A man said to me, "Do something great once a day,
and if you do it before noon, yer the man." Welp, I
saw a ole fella hock a loogie that spanned Harrison
today. On the way home from the coffee shop this
morning, I passed a business-ey looking ole chap with
a derby on his head and a red tie flipp-flopping in
the wind as he forged inta-it. His newspaper was held
above him like it was about to rain, but the sun was
out. Queer fellow, if you asked me. I decided to
follow him around to see if my suspicions were right.
Hell, I aint got nuthin to do, and the sun woke me
especially early this morning. I was still a bit tired
and with the sun riseing and the warm coffee I felt a
little as if I were in a dream already. It would take
a while for me to get my bearings, and if this guy
noticed me, or if I happened to get bored at all, I
could bounce back to my pad with no woe. He shimmie
shammied all over the sidewalk between people and
around the telephone poles, weaving through the going
to work crowds in suits and the doing the work crowds
in their carhart pants, covered in paint, or with
garbage. He popped into a coffee shop to get himself a
nice tall Latte, just like mine I imagined.
Eventually, this guy - who I'd affectionately named
Finnegan, on account of his red face, I dunno, maybe
it was too early to tell, but he looked Irish to me,
with his red hair, and face that shone in the sun like
he'd been in it too long the day before red - turns
down Harrison, prolly to get downtown with a suit like
he had on, Versace or some shit.
There's a stop sign on Harrison, y'see? Nobody stops
for long at it. The cars are too busy in the morning
to give a shit, and the people who commute by bus end
up crossing the street together, forming a mob so big
the cars have no choice but to yield. Welp, me and
Red- Faced Finnegan got to Harrison. A crowd around
the curb formed when we did. It always happens just
like I said and at the right moment, when there
weren't no cars in the way, we all bolted across the
street as a group. Red-faced Finnegan in the front,
with his coffee in the air as if he were leading a
battalion toward its nemeses. His hair blew in the
wind and drew his tie outta his suitjacket and into my
face. Man, it was windy.
Once, across the street, the crowd filtered out a bit.
Some folks went south to Daly City, and some folks
went Downtown to their offices and their jobs. All of
us had coffee in our hands. Everyone left abruptly and
onto the hustle and bustle of their Tuesday lives.
Everyone, that is, except me and Finnegan.
Red-faced Finnegan stopped to fix himself and to look
out over the Harrison divide as he had just crossed
it, his hair a tousle, and his suit a bit wrinkled
from a fervent and sizable crowd. And as he peered
across the street which had been overrun with Camaros
and Thunderbirds , Vanagons and Jettas zooming quickly
through the looming red STOP sign. Leaning over and
clutching his lower stomach (I thought he was about to
vomit, but who knew?, He drew in a hocking noise,
probably clearing his entire phlegmey throat back into
his head, it sounded like. He started with a sniffle,
that was rather like the beginning of a sneeze but
backwards into his nasal cavity, as that's where ya
gotta draw that shit could you want to get a good
loogie going. The sniffle became a guttural vibrato,
high up in his head and also somewheres near the back
of his throat, and I knew what he was up to by that
point.
"CCSGSCHH -- CCHH -- CCCCCHHHHH -
CCCHHHSSCCSSCHHCCCCHHHH!" he went, and "CChhh."
He waited a second, maybe two, and "Tha-woop."
He shot a loogie across Harrison that could'a been
some sort of pirhouette onstage during Swan Lake. I am
not kiddin' ya, this loogie was as big as a baby's
head, and flew... no, it soared to the other side of
the street. Finnegan lifted that spit on the
occasional upward stream of the wind that was blowing
so hard in the first place and sent it like a shooting
star into the daytime filth of the innercity. I dunno
if he cared or not, but Finnegan missed every single
shiney car on its way to work, too. I dont think
anyone but me saw any of this of course, but
somewheres along the way I felt like I'd witnessed
that great thing that someone needs to do every day to
be a great man. And shit, he'd done it before noon.
I was only awakening still, and my coffee had gone
cold. Red-faced Finnegan had a job to go to, and I may
have freaked him out by watching him force a snot-ball
ouuta his dirthole. So, We parted without never saying
a word to each other.
Monday, June 17, 2002
I found this banana dancing to some sweet electro. Listen to him do it freestyle, break it down and freeze.
Sunday, June 16, 2002
I tried to stop it, but there aint no way to get the blood to stop once you've nicked your ear. Fuck if I know why i decided to take a pair of scissors to my beard, but instead of trimming it up nice-like, I snipped a piece of the lobe clear off, and a nick the size of a noticable comma was left in me. Blood streaming down my neck, and me without a wash cloth, I quickly grabbed a handful of toilet paper. I'd have to stop this before I continued trimming my beard. The shock of seeing my own blood gave me a start enough to want to sit down, and I did.
I held the paper tightly against my neck and ear, letting the stereo playing sea and cake waft lightly into the air like someone smoking a pipe. Later, after the nick healed up, I packed a bowl and smoked a pipe on the patio. This beard and the pipe in hand, I called my pop up to wish him a happy father's day. I hesitated in telling him about the beard, but when I did he laughed. I'll bet you look like me now! he said, and I didnt tell him I had packed a bowl with his favorite brand of tobacco. Dad wears a beard and always has. I can remember when I marvelled at it when I was too young to even ride a bike without training wheels. After eating a big dinner of fried chicken he would comb it out, and lean down into my face asking, 'Is there any food in my beard?'
Friday, June 14, 2002
Thursday, June 13, 2002
Booze Money
You know what I always say. I aint got much money, but what I got – when I got it - I might as well put it towards booze. That’s made it hard on me, of course, having that as a mantra. What with no job and no intentions of getting one. No one is hiring, at least not right now, because it’s the depression and all. And There aint much for shmucks like me to do but sit around and get sauced. I see at least ten other cats at the same bars at the same time every day. We sit down like ole chums, but I don’t know any of their names. We even strike up conversations with each other from time to time. I like to stare off into space and imagine what it would be like to have a job. I like to imagine the perfect job. I’m certain I can’t get paid to just sit and drink, which makes it difficult to think of the perfect job at the moment, but I’ll struggle with the thought of working and can think of a couple of gigs that would suit me.
I watch the Giants game on the tube above the wall of bottles and the mirror that entices me to wonder how many shots it will take for me to see the mirror images in threefold. I imagine myself as a great baseball player who gets paid in the millions of dollars to play short stop. I’ll close my eyes and I can smell the green grass and the popcorn and the hot dogs. The wind whips about and I stand fearless between 2nd and third base, my cap cocked to the side, keeping sun away from my eyes. I lean forward and pound a fist into my mitt.
“Heeeey, batter batter batter!” I holler at home plate, hoping to set the guy swinging the bat off a bit. I’ve really got a thing for razzing the batter, so I give in to my urges and say some awful things to him about his mother. “Aaah, Whitey, yer mom sucks cock,!”
With a deep breath, as that dream propels me into an alternate dimension, I know nothing truer. My life is satisfying. I can want to wake up in the morning, on account of I aint working to get paid, but being paid for my work. (Leonard Cohen said that. He can write like a mother fucker.) Hell, I might could get a job selling hot dogs in the stands next week, right? I wonder if I would get to watch the ballgame? Oh, fuck it, I can always watch the game at the tavern. That –a-way, I get to drink myself into the daydream and no one cares. I aint a baseball player, anyways, and I didn’t get to this bar for any other reason but to get sauced, like I was saying. So’s I go for the whiskey, which should get me going nice-like.
It’s that one–two punch that hits a guy between the chest and the brain a good slug of single malt scotch’ll send to ya. Warmth that slides on down through the lips and to the lungs. I’ll take it straight no chaser, me. I likes it to have a couple lined up next to each other first off. I can eye the shot at the bar as I choke back the first one right quick, slamming it back into my throat and letting it burn going down. It comes right through the lips like electricity, too. Like a sigh of relief, my chest can puff out and my head jerk can back and forth, shaking as if to say “Oh shit, No,” but its only a reaction to the juice, dig? After that first shot, I can’t believe I went as long as I did without it. My head’s shaking is only a testament to my own drunkardness. And that it tastes as good as it does. Even though I shoot it back without being able to hardly taste it, only to feel the repercussions, I know what it is and I know about the back up, second and blinding shot.
Right away I can’t see so well. That first blast blinds me for a few seconds. I begin to see after I’ve had a few moments to gather my senses. Usually, I won’t know where I am exactly. The earth slips away and I’m all warmth and golden as booze falls down my throat. I’m gone, invisible or better yet…dead, but a likeable death cuz its temporary. It lasts only a short while, than its back to reality. Back to reality from a bottle. That and my time. Its None too nice, this, and I know it. I just wanna put as much makeup as I can onto this ugly world.
Why am I so tore up? I aint different from any other monkey on the street. I can chain myself to a grill and serve up a mean burger, or I’ll pack a load of mail over my back and hump it down street after street, stuffing addresses with junk from direct mail coupon books and copies of Vogue. Hell, I can pick up a chamois cloth and buff Jaguars as they roll through the car wash. I can find me a job, there are plenty of shits I can do. I just don’t like to work. But, workin’ gets me a paycheck that allows me to live and to drink. Its a cruel circle I’ve been tossed into. I dislike working, but I need to work to live. The more I work the more I want to get drunk. The more I drink the more I need to work to pay for my drinking and so on it goes.
My local bartender knows my drinks. I’ll take either a dirty vodka martini, or the whiskey. Whiskey is more expensive, and he can tell by the way my face hangs whether or not I got enough money for that. And he knows when I need the whiskey, but aint got enough money. He’s like a sage that way.
Even though I have the luxury of enjoying my days at the dark end of the street in a dirty bar, hiding from the sunshine, I’m a musician. A good one, too, and I’m meaning to get onstage to knock folks out, but being a good musician never did shit for me. I have to hustle to get paid. Gigs don’t pay much these days, and even if they did, clubs are closing down everywhere. No one’s got any money during this here depression. Sounds like great excuses to hole up in front of a glass filled with clean liquor, don’t it? They say I got brains, but they aint doin’ me much good. I’m like every other monkey out on the street, except that most of the bums that hang out in the joints I go to aint just daydreaming but halfway to insanity, or on drugs, or a combination of the three. The liquor we drink evens us out a bit. Me and my fantasies, they and their drugs, our appetite for drugs and alcohol and insanity all serve as a great equalizer. I’d say we’re trying to make sense of it all, or trying to make no sense of it at all.
Business men and blue collar cats come in and sit next to me.
Hi. My name is Jon. I live in Berkely. It's pretty neat. I like stuff like playing drums and listening to the rain fall on the tin roof of the small gardening shack which I keep in my ear. In this blog I'm going to post my writing. I like to write poetry and short stories, and I'm working on a novel about my childhood. Did I mention I play drums.
Thanks to the best artist and musician in the world for inspiring me to start a blog.
