Sunday, June 21, 2009

I feel like every one should take at least one ride in a car with collin in their life. It's like playing Russian roulette. It's a fantastic mix of "I know he's not drunk," and "oh my god, he's on so much adavan." Not to mention you've always got the chance of actually get pulled over and he actually is forced to talk his way out of some obscene situation.

oh god, falling asleep drunk.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

One part of this is fiction, tried to format it in more of a poetry style. too much work. didn't spell check it. sorry.

3:11 am
And she begged me not to leave the bed but I did
I wasn't tired. I wasn't exausted, though from how I performed you
would think I would be. Must be the caffeine. Maybe the nicotine
not sure. But I got out of bed and I made myself a drink
I was still naked from the nights activities so I only slightly lean out
the back door for a cigarette. This isn't our house and I wouldn't
want the neighbors to see some random guy, naked
and smoking a cigarette
in the back yard
I could just smoke in the basement but I need
that random something that comes from the outdoors
at night in the suburbs. I complain about this quiet life
a lot but there is something to be said for the quietness
that follows the evenings of the dull people around here. The city is loud.

The city doesn't sleep. As the night pulses on, so do the people. They thrive on something you just don't get in the 'burbs. It's easy to live "the life" in the city, because the city really puts it in you. In the suburbs you have to have that something already there or it's lull will suck you in. For that same reason certain people do exceptionally well in the cities. They already know what it's like to have that energy beat through you. Others escape to the city because they know they'll die a slow, tired, lonely death if they stick around the boring sub-divisions and sleepy side streets of the 'burbs.

I think I heard her stir, or maybe it was a cat. That would be a big fucking cat.

I'm always a little sad when I don't just close my eyes, fall asleep and fulfill the american dream of drinking, screwing and being happy. She looks at me with those sleepy, drunken eyes, the eyes I've seen a million times, and something tells me I should just lay down and live that dream. And if I didn't have to lay down to live it I probably would. But that dream doesn't allow room for growth, room to expand, room to be great. I will be great.

I'll write an album, or two. I'll publish 5 or 6 books, novels of course. I'll write great masterpieces that will be around far longer than I will and age more beautifully. I will be remembered. I will be revered by those who didn't know me and missed by those who did. I will be loved for decades after I die by those who had only once made my acquaintance. A modern day legend, timeless and classic.

Right now I'm not. Right now I'm naked, in a reclining chair that probably cost more than my car, my lap top and my guitar combined. Right now I'm setting things up. I'm living the life that will be the basis for that novel. I'm speaking the lines that will raise my album up to greatness. I'm seeing that things that will inspire my masterpieces to be gorgeous.

I'm getting tired. I'm becoming exausted. Another cigarette doesn't seem to keep me up. Another drink defiantly didn't help. I'll go back to bed, but know this. I wont lay down and let the american dream sneak up on me. I wont pass out and allow myself to fall into the trenches of boredom that come with a conventional life. I wont give up.

Drink on.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Transfer of samples of work

This is what I've posted from a story I've started about my life around the time I went to Jail. Though originally posted as I wrote it I'll post it in pseudo sequence here.

--------- 08 Feb 2009   "Spoiler Alert: I get out of Jail"
I was ashamed. I was so ashamed I almost didn't call any one. I weighed out the option of just roughing it in jail for a night and dealing with Plymouth in the mourning. Seeing as how I would have to call some one for cash at that time any ways I figured I would just suck it up and call my dad. I should warn you I'm terrible at bad news phone calls, as demonstrated with the 10+ voice mails I left when the garage was on fire, all of which sounded along the lines of;
"(insert family member here), the garage is burning down. No ones inside and I've called 911, I'm sorry. Bye."

his wasn't a garage fire though. I was about to be put into a cell and all I could think was, "Oh god." Keep in mind that it was 12am or so and my dad wakes up for work at 4am. 
"Dad, it's John, I'm at the Novi police station. I need 550 dollars."

I'm about a page and a half into this story. Not sure how long it's going to end up or if it's going to be spun into something way beyond my control. We'll see!

--------09 Feb 2009 "Spoiler Alert: I'm not in Novi any more"
  With that she shut the door behind me and locked the door. It’s alarming how quickly your brain goes into panic once you hear the key turn and the clerk walk away. This time around I couldn’t even remotely see a clock. The window faced the row of doors to the other cells. Some one was sleeping, wrapped in their not-quite-blanket and the other was empty. I had to race like a piss horse but the all metal toliet was right in front of the door and I get stage fright pretty easy. I sat down on my blanket despite the maybe fifty degree tempature. For some reason I really didn’t want to be the guy sitting in a jail cell, hunched over and staring at the ground with a look of pure defeat.
I might sprawl out from this in both directions, writing a book of pseudo memoir. 
Writing a book AND putting out an album by fall. Totally do-able, right? amirite?


--------10 Feb 2009

“Did you get in a fight?”

        “No, but I really have to piss.”

                I finally used the bathroom that was located in the lobby. The civilian lobby. The lobby where the doors weren’t locked. The bathroom where you could shut the door behind you. The toilet that had a seat and a sink with soap. I used the facilities and looked in the mirror. “By god…” I really did look like I had been in a fight. My face was beat red, bloodshot in certain places. My hair was a mess, I’m sure it looked as though some one with anxiety problems had just been through getting arrested and booked twice. There were scratches down my arms that I didn’t remember getting, a few to the point of bleeding slightly. I was a wreck, emotionally, physically and man did I need a I cigarette. We left the station and started walking to the car where Travis, Emily’s boy friend was waiting. Emily was the first to break the silence.

                  “So what happened?”
I have like a three song soundtrack constantly playing in my head when I'm at my parents house. 2 dollars if you can guess one of them.

My dollars are imaginary, don't say I didn't warn you.