9. The Decemberists - The King is Dead

Remember y'all. Fiction. I've just never written anything like this before, so I thought I would give it a go. I started this at 3 in the morning, so I guess you could tell where I got the idea. See the previous post for the project I'm working on and my current Top Ten Albums.


I drove slowly around the mall. The place was lit like a noir movie. Overhead lights were spread out just far enough for there to be spaces of pitch black. Each time I passed into a lit area, my eyes failed to constrict in time and I would be blinded for a moment. Light was a constant nuisance to me now that I had completely given up sleeping. It burned at my corneas and exacerbated the dryness that only someone who was an insomniac at my level really understands. I imagined it felt similar to the way someone trapped in a desert felt right before they died of heat exhaustion. But my insomnia was my own doing. I assumed it was the universe punishing me for what I had done, and for what I had planned to do.

I made another pass by the main entrance to search for the best point of entry. There was a set of double doors at the far end of the gray building that seemed the least busy, and probably the easiest to break into. Even this late at night it wasn't a complete ghost town. There were janitors and late night clerks and security guards scattered about. I wanted to do this at a time when I knew there would be the least amount of people. I had already hurt enough people. I didn't want to hurt them, I truly didn't. But I had no choice. I truly didn't. All I could do was hope.

I parked my car in the lower level of the parking garage. My hands shook as I stepped out into the cool night air. My eyes stung from the combination of exhaust fumes and frigid air. I strapped on my pack, making sure to keep the plunger secure in my right hand and took three deep breaths to hopefully calm my jitters. When that failed, I gripped the base of the plunger tighter and marched forward. I took the escalator to the street level, keeping my eyes closed the entire way up to hopefully give them at least a tiny reprieve. I crossed the parking lot and prepared to enter the building, when my phone began to buzz. Veronica. Against all of my best judgment, I answered.

"You can't do this," she shouted in between sobs.

"I see you found my note. This has to be done."

"I don't understand. What makes you think this is appropriate? What makes you think this is okay? How is this the right response?"

"There is no other response."

"No, don't you see, whatever is going on in your head, we can fix it. You and me. You're not
yourself; we can fix that."

I leaned against the building and closed my eyes I held my phone in my left hand and the plunger tight in my right.

"It can't be fixed. I can't be fixed. And the people whose lives I've ruined, they can't be fixed."

"Johnathan, whatever it is you think you've done, it pales in comparison to what you're planning on doing."

"No, don't you see? What I'm planning is simply to honor the others. They will get their due.
They won't have suffered in vain."

"It doesn't make sense. None of it. Not your note, not your plan, not what you're saying right now. You don't know what you're saying. No, please just come home. Get some sleep and we will face the challenge in the morning."

"Ha, sleep. That would do me a world of good. Unfortunately, that is just not allowed anymore."

"Then lets try pills. Let's try massage. Let's try whatever it takes to get you better."

"This is what will make me better. You don't understand. I have to go. Remember that I always loved you. And will always love you. All that I did was for you. Even when it doesn't seem like it or make sense to you."

"Johnathan, you have to come home. I love you, too. But I also had to do the right thing. Before I called you, I called the police. If you leave now, you can beat them and make it home, and we can handle all of this craziness on our own terms. If you stay, then I don't know what will happen."

"I know what will happen, Veronica. I know."

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Then another. I let the phone slip out of my hand and heard as it cracked in half on the concrete. One last deep breath and I opened my eyes. In the distance, I could see the lights from what seemed like twenty police cars and heard the faint sirens growing louder and louder. I closed my eyes again and straightened my posture. The sirens came louder and louder before I heard the screeching of tires and the slamming of doors.

"Get down on the ground now," a shout came slightly from my right. I slowly raised my arms, still holding the detonator in my hand. The wind rushed past me, I assumed from the cars still flying into my general vicinity.

"Get down now!"

I straightened my arms showing off my wingspan. I figured if I was going to be a martyr, I might as well go out like one. I opened my eyes, but all I could see was the lights from the cars. The rest was a complete blur.

"Drop whatever is in your hand and get on the ground."

"I'm sorry, sir, I just can't." My thumb hovered over the red button. Now was as good a place as any to finish my plan. I didn't want to hurt anyone, but now I truly had no choice. I finally focused my eyes on what was before me. Several armed police officers were standing behind their patrol car doors with guns pointed directly at me. I glanced upwards just as a deliberate red light flashed in my eye. I then realized that some sort of laser site was pointed on my forehead. I knew the time was now. It was a race. Could I hit my button before they hit their trigger.

I closed my eyes again and took another deep breath. It seemed as if time had slowed down, but what sounded like a gunshot echoed through the night. Since I wasn't dead yet, I knew that time had slowed enough for me to just push that red button. But since I hadn't yet, I wondered if I even would. Could I do it? Would I do it? Was my plan actually worth it? Maybe I had overestimated what I had done and what I was capable of. But in the end, none of it really mattered. All I wanted at this point was to get some sleep. I lowered my arms and let time catch up to me.

Oh, and the new Decemberists album is pretty good and you should listen to it.

The Go Team - Rolling Blackouts

Going to start doing more music review stuff to fill out this page, so I am going to do a running list of my favorite albums in 2011. Cheap gimmick sure, but f off, at least it's keeping me busy and sane. Here is my current top ten. I am going to review them all in my special little way. I am going to do all ten, and then if I need to change things, I will change them.

1. Panda Bear - Tomboy

2. Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Belong

3. White Lies - Ritual

4. Radiohead - The King of Limbs

5. Foo Fighters -Wasting Light

6. Tim Hecker - Ravedeath, 1972

7. Hayes Carll - KMAG YOYO & (Other American Stories)

8. PJ Harvey - Let England Shake

9. The Decemberists - The King is Dead

10. The Go! Team - Rolling Blackouts

The Go! Team - Rolling Blackouts

If my daughter, Lorelei, was writing this list, Rolling Blackouts, would be number 1. It is an admirable choice. This album, is full of rollicking beats, cool voices and just absolute fun. Her choice lacks credibility because she is only 18 months old, and she is an idiot. After this album her choices would probably be: Stuffed Dog That Plays Songs When You Press Its Hand - Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, Alphabet Pal - ABC, Fridge Phonics- ABC, Plastic Jewelery Box - Annoying Songs About Make Up Set to Pop! Goes the Weasel and The Wiggles - Holy Crap, We're Terrible. Who am I kidding, that damned stuffed dog is her favorite album of all time.

It's going to be fun to watch her music choices evolve as she does, but she has officially hit the point where she is now a little kid and likes stuff that all little kids like, but grown people abhor. I had tried really hard to keep her away from this point, but I guess it was inevitable. I remember when she was only a couple months old and the first happy reaction I ever saw from her about music, about anything really, was KMFDM - A Drug Against War. I was so excited. If the first thing she ever smiled about was industrial metal, then I would never have to own an album that had The Wheels on the Bus unless it was covered by Trent Reznor or Al Jourgensen. Alas, she has fallen into the spell of jingly noises and goofy voices, which I guess is why she likes The Go! Team, but hell, that's why I like The Go! Team.

Her sudden love for the things I had wished to avoid is a little frightening. It is my first glimpse into a world where maybe she won't look at me as the greatest man she's ever known. I thought for sure I had control over these types of things, but no, suddenly she loves The Wiggles? What happened to KMFDM?

I worry about what my daughter will be exposed to. I worry that she's going to like crappy music and crappy movies and watch crappy TV shows. And she's probably gonna. There is no getting around it, but by the time she has the opportunity to make her own choices, am I going to have to listen to the 2019 version of Katy Perry because that's all that's available to an eleven year old who doesn't want to work that hard to find music? Or even worse, because she actually likes it?

Some people worry that their kid is going to do drugs. Some worry that their kid is going to be gay. Some worry that their kid isn't going to be successful or rich. I worry that my kid is going to make me listen to Katy Perry in the car when she's eleven because she doesn't know any better. But as long as she keeps bopping to The Go! Team, then at least I know that I did my best. Because, things can be fun and they can appeal to the young and old alike and they can be good. The Go! Team proves it, and I'm glad my daughter and I can bond over it. But for real, I'm about to hide that stuffed dog.

See, This is Why You Don't Listen to Zack

My friend Zack recommended for me to break my writer's block I should just stream of conscience. I tried that, and it turned into this bit of nonsense, so blame him for this. I think the idea is there, so I may revisit this one. Also, this is fiction. Zack is a wonderful father and a caring young man. This next piece is actually why you don't listen to Zack, because he makes you write stuff that sucks. Also, he'll make you do art stuff.

"You should go out with me tonight, maybe get some drinks, maybe hit on some girls."

"Bro, just drive your car, you'll be fine."

"What's one more Bud Lite pitcher gonna hurt?"

"Hey dude, let's do shots. Tequila."

"You should go talk to that girl, her boyfriend doesn't look all that big. Plus, I don't think she actually likes him. You'd be doing her a favor."

"Let's get out of here, maybe go to a titty bar."

"You should get a private dance from that girl with the back tattoo. No, the other one."

"Dudebro, grab her boob. She totally wants it. Plus, I think you can outrun that bouncer."

"Man, to hell with the hospital, we should get out of here and go to Mexico. Your arm will be fine."

"Hell yeah, we should go into this bar with a neon donkey on it."

"Hey, this brodude gave me this balloon. Stick it in your ass for me, alright?"

"Mexico sucks, let's go to North Korea."

"I think it would be totally cool if you protested their douchebag president."

"Hey Dudent Body President, we should break out of this prison, it would be like totally easy."

"See I told you it would be easy, let's go to the North Pole"

"Bro Money Bro Problems, you should totally try to steal that walrus carcass from that polar bear. I think since they're like almost extinct anyway, their not that tough now."

"Dude Law, patch up that puncture wound and let's get out of here. I know, let's go into the Matrix!"

"Fuck yeah, Brobrobro Your Boat, you should try to fight that agent. He ain't shit!"

"No big deal, you can't win them all. Check it out, Mogwais! We should totally feed these Mogwais, who gives a shit that it's after midnight."

"Whoa, this is getting pretty hectic, let's get out of here and go into outer space."

"Hey Ravishing Rick Dude, take your helmet off, try to get some fresh air."

"Oh. Yeah, you shouldn't have listened to me on that one."

Death Gets a Lap Dance

This story got me in trouble at work. I think it was the word "vaginae". I wrote this for a writing contest for Juice, but it didn't win. I again blame it on "vaginae".

She started her routine by disinfecting the pole. She didn't really do it in a way that was particularly sexy, and obviously the phallic potential existed. She sprayed something onto a rag, and wiped down the pole like she was polishing an old coat rack. Then, she turned to the crowd and began her gyrations. She went from the world's most scantily clad custodian to sex kitten in a blink. I wasn't sure if I should be pleased at the level of concern “Nevaeh” (actually named Betty, which I thought would be a very cute name for a stripper) had for cleanliness or disturbed by the fact that the genitals of the women working in this place warranted such vigilant destruction of bacteria. Regardless, it was nice to know that she didn't let a fear of germs stop her from her chosen career and was willing to labor enough to keep her workspace tidy.

Beach Girls is an odd name for a strip club in Iowa, since Iowa obviously lacks beaches in a traditional, oceanic sense. Sure, the area was called Clearwater Beach, but just because you dumped a bunch of sand on the banks of the Raccoon River, that doesn't actually make it a beach. The place is laid out like most hole-in-the-wall joints. One long stage greets you as you walk in the doors. Chairs line the stage, for those who need a close-up view of glittered skin (and possibly a brief touch for a dollar). The back, pool tables are set up for those bored of nudity and want to take in some light recreation. Restrooms are plastered with old centerfolds, some I remember seeing as a child in the old suitcase where my dad hid his porn. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead here, but this was where my job required me to be.

The man to my right was a complete stranger, but he was whispering into my ear and slapping me on the shoulder like we were bros. Being alone in a strip club means you are one of three things: bored, lonely, or pathetic. The bored and the lonely will sometimes reach out to the likeminded and they sometimes bond over their shared love of vaginae. The pathetic tend to just creep on one specific dancer and, honestly, no one really likes the pathetic. They make everyone sad. They are also the ones who are least happy to pass on, which I think would surprise most people.

He was older than I, probably in his late fifties. He wore a work shirt with the name Frank sewn on. Frank didn't really look like the type who would go to a strip club by himself on a Wednesday evening. His hair was neatly cropped and his teeth were impeccable, and other than some oil still staining his right arm, he actually seemed rather clean. His left ring finger had an indention probably from a wedding ring that was now missing. While he assumed he was tickling my funny bone, the reality was I couldn’t hear a word he said due to years of amateur wrestling and Nevaeh’s soundtrack. I laughed and nodded every time he said something that was likely hilarious, but was really just hot breath in my cauliflower ear.

Nevaeh was mid-motorboat with a youngster in a backward hat when I finally spotted Destiny. Destiny was a stripper, although she danced as Jody, which seemed backwards. She had on a white robe, but still had her hair up and her stripper shoes on. She stepped out to smoke, which seemed like the perfect time to finish this and still be home in time for Tosh.0. I patted Frank on the shoulder and walked out the door, knowing I wouldn't see him again unless it was his time and I somehow got his paperwork.

I walked out the door to a small smoking patio and Destiny was standing by herself. She had just pulled out a cigarette, so I leaned in with an expertly timed flick of my Bic.

“Thanks, baby,” she cooed, “How are you tonight?”

“I'm doing pretty well, Destiny. How are you doing tonight?”

“How do you know my real name?” The cigarette dropped from her lips. I picked it up and took a drag.

“My name is Roger, and I'm here to escort you to the afterlife.”

“What?”

“I’m your guide to the great beyond. I’m your reaper.”

“You're my reaper? Are there personal reapers for everyone?”

“Kinda. I get a list of people to do each day. I'm your personal reaper like someone would be your personal shopper.”

“Where is your cloak?”

“That ain’t for me. Some get into it, though. Chester (he works out of the Tacoma office) he still carries the scythe, like he's on the cover of a Judas Priest album. He’s a joke and a kiss-ass. Me, this is just a job, just like anyone else. I do it with just enough passion not to piss off my boss. Anyway, if we could please get this over with...”

“No, I'm not ready to go,” she said, tears welling.

“C'mon, you're my last transport and I'm off for the day, so let's just get this over with.”

“No.”

“Ugh. Come on, it’s your time. If you run, I will find you.”

She stuck out her trembling hand and I put on my glove. The glove would take her soul and transport us to her final judgment, and I could take the next shuttle back to this plain of existence, hop in my car and get home. We were inches from contact when I felt a slap on my back. I turned around to see Frank.

“I think I lost my phone. You seen it?”

“No, I have not. Now will you leave us alone? I have work to do.” I turned back to Destiny, but she wasn't there. I removed my glove and punched Frank in the face. I hate when they run.

The Shuffle Conversation- Be Your Own Pet- Bicycle Bicycle, You Are My Bicycle

I had cold feet, both literally and figuratively. Figuratively, because I was about to walk up and talk to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and literally because while I was walking towards her, I stepped in a puddle. I've always had a thing for girls in bands. They have this seething confidence that I could only hope to have. Like its hard enough to get in front of people, it must be really hard to be a good looking girl and do it. It takes amazing guts. It makes what would be a somewhat okay looking girl into some sort of goddess that I lust over. I would lop off my own ear like Van Gough if it meant I got one night with Joan Jett. Not even Joan Jett 1985, Joan Jett right now.

I quickly pulled my canvas low top out of the puddle and ducked behind a nearby bush, hoping she didn't see me. I spread apart bits of the foliage and stared at her from what I hoped was a safe distance. She had on purple tights and a white v-neck t-shirt stained with her own blood. Some of that blood stained her bleach blond hair as well, making her look like a pixie Ric Flair, circa 1983 Starrcade. I knew it was her blood, because while she was onstage, she punched herself in the face and appeared to break her own already bloodied nose (I'm not sure how it was already bloody, I arrived a little late.) Punk rock lead singers tend to do shit like that, and I have no idea why. In this day and age any person with any real sense comes to these shows to listen to the music, not to rebel against the British Proletariat or the cess pool that is 1978 New York City by destroying themselves and their audience, like how punk music was first established. Now, most people who act like Johnny Rotten or Richard Hell, kind of just look like posers. But for her, I dunno, she just seemed to overcome that, like she knew she was being a tool by punching herself in the face. Like "look at me, I'm being a stereotype!" Because if anything punk music shouldn't be about stereotypes, but about making fun of them.

I pulled my shoulder length hair back and smoothed it out a little bit. I tried to swoop it to one side, which I hoped made me look a little less like a doofus, hard rocker, but I think, in reality, looked like when I was in junior high and the guidance counselor made me comb my hair before picture day. I tugged out some of the wrinkles in my black t-shirt, which was also bloodstained, only with someone else's blood. I unfortunately got too close to the mosh pit, and got some investment banker's plasma splashed across my chest. I'm not sure what caused the blood to spray as far as it did, but I was sure he was some white collar scum bag because those were the only types who went into mosh pits in 2009. The type that have to rebel against what they've become and want to show that, see they still know how to throw down, they aren't at all adult sell-outs now. They still know how to party. They were the only people in the mosh pit. That and drunk guys with too much aggression. I knew she was different than most because she made fun of the guys in the mosh pit, while she was onstage punching herself in the face.

I stood up and cleared my throat and checked my breath. I thought it smelled fine, but it probably smelled like cigarettes and Guinness. I wasn't too worried, though, because well, I think that's a smell a girl in a punk band would be used to, and maybe gravitate towards. I walked up to her as she leaned against the wall. She finished her cigarette just as I walked up to her.

"Hi," I said, somewhat unconvincingly. She looked at me and cocked her eyebrow slightly.

"You got a smoke I can bum?" she asked.

"Didn't you just finish one?"

"Who are you, C. Everett Koop? I can smoke as many cigarettes as I want."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Camels. I handed her the pack and she pulled out two, she lit them both in her mouth and then handed one of them to me. Then she pulled back the waist band of her tights and stuck my pack against her skin and let the spandex snap them against her body, almost like a fanny pack without the pack.

"Excuse me, I think those are mine."

"Nope, I think you're wrong. Look can I help you with something?" she said. She let her lip curl up like Billy Idol and I giggled.

"Look you don't have to do the act anymore. I get it."

"What act?"

"You know, punk rock mistress. I get it, it sways the rubes, but I get it. You can just be a normal person now. I'm cool"

"Fuck being normal." Then she spit in my face. It hit me on the forehead and then slowly moved down my nose. I crossed my eyes following it to the dirt below. Then she put her cigarette out on my arm. I screamed in pain and ran away as she laughed at me, then she lit another cigarette from the pack she just stole from me, with my lighter. Fuck punk rock chicks.

Let's Try a New Gimmick- The Shuffle Conversation- Foo Fighters Everlong

Since the well isn't exactly overflowing with fresh ideas (the well of course being my brain. I am so void I cant even write a solid metaphor) I have decided to try a new gimmick to help me. I am going to put my ipod on shuffle and use the first song that pops up as a springboard. I may write about the song, I may write about the band, I may use the idea of the song to write some fiction, I may write more about my love affair with Tim Tebow. But regardless, I'm going to write dammit. I will try this daily until I stop doing it daily. These have the potential to be even more terrible than my usual offerings, just be forewarned. Today's song is: Foo Fighters-Everlong. Oh boy, this should get interesting.



I speak frequently in hyperbole. I am constantly overrating things. It's just something I do. When I'm drunk, I do it in a way that makes it seem like what I'm saying is the most important thing I've ever said, and then defend it until my throat is sore or until I think of something else even more earth-shattering. In this case, though, I think I can defend my hyperbole sober. And its going to be some hyperbole, boy howdy.

Everlong is the greatest song ever.

Hang on let me try that again.

Everlong is the greatest song ever.

It sounds wrong to say that. I look at that sentence, and if someone else wrote it, it would seem painfully awkward. I think I would question it blindly and dismiss the author with a wave a my hand and move on to something else. The more I think about it, though, the more correct it seems. Please don't dismiss me with a wave of the hand.

Lets get the facts out of the way. It contains one of the best riffs of the 90's, the drumming is absolutely insane, and the lyrics, with its subtle ambiguity, are some of the most touching and interesting ever written. But the actual technical merits of the song aren't what makes this song so important.

Everlong is the greatest song ever because while it means so much to so many people, it doesnt mean more to anyone than it means to Dave Grohl. I refuse to believe that there is a more open and personal song than this one. It feels like sitting in a psychiatrists office as Dave Grohl bares his soul, his pain and his triumph all in one four minute session.

I once had a conversation with a singer/songwriter in a metal band who said he refuses to write lyrics based on personal situations because those are his situations, and his band is something greater than himself. I think that's bullshit. A singer, a frontman, whatever, shouldnt be an actor, playing out scenarios and pretending like these are his thoughts. I want passion, I want depth, I want to know that person, and there isn't a single song that you feel a person more than Everlong. You feel every emotion through every word, every note and every tempo change. Even the part where Dave is muttering nonsense, you understand it.

And to me, that's what makes this song so amazing. It's not a song written about somebody else or telling a story about somebody else (which can be fun). It's not a song where they try too hard to show they're an emotional person (like every Staind song ever). And it's not a song where they pretend like they are speaking to the world around them (which can be done well, like Green Day, or can be done poorly, like every country song about America). Its simply a four minute show of personal emotion. You don't have to decide whether you agree with it, you don't have to decide if he wrote it to make a quick buck, you don't have to try and guess what he was trying to say. You just have to feel it. And this song makes you feel.

Buy Something Because the TV Tells Me To, What Am I, Crazy?

This idea actually kept me awake last night. Seriously. My brain can pretty much kiss my ass. Seriously, all night. Also, quick reminder that most of the stuff that I write is fiction. Please don't judge me.

I want to take a second and tell the world that I have solved the economic crisis. If we need people to start spending again, we need to start gearing commercials towards normal people like me. If I worked as an advertising executive, there would be some changes.

I have never bought a box of cereal because a rabbit told me to, although, to be fair, I have bought a rabbit because a box of cereal told me to.

Sure the Sham-wow can clean up spilled wine, but what about stains real people get? Like when your pet racoon knocks over your urine collection? Does the Sham-wow work on that Vince? I mean who spills wine on the carpet?

I have never once had a night on the town with a bunch of young people and drank alcohol. Alcohol is only used to silence the screams that constantly ring out in ones head and as a a good place to put drugs to knock out young Asian women, that is all.

They make those cheeseburgers from McDonald's look so good in the commercials, but did you know they use real cow and not the remains of housepets dug up from the pet cemetary? I bet it doesn't sound so good now.

I will never see another movie again. In the commercials they make The Joker look so normal, but did you know that he's the bad guy? Unreal.

At no point in my life have I ever drank soda, yet they always push it as a drink. Why don't they show what soda is really good for, like cleaning overworked batteries and de-calicfying teeth.

I don't want to know whether a Mac or a PC have more viruses, I want to know which one can hold the most pictures of the corpses I happen to come across.

I guess Catherine Zeta Jones is kind of pretty, but she isn't going to make me buy a cell phone. If they want to get a hot chick to talk me into buying a cell phone, they should've gotten Amy Winehouse or the late Bea Arthur (preferably the late version).

There is a car commercial on some channel every single second, but I havent seen one commercial for a shovel that doesn't break when you hit a mailman in the head with it. It took me four purchases to figure out which shovel was the right one.

Come one, get it together Madison Avenue!