"a teenage hand model? Really."

if it gets you down
well then i'll take it
if it gets you up
well i don't want it
it let you down so broken-hearted
if it gets you down
well then i want it

so blow our mind and make it lazy
those long, long days with no escaping
i hold the wheel to let it go
don't wanna stop
don't wanna know
if it gets you down
well just don't blame me

if only
we're nothing at all

"who? he ain't related to me"

when i heard him say, “it’ll be good practice and there’ll be lots of loose women there,” i figured him to be half right. true indeed, it had been a while since i’d been to a rock show, but i wasn’t so sure what he had in mind would limber the limbs for the upcoming Queens debacle.

maybe i’m wrong, but i don’t think Pittsburgh’s ever been widely known for its singer / songwriter scene. and i didn’t think it was blowing up under my nose, i didn’t think there was enough drugs involved to get me through this, and i didn’t think the Doktor was telling the truth when he said there’d be “loose women.” and i planned to fuckin’ tell him about it.

which i did.

and which he didn’t give a fuck about.

so…we showed up at the place around 10:30 at night. a lot of people go to bed around here at 10:30 at night. and we find this guy passed out in the gutter. i almost tripped on him as i got out of the car.

“Jesus Christ,” i said, “i almost tripped on him as i got out of the car.”

“what are you talking abou…HOLY SHIT!!! my man is knocked Out!!!”

“grab that stick and poke him. i think he’s dead.”

“ok.”

after a good eight or twelve whacks, a few guys appear from down an alley and seem relieved. they thank us. “rough night,” they say, and smack the passed-out guy in the face a few times. he sorta wakes up and they put what i think is some coke up his nose. he really comes alive after that, and they disappear just as fast again down that same alley.

we still had a little bit before the band went on. “but it’s not a band,” the Doktor said, “they’re like a duo. acoustic. harmonica, i think. kinda like Dylan, only better.”

“really.”

“yeah man. here, hit this.”

while we’re killing time, this guys stumbles up to the car and plants himself alongside me on the hood. the Doktor and i, we’re lookin’ at each other like one of us might know what the fuck’s up, and the guy just kinda sits there for a minute before offering to trade us some of the beer he has left in a crushed up 12-pack under his arm for a hit of the joint.

“alright,” i say.

“fuck that,” says the Doktor, “i hate Keystone Light.”

“what difference does it make,” i began, but was cut off by the drunk sitting next to me on the hood of the car.

“ish cool. itsh awwrite. lisshen…” and he went on in that drunken slur for a minute or so, telling us to come to the bar up the street to hear him sing some songs.

“let him hit it,” the Doktor said, “he might be able to get us back stage." so i did. let him hit the joint, i mean. i didn’t really care to begin with, and when he took the rest of it to the head, he slid off the hood and ambled up the street.

“what changed your mind,” i said, “you wanna go back stage and suck his dick?”

“naw man. groupies.”

i let it go at that. we’d be lucky if we weren’t the only ones at this place on a Tuesday night, nevermind these guys having groupies to spare. we were going to a bar that didn’t have a back stage. it probably had a meat locker or freezer or something. plus, i ain’t ridin’ on no one’s dick, youknowwhatimsayin? fuck him and his crew unless i’m gettin’ paid too, younamean?

anyway, we get to the place, order some drinks, the place is dead anyway. and then the guy from the hood of the car gets up on stage and starts blowing in this harmonica. only he kept calling it a “harp” and kept saying he had to “tune this puppy,” or something like that. he even took a moment to point us out in the crowd [and i use the term "crowd" in the loosest sense of the word], and proclaim with a chuckle, “i know those dudes.”

fabulous.

about twenty minutes into his “harp tune-up,” the other guy joins him on stage. it was the guy from the gutter – the one i nearly stepped on earlier – and he goes into this long story about how he spent last night in jail and how he just got out in time to make it to the show tonight. at least that’s what i could make out between him sniffling. “it’s probably gonna be our best show ever,” he said.

it started out well enough. he was strumming on an acoustic guitar, singing about some hard luck story that was punctuated with these blasts from the “harp” that sounded like a train that kept a’rollin’. only that’s not all he was doin’, the harmonica player. i remember thinking he was really into the song, but maybe he was just drunk. he picked a few inopportune times to holler out some of the lyrics like he was back-up singing. the guy on the guitar, he was glaring at the harmonica player through these half-slit eyes. i think the song was supposed to be a quiet affair, or at least a little more intimate than all those yelps and screams from the harmonica player allowed.

the Doktor looked over at me and shrugged. “not bad,” he said, “i was thinking that…”

“not now, you fool,” i said, and clapped his ear with my hand. “WATCH!!!”

so the song’s around the bridge or the chorus or whatever you music snobs call it, and the harmonica player has this blissed-out, closed-eyed zen thing going, still yelling back-up lyrics in a voice that drowns out the singer and makes the volume levels spike. a couple of times, he hollered out different lyrics than the singer and nothing happened.

but one time was different. no sooner had he fucked up another line when the singer took the guitar and smashed it right across the harmonica player's face. i mean right in the mouth. it was fantastic. there were splinters of wood everywhere, like someone shot confetti out of a fuckin’ cannon. the harmonica player flew backwards into the drumkit. it was covered with a sheet or something. i guess it was the house kit, or maybe these guys were planning on playing with a full band later on.

whatever.

well, the harmonica player was spun around face down in the kit and was trying to get back up, and the singer whacked him again right across the back with what was left of the guitar. but alls that did was seem to make the harmonica player angry. he rushed the singer and tackled him to the ground, pulling the mic stand down on top of them and wrapping the cord around the singer’s neck.

“these guys are brothers?” i said.

“fuck if i know. i thought there’d be more women here.”

“shhhhh…you should be watching the stage. these guys could teach you a thing or two about rock and roll.”

a LBDAS video - trailer ras

how many of you people are white trash?

cricket bows

the trees scatter the sun’s yellow white light and it falls with shadows mixed on my arms, my legs, my shoes. my face too, i imagine, but that’s not something i can see right now. just the greens of leaves and weeds and the brown of the dirt underneath.

further on down this line there’s a rusted-out locker that sits beside the path in silence, holding nothing now except kid’s graffiti. its shell soft on the eyes and even prettier than a fallen tree.

you believe that?

you remember when we made it here?

the date has long since faded, but i still remember it was a summer night and hot and hazy halos hung around the streetlights that were scattered by the leaves in the treetops just out of reach.

sometimes – between you and me – sometimes i pass by there and imagine where we once stood. like if i squint real hard, i could still see the footsteps.

a Massive Attack video - Angel

...you...

between a raq and a hard place

“i’m not wearing this.”

“you have to. it’ll be fun.”

“i’m not. it’s hot and this thing is itchy, plus it smells funny. you put it on.”

“yeah, but they want you.”

“tell them you’ll do it.”

“hey man, i ain’t tellin’ them shit. you see them. you talk to them yet?”

“no, not really.”

“fuckin’ nuts, man. completely apeshit.”

“you think? well i’m crazy, too. and i ain’t…”

“SHHH!!! do you want them to hear you? they’ll come in here and they’ll…they’ll…they’ll…”

“they’ll what? what are they gonna do?”

“they’ll shit, man. they’ll fuckin’ shit. and then they’ll kill you, and then they’ll kill me.”

“they ain’t killin’…”

“AAAAAHHHHHRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!! NO!!! PLEASE, NO!!! I PRAY TO ALLAH…”

“what was that?”

“oh, man. see. SEE!!! i told you these guys are serious.”

“you’re right. that sounded really serious.”

“see, i told you. i told you. just now, i think a little bit of pee came out.”

“what if we tell them that i’ve got the runs?”

“they don’t give a shit.”

“it’s a good excuse, though. it’s a go-to.”

“why don’t you just put that fuckin’ beard on and read whatever they put in front of you, and then we can get out of here, ok?”

“how they gonna do that? i mean, can these guys even read?”

“yes. yes, they can fuckin’ read. and they can put your fuckin’ head in a vise and go at you with some hot pokers if they want.”

“you’ve gotta admit it’s a pretty good excuse, though. it’s always worked for me.”

“put this on.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no. not until you admit that it’s a good excuse.”

“admit what’s a good excuse?”

“admit telling someone you’ve got diarrhea is a good excuse.”

“will you put the beard on?”

“i don’t know.”

“WILL YOU PUT THE FUCKIN’ BEARD ON?”

“maybe.”

“ok…it’s a good excuse. the fuckin’ best. fuckin’ trumpets blare outta your ass when you use it. happy?”

“yeah, well…i’m not puttin’ it on.”

“WHAT?!?”

“sike. calm down. look at you. i’ll do it. but only cuz i owe ya. alright? so what should i do? i mean, should i be like ‘Hi. Maybe you’ve seen me before,’ and then start reading the cards, or what? man, i hate talking in front of…”

“will you shut the fuck up, ok? just shut the fuck up and do what they tell you.”

“why do i gotta do it?”

“cuz those guys are fuckin’ crazy, ok. besides, look at you. you’re all tall and shit. ya goofy-lookin’ bastard. i told you we shouldn’t have taken a ride with them.”

“but they had a pick-up.”

“yeah…loaded with crazies and rocket launchers.”

“there were goats, too.”

“and no bitches.”

“no bitches.”

“you ready?”

“i’m totally gettin’ into so much trouble for this.”

[this translation was sponsored by Massivefill Douche, Maybee Maxi-pads, and Super Eight-Inch Tampons Plus courtesy of your momma]

a 'Mats video - Bastards of Young

God, what a mess...