Journalism. Rolling Stone. Me! 4 years ago
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I may be a crappy writer, but I don’t care…I want to write for Rolling Stone…
One of my major dreams… 4 years ago
Well we’re moving in tomorrow and that’s that. All the weeding, painting, cleaning, grab-assing in the world prep-work is over, and it’s time for the Deal. We’ve all made sacrifices in this Deal, and my latest and incidentally favorite has been an accepted forgoing of tradition, and bringing the full bottle of Jim Beam into the living room. It’s a great cut in the middle man’s pockets (namely, a “glass), and a strong incentive for me. There might be a problem in the mix; a bottle of very low shelf tequila made it’s way into the bag this afternoon, and I’m worried the outcome of that mistake might jeopardize a few crucial moments this weekend. I’ll have to be sure it’s out of sight (my own) except for those particular moments of critical need for unheeded indulgence can’t help but demand.
The house is going to be wonderful.
I supported the troops this week. There’s a special at our local ABC store. With a couple extra dollars comes a couple extra sips of the same great bourbon that made my way through New Years in 2000, and litmus test length of other exposures. Jim Beam, my friend, offers extra booze for me and an extra dollar for a troop, I guess. The cool star on the front is a throwback to an era where riveters were more en vogue, but the sell is on the side, where the star is formed with carefully placed bottles of said product. Odd things to confuse on my last Friday, or any day in this green forest lit apartment. I guess I’ll miss it. It should be the last place I smoked, the last place I lived unmarried, the last place I was under 33, the last place I had an ax maniac in my back yard, and the last place I give a shit about right now, except for my shit, which will be a massive fucking shit-haul starting bright eyed and bush-fucking tailed in the morning tomorrow.
I love a good move though. It has a sexy inertial feel that culminates typically, for me at least, in very real insanity. Just at that point, when the Truck has been returned and everything is at least on site, and there’s no more use for a return to point A, the best and obvious curve ball is a strong upended-bottle quaffing of very serious drink, -then on to getting about the Set Up. Moving always makes me think of camping, or at least on some basic level, the procedural and nomadic beauty of the thing. Basic camping involves a lot of drugs and alcohol, dispersed at the right periodicals, and a general motion towards a reasonable location to stuff a tent with a bunch of personal shit, prop the fucker up, and maintain a hellish fire on sight and in the liver until morning only to pass out somewhere desolate far across the nearest bluff.
(‘scuse me, here’s one for the troops)
But at any rate, the bulk of the idea translates. Get this fucking shit from point A to B and if something or any body gets stepped on, fuck em. 4 years ago
Jesus Christ it’s always something when I’m in the mood to bother with this damn thing. But that’s the way of most I’d suspect. What to say about this weekend? I suppose the highlight was yesterday morning, dressed in my POLICE shirt with full dark sunglasses arguing over some claptrap idea they’ve brought up about charging for hotel breakfasts. This landed in my lap mid-meal mind you, to cap off a weekend in the mountains of complete alcohol and ADHD induced Anabolic Shock. I’m not sure what that means either, but it’s the best I can do to explain jumping 10 feet into a street, hiking from the side of a mountain, hovering over a 25 ft Blue Ridge Parkway tunnel, running 7-8 miles through Tunnel Rd into downtown Asheville, and swimming laps in the hotel pool (and hot tub) all under the cumulative alcohol intake of about 3 and a half fifths of straight liquor along with about 2 sixpacks of beer, -modest at best (without the usual unmentionables).
So it came to a crest over that damn breakfast. After a lot of yelling she told me to do the right thing, and I think I did when I threw the bill back in her face, but I have a nasty sneaking suspicion Ralph cleared it up behind my back…
Enough about that. Maybe the real crescendo came with our trip along memory lane. Asheville was great as always, and although I may not be allowed back for some years in certain district businesses, the simplicity of our time together in the mid-90s never hit so hard as to see that place again, almost locked in the time we left it. The years have been layers I didn’t know were there, and peeling them back yesterday was a painful relief. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back there again, and I don’t think I need to, but the experience of knowing my own time was a shocker.
That was a time and place for refuge we needed, at a different time and place. It almost seems like it’s still waiting for us. Reminds me of The Brave Little Toaster….
There’s always a mixed bag of emotions tied to old haunts, but enough of my waxing dramatic. I’m happy where I am now, and for whatever it’s worth our time there was a step in the direction we needed, and wanted. I need a sandwich. 4 years ago