On the way to classes in the morning (100 years ago when classes were where I was going) half awake, walking to class with all the other college fuckers, and I looked down that one street - the street everybody knows not to go down - and I saw this ZOMBIE! . . . who looked generally like a guy I knew, a guy I drank beers with, he worked at a restaurant near the one where I worked, he came in my restaurant, I went in his, a friend of a friend, a friend really, he lived a couple of streets over . . . that morning: I was walking to class, hair was neatly parted, shirt was clean, teeth brushed, book bag shouldered, and there he is, it was him, the zombie was him - HE WAS UP ALL NIGHT SMOKIN CRACK in the neighborhood you always hear gunshots coming from, full-auto sometimes, fuckin machine guns, Norfolk, Virginia, a port town you never even heard of where the shit gets just as bad as anywhere, you got PRODUCT coming in the port: Portsmouth, Norfolk, Hampton, Newport News . . . he hadn’t paid tuition that semester, he was just going to try to work a lot and try to save up - YEAH RIGHT! It was just weird. Walking to class with all the other clean and studious and sober fuckers and here’s this guy, Kyle, and his hair’s all fucked up, his eyes are evil and angry and black underneath, cheek muscles clenching under creepy glaring bulging eyeballs scanning the street, he’s wearing the same shit I saw him in last night - his waiter clothes, his Oxford shirt was a complete loss, is that blood or grenadine? And, fuck, he’s walkin up to me, and I’m just about on time for class, and that smell! Jesus! And, nah, I don’t have any cash on me, and goddamn - he was just bragging the night before about how he made over two hundred bucks in tips, some older lady of independent-looking means grabbed his cock or whatever, so he said, right there while he was waiting on her, table side . . . that fibbing crackhead, or maybe it was true, who knows who cares . . . I heard he became a surveyor. . . One time he and I were driving around in this piece of shit car I had. Wasted. We pulled into some stranger’s driveway and just sat there talking at three-thirty in the morning. Talking and talking. I opened up my door, leaned out and puked and shut my door and then resumed conversation as though nothing had happened, I mean a bucket of puke - some stranger’s driveway . . . a couple of hours later, I started the car and drove to his place and we fell asleep watching TV . . .


Once, when I was eight or nine years old, I was walking down my street. I reached a point right across the street from my house. I didn’t intend to go home, I was not on my way to any specific destination. I was just out for a walk. I stood there across the street from my house. I decided to pick up a rock and throw it at my house. I don’t know why I decided to do that. It was just one of those dumb things a kid does completely without thought, playing around. I was trying to hit the roof of our house. Throwing a rock at the roof wouldn’t damage anything, I thought. On many days before that, I had stood for hours, bored, throwing a tennis ball up onto the roof just waiting for it to roll back down to me. I threw the rock at the roof for the same dumb reason, for fun. It was a little rock anyway, about as big as the last digit of an adult’s thumb. I picked up the rock and threw it at the house. My throw was well short. The rock pierced a windowpane in the front of the house.

I didn’t know it when I threw the rock, but my mom was lying on the couch in the front room where that window was. The rock didn’t hit her, but if I remember correctly, little bits of glass landed in her hair. I ran across the street and jumped up on the porch and saw the hole in the window pane. Then I saw my mom in there. I went inside and apologized repeatedly. I was so sorry.

My mom was dazed by the weirdness of the incident. She described how she witnessed it. She saw me walking by, across the street. She saw me pause there and look at the house. She thought I was looking at her, but because of the shade and distance, I couldn’t have seen her. She saw me pick up the rock and throw it at the house. She saw it pierce the window, and she closed her eyes and winced. She felt the glass land in her hair.

I was so sorry. I tried to explain to her that I didn’t mean to hit her, that there was no reason for my action, and that I had no idea that she was laying there. I really didn’t know why I did it. I am pretty sure she believed me. Even back then I was pretty sure she believed me, but I felt so bad. I loved my mom, and I got along very well with her. We were very close. There was no hostility between us at all. But you never know what somebody will think when you do something crazy.


If I was a flasher, I'd practice on my TV.


. . . untangling my goddam ear wires . . .


One time my dad installed a garage door on his house, and it was a great achievement for him. Even though he was a designer and had worked on everything from warheads to aircraft carriers, and really was quite brilliant, he was not very mechanically inclined. So putting up this garage door was a serious accomplishment. To celebrate this accomplishment, he went to his bar to play pool and drink and hang around with his friends.

My brother was staying there at my parents’ house, for a few days, because he had gotten into a huge argument with his wife. After my dad left that evening, my brother pulled his jeep up into the driveway to tinker around with it. With his jeep idling in front of the brand new garage door, my brother was leaning in and out of the driver seat, adjusting this and that, tooling around. He leaned much too far out of the seat one time, and he lost his balance. He started to slide out of the jeep, and his leg kicked forward reflexively as he tried to regain his balance. He accidentally kicked the jeep into gear, and the vehicle lunged forward, and plunged right through the brand new garage door. He was thrown from his seat and sandwiched between the garage doorway and the vehicle. It didn’t smash him or even break any bones or anything, but it bounced him around badly, and he was hurting. He could walk and all. He was not seriously injured, but he was very sore.

With his newly acquired aches and pains in his back, sides, arms and legs, and with the horrible devastation before his eyes to the brand-ass new garage door, my brother smoked a bunch of dope, and then went inside and picked out a bedroom and passed the hell out. Some time passed, and my brother entered very deep sleep.

Closing time came at my dad’s bar, and my dad left. He had drunk a bit that night, and he drove home. The bar was only two or three minutes away. My dad was in a pretty euphoric, boozed up state, but he could make that drive in any condition, really. So he drove home. He arrived in his driveway and saw the demolished garage door and my brother’s jeep parked right in front of it.

He was a bit upset.

He stormed into the house and roused my brother from a dead sleep. I’m not sure exactly what happened next: who grabbed whom first, who hit whom first. I know for sure that my brother punched my dad in the face and broke his glasses - snapped them in half. My dad had a black eye.

My brother left the house and went who knows where. My dad was so pissed off, he called the cops on my brother. My brother usually had a gun on him and some quantity of ‘Green Devastator’ as well. If the cops had busted him with all that, it would have been really bad.

When I woke up and found out what happened (I slept through all that shit – I was staying there too), I went to a pay phone and beeped my brother. He called back, and I told him that my dad had called the cops on him and to be careful what he carried around and all that.

Things eventually cooled down a bit. My dad didn’t press charges, but he didn’t want to see my brother for a while either. I can’t remember exactly how that worked out with the police and shit. Do the cops have to bust you - no matter what - once the call has been made? Then the complainant decides - at that point - not to press charges? I can’t remember how that shit worked out, but my brother didn’t go to jail.

It messed up the holidays for a while though. My brother and dad would not attend the same family gatherings for a year and a half there. They would not be caught in the same location at the same time. We had to work it so that one of them would come in the morning, like Christmas morning, and the other dummy would come in the evening. And it was a pain in the ass for everybody. Finally they buried the fuckin hatchet, and all was well again.

The dumb asses.


extremist shoes - I wish I hadn't fast forwarded through the in between times


. . . shop vac my patch, Jesus designed me all wrong . . . typing so hard my fingers might fly off . . .


When I moved, I found so many notes to self I forgot to read.


Dr. Dog at Black Cat. Fun. Next is Architecture in Helsinki.

Bodyguard: Golden Helmeted Honeyeater (2003-04), Patricia Piccinini. I linked to this picture from an article by Barbara Morris at stretcher.


Did you ever steal? What did you steal?


I moved to my new home finally. When you are forced to carry every single one of your possessions up and down stairs and hills and over guard rails and through doorways, you keep wondering: Where did all this junk come from? Why did I keep it?

When you store things away, because you don't really need them every day, but something compelled you to keep them, and then you go back through that old stuff, two or three or five years later or ten years later – and you find these particular things – and you remember them – and you remember that you once loved this particular thing or that particular thing – so you decide take it out of storage and keep it nearby for a while – even though you don't need it. You never would have stored it away if you needed it. But you kept it. You kept it because you like having your own hidden treasures. You have forgotten these things – you just occasionally glimpse the box or the bin that they're stored in when you shove all of the clothes hanging in your closet to one side – or when you scoot all the boxes over that were blocking it from view – or when you go tearing through all that mess looking for a tax form or a Service Agreement or whatever. Your experience of it becomes more and more rare. You are just aware that you have treasures. And somehow that maintains an underlying happiness.


The one fun thing about moving is driving the big ass truck.