Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on July 2, 2020 at 9:00 am

I’m not quite sure what I just read.
-Renee Phillips

I couldn’t begin to describe the crushing disappointment I’ve walked around with every day of my 45th year, but maybe I won’t have to.  Free fall is never good but when ushered in by a carny plutocrat with a dictator fetish, landing is worse.  I’m not who I was supposed to be but in a strange turn of macabre luck, I won’t have to dwell on it too long.  I need to be here for what’s happening now but I still get stuck in a loop on the socials, yelling at Right Wing Gene, supine in the big chair and passive for hours and yes, even wrapped up in my own blues and disappointment–as selfish and disgusting as that trip is.  However, sometimes, a line or motif or theme will be on the tip of my tongue and I’ll reach for a self-published collection of my own work and turn the pages on the only archive I have (besides this digital trail of over 72k words and a tote in the garage of a green and white house in Delaware).  There comes a pride when reaching out and seizing your own work off the shelf but the truth is these books are the deal I made.  Without self-publishing a collection every year I’d have sunk to even greater swells of disappointment and self-loathing.  My work is the hard proof Good Reader that I am not as threadbare and compliant, that I haven’t sold out all the way, and anyway I’m still kicking some–even if it means doing what I have to for 30 hours a week and writing when I can.

Writing when I can is what Going For The Throat was/is all about.  It was always about writing and the way through and writing as the way through.  Therapy or anyway flesh peddling and egomania.  It resonated with you and that’s a miracle.  It kept the muscle working and procured for me essays in journals and even my own column.  I write about what’s wrong with me and we’re here together and isn’t that nice?  Except that this country has slipped out beneath our feet and at last count 63 million people don’t mind the cashout of our lives, would rather not have healthcare if the Government says they need it, even though they do need it and anyway are victimized by The America, too.  Its schools and violence.  Its brutish and cruel capitalism yielding diminishing returns on your lifetime.  It’s got them so punchdrunk they’ll believe and repeat that the uptick in infection is due to testing.  I get the anger.  But it’s blinded them, and given them a sense of power they haven’t felt before and need so bad.  The fact that a lot of them aren’t intellectually ahead of the curve shouldn’t matter, but it does.  The fact that they need to be told about right or wrong and worship power as the only principle shouldn’t matter, but it does.  Country simple, the only problem with 63 million dumbshits blind with rage is they’re armed.  The only problem with their Paleolithic beliefs delivered by a modern market Jesus is that they’re on the street, without masks and behind the wheel.

Which is all to say I’ve been writing my way through.  Who could blame me, sure, but this blog comes up empty Good Reader, as does my life every week.  I take this complaint to the work and write my way through it and the whole thing starts again.  It’s this grisly perpetual motion machine that’s kept the lights on and the banner flowing, a cycle of misery and release and covering, like a reporter, depression as my beat.  It worked for coming on 10 years now but that was before this age of crumbling and dissolution, before the rains came and when we weren’t drowning in our own blood.


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In Uncategorized on June 25, 2020 at 12:00 pm


scottthepainterscottthepainter on Instagram

The rich build monuments to generals—the poor to martyrs.
Charlie O’Hay

Some of the tropes are familiar, but we haven’t seen this movie before. No one knows how dark things could get, only that, in the Trump era, scenes that seem nightmarish one day come to look almost normal the next.
Michelle Goldberg

The only principle is power.
Jon Stewart

Morning.  It’s the first week of summer in America.  I don’t know what the death toll should be or how the Police could go on killing us without our protest but it’s 92 days til Fall.  NPR blathers but under the spinning fan I can’t make out what they say.  It’s overcast but it’s always raining here.  I’m writing this at odds with my workweek, the daygig–I should get a jump on things but sometimes I feel this need, and I know enough to know, you don’t take the muse to the dance she’ll just find another ranch hand.  I don’t know if I’ve buried the lede or if I’m just getting warmed up and holding fast to anti-essay writing and anyway eschewing the rules of journalism until I can come through with my own voice which brings me to point.  Last week’s post was an embarrassment but also–a success.  I wrote about getting on message and devoting these channels to the cause.  But I’ve done little to no research (though I maintain the due diligence of a personal journalist by adding to a Word doc called The Week and to a raft of grudge and smear I swear I’ll get to as soon as I can determine how slagging them will benefit me).  The latter is their names mostly and links to their socials.  Hateful, small (white) people who’re on the record now in a WordPress draft and anyway potential stories, leads and jumping off points for the new news and this–personal journalism.

I’m offering a limited edition broadside letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center last summer.  Jet black and cool red ink on white stock.  AMERICAN CENTURY BLUES, from Love&Wages and whose proceeds benefit and support the ACLU in their efforts fighting for our rights. Pictured with link below.  That ought to cover the last 7 days while of course I was working 30 hours for the non-profit and feeding myself, trying to get a pool date and cinch my circle of friends to a tight two, maybe, though I guess one’ll work for the dissolution of the republic in the time of corona.  Otherwise I’m back at it.  Trump’s failed rally and a few days without murder porn have made me reasonable if not well.  I’m still thinking on how to further the cause and besides the broadsides and this column, and my monthly at Into The Void, the boys and I are putting up a wire and should have some stories and media coming through, an offering somewhere between the slough of online coverage and the armchair piss-and-peanut gallery.   I’m taking my own advice, Good Reader, just had to give it a couple times and anyway truly hear it.  I’m re-devoting my energies.  I could get down and twist titty with Lynette the scowling wench from Arkansas City–what would that do though but stoke both our flues and build it up in me to fever pitch a mix of rage and righteousness too big for this small room I spend inside or outside of 21 hours a day in?  Let Lynette live and drag herself for all I care.  Let them all reveal themselves and if they got stones as big as their keyboard fingers we’ll see them on the streets motherfucker.



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In Uncategorized on June 18, 2020 at 12:00 pm

8378e0829fecc95364ee272b25364d2bHam and egg salad on white bread, keeps me company on nights like this,
a pack of mentholated cigarettes keeps my air nice and thick…

Personal Journalism is a hard dollar.  The toughest job I never get paid for.  I trawl my own depths for a bit of your time.  I wrangle my blues, and put it down, 600 words at a time.  They say I’m a writer and I like when they say that.  I don’t slave over the text at least not all at once and I usually only edit it for flow.  I’ll tweak a post though, throughout the week and in this way a blog can get better over time like wine.  One thing’s for sure, I get it down and I feel better always.  Depending on what’s eating me and how deep I’ve gone, re-reading isn’t pleasant unless I nail it.  A good piece is a good piece even if it’s got some flesh in it.  I suppose I cringe the most when I’ve exposed myself and it’s not even good–posts that ramble and confess and anyway champion me and my own ego.  Who the fuck do I think I am?  I ask myself reading over these types of posts, cringing until the window is closed and I can convince myself it’ll all come out in the wash once the book comes out.  The Going For The Throat anthology ought to prune out these…I don’t know what to call them, posts that say too much but not really anything and where I go on and on about me as if I’m important or worth reporting on.  Just know, Good Reader and best believe–I’m only mining for the goods.  …in the coal mines of isolation are diamonds of solitude, or something like that.  That’s from MORE FROM THE TRENCHES, written last May and a particularly cringey Hi my name is Jim Trainer and I’m an alcoholic-type of post.  As a writer I know it had to be written but as a reader I judge the author for flesh-peddling and egomania.

Point is not every day at the desk is a good one.  I sometimes have to sell parts of my life I’d just as soon not admit and certainly not make public and available to over 70 readers a day.  It is what it is.  I nail it and all is forgiven.  Even now, with a post on personal journalism as plodding and fucking ponderous as this half-over–I am having the time of my life.  Writing and reflecting has sustained me in a way not much else has.  I make communion with myself and you bear witness and it’s perfect.  Call me a writer and it’s love.  I wrote inspired by pain and after 10 years posting here, and 35 besides, I found no better motivator.  I wrote on break–Saturdays or in the middle of the week when I tell ’em I’m on my way in but really my phone is still in bed and I’m getting down to the grainy part of the pot, the light through the blinds is perfect at the desk and it’s flowing molten, neat and fine. Goddamn.  Catch as catch can writing, inspired by what’s wrong with Jimbo, has given me this-ahem-career in the Arts.  It could be better served ain’t it and these days every time I write I feel guilty.  If I don’t write on current events I’m part of the problem and if I do I’m taking up valuable bandwidth.  You know where this is going.  This platform could be better served.  I just need to put in the research and research=time.

I’ve got the time too, Good Reader.  Maybe next week I’ll get right back to roasting crackers and pig Cops, slicing and serving up my enemy because fuck them.  There’s always room here for it but we’re gonna need better fuel.  There’s something deeper than anger that I’m hip to and it’s health and probably a cleaner currency.  Something to help us run on for a long time that doesn’t blind us but helps the world to see.  The way out of the dark, Good Reader, and not some cheap, sugar-high whiteboy armchair outrage either.  Like I said I got the time.  I’m only doing 30 at the non-profit and I’m more than inclined to make kicking against the pricks my vocation full time.


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…into it, brightly with pain…
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