Jim Trainer

IT’S ALWAYS RAINING HERE

In Uncategorized on May 28, 2020 at 11:04 am

Spotify values Rogan more than any musician in the history of the world.
-Ted Gloria

World domination, not the Fat Mike stuff.
-Brian Baker

He fractured more with every step.
-Sam Sodomsky on Elliott Smith

You are not in control of the emotions that come to you but you’re in control of how you choose to act with those emotions in your system.
John Moe

Trying to change someone’s mind is like a termite gnawing on a temple.
Mark Thousands

Nice headline, eh Good Reader?  Don’t get your hopes up.  I’m just checking in to say that going on is the new crazy.  Remember when this wasn’t the case and not being able to deal was the chink in your armor?  Back in school, you didn’t go along, they put you in a room, called you retarded or faggot.  Then some kid sang on TV in a glorified garage-punk band and suddenly you were a hero.  Jocks dyed their hair.  Girls talked to you.  Nevermind, for my generation, was the looking glass.  The world went through but the tried and true knew a ruse.  We’d never be able to tell who was cool again.  The same jocks who did an about face on calling us freaks grew up and straightened out and married the girls who did it, too.  No one wants to live on the fringe too long.  Even I gave up, after thirty long and lean years.  Point is was a time when dropping out made you weird.  You didn’t want what they were offering the fuck was wrong with you.  It’s hard to tell exactly when the world went through the looking glass again.  ‘16’s a good bet but I remember how dumb and rabid they all got in ‘01.  There’d be no Kid Rock without 9/11 although the pandemic’s tripled the dead we’ll never forget with nary a peep from the Kid Rock-MAGA-marrying-your-high school-girlfriend crowd.  Wow…point is, damn, point is now, if you go along you’re nuts.  If you’re able to deal you’re crazy.  Step outside into streets filled with blood, drive to work in the tropical rain hoping your car doesn’t need a new starter or some emergency dental work doesn’t put you below the poverty line and having to make that call where you kiss your mom’s ass and tell her she was right about college and that she could vote worse than Trump.

I’m in a bad mood.  Life is great.  It rains all the time here.  The weather is wrong.  I’m not feeling getting by.  Getting by is why—600 words here every Thursday since I got shot down by a gilf who wanted me to pay for a shiatsu session before sex.  Nowadays it’s flirty phone calls in the middle of the workday and and anyway insincere invitations over for coffee.  It’s a good thing that after all this time I’ve learned to be alone.  I just gave up on jerking off minutes ago if that’s any indication of how dumb and inured and off the charts mind-boggingly fucked and at the chipper blades the world and life in the Final Century has become.  Getting by is batshit cuckoo.  I don’t wanna talk about my problems.  That Trump supporting cop choked that poor man to death while his partner stood by trying to look hard but only coming off like a sociopathic piglet.  100,000 people have died.  There’s lots of talk about tests but I haven’t seen one in 3 months of being locked down.  Austin’s tropical.  The yard’s being overrun with lizards.  To get by and go along there is no way you aren’t part or all the way gone.  The Goddamned plane has crashed into the mountain.  The amount of denial one needs to get through any given day is colossal.  I’m a denial-mummy, wrapped in it like gauze, loading up on wipes and dish soap scowling at the bums outside CVS and living down the 11 years we have left before the planet’s taken over by cops and lizards.  It’s not lost on me, however, that there’s an opportunity for me here.

To get better now is crazier than a Tomi Lahren think tank.  It even out-crazies me to get better, now, as everything is failing and somehow rise to the occasion and be my best in a dark and tumultuous world where if the humans don’t kill you the weather will.  I feel it too, truth be told Good Reader.  Every day I don’t live up to my best me I’ve a shame but worse–a sediment and soreness in the bones.  There’s something in me that’s got to come out.  Truth is I don’t get better I might as well end it, leave it all to Mama Jul and Little Brother and take a high and final bow from the ceiling.  That would be the sane thing to do.  Ain’t it the way, too, that just as I slipped the mortal coil and stepped outside forever my phone would ring and she’d be hoping I could pick up some half and half on my way over.

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PLAGUE DADDY

In Uncategorized on May 21, 2020 at 9:00 am

I feel more fellowship with the defeated than with saints. Heroism and sanctity don’t really appeal to me. What interests me is being a man.
The Plague

I’m finally done with always trying to get it right
I drink a flat Coca-Cola in the cold sunlight…
Cory Branan

White collar work.  It’s got its charms.  Maybe the honeymoon wore off but I’m glad I made the leap.  I started there full-time on January 16.  I’d just got back from Philly and Portland the month before.  To say I was burned out is an understatement.  I’d self-published my 6th full-length and Will Stenberg‘s too.  I read on both coasts and captained parties throughout the holiday season.  Looking back I think it was the people I was working for that burned me out the most though the new clientele can take it to another level.  I’ll stand up to ’em and raise my voice but do you know what a drag it is to have to do that every time you go into work?  My second day there someone put a bullet on my desk but I’ve seen it all.  If decades in the food service industry haven’t made me fearless then they’ve made me hard to kill.  Coming up in the city taught me much, not the least of which how to size up a Somalian gangster wannabe in the office of a cinder-block building in the barrio.  I’ve had enough trouble and dysfunction to last a lifetime, certainly enough to see it coming miles away.  The way someone walks tells me everything I need to know anyway.  I either brace myself, cross the street or get out the way and let ’em pass.  These are the options on the street.  Show mercy when you can and don’t be a mark but keep in mind the truly violent hardly give warning.  The yelling and masculine sport out there is dumb and about as interesting as chickenshits -for-brains at a pecking party.  Fuck’s sake man.  How did we end up here?

I started this post writing about being white collar now, for a non-profit in the hood with a needy clientele.  In many ways I found my tribe.  It certainly wasn’t this choad and his Christmas party last December, cursing me up and down for closing the bar early.  The self-made millionaire forgot where he came from and I’d pay money to see him walk that shit in my office’s neighborhood.  Liable to get his whole body chopped off.  Point is things are copacetic, mostly, staring at a screen all morning, literally punching the keys and calling my laptop a cunt, learning a new operating system and software before lunch, taking meetings and getting paid direct deposit, same money on the 15th and 30th with bennies and a desk I haven’t sat at or seen since March 23.  I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m happy now because–well, because I’m not.  You try working 20 years in the trades only to discover you didn’t have to and could in fact make more money doing less as long’s you don’t mind burning all your patience either teaching someone how to print a doc or learning yourself–how write curriculum, copy and get it all on film and to the city before they take your funding away.  I work 30 hours for the non-profit and “come home” and get to work.  I’m not happy, who is, but I’ll gladly keep an office in the hood and rather do work at a screen and desk than ever have to step foot behind a millionaire’s coded gate in serving whites with a tight grin and a heart full of hate again.

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IN ANTICIPATION OF CHARLES BUKOWSKI’S 100th BIRTHDAY THIS SUMMER,THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY JOURNAL WILL BE HOSTING A READING THIS SUNDAY TO CELEBRATE AND PROMOTE THE RELEASE OF ITS BUKOWSKI ISSUE.  DM ME FOR THE LINK.
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…At 45 I’m not celebrating the life but glad I got one. It’s not free or perfect and it doesn’t feel as good as a bourbon at sunrise, cigarillos in the shade and anyway the complete and utter devastation that comes from fucking within an inch of your life, drenched in sweat and dead under her slow and spinning fan…continue reading at Into The Void

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NOBODY CALLS

In Uncategorized on May 14, 2020 at 9:00 am

Finished with my woman ‘cause she couldn’t help me with my mind…
Black Sabbath

And lead me through the World of Self…
Warren Zevon

Dead quiet is all I wanted and today Good Reader I got it.  No construction or laborer’s Tejano, no blower, no piss kids in the yard behind me.  I even got the blind to the wide, green window drawn so as not to jinx it and anyway let any energy from out there get in here.  Perfect analogy for how hermetically sealed I’ve lived for what seems like most of my life.  This age anyway, these strange days that I take refuge in small quiet hours somewhere typing on machines insect-thin or heavy and humming like a tank.  By and large these expeditions occur only in the Great Indoors.  I tried coffee shops ain’t I but most of the time it’s some jagoff listening to Maiden or Aphex Twin and anyway who’s personality is on display and distracting me from the work and not because said barista is interesting but precisely because he is not.  Which, I’m sorry, is how I feel about most of them—square and tame and shooting their energy all over me but, don’t get me started.  I’ll only add that they could get away with so much if they just shut the fuck up.  Quiet gets a pass and anyway that’s what started me off here, today, posting that by and large I don’t want to talk or collaborate.  I don’t want to share or do things together.  Certain people I’m connected to, let’s call them blood, it doesn’t matter what we do but most of them bore and irritate and couldn’t interest me less with their opinions and politic, music and reasons to live.  Such it is, I suppose, when you’re asocial and people are often so phony they don’t even know it, especially if they keep you believing which is probably why they exhaust me and I wish they’d shut it and anyway why I’m indoors mostly (besides the obvious) and silence is indisputably the greatest sound I’ve ever heard.

Similarly and along these same lines, the sad part about the end of the world is that in my own orbit it won’t even make a small damn.  The fires will have to come to the door and blood will have to rise up to the window for me to bat an eye on the ruin and dissolution of everything the world holds precious and dear.  Could be depression—it’s bore apathy so deep into me I don’t even know different.  My money’s on the fact that everything’s on lock and anyway rigged.  There’s nowhere to run or hide and being free is impossible as long as someone or something else is there.  Well.  Breaking it down this afternoon ain’t it.  Gone from depression and mental health to straight up misanthropy.  Perhaps I am not not taking shelter because I’m too sensitive and the world runs on sports and parades and war.  Maybe I don’t like anyone because they are anyone.  Like even if it was just me and the Dalai Lama I’d have to peace out early and get back to the big chair, turn on the air and get lost between my apartment walls’ weird wilderness, zone out and get brained and slavish on solo time.  The one saving grace to all this anomie perhaps is that I think I could spend days with her, getting into that white robe and taking all her hair in one hand and her waist in the other.  When I think about the tan on those southern Californian legs I suddenly find maybe I don’t want to be alone or even write at all.  Who can write when there’s a body like that in your bed, purring and warm and who after several orgasms will make you strong, sweet coffee, a leek omelette, juice and toast?  Well.  That’s neither here nor there ain’t it and anyway besides the fact we’re all on quarantine, I’m fat and old and have to run to the john night and day.  I’m hideous, besides being antisocial, and those are my good qualities.

I’m trapped in the past and just like my old man only not as smart.  I’m dumb and damaged on love and I don’t have anything to say or add to the National Conversation.  Lucky for me the conversation’s on conspiracy theories anyway and worse—character-limited outrage.  Point is I’m fucked, Good Reader.  I’m not a good person and I’ve a real dark take on things, bad habits and petty outrages of my own.  It’s grim here, at the writer’s desk, and dim and dismal in my apartment but from what I’ve seen of them and their world it’s better than almost anywhere else.

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