Jim Trainer

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#2: On Being Right

In Uncategorized on August 14, 2012 at 10:45 am


The Office of Jim Trainer
Fox Den
Hippie Town, USA

G. Razas
Whip In
1950 S I H 35
Austin, TX

7/9/12
10:13pm

Hello-

There may be no finer line between heaven&hell than that cursed, silken trail. Many have gone before. None have made it back. We’re left with their stories, their songs, or some gay tapestry they hang behind yr bar at the Whip In.
I thought I would start receiving my mail there-do it like Dr.Thompson-but after last Labor Day Weekend I am wont to just show up&play and then go home. Who would’ve thought that two plain-clothes cops could be so wild&free? Barley wine’s a motherfucker but, don’t they have rape training&all that shit in the academy? Oh well, it would’ve been tits to have their traffic clearance last weekend but I can’t complain. I burned down 290 with 7balls of hash&a bad bitch of a hangover but I got to Hippie Town before the sun set. Congress at dusk on Saturday is like some bizarro city. There are no homeless, there are no working professionals. Just random scads of tourists walking around like retarts pointing at buildings. I can’t imagine what I looked like to them. I had my rifle specs on, naturally, and a blouse I had to borrow from her b/c of a bad barbecue accident. I must have looked like some berserk fag, getting off the bus with a lit cigarette in black crocks&white shorts with a laptop. Whatever. It was good to be home. Back in Hippie Town w/nothing due, no editors on the phone and gravy in the pan.
We will live to see stranger things than our own mortality, G. For true.
She’s a good one. Got the fire in her. And I’ll be back. I’m blowing through in September on my way to NOLA. With he 4day weekend afforded me this job, a man can get shit done. 3shows in the back of a black Acura. Jimbo gonna get lost in the Big Easy. Aho. Be good to be back in Crescent City. Haven’t been since I had my wallet lifted in line for security at Louis Armstrong International, Mischief Night ’07. Don’t get me wrong. Waiting to ship out on the rigs and working in the yard wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all, until I discovered how much money I’d be making out in the middle of the Gulf with just a lifejacket and some dumb hope that my cigarettes would last longer than the company toilet paper. FIRE WATCH. Looks good on paper. Aho&no matter whatever it was or is, it’s got to be better than working at the Whip In on a Saturday night w/no coke and Singhai in the kitchen. Oh-
I hung the Matador tonight (PIC ATTACHED here) and I can safely&soundly say: HELLO! I HAVE MADE IT TO AUSTIN. AND HOW DO YOU DO, SIR? Aho. Living in the last Confederate Governor of Texas’ old place may be giving me a bit of hubris, but-consider where I found this poster of some bullfight in the 60s. I was living at my sister’s in Salem County and I was working for a junkman. You know, he comes and clears out the place of trash&furniture&detritus and hauls it all away. Well we did just that. I found this poster in some derelict&abandoned shoe store in Folcroft. We had to get it all before the dump closed and before dark b/c what happens in the township after dark is weird&strange and cops. What’s crazy is the Matador&the Bull, a poem of mine, just got accepted by Anthology Philly. And they gon’ publish a book of mine in the Fall. Turns out all those years we thought we were so cool&young&angry&winning we were, actually, winning. Turns out that Victory is survival and that hot girl from high school is just a pain in that jock you hated’s ass. She’ll ruin him. We’re all on the path. He may ruin himself but as long’s he’s on the path to ruin it’s fine with me, Jack.
Be good, G. I’ll be in to pick up my mail and maybe bump a few back but, beware. Everybody knows the sad luck&trouble that a bad coke binge can inflict on all yr friends&loved ones, but nobody sees the danger to their hair. Take the last time I saw you, for example. You looked like some exhausted muppet-hipster. And they didn’t even pump me outdoors, where errybody was, when I played that night. Woody was right. But, aho. Playing there sure as shit beats standing in the middle of Wm. Cannon with a baby sledge and 49more signs to go before you can collect yr 50 bucks. Oh well. The worst is behind us now. The rain is my new religion, and today in the Capitol City it rained.
Like a motherfucker.

En la Victoria,
yr Brother
James

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