BLOWIN ‘EM OFF

They threw bricks and cobblestones at us and even tried to set fire to our vehicles.
–Anatoly Babi 

Not only is knowledge no longer power, it isn’t even really knowledge anymore.
-Christina Cauterucci

I did everything I could to get out of the catering business.
–Jeff Ross

WHO BRINGS YOU BACK WHEN YOU’RE GONE, GONE, GONE?!
–Monster Magnet

This post is not for the weak.  It will run far and ahead of the vitriol and venom regularly dispensed with here.  Hatred gets the best of me most of the time but, usually, it don’t take much to bring my love around.  Not today, Bubba.  I’m cornered and ornry and they’ve been playing Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga in this Starbucks on Westgate&William Cannon the whole time I been sitting here.  What’s most striking about the psychic decor of a corporate chain is I could be anywhere from Berlin to German’s Town, Maryland but I wouldn’t know it until I stepped outside.  I don’t have a problem with the jazz they play per se, and it’s not this dark roast either.  It’s the feeling that it’s all phony and phoned in, straight from the boardroom of the corporate office, a facade that we pay for and a norm we’d like maintained every time we lay our money down.  We need things to be the same, and some stanchion of sanity to anchor us through the swirling chaos of a world ending on itself.  I’m not one to speak on comfort and safety, really, I mean I’m shellshocked most of the time, but the vibe in here has me wanting to jump up and rip out this table where it’s bolted to the wall, hop up on the counter like The Savage and demand I be taken to where this music is coming from and proceed to kick it in violently and with aplomb.

My feelings, however overwrought, are the micro to the macro of the cosmic shit hitting the universal fan. The snake is choking on its tail.  The old world is over the rise and the new one is lurching and poised to come down hard, Mother, on the poor and disenfranchised, the criminal and gay, the artist and teacher and anyway anyone not initiated in to this bloodcult of money and greed.  Think about 12 summers the next time you come at me with your complaint, though, Good Reader.  As mentioned I’m insulated in my own way.  I spend sweeping swathes of time stowed away behind a tall fence and carport off the highway in the middle of nowhere, Texas with wifi and a heart full of hate and all the coffee I can attempt to drink.  I’m gulity, too.  You bet.  I’m as complicit as you are, so, have a seat, read up and otherwise quit yr bitchin or take it on up to the Big Boss Man.  We didn’t start the fire but are no less responsible for continuing this parade of misery and death.  They’re playing Frank Sinatra now and I’m feeling like I should get the fuck out of this white man’s prison of comfort and propriety, take to the streets for action or blood and anyway whatever kind of doom and sludge or post-punk I can drum up on thee hated iPhone.
ttyl
Well.  After that ‘graph I showed up to my Dentist a week early but left quicker than Romana could say Arrivedirce!  I looped at the turnaround and burned down Westgate, fuck 35, and took it to 10 with Dopes To Infinity.  I made it, all the way up Lamar in time to hear Dave Wyndorf howl that tough-tender rock and roll coda before pulling in and pulling the gates of the Bat Cave closed behind me.  I started this post with clear purpose.  I was going to be honest with you—about my life and where I am as an artist and where I feel like I should be if I wasn’t depressed or suffered from ADD when it comes to business and marketing myself.  Truth is I accepted I’d be a factotum a long time ago.  I turned off my mind but it wasn’t as noble as it sounds.  It’s coming home to roost, though, and I’ve no one and nothing left to blame except myself about where I am, as a performer and in the world of letters.  Brass tacks.  Real talk.  The amount of time I’ve been derelict is staggering and perhaps I’m only noticing it now.  Without cigarettes and vixen, bourbon and the Chase, I can see plainly how much time I spend as a jerkoff and jerking off or otherwise dull and blank between money gigs, on my loveseat wrapped in a nernie, fucking off the time on YouTube playing with myself and filling my mind with clickbait and yellow journalism.

Beyond being critical and unsatisfied, I’m off to work as House Manager for the Hyde Park Theatre, and, Love And Wages, my one-man show, debuts there Thursday night.  I’ve got to finish recording some poetry for Super High Technology, edit an essay for El Informe, write the Sybil Journal back about running 5 of my poems, go over my interview as a feature in the new Fredericksburg Literary&Art Review and send Editor Amy Bayne some work & PR, write 2 letters Friday and send out 2 more, send a copy of All in the wind to Hollywood and a copy of Love&Wages to be reviewed and respond to poet David Estringel about writing for the Good Men Project.  Not today, Satan, and not this week apparently.  Thank you for reading.  You’re going to have to start charging me for this.  It’s like therapy, but better.  There’s no commute or copay and when I’m done I can slink right back into my delusions.  Ok, that part’s no different.  Pencil me in for the same time next week.

Jim Trainer stars in Love And Wages, debuting for Frontera Fest at the Hyde Park Theatre tonight!  Love And Wages is a one-man show of story and verse, chronicling the savage road Jim first took foot to almost 25 years ago. The show is about writing the story of your life and leaving everything behind, including who you think you should be so you can become who you are.  For tickets please visit the Hyde Park Theatre.  If the show sells out, show up by 7 and get on the waiting list.  The Festival has been running at 100% admittance for folks on the waiting list.  Thank You!