COME ON IN

I don’t cook, I don’t clean
I don’t have the energy for the scene
and I don’t got no car
I don’t worry about the price of gasoline…
–Circle Jerks

Clean clothes piled on the writer’s chair.  Dirty clothes on the floor.  Dishes, sink.  Leftovers on the counter.  Nernie beside me on the loveseat, where I write in boxers and black socks with the blinds up and the door wide.  I’m out of honey, I’ll have to drink the shit black unless Brother Julian doesn’t mind I have a spot of the Mesquite he bought from the Native Texas Boutique last month. The wisdom of this mess is that it’s pretty bad even horrible at times and I’ve never had it so good.  Saturday I did a wedding for 190.  Cocktailing in the hot sun, then serving all night until 10.  Sunday I was late but captained a party for 8 hours and unloaded an hour back at the shop for 9 all day.  The difference between these 2 gigs is staggering and reflects the aforementioned wisdom—it could be worse and it sometimes is but it’s also better.  Doing parties with my full-time is hardly a drag because my man R.O.’s a real pleasure to do it with.  Temping always sucks but I’ll do it if it’s bartending, away from the fracas and fray and with the potential to make some additional dollars in tips.  I didn’t want this to be a work journal, rather—I should be keeping one and anyway, like I told Cole Noppenberg in the Writer’s Room, the best writing practice is always more.  We both know I’ma need to get it out of my system and the details of life, oft forgot, can come in handy from a psychological perspective as well as a creative one.  Country simple, if you want to write good, write bad and I could stand some other practice besides falling out like an addict with junk food and YouTube after at least 8 hours on my feet anyway.

Ah, heard back from Brother Julian and I won’t have to suffer this bitter light roast without some sweetness.  An apt metaphor.  I’ve set up living absconded from the harshness of life.  I don’t do too many days in a row working and my workday is never the same.  I don’t have a car payment, no student loans and my lease here is month to month.  I suffer the trappings of being transient—rough digs and a mostly isolated existence living grisly and solo but it’s nothing compared to what I’d be going through if I felt trapped or hemmed in by a full-time life.  I’ve felt that way at several junctures and it was never good.  It could be argued that these periods of contraction always preceded an expansion.  Got to dig your roots down deep you want to sway your branches, and you’ve got to pay your dues you want to sing the blues.  But I don’t know.  Getting up at 4 and driving a 16’ stake bed through North Texas was one of the hardest times of my life and ending up in the Land of Eternal Spring at the Year of the Cock’s close was a peak experience for me.  You could say I turned it out, which is true enough, but I wouldn’t have done it without a lot of help.  From family and Brother Julian, now that I mention it, who not only flew me down but booked a reading with a 25-sold guarantee.  My grandmother left me enough to buy a car and get my teeth fixed.  Who knows where I’d be today without that leg up?  Lastly, my new boss and the company I’ve signed on with are making the slog of food service less barbaric and adrenaline draining.  Last but not least is you, who, not only buy my merchandise but fund my dream by believing in me.  I know I’ll sell 100 books so I publish 125.  Every year.  I know I’ve got you, reading here and even helping me go further—to the territory on future jaunts expanding my residence on Earth.  I’ve become journalist with your readership and it’s everything I ever wanted.

But it could be better.