Jim Trainer

Archive for April, 2021|Monthly archive page

SAME AS THE OLD BOSS

In Uncategorized on April 15, 2021 at 10:47 am

Former House Speaker John Boehner was on the radio this morning. It was dark in the Office and I had little on my mind so I closed the glass doors and sat smugly down. We must be the masters of our own delusion and if Steven Inskeep ain’t ashamed he should be. History is kind to the victors and steamrolls over the rest. Trump went down in infamy though his ineptitude is debated by shit-for-brains like David Harris Jr. and Steven “Fuckface” Crowder. Rush Limbaugh got more respect dead than he ever gave to the living and one can only hope he died with regret or at least in pain. George W. Bush found a new cache hanging out with Ellen, hiding candy from Michelle Obama and grinning like the luckiest bastard of the 21st Century. War still rages overseas thanks to that clown and we’re all living down his forever wars and recessions. Obama’s legacy can’t be touched. His shining image is a testament to the power of his charm, even if he ushered in the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. He tried, I’ll give him that, and his efforts were thwarted at every turn by the Tea Party and stacks of shit with book deals like John Boehner. Time marches bitterly on leaving us with the impossible task of reasoning with all this blood on our hands. There’s no justice and the worst people in the world won’t look bad in hindsight as long as the media plays nice and puts them on.

I’m having some luck with my diet and I’m drinking more water, even if I never seem to meet my goal of half my weight in ounces a day. I eat veggies mostly, very little processed food if any, and only as much desert as I can fit in my hand. Flare ups wreck me, relegate me to the couch or send me back into the throes of a cigarette and coffee addiction. It’s hard to keep your diet when you’re only shitting blood and it feels like glass. I have hope, generally I’ve been feeling better, enough to attempt some Yoga but as long as my gut is bad my mood is dour and sunk. I’m due for another call with Good Specialist Rocco, and I’ll be taking advantage of the extended enrollment for Affordable Care with some help from the good folks at HAAM.

The Element failed inspection. Two different mechanics said it was the catalytic converter and OEMs are going for up to $1,000 online. I’m deep in the research and wont to get an aftermarket and put the profits from the sale of my CAT right back into the car. 4 new tires would be nice but not crucial. Passenger back panel could be replaced and the fender. The seats need to be pulled out and power washed and it never hurts to get an oil change. It might’ve failed inspection due to faulty O2 sensors but whether it’s the sensors or the CAT, I’d rather climb underneath the car myself than give $1,200 to a mechanic who won’t let me keep the old part. The first order of business is getting on the horn with Honda to ask them why the CAT, guaranteed for the life of the car, is crapping out at 74k miles. It’s running a little loud, nothing dire but not exactly smooth either. I’m hoping an oil change will work it out. A higher grade gas and maybe replace the plugs and filter could do wonders, though, I may be talking out my ass. I need to double down on my research and butt heads with the know-it-alls on the Element Facebook Group. The most worrisome would be rust on the undercarriage. I’m not saying I have it, just that I need to keep an eye out and anyway get a good look at the wheel mounts.

The blog is a bust but I appreciate you being here. My stats are down and so is my enthusiasm. It must be a trick of the mind or anyway depression because reading Pete Hamill inspires me to be the writer and live that life. Poetry collections and novels from friends inspire me as a publisher and I’m hoping to get some more writers in the Yellow Lark stable. The hard part is convincing my peers that the price is worth it. Money’s hard to come by but once your project is funded there’s money to be made selling the printed word. So, what’s to happen at Going For the Throat, as I’m mostly missing my true ballast of anger and unease? It’s hard to be angry and keep it as my anxieties are already working me overtime. The days are blowing by. I’m posting a poem every day on Patreon for the month of April and I’m keeping the dream alive. My physical and mental health are getting tweaked and I’m getting better even if I’m knocked back and need to start over. Ideally I’d be playing music every Saturday night, designing and printing collections through the week and coming hard at journalism and taking my camera with me everywhere. I got vaccinated this morning but I’m not overjoyed. I’m glad I won’t catch CORONA but otherwise not exactly thrilled with the Johnson&Johnson shot I got in Castle Hill this morning. Spring’s here and I think I’m done with being fallow. The hard part is how to get back up and kick it, as ever I am besieged with depression and bereft of the torch of anger that burned and lit the way for so long.

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KEEP BLEEDING IN THE ANNO FINEM:
10 Years At Going For The Throat
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“2020’s been a year of death and graft. Survival is this new paradigm.  It used to be Art or writing and Rock&Roll but now living in The America is its own end.  There’s nothing past this.  You make it to the end of the month congratulations, you’re broke.  You catch this disease or anything under your deductible you’re insolvent or dead.”
—KEEP BLEEDING IN THE ANNO FINE
M

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FOR THE SAKE OF THE SONG

In Uncategorized on April 8, 2021 at 3:31 pm

and Rebecca&Jon

The First Amendment limits the government’s ability to regulate speech. It does not require news organizations to treat all speech as equal, or to provide an open forum for comments. Rather, the First Amendment ensures The Inquirer’s right to publish what The Inquirer chooses to publish.
—The Philadelphia Inquirer

…nobody wants to hear blues on blues on blues.
—Townes Van Zandt

THE FOLLOWING POST WAS WRITTEN ON APRIL 5, 2021

This one’s to keep Going For the Throat alive. I thought I’d get a jump on this week’s post, allow for a wide runway between this afternoon and deadline Thursday. With time I can refine and I might even strike gold. In a way, posts like UNDER THE WEATHER and LIKE A SOLDIER are a victory for plain-spoken and what I call unmiraculous prose. The reporting reveals over time. The moments get stripped and contextualized and from the droll details and mundane the story appears. Or it doesn’t, no story Bubba, and that’s the story. Of course that’s the luxury of personal journalism ain’t it and blogging anyway that I, as your narrator, can wrap any missive by declaring there is nothing to report.

I’m happy when that happens, and much to my old college Prof Macaluso’s chagrin, it’s a stick in the ribs of cute-essay writing and happy endings. Happy endings never rang true for me. Begs the question, though—why aren’t happy endings true for your writer and anyway why should my experience be accepted as truth? Just because happy endings don’t happen for me doesn’t mean they don’t, in general, happen. I’m struck writing this however that with perspective almost anything will have seemed to turn out alright. I never wanted to trade in that happy horseshit. Guess you could say I wanted to revel in it, grovel some or commiserate and, tell you the truth, I’ve never really examined why I always had such a fucking problem with Heaven.

I knew depression, always lying in wait, was sure to take me down. So I tied it on myself and the blues was my message and albatross. I figured if happiness was only going to end then why not just be miserable and save myself the disappointment? When I was happy I was flying high, too, though not in a healthy or sustainable way. I removed all those quick-fixes, self-medications and chemical-love. I’m on an even keel now, mostly. I probably won’t crash. Better than that is this ease in my life now. Nothing wrong or terribly irritating. Well, my gut health is touch and go but I think it’s all connected. So…I’m happy with posts like the last couple weeks’ for the sake of their language and for the fact that they offer no solution, no aha, or feel good, tie-it-together moment as the credits roll. I like just ending a piece and seeing what the language will tell me later. I like it when language tells the story and especially dig it when details and moments from a day observed take on a resonance, and their writing is a talismanning or fetishizing of the normal and mundane into a deeper meaning and significance. None of this has anything to do with not feeling up to posting here anymore. I need input and I’m bored and I used to solve both these problems by digging my claws into the matter and anyway grinding an ax and burying my enemies forever.

It ain’t working, Reader and my efforts to save this blog so far today have failed. I don’t know how much longer I can write to perform. It used to work, swimmingly, and if I’m being honest my real fear in hanging this site up and quitting is how will I ever be inspired to write if I don’t have to? Now this is the real writer’s blues ain’t it and all my hubris and fast-talk about never having writer’s block has come home to roost. Strange it doesn’t hurt more than it does or maybe this is a higher plane of creation for me. This work isn’t so wrapped up in my identity. I don’t know what to write about and it’s not the end of the world. I’m not devastated but hardly inspired either. The thing about this block that’s kind of exciting is I know I’ve been here before. I know that something is waiting for me on the other side and like Mama Greenberg said I should be able to envision a way to create that’s peaceful, that I don’t have to destroy to create, me or them, and I can perhaps be driven by something other than compulsion and be free.

KEEP BLEEDING IN THE ANNO FINEM:
10 Years At Going For The Throat

AVAILABLE AT JIMTRAINER.NET

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UNDER THE WEATHER

In Uncategorized on April 1, 2021 at 7:26 pm

What do you think an artist is? …he is a political being, constantly aware of the heart breaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war.
—Pablo Picasso

By the way, fear works. And if you have a leader that speaks your fears right back at you, boy, that is the most compelling thing to get a vote.
—Adam Kinzinger

This place has always been, above all else, a deeply violent place.
—Sean King

Poverty in the richest country in the history of the world is a death sentence.
—Bernie Sanders

This is the longest I’ve gone without an intoxicant in 30 years. I’ve quit smoking three times in my life—once as a straight-edge skinhead in 10th grade, then at 40 for 6 years and finally last night. There isn’t anything wrong and it’s a bummer you want to know the truth. Of course I could get into it with somebody on the socials or creep out a platonic in what passes for human courting in the pandemic. I don’t want to write this column anymore, it’s painfully apparent. Perhaps it’s time to make the leap from Personal Journalism to Journalism Journalism. It wouldn’t be the worst thing and I can’t think of any other way for me to affect change. Fuck man, write about it. Ahoy it’s time for something different to happen. I haven’t been writing daily, not like I ever did but I don’t know what I should expect from this column as it’s been written, closer and closer to deadline, until finally I’m writing this post past it on a Thursday.

The best thing that happened to me today is I felt the sun on my back. Once in the court this morning and again in the afternoon down at the bodega. Some haircut pulled up in a mini Audi. He squeegeed his windows and dried them by hand. A newscaster with a fat ass got out of her Channel 61 news van but had to pull around to get it pump-side. The skaters down there are endearing and impeccably polite. Michael’s behind the counter, he’s only had his Element for 2 years. I ask him about it, and his catalytic converter, and he doesn’t know or let on. I would’ve told him to beware but he doesn’t seem into it so I stepped out and stood in that Texas sun.

I go down there for junk food and I eat junk food for 1 of 2 reasons. To help regulate me or else to deal with stress. By not smoking a cigarette first thing this morning I took control of the day. This one wasn’t ruined but anyway I’ve still got to deal with my intestine. My gut’s flaring up again though it could be the nicotine passing. Another 3 days of wrenching pain til it all clears. Or it could be gone tomorrow. Girl next door’s going on with her bassy beat and that’s after enduring the teeth-rattling hum of construction all day. They’re installing Google Fiber, if you want to know what’s going on in the world. Ain’t shit changed.

The wisdom of middle-age is attuning to your own deeper rhythm and lost to the general sway. Turn your mind down because everything is so numbing but don’t tune out completely because then you’re only sleeping. Anyway, this post is to fulfill a deadline and I’m sorry but for the life of me I can’t do it like I used to. It makes me sad because I was really hitting a stride writing here in the Fall. I just couldn’t go on being mad Good Reader and I was either not depressed enough or so sunk I didn’t even know it and now I’m punching keys and making word count because I said I would.

It ain’t the worst thing but I hate half-assing anything so expect an announcement from me out of respect and in thanks. I wrote my way through a decade and now the field is fallow ain’t it, posting about the Castle Hill bodega and finally being intoxicant-free, without love or anger and standing in that Texas sun beaming on me in bright-hot and warm glory.