Land of Eternal Summer

And now, another near death experience...

2009-03-08T16:02:00.000-07:00

If I had been looking directly out of my front windshield, I'm sure I'd have had a moment of grotesque wonderment over the sight of oncoming traffic on the US interstate 5 sliding into view in front of me. However, once I accepted that I had, indeed, lost control of the Ford, My attention was in the same breath completely focused on the following:

My seatbelt was off- this very well might be the end of me because my left rear tire was sliding with amazing force and speed towards the downward slope of the embankment and I haven't seen Thomas in three days and I'm going to die.

(this took about eight seconds)

The Ford Gave a huge leap as I went over the curb, the cd skipped (Amelie soundtrack, La Noyee), and came back in full force when the car landed, seeming much louder without the engine noise. For a few moments everything I could feel was absolutely still while cheerful accordion blasted through my ears.

I craned my head out the still open window and inspected the Ford's ass end. My gaze was met by a tangle of rubber and thin metal wire that was once my left rear tire.
"FUCK!"
breathe
"FUCK!"
breathe-breathe
"FUCK!"

Facing Northbound traffic at eleven in the morning, and having come within eighteen inches of my bloody dismemberment- shouting obscenities seemed like the right thing to do.

With shaking hands, I called Omen. Then I called Dad. It seemed my ability to apply reason to any of what had just happened had gone the way of the air in my tires.

Incureable

2009-02-02T18:53:00.000-08:00

Part one

*...But they didn't.

"So who is this guy again?" Inquired Amanda from the passenger side of my car.

"Lets see..." I tried my best to condense twelve hours of contact and fifteen hours of daydreams and consideration into four sentences.
"Jessica convinced me to give the cute coffee shop guy my number. We went on a few dates and got along pretty well. We had sex twice- the first time he went out ten pumps in- afterwards apologized and exuded an almost saphic level of clingyness. A week or so after that Law and I started officially dating and I just sort of never called him."

"Until now"
"I was responding to his 'happy st. patrick's day' text."

-

We pulled up to the Indian restaurant near my house. The three of us talked lightly. the differences in out rather similar jobs, passover, my abysmal st. patty's day, Amanda's predicament between her family, herself, and her lover, Paige. We finished eating and began to walk to the drugstore for smokes.

His voice seemed to come at once through his nose and chest. If he was out of doors he gave no regard to his volume either. He reminded me of Aunt Judy- Confident, Passionate, always if not smiling with the mouth, giving off a general sense of content. His stride relaxed and balanced. I told him he should grow his hair even longer than it was, so that when he donated it to the cancer charity a long wig could be made from it.

"THATS why I like this girl" He boomed as he threw his arm around my shoulders.

I protested fervently when he offered to replace my pack of Nat Shermans. We walked back to the car, the three of us smiling and I drove him home.

We dropped him off at his place and said our "goodbye"s and "we should hang soon"s. Ten minutes later driving up the 52 I noticed a brand new pack of cancer in my center console.

"Sneaky bastard!" I proclaimed through a wide grin.

Upon further discussion Amanda's official position was this: while charming and oddly handsome, he was just another stoner, in time Thomas' charms, humor, and demeanor would grow to bore me.*

Blood, Sweat, Tears, and Paint pt. 2, A few words on The Red Paintings

2009-01-28T11:48:00.000-08:00

Hailing from Queensland, Au., there is a band by the name of the red paintings, and they are quite possibly the most amazing rock act in the world right now.
Let me briefly impart to you what I mean by "rock". Rock is a loose philosophy, not a sound. The philosophy centers on pushing boundaries, of any sort: artistic, social, linguistic, musical. You don't even need guitars, really. The Luminescent Orchestrii, and V&V Nation are both rock in my opinion.

The first time I saw them was in 2007, when they opened for the Dresden Dolls on the main stage of SOMA. Within hours of first setting foot in the United states, the day of the tour's kickoff in San Diego, all of their equipment fell out the back of the van and was never seen again. Even with a borrowed and unfamiliar setup, they brought down the house.

The red paintings' stage performance includes elaborate costuming, intense passion, and PAINT. Their show was at brick by brick in San Diego. On this small stage they managed to fit five musicians, (singer/guitarist, violinist, bassist, drummer, second guitarist/keyboardist) four painters, and two human canvases.

Also, they have a tendency to sing about aliens. Awesome.

All in all, if you see they are going to be anywhere near you, it would behoove you to go see them.

written waaay to long after the fact and under the influence of influenza.

Blood, Sweat, Tears, and Paint

2009-01-26T13:40:00.000-08:00

The night of the show I thought I would miss, The band's tour manager called me at work.

"This is Sundry with The Red Paintings, were you still interested in helping out?"

"What time would you like me to be there?"

"The band starts at ten, but we'd like you here around seven"

"I'm not off work till nine, I can get there by nine twenty-five."

"See you then, wear a black bra and black pants please."

I asked Sharon if I could close shop early, she adores me and when I told her what I was doing, she permitted.

I was to be the human canvas, stage right.

I rushed to the venue directly from work and arrived at 9:57 (the band was set to play at 10:15),

handed my glasses to my pod, Thomas, and ran to the bouncer. The following is a transcript of

the single coolest thing that’s happened to me in the ten months I’ve been 21 years of age.

Me: Hi I didn’t ask on the phone, but I’m part of the show, do I still pay cover?

Bouncer: What’s your name?

Me: Hand.

Bouncer: Oh yeah, you’re on the list, go in. (stamps my wrist)

Yes, the exalted status of “on the list”.

I ran to the merch booth and spoke with whom I assumed to

be the band’s manager, who directed me to the bathroom to

“get painted up and put on your mermaid tail”. I went into

the makeshift dressing room, took off my shirt and two

beautiful women proceeded to smear grey tempera paint

over my above-the-belt regions. I then did my best to

wriggle my way into a pair of boxer briefs with a four foot

pillow in the shape of a mermaid tail extending from the

pelvis. They then strapped a chest piece onto my neck which was to represent intestines, then

was given a ghostly white mask with equally creepy hair protruding from the sides.

Connie, my painter, led me on stage where I stood silent and waited for the band to start. When

they did, I moved my body with the music, and

watched members of the audience stare

enthralled at the mass amounts of action on

stage.

There was a man from nor cal directly behind me

who painted seven flat canvases in the course of

the 45 minute set, who according to eyewitness accounts was an absolute hurricane. At one point

he held a canvas portraying a strat, held it up to

his midriff, and with paintbrushes in hand,

mimicked the guitarists' movements. Leaving a

wake of multicolored expression across the

strings.

There was Sundry who was from Australia and touring with

the band who painted one very surreal portrait of Trash

(singer/guitarist) back stage left. There was a gentleman

painting on a human canvas named Roxy an array of

different animal hides on each different limb of her body,

scales here, zebra there, cheetah there. And front stage right

there was Connie and I. My artist does not use brushes, but

instead made impressionistic smears and globs on my skin

using at intervals a CD, a drink coaster from the bar, and

either end of a plastic spoon.

On top of all this excitement there are a band of musicians on stage, who are dressed somewhere

between being aliens and kabuki actors (varying levels at each end among the five of them).

After the show, the eleven of us exit the stage

a little more than I anticipated...

2009-01-25T14:44:00.000-08:00

As I straightened my hair last night, it was you I thought of. Your hands running up my wrists, arms, shoulders, neck. I was not prepared though, for how your eyes drew me into you as you lifted up my chin. As I fastened my skirt, zipped my boots, I could almost feel your hips pressing intently at the softness between my thighs. I did not realize- as the bass led our bodies to sway- that your lips would seek mine, tender and brimming with hunger- I'd have never imagined.
You.
I'd have never imagined...

Soldiers' Luck

2008-04-22T16:26:00.000-07:00

I nearly died again last night. This is not an uncommon event for me, I regularly have close scrapes with mortality, and I'm as of yet unsure how to feel about this.

Before George Washington became president, he fought in several skirmishes and battles on the losing side. In an account of one of these skirmishes, he recalls having had two horses shot out from underneath him and finding eight bullets lodged in his coat, having never touched his body. George Washington was wracked with survivor's guilt for a long while, and even spread rumors of his own death before becoming one of the Founding Fathers.

This is Soldier's Luck. Bouts of providence that have no reason whatsoever other than keeping you from getting killed, or separating you from a fucked situation.

Being caught in the riptide when I was six, spinning my car out four months ago, living with an abusive sociopath for five years, the tree falling on the car when I was twelve, narrowly avoiding a collision, and driving for fifteen miles with a road cone under my car while I passed three CHP squad cars last night.

I've come to believe some people are endowed with Soldier's Luck out of the womb, and there's a possibility in my mind that it's hereditary. Once when I was young, I explained to my father how I feel much more useful when put into a situation where everything is falling apart and everyone else is freaking out. He explained that I had received this trait from him, that when everyone else was losing their heads, curling up in the corner, and reverting to infants, he was the one to take charge, sort things out, and make quick decisions.

This ability does not come naturally to anyone. It does, however, come to people who, through trial and error, whether or not they realize it, have figured out that they will in the end be OK, they are not going to die so long as they keep their heads screwed on.

I'm not saying this is entirely dumb luck. Indeed, cleverness, quick reflexes, bullheadedness, and balls are just as much a part of what I'm talking about. My father, Dick, Bina, Law, Austin, Thomas, Kirsten; they've all got it to some degree (especially Law, god he's crazy). But everyone knows someone who's got more Soldier's Luck than most; I advise you to keep them close and watch what happens when shit hits the fan.

4/22/2008

A Bio for Christine Trudeau

2007-11-15T09:48:00.000-08:00

There are those who will have you believe Miss Trudeau, to be the mother of all daemons. They are, about 33% correct on Thursdays. They are however on every other day of the week, 97% wrong. While an earnest scribbler of all kinds, it is words in which her passions lie. That passion is evident in the intricate and meditation provoking verse that unravel from her notebooks.
By the tender age of fourteen Christine had battled racism, discrimination, poverty, the California public school system, and the pope ( with nothing but a codfish). Her most prominent inspirations can be found in the great well of emotions and memories that dwell within her chest, her family, the earth, the political climate in which we live, and the condition of native American culture, rights, and awareness. Her inspiration can also be traced to her friends, and her elusive muse, who dwells in temperate climates.
For the record, Trudeau also believes Jerry Silberman to be just as talented and important as gene wilder.

V.Hand- Novembre 2007, Tijuana, B.C.

Fish

2007-09-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

You're still a boy, you know. But the man is in there, I can hear him creeping along the edges of your voice, you just need to let him out.
A few times last night when you picked me up, commented on how little I weighed, your hands grew up momentarily, grasping with command, and then your mind interfered.
"are you okay?"
"I'm sorry."

If you utter these statements more than twice a day, something is very wrong. and I'm lecturing now- but that was my intent.

Guilt is heavy, carrying it will keep you from getting anywhere.