Violent Blue

Violent Blue

12.14.06 (8:32 pm)   [edit]
"Am I boring you? I could say more
We were destined for somewhere
But that was before you traded in your peace sign for a finger
And I don't believe it's the way you were raised
Or the cards you were dealt, or a poor self-image
I think you love yourself too much
You want to rule some sovereign state?
You want to smother in all that hate?
Get away
Lay down
Strip it off
And lose yourself" - Chagall Guevara

"Show me the way to go home
I'm tired and I want to go to bed
I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it went right to my head
Where ever I may roam, on land or sea or foam
You will always hear me singing this song
Show me the way to go home" - Irving King

"Need your love 1,2,3
Stop starin' at my D cup
Don't waste time, just give it to me
C'mon baby, just feel me up
C'mon, just give it up" - The Donnas

"I've got them bipolar blues
Wearin' two pair of shoes
I've got them bipolar blues
Which fuckin' road do I choose
I woke up this morning, and found myself dead
Got some kind of devil shit all mixed up in my head
Don't wanna go into work, wanna eat refried beans instead
I've got them bipolar blues
And I still ain't paid my motherfuckin' dues" - D.B., work in progress




The crack of dawn can BLOW me...dear sweet fuckin' baby Jesus, I wanna eat your pussy...fuck the work week (slight return),,,we are the priests of the temples of (sorry, card denied)...my brain is like a sieve...music is the best...more important information for people who wonder what i eat...



Started a new job today. The old one ended Monday, and I didn't even do anything. I was ready to make this the job I did something purposefully stupid on, just to get fired. Instead, they came around half an hour before qutting time, said they were done with me, but liked my work and might call back in a month. i've not known from day to day how long it would last, so it was no surprise.

My drunken rant Sunday night was the product of a feeling that has entered my orifices each Sunday evening for weeks now, feelin' stronger every day just like that Chicago song. The transition from a weekend of burning down bars with my bass and heavenly downtime with my daughter back into the work week is pulling serious shit out of my brain, and setting it on fire right in front of my face. Monday morning was actually a way to RELAX for quite a few months there. The weekends have been my way of spraying it all over the walls and coming back down to earth. Monday was a way to clean off and re-enter what I needed to do to pay the fucking bills.

Now it's goddamn torture. I don't sleep Sunday nights very well. I don't sleep a LOT of nights very well. The ol' insomnia is rearing its ugly motherfuckin' skullcap again, and I know why - the times they are a-changin'. I can feel it in every molecule. I just don't know HOW it's going to change, and the sense of desparation is running high.

I got up at 5:25AM for work. After a lot of confusion and shuffling around (typical for jobs with this company) I found myself in a place that starts work half an hour later than I'd been told. I'd been here before - back in June, the first job they had for me when I moved back to Cincy. This time I was in a different building, doing similar work, but not as fast-paced. I was trying to remember why I hated it so much when I was there before, when the supervisor started showing up every ten minutes.

Ahh, yes. Anal-retentive micro-managing dipshits taking their shit far too seriously. My favorite brand-name assfucker.

When I got there, I was reminded of something else in a very powerful way:

All the women who carbonate my brain cells the most are either half my age or responsible for my paycheck.

Thank you God. Thank you so BLOODY much.

The hotter account manager (there's two of them) is a lucious little brunette with a round face, soft eyes, and legs that could make a stronger man than myself cry..

Oh yeah. The boss. OK. I remember now.

SHITFUCKY!

Then, because God hates me and there is a plot against me (it's all about ME, you see. Obviously this is true) they put me directly across the table from APHRODITE HERSELF.

No, God. Don't do this to me.

She only LOOKED seventeen. She's actually 24. The kind of beauty that doesn't draw attention to itself at first, but once you get drawn in, you are FUCKED, my friend, and not in the way you wanna be.

My penis took a vacation all day. This had nothing to do with my dick, This was all about "dear lord, just let me LOOK at this all day." Brain chemicals aligning just to make you believe you are falling in love with a woman you met FOURTEEN SECONDS AGO. The intense desire to simply fall to your knees and whimper like a retard.

HEART-BREAKINGLY beautiful.

Oh, she's married and has a three-year old. She's also really nice and smart and seems to have her shit together pretty well.

I wanted to cry. How I managed to plaster on The Face Of Reason and not come apart at every nail in front of her, I really do not know.

This is the other thing coming to a very fine point in my noggin - I have NO idea how to balance the thrill of living on my own with the ungodly terrible desire to be a blubbering DOUCHEBAG for the first beautiful woman who I can drug up to the point of actually staying near me for more than ten seconds.

OK, I'll settle for a blowjob. Let's be serious here.

She was very nice when we said goodbye for the day. Fuck, those eyes. Those dark, young, soul-rending eyes. The shape of her face, that small mouth breaking out into a big beautiful smile.

The sense of utter douche-like LONGING was about to erupt from my skull like some weird tsunami of idiot horror.

Thank Jeezus this job is only for two or three weeks.


RIP Peter Boyle. You were MY Frankenstein.


More and more heroes are dead. The people who came before, who I owe my little black soul to. They not only own my heart for their work, but for their lives.

They broke out of this hideous soul-crushing 40-hour workweek and blazed their own trail in front of God and everybody. The writers, musicians, artists, comedians, and pornographers I admire. Shining their light down and saying "Hey, fucker. You can do it too." Doug Stanhope published a book. A BOOK. A drunken lunatic spewing forth both truth and error in joyously riotous fashion published a book.  There's hope for me yet.

They found their way. I'm flailing away in the blackness trying to find mine.

I loathe the American Dream. You have to be asleep to believe it. The idea that "if you work hard enough, you'll be rewarded" is not supported by reality. I've worked with guys who have spent nearly fifty years proving that shit wrong, still fighting to survive as I do. It's about LUCK as much as anything. Most of the people I know who live far better than me haven't done SHIT.

But the other coin-side is that I feel closer every day to that dream, because I'm gonna stand that shit on its head and do my little evil dance, or die trying.

I don't really want a lot. A dishwasher, one more room, washer and dryer hookups, money for gear, beer, and CDs. A budget to keep a car on the road.

And an end to the Monday-Friday hell that all you other fuckers seem to have accepted as gospel long ago.  

And oral sex. Can't forget that, can we?

I can make that shit work just fine.



After work, zipping across Fairfield (past the hospital where my tonsils were taken out, singing along to Greg Lake like I'd never have done a few years ago) one destination in mind - new bass. New bass, motherfucker.

Doubt entered my mind. I tried to push it away.......


I've had my heart set on a Fender Jazz. I kinda miss the basic Precision vibe that was taken from the back of my car a while back, but I thought a Jazz bass might do me better in the long run. I've probably played 40 of them in recent weeks.

But not the one I wanted.

A drummer in my neighborhood gave me two cassettes to listen to sometime in around 1986 or 7. They were called Power Windows and Grace Under Pressure.

They changed my life.

It takes a special kind of unable-to-get-pussy mutant-geek to appreciate Rush the way I did when I was 17. Yes, *I* was once seventeen. And the girls didn't fuck me then either.

My actual style is more informed by the example of Jack Bruce and John Entwistle, but I stole more licks from Geddy Lee. Around the time Counterparts came out ('94?) I knew a third of the back catalog on my chosen instrument, and played along with those albums often.

I think it was that album when Geddy switched back to the Jazz bass he's used since. He's known for Rickebackers, Steinbergers, and Wals, but Rush's best-known album - Moving Pictures, features the growl of a Fender Jazz, and some of his best playing. Red Barchetta is about as perfect a song as Rush has ever delivered, a piece of music that zips along just like the car that inspired it. Ged's bass is at a peak there.

Having learned a few things about groove and subtletly over the years, I have to kinda chuckle a bit when I listen back to those old Rush albums. Their tendency to bludgeon a riff and hang neon sings on their rhythms ("We're in 5/4 now! FIVE, I tell you! FIVE!") combined with their rather limited harmonic range and overall WHITENESS give lie to their reputation as the front-line of progressive rock (try some National Health or Hatfield & The North ,you geeks) but they did ROCK, and they forged an instantly recognizable sound that has remained intact over the years even with all the fucking about they've done with it, and thank fuck for that fucking about, because it's made them more fun to listen to.

Geddy's bass is a big part of all that good shit.

I walked into the store today and looked around for a minute and said to the guy "Geddy Lee Signature Jazz." There's one in the back, he said. Fresh off the truck.
 
I'd played one on a whim a while back, for no real reason. Since my own bass was stolen, no one has had one in stock.

The black and white demon was handed over to me and plugged into a Peavey rig.

Fuck that girl from work. I wanna jizz all over a Geddy Lee Signature Jazz.

For my tastes, it blows the doors off every other bass I've played in years. It's huge, thick, nasty, and makes it own sauce. The neck is a delight. The black and white paint fit me perfectly. The entire ball o' low-end lovin' is ME, more than any bass I've previously owned.

My SWR was in the back of my car, because I'd been determinged to play any bass I'd settled on through my own rig before buying. Fuck it. I want it NOW.

I made sweet love to that bass for ten minutes, then we took it up front and ran the application for the card through, so I'd have essentially a one-year-same-as-cash deal.

Declined.

Not a surprise. A huge motherfucker of a disappointment, but not a surprise. I've been fighting with my credit rating for over a year now, and it's only been back into an acceptable state for a month.

Shitmotherfuckin'fuckity.

He offered me a couple other options, neither of which really works, though they might come close if I decide to never sleep again, or at least not for the next few months.

I remembered how fucked up I was Sunday night, maybe three steps from where I was in April 2004, the night I went into a hospital because of extreme sleep-deprivation bringing on the most frightening symptoms.

I handed the bass over. The salesman - who was one of the more knowledgable and friendly and genuinely sympathetic fellows I've met in a guitar shop in eons, and looked like Greg Proops to boot - gave me his card. Encouraged me to come back, put me in the computer to call in case a used version came through.


Sadness, depression, anger, hostility, self-loathing, fear, hunger, assfuck-cravings of the damned...the drive away was not entertaining.

I am Roger McGuinn and that bass is my Chestnut Mare. I'm gonna catch that fuckin' horse if I can, and when I do, I'm gonna give it my brand, bitch.  



I have a goal that is seeming highly unreachable. Day job down to part-time by the end of January. I don't know if it's possible. I'm in better shape than I've been in a while, but that's saying little.New students are starting soon, but I'll also have to go whine to the power company for a break just to afford my daughter's Christmas present. The two days off work provided the first decent sleep I've found in weeks, but they're also going to kill my next paycheck.

Walls closing in. Claustrophobia. It's destroyed parts of my life before, fucked with others relentlessly.

I cranked up the compilation tape I made two nights ago. The soundtrack to the last couple weeks.

Somewhere in the middle of selections from Aliens Ate My Buick - me wondering how a white guy who named himself after a noise-suppression system could be so damn funky - I hit the groove again.

The feeling from Saturday night. Raw blasts of unhinged fuckage spraying all over the walls. A phone call that sent shock waves through my fucking SOUL. The groove. The funk. The Note.

"Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth. Truth is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is THE BEST..."

Thanks, Frank. You're right, ya know?

My brain is like a sieve. Sometimes it's easier to forget the bad things I do to myself.


Pure unbridled fuckery flying around the car, bouncing off the gray walls as I smoked little cigars and sang along. I thought about the girl from work again, this time from a much more pelvic-based perspective. Imagined her as one of the Donnas, singing to me. Reaching out her hand, pointing to me, then herself. Inviting me inside.

Utter horseshit. But a boy can dream, eh?


I came home, cranked up a Chess collection of blues guitar goodness, and cut a few red potatoes in half, and threw them in a baking dish with oil, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Fifteen minutes later, I dumped a can of Kroger chili hot beans on top.  

Three cans of PBR in, I'm feeling fine. Buddy Guy is playing the blues for me. Take THAT, you cocksucking bastard sonsabitches.

Love,
Dougie