Weapon Of Choice: Purchasing Power

there is rain on the window sill, a little puddle forming on the inside. the grey has been a weighty slab of flesh dampening the color of these trees and hills, a seemingly unending year of a thick, bland sky. the reluctance to reach out, text or call is indicative of my apathy and it’s only a moment more that will determine whether i leave this house or crawl into bed.

opt to leave, little man.

and bring your checkbook.


8, 9, 10

1: nothing about anyone is pathetic.

2: being happy consists of small moments of satisfaction strung together through the peaks and valleys of everyday life.

3: find what makes you unhappy and rid that behavior/environment/people from your everyday.

4: faking anything is poor advice. you can put on a happy face through a bad mood during the day but nighttime is where it’ll catch up to you. if you want to live a lie, so be it. lots of people do it. if you want to live a life, bite the bullet so you can taste the dessert. it’s much more rewarding.

5: are you not intelligent and insightful? beautiful and educated? your worth is far beyond that of many of your contemporaries, you’re absolutely badass. you CANNOT forget that. ever.

6: ask yourself what you want. what things make you smile? what ideas or ambitions make you “happy”? concentrate on what brings you pleasure, not the fact or reasons you’re unhappy.

7: we all have certain chemical imbalances that dictate our day. some days i feel like the leading role in a superhero movie. some days i don’t leave the house because the thought of having to interact with strangers terrifies me. so i hunker down and draw the blinds hoping tomorrow will be better.

it’s silly, but it’s life. my life. our lives. gregarious and enthusiastic, shy and quiet. fun and sorrowful, up and down, smart but a lot of times not so.




Town Cryer

The advent of autumn has brought upon a wonderful little retrospective that’s been percolating in my dark little brain for a while now…

This summer has been one of the most astoundingly hot seasons I can remember. Drenched in sunshine for months on end, a beauty and brightness I can hardly imagine to be equalled in the years to come. Perfect for river trips and motorbike rides, 2015’s heated summer has been fabulous for wild adventure in strange towns, searching the earth for a river or a lake or merely lying around the house with the windows swung wide open like French doors or a French whore.

Strangely though, more tears have been shed down these cheeks this year than they ever have in the last 20 combined.

More tears of venom and salt have bled down these cheeks this summer than I care to remember, like a child’s tantrum or a frantic tween, I’ve wept on sidewalks, in cafes, on park benches, in locker rooms, hallways and bathrooms in almost any type of building you can think of. Drained my world and soul into strange sinks, onto shoulders and into dirty bandanas, drenched this little city with enough sorrow measured for a year.

I hold onto the fact that friends come and go. Gripping the idea with strong, stiff, sore fingers like a vise, hanging on with blind passion and naive rage, a relentless little monkey unwitting but unwilling to surrender the belief that the beauty in everyone deserves to be realized. Eventually.

People arrive onto scenes sometimes like wildfire or sometimes quietly out of the woodwork. Acquaintances regardless of how amorous or not, take on all shapes and roles, ever-changing sometimes to benefit, sometimes to destroy, sometimes to feed and enlighten and sometimes to teach and…DESTROY.

Them’s just people. That’s what we people do.

Relationships can quickly disintegrate into the past like lost pets, weird jobs and memorable apartments.

This past summer I lost friends to lovers, nearly lost friends to death, and lost my lover before I even knew she left. Found reasons why I’m like no other and discovered lovers in the midst of madness, on the edge of a gasp or deep in breath.

New leaves turn like corners, new roads somehow found, left pain of the past in the mirror just to get off the ground. Unrepentant, unrelenting venting is my sound, love and rage and lost in laughter, elements forever bound.

Bring the fall!

All us Northwesterners know that after such a scathing summer it’s high time for some hard rain.

Inhibit This

Aww, poor baby, the clouds cover the blue sky you know is back there, the rain is swooping in with a blanket of cold drizzle and wind, the window panes are drafty and the streets are wet and slick with leaves, and the depression hits with the heavy hand of dark autumn and all you can think about is holing up in the house and declaring war on the world. Waving the white flag, is more like it, wouldn’t you say?

I’m unsure what MAO inhibitors are or what an SSRI is (they sound strange and dangerous, like weapons or motorcycles), and I have never taken psychotropic or psychiatric drugs on any sort of rigid schedule. Schedule III, however, I may have smashed through my body once or twice on occasion on a purely experimental or recreational pursuit.

I am seriously considering lying on a couch and confessing how the rain makes me unable to perform simple tasks like trimming my nails or getting out of bed. Because something inside me often tells me not to move too quickly as to not wake the monsters in my soul that enjoy emerging just when my strength wanes. Deep seeded dirty spirits whose cagey and unrelenting chatter turns my confidence into mashed potatoes and douses my fiery desire to create and forge love into a withered, Charlie Brown Christmas tree of forgettable worthlessness. They haunt my dreams and make sleep a terrible venture each and every night.

So Doc…the weather’s got me down. How’s about some magic beans? Seriously. These mad mood swings are damning me to chocolate gorging meltdowns and no amount of alcohol in my cabinet will restrain this evil, enveloping animal for long.

Aww. Is That A Boo Boo?

I’m a free spirit. Fuh ree. A joyous vapor that swirls like a dervish. I like to play like a child. I like to run real fast and hardly look back. I’m a jumper and a climber,  a wild animal trapped inside a crazy Homo sapien. I live pretty hard and this body o’ mine is only good for one life and no matter how much living I try to crush into this one shot, the pain of injury totally brings me down. I feel like a prisoner, unable to motorbike around or run around the block, truly tied to the pavement of the earth, tethered to the ground unable to laugh.

Months of Missing a Minute to Write


The last few months have watched a man work more days than he’s ever in his life, six, sometimes seven-day weeks where it all blurred together into one sore, methodic venture. Consequently, a muscle was torn in his elbow so “medial epicondylitis” is now a household word where curses mixed with groans are used to describe each day.

Naturally, it’s the right elbow that’s injured so he’s left not being able to properly “service his vehicle”, if you will. A warm, buttered bagel or a sanded knothole in a fence theoretically could suffice but reality has a habit of standing in the way while his wing is on the mend.

The blues as a musical art form is something like an arduous sweat, a lowdown, dirty wail that brings the gruff and then extracts the toxins from every one of my poor bones.

I love that even in the midst of a tough time, there’s good and beauty in the slightest of places. Like when you’re driving and rocking out and the song ends right when you arrive at your destination, or when you’re flipping channels and you randomly land a few seconds before a game winning goal. My favorite: when the traffic that is horribly backed up is on the other side of the road.