Archive for low-life revenge

THE DOWN LOW

Posted in Rant with tags , , on February 5, 2010 by raindog51

The first day of February finds me sitting in the Pharmacy waiting for my meds to be ready.  Every month I have to go down to the Long Beach CHC to pickup my meds. They used to be free, but now I have to pay for them (I make more than the $1100 a month cutoff point…but I could still qualify for food stamps, if I wanted to). So every month, I head over and get in line. Usually it takes about an hour. I take a crossword puzzle to pass the time. I’d like to chat with my compadres but my Spanish isn’t any good.

So there I am, waiting for my number to come up, when this young guy comes stumbling through the door, heading towards the counter…but he never makes it and ends up collapsing on the floor. Mi gente (my people) and I look down at him lying on the floor, then up at each other, then back down at him. There is a general tsking and murmuring of “pobrecito” amongst the women. One older black woman gets up with a look of annoyance, as if she’s thinking, “Oh lordy, just what I need, a stupid white boy screwing up my morning;” and wanders out into the hall, presumably looking for help.

After a few moments I get up and go to the window… Continue reading

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When I close My Eyes, It’s Always Raining

Posted in Americana with tags , , on October 18, 2009 by raindog51

John Macker said this sounds like the line from a poem.  In a sense this is truer than one could imagine, except that it is not a poem that I might write, because I am the poem of which this is but a line from.

Let me elaborate…As I was driving up to Santa Cruz yesterday for the reading at the Mill Gallery, I began thinking about that line.  It’s something I’ve mention to a few people over the years, most recently to my friend Sanchez, who was playing the Girl With the Flaxen Hair (Eric Satie) on his guitar while we sat outside watching the rain come down last Wed. It was such a perfect moment! Beautiful. And somehow after he was done, I said; “You know, when I close my eyes, it’s always raining…”

So, I’m driving up the coast and it’s an impossibly beautiful day. Blue skies. Unlimited visibility. Delicate hues of green and beige. The works. And as I’m taking this all in, that line kind of emerges from the shadows and slowly makes itself known… And I’m just observing it, like you would watch some wild thing, something feral that you want to see but you don’t want it to notice you noticing it, because you don’t want it to bound off just yet.  So, I’m thinking about that line and the imagery of it and I start to have little snippets of memory, but the snippets are not memories of moments that have transpired in my life; the snippets are of memories that I’m pulling out of the air…

And the most disconcerting thing about this is that I’m thinking, huh, this is interesting; like it’s an everyday occurrence. But, of course, it’s not.  It’s something new and slightly alarming.  Who’s memories are these that I am so deftly intercepting? Is it like one of those things where you say to a friend, hey remember that time we were in the jungle and you…oh wait, no that was a NatGeo special. Or is it one of those red flags that warns you that your mind is slipping into someplace dark and scary?

And over dinner tonight, Joe (Pachinko) says to me, you know what’s weird, man? It’s when you have a memory that isn’t really a memory and you think, shit, how could I forget that…until you realize, shit! That isn’t even one of MY memories…and I look at Joe like he’s just told me that he’s been having an affair with my mother, a look that is a mixture of awe and horror and god-knows what else.

This makes me think that maybe it’s not so uncommon, this process of  remembering orphaned memories. Maybe this happens a lot but nobody talks about it. But back to the theme…

In my mind, there is a woman, not surprising, and maybe it’s from one of those calvin klein commercials where the story has nothing to do with the product.

I don’t know, but it’s visceral, this image. Almost as if I can sense the rain before I see it.  In fact, come to think of it, I don’t think I actually see the rain so much as feel it.  But I know it’s raining, and I know that it’s a neutral rain, not a sad rain or a happy rain; it’s just raining.  I think there might even be music, but it’s just barely discernible.

So, it’s raining and there’s music…something moody and subtle, dark but not bleak. And the rain is slow and steady like it’s going to be staying in town for a few days or a week. It’s determined, but not crazy stalker impulsive. So, it’s kind of a gloomy wet afternoon with maybe a tenor sax and a piano making love to an upright bass…and somewhere in all this  there are flashes of honey colored skin, unblemished and porn star perfect doing friendly things to my cheek and fore arm. And there’s a room, muted tones, maybe darkened by a shade but I can still feel the rain coming down.  The music is coming from behind my left shoulder…I think about turning around, but don’t know what I’ll see.

So, if you see me out somewhere and my eyes are closed, this is where I’ll be.

WALKING SLOW

Posted in Americana, Rant with tags on July 12, 2009 by raindog51

Ever notice how, in certain parts of town, let’s say where the downtrodden and marginalized reside, you know that part of town (surely there must be a district such as that where you live); anyway, have you noticed how people seem to take their own sweet time crossing the street? It’s bad enough at stoplights but it’s really bad at street corners.  People just mosey across the street like they have all the time in the world, as if it doesn’t matter that you have someplace important to be.  I mean, don’t they know how important it is to you to get on with your day? Continue reading