The following rant comes courtesy of Marg(ot/aux/o), sixty-eight years old, from the 7-11 on Congress to the Florence House on Valley...
"Around the corner you'll find all the bums, queerbies, and drug dealers. The bums will steal everything from you. I know because I used to volunteer at the soup kitchen. They stole everything from me. Even my car keys. So now they can always follow me. And they do. Five or six cars follow me at all times. I changed the chip in my car key, and they still follow me somehow. The bums would steal all my clothes. They would take my underwear and stockings, and I don't mean nylons. They would take my underwear and stockings and put them back in my drawer dirty and tattered. I get serum and sperm confused. Serum's in blood, right? (I nodded). I don't know why I thought sperm. I have nothing against sperm. Sperm is good as long as it's used to make babies or to make a man happy. Not for gay blades. Not for Catherine Whirley (I don't know who that is). Thanks for listening. God bless."
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Joey
Thursday night I was parked at my usual perch in front of Paul's Food Center writing a chapter of The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli (shameless plug!). It was around 11:30. A drunk old man with a guitar asked if he could get a ride. I told him to get in.
On the way to the Gulf station on Congress to buy some cheap wine he introduced himself as Joey. Joey had just left Lincoln Park, specifically the Occupy Maine tent city. He had hoped to get smoked up and play his guitar. He was "devastated" that neither of those things happened.
We pulled up to the Gulf, and Joey had just stepped out of the cab when he was approached by a young woman. She asked him to go in and purchase a $3 pipe "for a friend" because she didn't have an ID. Joey was torn; he wanted to help her out, but he didn't want to be "implicated." He mentioned something about her asking me, so she told me her sob story. I told her I wasn't going to buy her a pipe. The lady, who was obviously the crackhead who needed the pipe, informed me Joey just wanted my opinion.
"Sure, I don't give a shit" was my response.
Joey went into the store. Lady Crackhead took the time to tell me she wasn't a crackhead; she merely likes to smoke crack from time to time. And who is he to judge? He's a drunk.
The drunk in question exited the store and handed her back the money. He said something about saving her soul. "Fuck you, faggot!" she screamed at Joey before asking me to go in for her. "I already told you I wasn't buying you shit." Then the owner of the Gulf station came out and kicked her off the premises.
Before I go any further I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent. Grown men who introduce themselves as "Joey." Really? You're an adult. Have some fucking self-respect. You're not a kid so drop the kid name. The only adult that can go by "Joey" is Joey Lauren Adams. No one else. NO. ONE. ELSE. You hear me, Lawrence and Gamache?
Joey got back in the cab and immediately cracked open the nasty way-too-fruity-smelling bottle of cheap wine. I know the consumption of alcohol in a motor vehicle is verboten, but I often allow it. He went on about not wanting to have anything to do with a crackhead's addiction. I can dig that. Joey asked me if I smoked grass. I told him I didn't do that anymore.
I drove me him to the Union Station Plaza parking lot, and Joey offered a business proposition: he drinks his vile wine until the meter hits $10, I get a $5 tip, and I give him back $5 from the $20 bill he gave me to show he wasn't "schemin'" me. I agreed to the deal.
I should have known better. But I'm a sucker for a story. That and I suspect I may be a masochist. Joey spun me a yarn, and I'm confident I got his words (mostly) right. The spirit is at least preserved:
"I've been to prison. I did nine years for armed robbery because I was a junkie. My old lady would smuggle me in cocaine. I wouldn't sell it. Just a little bit for me to use. One time she visited and told me she set the house on fire for the insurance money. She got $40,000. Then she moved to PR. Puerto Rico. That's where she was born, Puerto Rico. She got involved in trafficking and got shot. My sister's a millionaire and flew my wife to Laguardia so she could see our daughter before she died. And she did. That's why I have nothing to do with narcotics."
And then Joey belched and the smell of sickly sweet fortified wine mixed with the faint aroma of stomach acid made me gag a little.
At that point the meter was at $10.60. He offered me another $20 if I would let him finish the bottle. While it was guaranteed money, I had enough of Joey. I told him it was time we parted ways. Joey didn't like that idea. He said he had $100, and since I smoked marijuana, I should use that money to score him some pot. I informed him that I had told him I no longer smoke it. Joey told told me he had the money and would prove it. I responded by telling him I didn't care if he had it. Yet he still dug through the contents of his pockets until he could back up his claim. Well, I really didn't care if he had the cash and proved my claim by letting him know if he didn't get out I would drive to the police station, and the cops could yank his ass out.
Joey finally got the message that I was not fucking around. He told me to give him the $5 in change coming to him. I informed him that the meter was still running because he was taking up my time AND promised me a $5 tip so he was only going to get back $2. He accused me of "schemin'" and said to just let him get his stuff out of the back seat. While that was happening we had one last conversation:
JOEY: You don't know who I am, man. In prison I was protected by the New York mob.
GUAK: I don't give a fuck who you are. Get your fucking shit and go.
J: Don't call it "shit," man.
G: I'm sorry for calling it "shit." Get your fucking stuff and go.
J: What's in this bag is worth a lot of money. And it's not narcotics.
G: Don't care.
J: It's intellectual knowledge. Do you know what "NSA" stands for? "National Security Administration." The NSA is following me because of what's in this bag.
G: Will you just fucking shut my door?
And, finally, Joey did fucking shut my door. And I drove away.
The first thing Joey said to me when he got in the cab was "what's up with all the Portland cab drivers? No one wanted to give me a ride." I found out why the hard way.
On the way to the Gulf station on Congress to buy some cheap wine he introduced himself as Joey. Joey had just left Lincoln Park, specifically the Occupy Maine tent city. He had hoped to get smoked up and play his guitar. He was "devastated" that neither of those things happened.
We pulled up to the Gulf, and Joey had just stepped out of the cab when he was approached by a young woman. She asked him to go in and purchase a $3 pipe "for a friend" because she didn't have an ID. Joey was torn; he wanted to help her out, but he didn't want to be "implicated." He mentioned something about her asking me, so she told me her sob story. I told her I wasn't going to buy her a pipe. The lady, who was obviously the crackhead who needed the pipe, informed me Joey just wanted my opinion.
"Sure, I don't give a shit" was my response.
Joey went into the store. Lady Crackhead took the time to tell me she wasn't a crackhead; she merely likes to smoke crack from time to time. And who is he to judge? He's a drunk.
The drunk in question exited the store and handed her back the money. He said something about saving her soul. "Fuck you, faggot!" she screamed at Joey before asking me to go in for her. "I already told you I wasn't buying you shit." Then the owner of the Gulf station came out and kicked her off the premises.
Before I go any further I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent. Grown men who introduce themselves as "Joey." Really? You're an adult. Have some fucking self-respect. You're not a kid so drop the kid name. The only adult that can go by "Joey" is Joey Lauren Adams. No one else. NO. ONE. ELSE. You hear me, Lawrence and Gamache?
Joey got back in the cab and immediately cracked open the nasty way-too-fruity-smelling bottle of cheap wine. I know the consumption of alcohol in a motor vehicle is verboten, but I often allow it. He went on about not wanting to have anything to do with a crackhead's addiction. I can dig that. Joey asked me if I smoked grass. I told him I didn't do that anymore.
I drove me him to the Union Station Plaza parking lot, and Joey offered a business proposition: he drinks his vile wine until the meter hits $10, I get a $5 tip, and I give him back $5 from the $20 bill he gave me to show he wasn't "schemin'" me. I agreed to the deal.
I should have known better. But I'm a sucker for a story. That and I suspect I may be a masochist. Joey spun me a yarn, and I'm confident I got his words (mostly) right. The spirit is at least preserved:
"I've been to prison. I did nine years for armed robbery because I was a junkie. My old lady would smuggle me in cocaine. I wouldn't sell it. Just a little bit for me to use. One time she visited and told me she set the house on fire for the insurance money. She got $40,000. Then she moved to PR. Puerto Rico. That's where she was born, Puerto Rico. She got involved in trafficking and got shot. My sister's a millionaire and flew my wife to Laguardia so she could see our daughter before she died. And she did. That's why I have nothing to do with narcotics."
And then Joey belched and the smell of sickly sweet fortified wine mixed with the faint aroma of stomach acid made me gag a little.
At that point the meter was at $10.60. He offered me another $20 if I would let him finish the bottle. While it was guaranteed money, I had enough of Joey. I told him it was time we parted ways. Joey didn't like that idea. He said he had $100, and since I smoked marijuana, I should use that money to score him some pot. I informed him that I had told him I no longer smoke it. Joey told told me he had the money and would prove it. I responded by telling him I didn't care if he had it. Yet he still dug through the contents of his pockets until he could back up his claim. Well, I really didn't care if he had the cash and proved my claim by letting him know if he didn't get out I would drive to the police station, and the cops could yank his ass out.
Joey finally got the message that I was not fucking around. He told me to give him the $5 in change coming to him. I informed him that the meter was still running because he was taking up my time AND promised me a $5 tip so he was only going to get back $2. He accused me of "schemin'" and said to just let him get his stuff out of the back seat. While that was happening we had one last conversation:
JOEY: You don't know who I am, man. In prison I was protected by the New York mob.
GUAK: I don't give a fuck who you are. Get your fucking shit and go.
J: Don't call it "shit," man.
G: I'm sorry for calling it "shit." Get your fucking stuff and go.
J: What's in this bag is worth a lot of money. And it's not narcotics.
G: Don't care.
J: It's intellectual knowledge. Do you know what "NSA" stands for? "National Security Administration." The NSA is following me because of what's in this bag.
G: Will you just fucking shut my door?
And, finally, Joey did fucking shut my door. And I drove away.
The first thing Joey said to me when he got in the cab was "what's up with all the Portland cab drivers? No one wanted to give me a ride." I found out why the hard way.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
H. Guakomoli: Book Critic?
My friend Clay runs a music review website (which you should all check out by the way - it's quite good). On August 18th he asked me if I would be up for critiquing a biography on The Stooges. I happily agreed to review the book - I love The Stooges, and I thought it would be a good exercise for me.
I was given a loose deadline of "some time in September." Well, I am a procrastinator by nature (not 'cause I hate cha), so of course I didn't start really reading it until last Saturday. I finished it Tuesday, wrote the rough draft in my cab that night, and typed, revised, and proofread the fucker Wednesday morning. I submitted it with two days to spare!
It was the first thing I've officially reviewed since waaaaaay back in the spring of 1998 when I reviewed a Dick Dale show at The Asylum for my college newspaper. Sure, I have done some rants on things that I suppose amount to reviews but nothing for any publication. I think it turned out rather well for really not knowing what I was doing. I wish I had liked the book, and I am a bit concerned that my analysis was too harsh. Overall, though, I am pleased.
Said book review can be found here.
And, seriously, check out Nanobot Rock Reviews!
In other writing news, I'm back to working on my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. If have yet to read it, please be a pal and start from the beginning: The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli.
SPOILER ALERT! And if you haven't read my tale of the man who shares a name with my nom de plume since it seemed like the story's protagonist met his untimely demise, I assure you that is not the end of the yarn! You can catch up by starting here.
END SPOILERS!
And my intent is to be more prolific in my GuakTalk ramblings.
For fuck's sake go visit Nanobot now!
I was given a loose deadline of "some time in September." Well, I am a procrastinator by nature (not 'cause I hate cha), so of course I didn't start really reading it until last Saturday. I finished it Tuesday, wrote the rough draft in my cab that night, and typed, revised, and proofread the fucker Wednesday morning. I submitted it with two days to spare!
It was the first thing I've officially reviewed since waaaaaay back in the spring of 1998 when I reviewed a Dick Dale show at The Asylum for my college newspaper. Sure, I have done some rants on things that I suppose amount to reviews but nothing for any publication. I think it turned out rather well for really not knowing what I was doing. I wish I had liked the book, and I am a bit concerned that my analysis was too harsh. Overall, though, I am pleased.
Said book review can be found here.
And, seriously, check out Nanobot Rock Reviews!
In other writing news, I'm back to working on my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. If have yet to read it, please be a pal and start from the beginning: The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli.
SPOILER ALERT! And if you haven't read my tale of the man who shares a name with my nom de plume since it seemed like the story's protagonist met his untimely demise, I assure you that is not the end of the yarn! You can catch up by starting here.
END SPOILERS!
And my intent is to be more prolific in my GuakTalk ramblings.
For fuck's sake go visit Nanobot now!
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