x-x-x-x-x. Politics of Sex, Noise and Depression

Sunburn has gone from the stinging to the itching phase. Layed in bed from about three to five AM. Took another shower, with cornmeal, and did the aloe vera thing. Finished Michael Patrick Welch’s beautiful book. Headed back into the bedroom, where Rivka’s gorgeous naked body lay foetal across the frameless futon, just in time to answer the cell phone. Cosmic. My man, Jim D.

He was singin’ a Ray Charles song: “Tell your mom. Tell your Pa. Gonna send ‘em back to Arkansas.” Playing along on his electric piano, with a broken sustain pedal; it won’t turn off. He’s bored, lonely, and I think drunk. One of a handfull of brilliant friends who are likely bored, lonely, fucked-up and awake at this moment. Be it six, five or three in the morning in wherever. Wonder how many of my friends ARE awake now, on either side of the day.

Not sure what was keepin’ me up. Didn’t smoke, so it wasn’t one of those manic, stoned states. Maybe the pink, supermarket birthday cake I ate at two O’Clock that our roommates daughter had made for her 15th birthday last week. We hung with the two of them all night last night, drinkin’ wine (or cheap beer in my man’s case) and telling stories. Homeboy’s part Cherokee and got that story-telling instinct. Grew up on a farm in Troy, Alabama, where I spent the first 9-or-so months of mine. Dad was the highest rank you can be, as an enlisted man. When dude was born, youngest of five, the army doctors said he was retarted and should be dropped off in an institution. Dad and his spotless record were down. Mom was like, “Naw, bitches. That’s not the Cherokee way. We don’t leave ‘em to die in the woods.” Left his prick father.

Years later, after seeing him teach himself to ride a bike (no training wheels), climb trees and swim from watching his brothers, mom said, “That kid’s not retarted. He’s smart.” Took him to a private doctor, who discovered that he was deaf. Long story short: Hearing aids, first sound he ever heard were his own footsteps, army paid for great speach therapist (mom made them do that shit), started speaking at age seven. Seen his dad twice after that. ‘Ventaully baught him a house and said, “Now I never wanna see you again”, my man did.

Speaking of army assholes, I met this guy down at the Handlebar the other night, who I like a lot. Soldier. Big base here. Talkin’ bout, “I was responsible for killing people over in Iraq, better them and theirs there than me and mine here later.” We went on and on. Different perspectives. Very different. Plenty to learn from each other though. Strait up.

Tellin’ me the Iraq war is really about China. I guess China (and North Korea) will be the new boogey man. Oooooh, those evil chinks. When do we get to kill them? But I digress.

So in Alabama, the boyscouts shit back in the sixties was like, a bunch of kids from ages seven to twelve riding horses out by themselves as far as they could get in a day and staying there for two weeks. No adults. They all knew how to grow food and shit like that, ‘cause they were farmers kids.

But my man ended up workin’ on ships for a while; merchant marine. They’d be out there, 2000 miles from the nearest shore, twelve dudes on a 200 foot steel ship, full of giant rods of iron ore, bound from Argentina to Norway, and turn off the motor and all the lights. No insects, no birds, no cars, no factories. Said you could whisper at on end of the ship and hear it loud and clear at the other.

Had to have a guy keepin’ watch all the time. Twelve hour shifts. Watching off the back of the boat, where the radar don’t reach. You get caught asleep that shit’s a felony offence. Apparently there’s still piracy going on out there. Some illers’ll sneak a small boat up, latch on, climb up and kill the crew, take that ship and sell it to some motherfuckers in Russia or Iraq or some shit. Imagine sneaking off with a fucking 200 foot ship? What do they do, re-paint it? Scratch off the VIN number?

I think a lot of the time, instead of killing the crew, what they’ll do is: when they latch on to the ship, they kill the radio and motor on the pirate ship and set the crew adrift. Is that shit really still going on? Some James Bond shit.

Well, it’s six-twenty-six. Time to climb behind the couch, re-connect the phone lines, dial-up to the internet (never on the first try), upload these files (current entry, navigationally updated last entry, main link), wait for the computer to shut down, put it away and try to catch some sleep again (next to a gorgeous, hot, sexy, sweet, bad-ass bitch with a pussy that sprays and a mind like a ginsu). Hope y’all appreciate it. Don’t forget that busting your starving ass instead of that crappy, so-called-security job is available to you as well, unless you got kids. Shit, probly EVENif you got kids, but I don’t know nothin’ about that. All I know about’s abortions. A humbling experience to say the least. I DO appreciate that some people make money, ‘cause someone’s got to support us delinquents.

Oh yea - speaking of which, this dude, Billy Martin, who has a stupid-succesful band; Medeski, Martin and Wood, just released an eleven track CD entitled Turntable Sessions, Volume 1 and features DJ Scotty Hard, myself and the Dan Electro doing a version of Hank Senior’s Ramblin’ Man, as well as some other ill tracks and talented artists. Amulet Records. Later on, remind me to tell you about when our roommate and his step father saved one of the farmhands who was trapped underneath an overturned, burning tractor by chopping off his leg. Well, there you go. Now you know. It’s six-forty-seven, central time. Pensacola, FL. you rock.Mike iLL |

13/06/2004