White Liquor

It was a sad day when William Blake shot himself in his library. When the police arrived at his home shortly after his wife called him, they found most of his books lying on the floor with some of the pages ripped out. His wife was standing near his body crying profusely while clutching his suicide note in her trembling hand. They wondered why such a renowned writer such as he would have even thought about killing himself. He seemed to have such a wonderful life. The homicide detective asked her what was written in the note, so she handed it over to him. The note said, “I had too many books to read. They just sat on their shelves laughing at me while I tried my hardest to read as many as I could. Intelligence is that selfish patronizing world that always seems to keep its distance away from me. When I find myself finally grasping a new concept, it opens a new avenue to another that will also eventually keep its distance away. Revelations are like the sweetest fruit that is too h...

First time his route-vein-hands opened and closed the door handle—six-foot something legs scissoring to a plastic seat, middle-age ass lost in puffy-wrinkle jeans, hot-nerd eyeglasses perched like chemistry-monocles on a Greek nose I suspect rises higher than it has ever looked down on colors he isn’t wearing—blue, green, yellow—I wanted to fuck him. Second. Third. Fourth. No hello. No sup. No idea about my calibrations, sensations, and misattributions. Fifth. Most necks can sustain terminal movement. For a while. I’m wearing mine out. I can’t stop. Shifting. Rigidity seeking permanency. Duh. Scintillation watching man-splaying, a bitty belly snug against gray cotton polo, and a pair of brown tennis shoes with white ankle socks. It’s as if every chair, every room, every world in which he’s been a participant has not only welcomed him, but asked him to stay. Please. Stay. He twirls a pen between sex-knuckle fingers; holds in the oth...

Julie never fell in love too much. She kept her heart guarded with loss and heartbreak. The office job was killing her. The mundane shit adults pretend to enjoy to keep the battle with legal tender and all the shit it can buy but happiness. She had gotten lonely since the divorce and with both the kids off to college the days flew by. It was work then home. Work then home. Work then home. Many of her friends had moved on and rarely had time to socialize anymore and Julie wondered if they had even been friends to begin with. She thought about the old adage 'if you want to know who your friends are throw a party' or 'if you want to see who your friends are call them to get you out of jail.' This brought a fake smile to her face but it didn't last long. The morning came just like the one before and Julie did her toilet followed by coffee and a bagel with a smear of cream cheese. She checked her messages on the phone and her daughter had text...

This past summer was like all other suburban summers: short and hot. Short enough so that it came and went and, having not overstayed its welcome, would be welcomed again. Hot enough that little kids cracked eggs on their asphalt driveways, scrambled for a round of hide and go seek, and before the tiny seeker could finish counting to ten and move her hands from her eyes, the yolks were very well done. On both sides.

I'm pacing the floors going back an forth, wearing out the soles of my Doc Martens. The anticipation is killing me! "Where the fuck is she?" I ask. Waiting is the hardest part. I get myself all worked up over pleasure that turns into pain, that turns into longing. Here I am, peeking out the window every few minutes. Sometimes these fuckers play games, when I've already sold my Xbox 360.

Under a southern California morning cloud canopy, Frank and me are following Nina and her boyfriend Joe up the 605 freeway to Alhambra to score some acid. Joe whips a ’64 Rambler American in and out of lanes like a fucking maniac. I do my best to keep up as he races onwards. Sometimes he’s five or six car-lengths ahead. It’s almost like he’s trying to lose us.

After work Jimmy and I walk into a student opening in the Lubalin Gallery. The place is made up like some kind of a southwestern circus with heavy rodeo overtones. Hay covers the hardwood floor and a fake wooden bull hangs from ropes dropped through the opening of a circus tent above as warped calliope music floats throughout the space.

“Can I have a hit?” “No!” “Can I have a hit?” “No!” “Can I have a hit?” “FUCK YOU!”

Sammy Potts took another long, lustful look at the five beautiful numbers in his palm. He had finally fucking done it, after what seemed like an eternity of playing the lottery. He ran his free hand over his three-day stubble, creating a light burning sensation on his face; anything to clear his head momentarily. He let out a grotesque, guttural belch

I was feeling strenuously polite. “Do you have a map?” “Ah. Is. Speaking. Too. Fast.”

For Mardi Gras 1997, we had a show set up at the RC Bridge Lounge. Somehow we got White Flag to fly in and play the show Mardi Gras day. We got a call from the Supersuckers booking agent

Pat Brown points a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol in my face. Pat Brown, the Pat Brown of Vandals fame—the guy the Vandals wrote the song about—yells, “Get the fuck outta here!”

                                 My girlfriend and I were trying to get from Guangzhou to Guilin during the October holiday a couple of years back.