One Hundred Years of Solid Dudes: Self-Titled

100 Years of Solid Dudes



Colonel Aureliano Buendia faced the firing squad…He remembered ice of all fucking things. I didn’t really know what that meant. But, recalling the day I held the Roman candle to Jake and my girlfriend: I think that’s when it clicked. My firing squad consisted of me, Malcolm, our other roommate—Marshall—as best friend and co-conspirator, and my toy artillery. We made them freeze. So, maybe that’s why Buendia thought of ice. Maybe the barrels of those rifles made him too frigid to move. Perhaps Jake and Christine were too frozen up by what was about to unfold: caught between the threshold of the kitchen and living room, whimpering like dogs in the cold. But I always preferred fire over ice. And it was time to heat things up.

So, part of me prayed to fucking god that the gas on our sloppy stove was on. I could see an old pot of spaghetti, noodles draped over the rim. Maybe Jake or Christine was attempting to warm it up, like they warmed up to each other. Jake, my roommate, fucked Christine, my girlfriend. And they had the gall to stand there and deny it? I wanted to see us all charred to a crisp. Marshall didn’t deserve it. But he fucking told me about it.

My boney hands played meticulously with the fuse on my flagrant toy. Jake’s baby face and blue eyes flinched. He played with his only manly feature: light brown stubble. For being four years older than me, he was underdeveloped. But I guess that’s how he got off with fucking underage girls. He was a shaggy haired, Peter Pansy in a Starbucks shift manager uniform. I was an artist with talent. And he was banging out my girl.

Christine’s slanted gaze bounced frenetically. Her dark green parka and long black hair outlined her snow white face. I wanted to see her complexion fluster into a mess of blotchy, crimson. Another part of me wanted to take her to bed. I wanted to slap those full thighs, slap that fat ass, and ride the fuck out of her. “Malcolm, you are my god,” she would scream. But that was just wishful thinking and a potential rape charge.

So, we stood in silence. Eventually, Marshall told me I should probably light the fuse. I nodded. My fingers groped into my jeans’ pockets and retrieved a green lighter.

“All I’m trying to say is this,” Jake said. “Christine and I might…”

I told Jake to shut it. With a snap of the thumb, the BIC flicked. He began backing up. Christine begged me to stop. She asked me to listen to her. But I’d already seen the text message that Adeline sent Marshall. I asked why her best friend would lie. She was speechless. I placed the flame to the fuse and told them to get the fuck out.

“Malcolm?” Christine asked in disbelief. Tears ran down her cheeks, striping her face in black eyeliner.

“Cut the shit,” I said. “Leave, now!”

The little slut didn’t listen. Worse, she pulled the “I love you” card. Bad move. In five seconds, it was Christmas on the Fourth of July. Sparks of green and red burst from the red, white, and blue striped tube. Jake ran through the kitchen, knocking the trash can. Clumsy bitch. The collision sent the silver barrel toppling, spilling bottles, cans, and rotten food on the tile floor. Marshall had just cleaned. Pissed on my behalf and angry about the mess, he grabbed his red road bike, flung it over his shoulder, and was out the door. He peddled down the alley after Jake. His profanities and threats resonated through the living room window.

Christine had been stoic as I, until that moment. Marshall’s cries and Jake’s escape seemed to have no effect. But the flames erupting on her parka’s fur lining sent her fleeing through the fucking apartment. Jake and Marshall were gone by the time Christine got to the alley. Paying little mind to her crying, I opened up the fridge for a drink: beer and beer. I grabbed a can of Pabst and an empty High Life bottle from the floor.

When I made my way out to the fire escape, her coat was engulfed in fire. I called out to see if she needed any help. She already had the parka on the cement, stomping out the flames. She was too fucking busy to acknowledge me. But I got her attention. I grabbed the empty High Life bottle by the neck and tossed it at her with all of my might. Unfortunately, it only grazed her hair.

Christine asked if I knew what the fuck I was thinking. I wanted to break her face. She was still stomping the parka even though the flames and embers were gone.

“You’re a worthless piece of shit, Malcolm,” she shouted. “If you weren’t such a goddamned waste, I wouldn’t have fucked your friend.”

I sprinted down the stairs. Christine knew what was coming. But before she could get away, I yanked her by the arm, pulled her shirt’s collar, and told her to listen.

“Fuck you, Malcolm,” she cried. With a glare, she pulled her head back and spat in my fucking face.

She accused me of flirting with other girls. That was the problem. I backhanded her on the cheek and sent her falling. “Fucking cunt,” I screamed, stomping on her ankle.

“Get out of here,” I told her, driving my foot down harder. “If you call the police, I will give you hell.”

She nodded. The red flush I had been anticipating finally showed. She was marred with resignation.

Marshall rode up on his bike. “I couldn’t find him,” he said, gasping for breath. “He jumped over a fucking fence, man.”

Without saying anything, he turned his tiny frame and reached into a backpack. He retrieved a handle of Jim Beam. It was time for a drink. As we headed up the fire escape, a white car pulled into the alley. It was Adeline’s: Marshall’s girlfriend, Christine’s friend, my informant. Christine limped into the passenger seat. They were gone.

We barged into the living room and placed the bottle next to a grimy copy of 100 Years of Solitude. For a while, we sat taking swigs. Outside, the sun broke through the morning haze. For the first time since I awoke, I felt relaxed. I picked up the book and plopped down on the couch. Marshall lit cigarettes for us. And we enjoyed the quiet.

“Hmm…Maybe I should write a book. It would be called 100 Hundred Years of Solid Dudes,” I said, taking a drag of my cigarette.

Marshall laughed. I told him, my book would win 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature. Marshall nodded and told me I could do whatever I wanted. So, I took a ball-point pen, scratched out the “tude” on the book’s cover, and replaced it with “Dudes.” I wrote my name atop the author’s and showed it to Marshall. He grabbed the pen and wrote 2013 over the year it won the Nobel Prize. We chugged more whiskey. It was time to party like it was 2013.

I unbuttoned my flannel and opened up Jake’s Vinyl player: Government Warning, perfect for dancing. I placed the needle on track one and shifted the dial.

The speakers belted out high-energy power chords, distorted bass lines, and sloppy drumming. I grabbed beer cans from the kitchen floor and put them on the coffee table. With my gut protruding and my skinny back flung high, I began stomping the empties. The soles of my shoes felt increasingly worn with each crushing blow. I wanted my feet to bleed. The bourbon didn’t leave my hand. With each taste, my inhibitions grew blurrier. I chucked some empty beer bottles at Jake’s bedroom door. One broke. The music stopped.

“Malcolm, I know you’re having fun,” Marshall shouted. “But if you want to wage a war against Jake, maybe we should do it the right way.”

I asked him how. He called Jake’s ex-girl: Emily. He announced that she was coming over with bleach. Fucking her would be better. Beating Jake to a pulp would suffice. But Marshall was right. Jake didn’t care about Emily or getting his ass kicked. He cared about his possessions.

I told him to let me know when Emily showed and swaggered into my wreck of a room. A charcoal drawing of a goat’s skull in a black and white suit hung above my wall. Elaborate acrylic paintings of young Asian women in very little clothing, stalked by shrouded men littered the corners. My personal favorite: a painting of me wearing an elephant mask, holding a chainsaw, hung directly above my mattress. I sat, picked up my moleskine, and scribbled on a beer stained piece of paper. All about Jake’s dick and Christine’s vagina. The entry concluded with a doodle of them fucking doggy-style while Christine sucked my dick.

When I returned, Emily was on our three-seater smoking a cigarette. She wore a bright yellow and purple sundress with black stilettos. Classy. I really wanted to take her to bed. But I had to contain myself. Oh, but she looked like Christina Ricci: rose petal lips, perfect jaw line, firm tits, long legs, a fat ass, and a tiny frame.

“Hi, Malcolm, I brought you a gift,” she said smiling.

“You came to bang the fuck out of me?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

She laughed and raised a large orange container of Clorox. She informed me that we were going to bleach all of Jake’s stuff.

I came closer to Emily, resting my arm on her clavicle. Slowly, I worked my hand down her dress. She struggled and told me to stop. Ignoring her, I slid my hand into her bra and gently caressed her nipple. Suddenly, I felt a burning sensation on my face.

“If you touch me again, Malcolm—and I know you’re having a bad day, and I’m sorry—but I will slap the shit out of you,” Emily said, pointing her finger. “Is that clear? Good. Now, let’s go wreck Jake’s things.”

I took the container of bleach and slapped her ass hard. She laughed.

We went into Jake’s room. Everything was pristine. His walk-in closet contained 30 shirts all neatly hung. The hardwood floor was shiny. His Hi-Def television was beautiful. The queen sized bed was draped in layers of sheets...It was there they fucked.

Marshall was gone. I asked Emily where he went. He was outside talking to Corey. Apparently, Corey wanted Jake’s comics. He could have them. There must have been close to a thousand—all Marvel—in his drawers.

Emily undid the cap on the Clorox bottle. Together we grabbed the handle and poured the slick substance on the bed. It was a fucking mess. In a matter of minutes, blue sheets turned a sickly yellow and the room reeked of sourness reminiscent of kiddy pools and water parks.

I yanked the bottle from Emily and continued pouring. The container burst geysers of blue. I wanted that goddamned bed to rot. At last, a taste of alleviation. I suggested we bleach all of his clothes.

“Not without my help, motherfucker,” Marshall shouted, stumbling through the living room, Corey following closely.

Corey’s white boy afro, shirt one size too small, and septum piercing made him look like a clumsy bull. And just like a clumsy motherfucking bull, he was idiotic and a great destroyer.

Eight vandalistic hands and four reckless minds: We ransacked the clothes. Marshall sprayed one of Jake’s shirts with WD-40. Corey pulled a book of matches from his pocket. He struck one on and let it fall. A purple Gator polo erupted in flames. I rushed to open the bedroom window. It was fucking fuming.

We sprayed 15 more shirts with WD-40. When enough of them were scorching, I retrieved a mop from the bathroom and bunched them together. I threw the makeshift torch through the window. It nailed the hood of Jake’s VW-Golf. And a rising black cloud arose.

Corey fetched some trash bags. He wanted the comics before they got destroyed.

“Malcolm, I’m about to smash Jake’s fucking tv screen,” Emily shouted, scavenging beneath Jake’s bed. I waved her off. That shit was going to be mine.

Marshall tore doodles into Jake’s shirts with a steak knife. One had a tear in the shape of a dick. Another bore the shape of a gun. My personal favorite read: “Jake’s Demise.” Emily found what she was searching for: a four pound wrench—efficient for breaking things. It was for Jake’s skateboard: the one in his closet. I knew where I was headed.

I discovered a box of videogame cartridges and tossed them to Emily. She smashed them until they were only bits of broken plastic. Then, I found his skateboard…and a picture of his mother. She looked young and attractive. I slipped it in my pocket.

With the skateboard in hand, I made my way to the window. My torch’s flame was dying and the board looked flammable. So, I cast it downward. It seemed to fall for an eternity. When eternity halted, the parking lot rained glass. I missed my target. It hit the car’s windshield. And it was beautiful. Everyone stopped what they were doing. The echo of the explosion stretched for miles.

Corey and Marshall scooted me away in shock. When they glanced out at the parking lot, their motives changed. Corey announced he had acquired enough comics. Marshall was starving. He was going to grab lunch.

I was furious. My best friend was ditching me. I yanked the wrench from Emily and approached him. “This was your fucking idea, man,” I said, spinning the wrench between my fingers.

“Dude, if you don’t drop that thing, I’m gonna to kick your ass,” Corey said, protruding his chest. Marshall gripped his serrated knife tightly. I was outnumbered.

Then, I had an epiphany. Everyone wanted something. Marshall and I wanted the tv. Emily wanted it destroyed. And I wanted to fuck Emily’s brains out. I pivoted my feet and asked the gents if they wanted to play rough. Corey told me to chill out.

Without warning, I dashed at the television and swung the wrench like a sledge. Kristallnact in the parking lot. Kristallnacht in Jake’s room. Colonel Malcolm Baxter the Third, the solid dude, delivering the coup de grace.

Marshall was enraged. We exchanged our curses and threats. Then he departed with Corey. All I saw were middle fingers galore and two turned backs. And then silence.

I lit a cigarette and asked Emily if she wanted to fuck. No. But she was going to pee on the bed. That was a good idea. Her panties were just below her knees when I whipped my junk out. I pissed on the bed, the floor, and then Emily. She seemed unscathed. But now I was facing the firing squad. Two brown eyes and rose petal lips ready to spit bullets. I liked it. No. I fucking loved it.

“Malcolm, what the fuck was that for?!” she screamed, jumping off the bed. I told her to clean up and meet me in my room.

When Emily left for the bathroom, I retrieved the picture of Jake’s mom. I rubbed one out, splattered on her face, and set the photo on his nightstand. He might come back to get what was left of his stuff…

One Hundred Years of Solid Dudes: Sudden Pelican

The living room was shrouded in pot smoke. People stared, fixated on the forty-two inch television. The screen displayed an actor with a long, rigid nose. He was tall, lanky, and sickly with long dark hair. His name is Adrien Brody. He played the distraught middle brother in a group of three. At that particular moment, the actor was in the desert. Sand covered his grey suit and red tie. Lips contorted, eyes bent: Feigning disappointment seemed preternatural to him. 

            I sat in a hazy corner of the room, transfixed. And my meaty, red hand scratched the red hairs on my face.

            Swirling the arid smoke like cotton candy mist in the light, the fan moved slower than time its self. Indignant, decaying, wooden panels unsteadily fluttered outward in no real direction. The air’s swish-and-sway spread the skunky, sweet aroma up my nose and mouth and into my eyes.

Jon’s one-bedroom apartment was unusually serene that night. The beer bottles that typically littered the floor had been disposed of earlier that evening—courtesy of me: Taylor. And the ashtray that always rested on the center rug had less than a full 20 pack of cigarette butts in it. From the opened window, I could vaguely hear the voices of single mothers calling their children in for bed and an occasional siren passing by. They coalesced with the sounds of the television every time the blunt was passed around the room—every time I took a long, thick hit. The cool autumn air slid down my neck and nestled deep into the small of my back as it breezed its way through the window. But when the clock read 11:13 pm, when the movie stopped, when all of the children went to bed, when we were all high beyond belief, odd notions and ludicrous acts came into fruition.

            Zachum made a quick walk to his car, in order to grab his guitar and mandolin. Within the five or ten minutes Zachum was gone, I managed to find a series of markers and an empty pizza box that I had forgotten to throw away. When he returned with cases for both instruments in hand, I had already covered half of the box in dicks and vaginas. Each was drawn in a different style. Some were more fluid and comical, while others were more realistic and glorified. When these depraved drawings caught Zachum’s eye, he decided to join in momentarily, grabbing a purple marker and drawing pubic hairs for the genitalia he seemed to favor—typically the more realistic penises.

            After a while, Zachum seemed to lose interest with my drawings of the human anatomy and he liberated his guitar from its case. I just kept on drawing. I drew until I covered the entire box with boobs, butts, and everything on a person’s body that most people would deem inappropriate. I wanted to laugh at my creations—my escape from reality. But an old friend of Jon’s from his high school days was over: Chris.

            He always wore his dog tags. He wore shirts with sleeves just short enough to show the flaming heart tattoo with swords going through it on his right arm and the tattoo depicting Dante’s 3^rd level of hell on his left. His hair was always perfectly smoothed out with the front converging at a tip. But none of that really bothered me about Chris. I didn’t mind him and Jon playing cards together on the floor. It was a game that they played every time that he was over—bet drinks with the dealer on whether one card falls between the two revealed to the guesser. This time Jon was the dealer. A Suicide King and an Ace of Spades were outstretched. Naturally, Chris declined any sort of gamble and passed on the round. He wasn’t that dumb.

            What made my eyes widen and my throat tighten up wasn’t Chris at all. It was the Glock 22 that he bore constantly on his right side. And his shirt that night, like every night, was trimmed just low enough so you could see two/thirds of the holstered gun dangling. Unlike the rest of us, he wasn’t stoned. But he was certainly tipsy off of the Budweiser he was drinking.

When I looked up from the pizza box, there were now eight cans on the floor. And there were certainly over twenty cigarettes in the ashtray by now. He reached for another red, making amiable eye contact with me as I faced the room. He even complimented me on the great job I did of cleaning up Jon’s apartment. I returned the thank you and reminded him that Jon had been a friend of mine as well. Jon, goofy and anxious, said little and none of it made any sense whatsoever. Naturally, Chris made a ludicrous connection to Jon’s incoherent mumbling and some crazy story about drinking cough syrup and going to the zoo when they were seventeen. I nodded and grinned, trying my best to feign attention. I even said things like: “Yeah?!” “That’s Awesome!” and “Dude…what the fuck…that’s fucking crazy!” When the story was done, Chris lost himself in the game once again and I turned around to watch Zachum play guitar.

His longer fingers formed the shape of a C-Major chord. And he began to strum loudly and sing softly. “Holland 1945” by Neutral Milk Hotel spilled forth from Zachum’s wooden pet and wide-open mouth. For a moment, he made eye contact with me, halted his strumming, and then burst forth with increased energy and a more audible, brave voice. I tried to sing along, but the words formed on my lips too slowly. Every other line was murmured, until the chorus came which I knew by heart. For a few moments we harmonized. I played off of Zachum’s music and Zachum played off of my energy. Soon, Jon joined in with the song as well. And Chris was left to flicking cards in various directions of the room in an inebriated stupor.

No sooner did we chant, “But now we must pick up every piece of the life we used to love,” than a huge series of thuds sounded on Jon’s front door. These were the thus of heavy hands: likely law enforcement. Immediately, Jon stood up and began pacing. Chris lit another cigarette and rubbed that terrifying murder tool on his hip. Zachum struck a muted chord and began running his finger up the fret board playing various notes on the High-E. And I asked a question.

I was under no circumstances allowed to go to the door. Chris would handle everything and that was that. Or at least, that’s what Chris said. Jon didn’t say much of anything beyond, “I’m so fucked right now. I’m so fucked right now. If they find out we’re smoking in here, I’ll get a charge and I won’t be a tenant and I won’t have a job anymore.” He shifted back and forth across the room, pacing in sporadic panic. His nervous feet trampled a Pabst can, spilling beer across the floor. And his fingers snapped in no particular time signature—the closest might have been sixteenths if he wasn’t such a wreck.

Chris grabbed Jon by the shoulders and stopped him mid-pace. With a brief, yet stern shake, he reassured Jon that the situation would be okay. He said that he would eliminate any threat outside. I tried to interrupt for a moment and speak logic. Chris told me to shut up and flicked the last card in his hand—a two of clubs. It grazed my ear and landed on Zachum’s shoe. Zachum picked up the card and flicked it back at Chris in laughter.

“I’ll break your fucking guitar and your mandolin if you don’t stop dicking around right now,” he said. Chris was in not in the same good humor.          

            I turned to Zachum. Our eyes met and I could sense fear in his glazed over stare. He turned to assess the situation again. But his eyes weren’t looking at Chris head-level. They were looking lower, but not too low. They were looking at the Glock dangling in its holster that rested on Chris’s hip. They were looking at Chris’s powerful right fist as it grazed over the holster. I only studied Zachum for a moment. My eyes were turned to Chris now too. But I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was staring at the same thing as I. That look of mutual fear, the way he stopped hitting notes on the high-E, the volume of Chris’s voice raising: we sat motionless.

            “Look, um, Chris it’s pr-probably the p-police. You can’t ju-just wave your f-f-f-fucking gun like that. Just let me--” Jon stuttered.

            “Bullshit, Jon! If they were police officers they would have said so. I know law enforcement. I’m in the Air Force. I know a citizen’s rights, goddamnit! They’re obligated to announce their presence.”

            Zachum finally got up from where he was seated. Without saying a word, he made his way to the door. But before he could look in through the peephole, Chris grabbed him by the back of the shirt collar, yanked him, and told him to sit the fuck down. Zachum did as he was told. Without apology, Chris continued to rant about how similar things occurred in “neighborhoods such as these,” and through personal experience “it’s always an intruder.”  

            Zachum faded into the sound of a soft A-minor chord, trying his very best to block out the altercation—the one that I could not take eyes and ears away from. With each reproach that Chris offered to Jon, Zachum’s A-minor grew louder and louder. I was the only person in the room that noticed. The blaring chord grew more frenetic and crazed with each strike of the pick. And when Chris drew his gun, took a fresh magazine of hollow point bullets from his pocket, and shoved it into the handle, Zachum dropped the pick, raking the chord with his fingers until it sounded like an A-Minor no longer. All that could be discerned was violent noise.

            “Chris! Put the fucking gun away!” I heard myself shout without thinking.

            “Up yours, you fat piece of shit.” Chris said, waving the gun. “I’m going to save your life and I don’t even get a thank you.”

            “Y-you know, Chris, maybe he’s right. The gun is probably unnecessary. J-just luh-look through the peephole…you know. Find out who’s there.”  Jon remarked nervously.

            “Jon! Quit being such a fucking bitch.” Chris said, shoving our friend. “I know what I’m doing. As long as I don’t point the gun at the person or make any threat, then we’re fine.”

            For an inexplicable reason, I lost it. My voice formulated words that I could not control. “Hey. GI-Joe,” I stood shaking, “Do you want to know the truth?! You’re a paranoid fucking nut. This isn’t Iraq and this isn’t the ghetto.”

Chris stared at me with livid intensity, his fingers gripping the cool handle more tightly. “And you look like a little bitch that’s compensating for something with that thing dangling around your waist all the time,” I continued.  “What are you lacking? Do you have a small dick? Is that what it is?”

I could feel the blood pulsating through my face, just as quickly as I could feel it withdraw itself, just as quickly as my face turned white, just as quickly as Chris pointed the gun at my head.

“Say another fucking word and I will end you.” He replied. His eyes turned to narrow slits and they did not relent.

Not a second later, I saw a dark blur. I heard the mock A-Minor stop. I felt some of the blood return to my face. Jon had Chris on the ground. He wailed on the behemoth with his small bony fists relentlessly, cursing him with every word that he could imagine. The gun fell from Chris’s hand and slid across the living room floor. It landed by Zachum’s shoe. He kicked it over to me and told me to hide it. Chris was beginning to wrestle his way out of Jon’s assault. Zachum noticed this and restrained Chris, before he could do anything drastic.

I stood with the gun in hand, watching the brawl. Chris squirmed out of Zachum’s headlock and kneed him in the gut. He fell to the ground, coughing violently, his ribcage pulsated inward and outward. Jon tried to fight more but to no avail. Chris merely grabbed him and tossed him to the floor.

“Jon, dude, I fucking love you like a brother,” Chris said sternly, pointing down. “But if you get up, I will stomp you.”

He made his way towards me. I pulled the chamber to make sure a bullet was engaged and without thinking pointed the gun squarely to his sternum.

“Take one more step,” I said with cool confidence, “and I will make sure your mother and father see you for what you really are—a corpse of a man with a hole planted squarely in the center of his heart.”

Chris blinked and flinched. He was unable to say a word. “I wonder, do they give military burials to fucking grunt reserves that died because they thought they were fucking big shots?” For the first time all night, a smile crossed my face. And I saw something scarier than Chris angry. A tear welled up in his left eye and he begged me softly, futilely like a woman or a child to put the gun away.  

All of the sudden, Zachum’s phone rang. He crept towards the couch and picked it up. It was Pizza Palace. They called to apologize for not being able to make their delivery, but the driver heard an altercation and she felt it best to leave.

Jon struggled to get to his feet and asked when he had ordered a pizza. Zachum had called while outside grabbing his guitar and mandolin. Neither of them seemed to pay attention to Chris and I. They merely sat down.

Chris hadn’t said a word during the few moments that passed. And the tears in his eyes were sliding down both of his cheeks at rapid pace. There were no sobs—just tears. Slowly, I looked around the room. Both Zachum and Jon began to watch the situation play out. I could not discern any real emotion on their faces. But the silence spoke like the voice of a meek child, “Please, please stop.”

I slid the bullet out of the chamber, unloaded the magazine, and dropped Chris’s precious belongings on the floor.

With slow shifts of our heads, we all stared into one another’s eyes. Each of us had an expression of tiresome fear wrought about them. They were alert, wide open. Yet, every mouth was shut tight. When the clock read 1:45 AM, words of little significance, small talk, began to formulate between us. A word was never spoken of the event after that night. For the first time in our young adult lives, we knew what it meant to be human: all of us the victimizers, all of us the victimized.    

A Break in the Clash of the Tight-ans For... Poetry--Some of My Own

So, I'm trying to get over my writer's rust. It's a bit difficult when you're writing and/or thinking in a scientific manner for about eight hours a day. I did a post for the blog at work today. Someone asked me, "Do I ever see myself working here again?" Well, at first I was torn about it. And then I watched the last lecture again. I also, read this:

Roll the Dice by Charles Bukowski


if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.


I realized upon reading this that I would have rather never lived at all than died knowing I didn't do everything to pursue my dreams...
And now for some of my own work:


The Best Way to Hurt
Silencing the silence of the city streets at four in the morning
She pulls down the smoked window frames; obscure portraits
Of pavement that tell a story of no cabs, no people, no escape.

She dreamt of fame. Now she dreams of sleep.
The flickering lights on the corner illuminate:
Plastic trash cans, beer bottles, and fallen leaves.
For a moment, she almost weeps.
But it would only ruin her mascara.

In the alleys, she could run, the sordid air undressing her hair,
Visions of midnight trysts with a dream man playing rapidly;
His speech clearly comprehensible and likely full of meaning,
Like all of her favorite lines from romantic motion pictures
And the calls she makes skyward as if half hoping for a response,
“Everywhere, I feel the underwhelming presence of absence.”

A glass of Merlot on the sill,
Sprouts like flora from whitewashed wood.
One window-rose
Lacking both provenance and suitor -
Acceptance is unrequited.

Acrid smoke rises from the chimneys, gutters, and power plants.
She extends what’s left of her heart. It is done in quiet.
After all, “the best way to hurt sometimes is not to make a sound.”





Shelf Life

Blankets of white wading to water in the spring,
A first love fleeing while days grow in duration,
Leaving faith behind as muddied snow subsides -
The sentiments of one man recalling adolescence.

But, oh, how I, his invaluable child, outlive him.
I have been trafficked in a box to a bookstore,
Watched as users and casual perusers passed by,
Waited for the desperate wanderer to notice;

I have ventured to the Atlantic Coast at sunset,
Sand blowing in my face with strength enough
To scare every man if they scarred just as easily.
If only they had as many layers of story to tell.

I have been tattooed with the thoughts of others;
Acquainted with each, they all inked a testimony.
I have evoked emotions from many broken people.

I have cuts in my deepest layers from being used
Too frequently like a child’s favorite stuffed toy.
Stains of ash water, beer, coffee, cigarette smoke
Cover me, each irrevocable.

I have felt the loneliest person on any given night
Cry themselves to sleep after getting to know me.
In our bond, humanity slowly becomes real at last:
They’ve not wept near anyone in their entire life.



A Minor Revolution Near Meadow Street 2007

Mellifluous dirty blonde dripped down your
Narrow clavicle; blowing in the wind’s direction
Like daffodils in early spring.

For an instant, I surveyed your face,
Taking note of two tenuous strands,
How they kissed at your frost bitten nose.
Oh, winter…



Holy Romans

Chariots trudged like blitzkrieg platoons,
Upon a gorgeous Friday noon.
Doves and gulls surfed Israeli skies
Like paper airplane flyer-bys.
A high rising sun shone to spotlight the display
Of three men dressed in cavemen cloths; their skin,
Marred and maimed, by Holy Roman blades. 

Crowds drank his blood in jubilation,
Mocking the prior Sunday’s celebration.
But that was five days prior–
Hanging out and over.
Anticipating an end to pain from
A weather-beaten vagabond savior.

Four books lost in too many translations -
A single thing has changed:
We’ve found and exalted his liquid flesh.
Reassuring each Sunday remains a holy hangover.
Guaranteeing Friday will always be Good.



I was inspired particularly by the last poem to go back to writing like it's life or death. I haven't written anything since. But it was also the only poem I've ever written that involved no editing. And it's one of three poems--two posted and one not--that I deem decent work I've done. Shaking off the writer's rust is extremely difficult. But I don't really have much of an option. I could compromise. But that would be mediocre. And there's nothing worse than mediocrity. I would rather die old, decrepit, a poet and novelist never read than settle for something less.  

So, the wilderness sabbatical will NOT consist of my usual drunk antics. I will focus all of my energy on recreating that spark that drove me create something I felt was magical, regardless of what anyone else thought. All of this may sound childish, but you know, when they tell you to grow up, they really mean stop growing.  

Bret "The Hitman Hart" versus "The Heartbreak Kid" Shawn Michaels: Clash of the Tight-ans Part 1

 First up, these are the stipulations for the bout: 1. I do a post about Bret Hart. Show some videos, pictures, rant a bit. 2. I do the same thing with Shawn Michaels in a second post. 3. I give a maybe not so brief summation of their rivalry in a third post 4. I dish out the ratings in the final post... PS: I really hope you don't torture yourselves by watching the first video all the way through-it just repeats.

So, without further ado, making his way to the...posts? from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, weighing in at 234 pounds, he is



Bret "The Hitman" Hart

Basic Info:
Full name: Bret Hart
Residence: Some place in Canada
Age: 53
Nicknames: "The Excellence of Execution," "The Pink and Black Attack." "The Best There Is, The Best There Was, And The Best There Ever Will Be," "The Hitman"
Finishers: The Sharpshooter and The Spike Piledriver...he also did a bunch of roll ups, bridges, and sunset flips to win matches.
Years Active in WWF: 1984-1997
Attire: pink and black with a leather jacket and cool aviator glasses
Sex life: He got married and had kids and things stayed that way during his career prime. So, it was probably pretty boring.

Now for the rundown:
Hart first got televised attention during the mid-80's when he teamed with his real life brother-in-law Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart. They were managed by "Mouth From the South" Jimmy Hart who was infamous for being loud and obnoxious using a megaphone to taunt opposing teams during their matches. Well, they kicked the mustachioed, hillbilly midget to the curb and became good guys. This is where the "Pink and Black Attack" thing came into play. As good and bad guys they won several tag team championships throughout the late 80's and early 90's. And by 91, when they finally split, Hart was on his way to solo success.

Hart won his first championship against Mr. Perfect in 91. He would later lose it to a guy managed by the redneck, circus freak. Hick with the sunglasses douses Hart in water and "Mountie" (had to do some research for that one) electrified him with a cattle prod. What the fuck type of referee let's someone get away with that? I thought this was real.

 


Not knowing much about the guy Mountie on the left, his name still somehow seems befitting. He really does look like the type of guy that would try to mount a dude from behind in the prison showers.

Anyway, Bret gets his belt back. Loses it again to the British Bull Dog who David Beckham definitely attempted to look like...too bad he never got the roid prescription. And after leaving his brother-in-law with the sloppy seconds belt, he goes on to beat Ric Flair in a World Champ Match. He would go on to beat the likes of Mr. Perfect, Ric Flair, Diesel, and Razor Ramone on multiple occasions. Eventually, Hart loses the belt to the sumo--Yokozuna--because some guy in a lingerie robe throws dust in his face. And then he gets his belt back again. Then, he starts a rivalry with his brother Owen.

Note: Owen Hart died on a pully, rope type device to get down to the ring from the ceiling. It was kind of like a cable escalator going down. Well, the cable broke and his chest caved upon impact with a turnbuckle. Owen Hart was a tight dude too. May he rest in peace.

Hart lost to his brother by a fluke at Wrestlemania. But he won the belt back later that night to the sumo. Some mean words were exchanged and this led to the brothers fighting in a cage.

Exhibit A:

"And that's how I kicked your leg out of your leg." Believe it or not, Owen Hart went to school to be an Orthopedist before dropping out to become a pro wrestler.

Exhibit B:


And what have we learned children? The Hitman doesn't play nice with family members that have blond mullets. Shit. If I had a direct family member that fashioned their hair into a mullet, I'd probably leave them hanging from a cage too. I'd save myself the embarrassment of sharing genetics with an American Gladiator in pink for at least a FEW minutes. I'll have you all know that before Owen died, he shortened his hair and cut down on the pink. At least he looked moderately presentable before falling...

Anyway, this senior citizen starts interfering in Bret's matches. He's probably dead from natural causes by now. This guy is like Pre-Hulkamania old. His name is Bob Backlund. They have a throw in the towel submission match. Bret's brother Owen has a towel and Davey Boy Smith their brother in law has a towel. If Davey throws the towel Bret loses, if Owen throws the towel Bob loses. Well, Davey Boy gets knocked out. Bret's getting choked. They hand the towel to the most biased person in the area--their mother--in Davey's stead and of course she throws it as soon as she thinks her baby's about to get hurt.

I thought this was called PROFESSIONAL wrestling. What's professional about having a 60 year old woman decide if her son is able to compete in a match? Of course, if he even gets so much as a scratch she's going to fly the white flag. This is probably the most untight move ever made by a mom on television. But Bret gets his belt back in another submission match without any judges.

And this is how he did it!


People's elbow < People's sit on you and contort your legs and spine.

If you ever want to wake someone up effectively and want to do it in a tight way, this method is Tom Tightmaster approved.

Hart would later go on to beat this dufus:

 I guess s&m was popular in the wwf at one point. I could've sworn I saw this dude at the broken castle once. Thank god he beat that guy. If Bret Hart lost to that dude I probably would've lost all respect. He would have lost tightness..in more areas than one, if you know what I'm getting at.

Anyway, then his rivalry started with Shawn Michaels. I won't get to that until post 3.

I will however talk about his bouts with Stone Cold and the "anti-america" hart foundation.

Everyone knows who Stone Cold Steve Austin is. Not everyone knows that Bret Hart kicked the shit out of him and made him pass out. Anyone that can pretty much destroy a roided up, drunk redneck, whose named after the city he's from, is a master of tightness in my book. Not only are you wiping out the uneducated, you're also wiping out the average idiot's hero.

Bret Hart: 5,000,000  Stone Cold: divide my collective GPA by 10 and you might have an accurate answer.

  Yes! This is a real mug shot. Stone Cold got arrested for domestic violence in 2002. Domestic abuse already sets you at negative points on the tight chain. Anyone that kicks the shit out of you and makes you bleed automatically gets tight points x20 for avenging your ludicrous crimes. Note: Even though Bret Hart kind of sat on Stone Cold when he did the sharp shooter, they were never sexual or in any sort of loving relationship.

And finally, The Anti-American Hart Foundation.



Bret gets +50,000 tight points for writing the blue prints that would later become parts of Obama's speeches. So, not only do we learn that he can kick a redneck ass, he can also outwit every blind patriot in the country. Props to Bret. Many people believed he was being honest. Not only did he do a great acting job, but he also made a killing off of everyone in this country that paid to get tickets for entry into an arena just so they could interrupt his speeches with USA chants.

Come to think of it, I'll add on another 50,000 tight points for making money in the best possible way: getting rich off of the people that hate you, all the while continuing to talk mad shit to them.

Well, that's about it for Bret Hart. You'll hear more from him in the final part of this trilogy.

And now, making his way to the ring...

 


     
 

Henry Rollins: Once a Badass, Always a Badass

Birth Name: Henry Lawrence Garfield
DOB: February 13, 1961
Occupations: Singer-Songwriter, Musician, Actor, Motivational Speaker, Comedian, Publisher, Activist

Ladies and Gentlemen: The video below showcases Henry Rollins as the singer for notorious 80's punk band Black Flag. Watch and see who gets the last laugh when some guy in the audience thinks he can get away with slapping him in the face...






 Yep...Rollins always tends to get the last laugh.

So, you may be wondering why I didn't write an introduction post to get this blog rollin' like Rollins. Well, an analysis of Henry Rollins is the best introduction possible for a blog centered around tight things...and maybe some funny life stories in the future. He is quite possibly the most reputable, notorious figure in underground music. Probably 90% of Americans have come across this man on some sort of television show or movie at some point. The sad thing is this: Half of the 90% that have seen him do not have any clue as to how BAD ASS this guy really is. Add the extra 10% that aren't in the know and you've got yourselves over half of the country's population completely oblivious to one of the most crucial dudes to ever enter the enter-tainment bizz. 

The face of all things tough, intimidating, and manly is practically all gray now and he still looks scary as shit. He has the eyes of a crocodile: volatile, destructive, and heavy with the anticipation for any foe: man, woman, child, or house hold pet, to make a wrong move. Sporting a pretty defined physique to boot, it's a wonder he didn't take up ass kicking on the big screen for a living..oh wait. He did...just not until after the whole punk rock thing. Maybe he should join UFC and take on Ken Shamrock in the AARP circuit? Shamrock's tough but I'd bet money on Rollins. He would definitely not hesitate to toss someone's head into the side of the cage. Does that result in disqualification?

Anyway, for all of those unfamiliar souls reading this, let me give you a quick run down of Rollins claim to fame and thereafter:

Rollins' first major exposure to the public began in the 80's New York punk rock scene. Long story short: Rollins was at a Black Flag show while they were on tour. Singer at the time wanted to switch to guitar. Rollins volunteered to go on stage and sing one of their songs and BAM! He goes from menial labor in D.C. to the west coast's first popular hardcore punk band frontman. No hippie on the west coast was safe for the remainder of the decade. Shit. Even LAPD was probably scared after he went on that workout program in 84 and got ripped. Rollins was infamous for dragging any fan that harassed him from the audience on stage and beating the living crap out of them. Obviously, the band members didn't take to this all too well...They later broke up in 1986 as a result of conflicting ideas for the direction of their music and Rollins attitude towards some of his fans.


Shortly before, Black Flag broke up Henry Rollins began pursuing solo musical endeavors with a backing band. And they were affectionately called the Henry Rollins Band. This garnered the mainstream media's attention quite a bit in the early 90's as he guest hosted on various MTV programs. Obviously, he had a knack for interviews and speaking on the mic even when he was in Black Flag as the above video would suggest.


The Henry Rollins Band's music was a cross between spoken word and the notorious howling, chaotic sounds performed by Black Flag. A few more guest stints on television shows and films (including a voice over in the worst Batman film ever made: Batman Beyond) and several albums later he got his own show on the Independent Film Channel. You guessed it... The Henry Rollins Show. Henry Rollins was all over the place in film and music during the 90's. His solo band was successful but had an ever changing line up. His cameos were cute, in their own fucked up Rollins sort of way. His hair got peppery. And he maintained his tightness--once a witty asshole, always a witty asshole. Now Rollins spends most of his time ripping on ultra-conservatives like skeletor mandroid Ann Coulter on his television program.



Final Score: Rollins: 200,000. Coulter: 0

Overall tight points for that one video alone: 20,000,000
10,000,000 for Henry Rollins being Henry Rollins another 10,000,000 for his complete and utter destruction of Ann the Man C-Block. Yeah, it was a little harsh. But let's not shit ourselves; someone had to say what most of us have thought since she first became noticed.

Actually, so many people thought that this particular video was funny that he got to do his own stand-up...


So: What's changed about Henry Rollins since before I was a zygote and his graying stage?

1. He stopped beating up fans...I still wouldn't put it past him.
2. He's more entertaining to listen to than watch perform.
3. He does humanitarian work.
4. He's friends with Matt Damon and Ben Affleck (seriously, look up the movie Feast. The terrible two produced it and Henry Rollins starred in it. If you like B-Type horror films with huge budgets, this is the movie for you. Moreover, he plays a motivational speaker in the film).
5. He hasn't been involved with anything musically since 2006. (He probably realized during his interview with Ozzy that he'd better quit while he's ahead or MTV will make a reality TV show poking fun at him).
6. He actually collaborated with the Flaming Lips on their latest album that came out this year. But can we really count anything that Henry Rollins does with the Flaming Lips as one of his musical endeavors?
7. His career in fiction as an early teen, dealing with matters not to be mentioned, has made a swift turn as he has released a series of travel journals.
8. Like a fine wine, he's only gotten tighter. Whether you're a Black Flag fan or not, there's no denying the guy was born to be a public figure beyond anything else. And let's face it--even as a fan of his punk music, I'll acknowledge it--the guy is a much better speaker than a singer.

Overall tightness: 8/10
Overall badass: 10/10

Henry Rollins is Mother detested & Tom Tightmaster approved.