day of rest

Waking up on a couch is okay if it's a friend's place and you've slept there a hundred times, usually with your boots still on. That saves time in the morning when you gather up your keys and phone and grab a cold coke out of the fridge and let yourself out into the cold dawn while your buddies sleep it off.

And by you I mean me.

Then across a Sunday quiet town, whistling along to the radio, nose pointed home to bed and cat and ice water for the next morning drymouth and clothes that don't smell like bonfire and friends who chainsmoke inside. I think I slept on my glasses.


Every kid is my brother here.

Got up to the bar tonight and had a beer, two, five, buddies buying, my night off. Over time, it's like we pass a 20 between ourselves, my rounds this week, yours next.

Same crowd, new night. Same steps: greet your way around the bar, down two, join the parade out to the back corner of the parking lot, wander back inside to the pitcher. A gal I know was dealing with unwanted advances, so I put my solid bulk between her and the fellow. Better to puke on yourself and pass out next to the building than to be that guy, eyes rolling in different directions, unable to understand that he's got no shot tonight.

And the horns roar out, 3rd 4th 5th wave ska, arms and legs flying around the pit in front of the band. The beat thumps into me and I find myself loud, chanting oi! oi! oi! oi! and catching grins, up on the toes of my boots. Another beer, the band ends, home again.


on inauguration day

I'm at work, digging ditches for the state of Florida.* I almost called in this morning so I could go downtown and watch the state I love get handed over to those who would plunder and pillage her, or at least catch the parade (hell, I love a parade). Instead, I took my shower, laced up my boots, and came into work. I might as well do my job while it still exists.

Tomorrow night I'm going to see a show at the Engine Room (Adolescents, Lower Class Brats, Love in Arms, and Ka Plaa). I need it. It's been a while since I got to bang shoulders with like-minded individuals while loud music crashes down on our heads. Once you get used to that kind of release, it becomes a necessity. Going without a good show feels almost like going without sex or solid food - sure, you can live that way, but why?

Will I make it to work Thursday morning? Well, there's a reason I didn't give in to that urge to play hooky today.

*I do not actually dig ditches for a living. 


the first working day of the new year

I'd rather be at home, wrapped up in quilts, with my mean-ass cat grumbling away on my belly. But were I both home and awake...

I'd rather be putting together the wire shelving I got for Christmas, now that I've realized what I plan to do with it. For years, I've kept all my exacto blades and markers and glue and other tools of the diy propagandists' trade in the top drawer of my living room dresser. It's handy, but I have to dig through it to find anything. But wire shelves + some sort of rubbermade bins purchased on the Target gift card I also got as a present = a way to keep all that shit at hand and ready to go. I just cemented this plan last night, now I'm chomping at the bit to put it into effect. Which leads to...

I'd rather be working on a new zine that I'm kicking around. But more on that later, because it involves getting a handful of people to write things for it. I don't know if you know this, but the majority of people I hang out with are a) funny as shit and b) convinced they can't write. "Just send me that story in an email," I tell them. "I will edit it to make you look good, but not change what you say. That's what I do." Herding cats, I tell you. Which leads us back to my first point.