Excerpt II

Currently Listening: “Battle Without Honor or Humanity” from “Kill Bill, Volume I,” “Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis” by Brand New, “World Is Static” from Jimmy Eat World, and “Winds of Angels” from June Carter Cash.

The lesser light to govern the night has provided the perfect temperature and atmosphere to enable me to spend a night at Coffee Rush, working on the book while the boy sleeps away after a fifteen-hour work day and my friend Arica sits a foot away writing out gift cards for the orphans she befriended in Mexico. Thus her work will provide shoes and school supplies to the ones we are instructed to look after, and my efforts will merely produce another excerpt.

From my current writing project, “Destruction & Peace from the Ramparts at Damascus Gates,” comes this excerpt from Chapter II, “There Was Once A Golf Course Here, But It Got Flooded Back in 1995″:

 _____

Ten minutes later we were on the other side of the square, walking through a red brick plaza with trees and grass and the occasional waterfall, and big, bright yellow canopies around the sitting areas, all of this to help make the homeless look more happy when they pass out in the shade. Around a corner we entered a massive building named “Grand Central Market,” and I walked to the back left and Issac and Norm followed. People, mostly Asians and Mexicans but a few Caucasians were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, a giant food bazaar packed with everything you could imagine — a market something akin to what you might find in some parts of Mexico or the Middle East. The fish table was next to the date table which was next to the spice table, and sawdust was on the floor and there were loud noises and shouts from every direction. The wooden beams were red and the ceiling was black and there were Mexicans in hair nets quickly filling orders from the Asians, and a Chinese man at a wok to my left, flaming the chicken and throwing it high up in the air. White and Latino businessmen in suits from the nearby Financial District were trudging through with white Styrofoam boxes in their hands and paper cups filled with 32 ounces of soda. I turned around once or twice to make sure that Norm was still with us; I knew I didn’t have to worry about Issac. I approached a counter where a middle aged Jew was sweating away at the grill. He recognized my face, but didn’t remember my name, which was okay. Faces are what count in Los Angeles, and the Jews are loyal to those they know.

“What’ll it be today?”

“Pastrami — Jewish.” If you say “Jewish” you can bypass all those extra questions that make a good Jewish pastrami not a good Jewish pastrami — such as serving it on sourdough or without thousand island dressing. Issac ordered the same and the man smiled, Norm ordered a hot dog and the man glared but obliged. Fifteen minutes later my order was up, and the man opened the box to show me my sandwich and swept his free hand in front of it with pride, and I nodded my head that yes, the sandwich was acceptable.

We took our sandwiches — and Norm’s hot dog — outside and sat on benches. The clouds that had broken up over Orange County earlier in the day remained undeterred for the most part over downtown Los Angeles, and a cool breeze helped to make the day nicer but not too cold. From where I was sitting I could see across the park down Figuroa Avenue to what used to be the Frontier Hotel. Back in years previous when I worked in the inner city, one of the girls I worked with, Becky, was scheduled to have a one-on-one meeting with one of the female users who often came to seek refuge at the woman’s branch of the Midnight Mission. The girl didn’t show. Becky asked me to accompany her on a walk in the general direction of the girls residence, the Frontier Hotel. We were hoping the girl had become engaged in conversation along the way, but no such luck. Out of concern for the girl, Becky decided against my protests to actually walk inside the Frontier; past the gang members sharpening knifes on the sidewalk, sitting on crates. On the second floor a large black man with a hoodie threw me up against a wall and held his switchblade to my throat, making me almost piss myself — did I piss myself? – while warning me to “get the fuck out of here.” We did and Becky never apologized or admitted her wrong, and I never again agreed to accompany her to someplace of danger. The Frontier was now renamed and was set to open soon as high-end downtown lofts, and the old coffee shop beneath it where the drug money was often laundered was being reopened as a Starbucks.

“What the fuck?”

“What?” Norm looked at me quizzically.

“The city had changed so much.”

“Here we go again.” Issac leaned back and took a deep breath. He had already reminded me in the car ride over here — down the I-10 West somewhere around Joshua Tree — that he had been hearing my stories of the “tough times” in Los Angeles for years and they were getting old. He had once been a missionary for three years to South Africa.

– You don’t hear me going around telling stories all the fucking time about how great South Africa was, or what I saw there.

– Maybe South Africa wasn’t as interesting as Los Angeles.

–As if.

–Maybe you just don’t know how to tell your stories. Maybe you got hurt there by what you saw and you’re afraid to admit it.

–Fuck you.

–I’m not afraid to admit it.

–I don’t have to make everyone else feel my pain, and feel my fear. You’re selfish.

–It’s our pain. And yes, I am selfish. So fuck you.

“Let him tell the story,” Norm was looking at Issac like Issac had just crossed a line of rudeness.

“No. I was just thinking. No story.”

I finished my sandwich and walked across the street, directly with no crosswalk, to the gate for the old Angel’s Flight railway. The climb up Bunker Hill to the Library Tower is tough, so this was built years ago to expedite the process for pedestrians. When I was here in years past the cars were always here, one on top and one on bottom of the hill, but now the cars were gone and the tracks sat large and empty. I climbed the stairs, about seven or eight stories of them, to the top of Bunker Hill. A Starbucks was built into the side of the Library Tower and the ridge had been rebuilt into an amphitheatre named California Plaza, and I ordered black coffee and sat up there by myself, and held my beloved city in my stare. Fuck all of them.

Forever Changed

A sad day for Huntington Beach, and it’s backpackers, surfers, and explorers:

http://www.ocregister.com/ocregister/homepage/abox/article_1279542.php

Quote from article:

HUNTINGTON BEACH –The former Huntington Beach Hostel – a haven for surfers and international travelers seeking low-cost rooms close to the beach – has sold for $1.8 million.

The new owner was not disclosed Monday.

“It won’t be the international hostel anymore, but we didn’t want to see the building torn down,” said Kevin Yarter, an investor who will oversee renovations of the Eighth Street property for the owner.

Possibilities include a bed and breakfast or woman’s retreat, he said.

Residents and business leaders say the loss of the city’s only hostel could make it more difficult for international travelers and students to afford to stay in Surf City.

“The sad news is that our low-price accommodations are slowly disappearing,” said Doug Traub, president of the Huntington Beach Conference and Visitors Bureau. “That just means that for international groups with very modest means, it’s becoming very difficult to stay in Huntington Beach.”

Known until earlier this year as the Colonial Inn, the hostel had 38 dormitory-style beds and catered to Europeans, Australians and surfers. Guests paid $22 a night.

It closed July 31. Fullerton has the only remaining hostel in Orange County.

I know I was bummed when I heard the news of its sale, and of the fire, and it’s nearing closure — but what can you do? Places that are important. Places that have memories.

“Destruction & Peace” Excerpt I

Currently Listening: “Bang Bang” by Nancy Sinatra, “Hate Me” by Blue October, “Sunday Morning Coming Down” by Johnny Cash, and “Jerusalem” by Matisyahu.

So … in an effort to make myself feel productive and to get some stuff out there that I am tired of merely doing nothing more then gathering dust on my laptop(s), I have decided to post one excerpt a week from my current writing project, “Destruction & Peace from the Ramparts at Damascus Gate.”

Each except will be from a consecutive chapter. When you read this, you may read of someone named Will. That is me. I am going by my full name, William J. Nash-McAdam, for this and all (mostly) all future writing projects. That is okay to do, since this book is a non-fiction personal narrative. Enjoy.

This excerpt is from Chapter I, “The Gun Powder.”

“I don’t know, William. You wanted to tell me about it.”

“Yes — because that’s where it began. The depression. That’s what triggered it.”

“Bring this home for me. I’m not understanding. How did the car wreck make you depressed?”

We both lean back in our chairs as we were at the start of the conversation. I am frustrated with counselors who have to ask more questions then they answer. I want to walk out, walk out on this old fucking Jew who is charging me Gentile fees but not answering my questions.

“The car wreck didn’t make me depressed. It was a trigger. Everything before that had been gun powder, and this was the fucking trigger that shot it all off, but it wasn’t a violent blast, it was a slow burning. I was forced to die slow.”

“What had been the gun powder? Tell me about the gun powder.”

“Everything — every fucking thing had been the gun powder — friends, family, Church, life, society I don’t know if you can appreciate this but ” I learned forward and wiped my hands on my face and sighed deeply through my own humidity. “I could not accept who I knew I was.”
“You could not accept being a homosexual, having these feelings, because it goes against what everything you have seen and what everyone has told you.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“So the two are intertwined.”

“You know maybe. Maybe they are. I’m sure in some psycho-analytical way, they are. But I don’t think my orientation triggered how I feel, doctor, I don’t. I think society and everything else around me triggered it. I think I was fine, I came that way.”

“So if you believe you are fine, then why would you take what the others say to heart?”

“Because I’m a romantic doctor, I’m egotistical and romantic.”

The old Jew laughs. “I’ve had months of counseling with some people before they admitted to me that they were egotistical! Hah! There’s some progress!”

“It’s not progress, I’ve always been honest in that way with myself.”

“But not honest with yourself about the larger things. See, most people are dishonest about the small things in their life but completely transparent with the larger things, so that’s how they can go through life. They have their foundation in order. You, William, are the opposite. You are dishonest about the large things but completely honest about the small. You don’t have a foundation, and it caught up with you.”

“Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome. You built your house on sand.”

“Interesting you would quote Jesus.”

“You know the Scriptures.”

“You’re Jewish.”

“Jesus was a Jew.”

“And what did Jesus build his house on, doctor?”

“Sand. Stone. Depends. The Romans would have said sand, the Jews would have said water, the Gentiles would have said stone.”

“Which element do you go with?”

“Water. Turned into wine. A sweet discourse in human history that is a taste one has to acquire or appreciate. Perhaps Jesus gets better with age.”

“But my house is sand.”

“Quicksand. You’re not smart enough to find the stable soil. You cast yourself among weeds then got angry at the world when it didn’t water you.”

“I didn’t ask to be watered.”

“No, maybe you did not. Nonetheless, you got angry when it didn’t happen, that’s what you’re telling me now. Whether you born gay or made yourself that way, or if the world made you that way, there seems to have been a level of acceptance on one hand and a level of rebuttal on the other.”

“I feel as if I was lost in the inevitable. Have you ever been lost in the inevitable, doctor?”

“I’m going to die. That’s being lost in the inevitable if you ask me.”

“We’re all going to die.”

“But you wanted one part of yourself to die young? But you also wanted to be okay with it living?”

Banner Pic #3

This photo was taken during Saturday Market, this past May, in Portland, Oregon. Justin, Sparkles, and myself were bumming around downtown and spent several hours first up at PSU, walking around their Farmer’s Market. We then spent several hours in an adjacent neighborhood, exploring the weekly Saturday Market by the Skidmore Fountain. And here we are waiting for a train.

Downtown Blood

The needle pierced my skin for the third time, and I sighed at the attempts but grinned and said words of encouragement so as not to make her feel so bad. The room was colder then the last room I was in, but it was quiet, and Matchbox Twenty no longer came over the speakers. Her knee went out as she was still holding the needle in my arm, and the tip moved inside the skin and the sting was accompanied by a bit of blood. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m going to try your other arm.”

“Okay.” She tried for the second time in my left arm.

“I still can’t find a vein, but we have to send in your blood in for the tests.”

“I know.”

“I can stick the needle in the top of your hand, or your wrist, but that will really hurt.”

“I prefer not.”

“Well, we can send you to the lab next door, just right outside past the next light on Dobson. They’ll hopefully be able to tap you then we can run your blood from the tests we need. Is your wife waiting for you in the lobby?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Your girlfriend? Anyone?”

“No. I came alone. My boyfriend is at work.”

“Oh. You’re gay.”

“That’s right.”

“Well in that case we’ll just run a few more tests on your blood.” This is said with a smile, and she then puts gloves on for her last attempt at drawing my blood before sending me on.

A half an hour later I sat in a room full of people awaiting blood tests, plasma services, liver biopsies and an array of other procedures. To my knowledge, I was the healthiest in the room. But who am I to talk when I am awaiting a blood test? They called my name.

“William McAdam?”

“Yes?”

“Do you go by William McAdam?”

“Sometimes. I go by Jeff Nash.”

“Your insurance card says Jeff McAdam.”

“Of course.”

“Is this you.”

“I am me.”

“Sir, we don’t have alot of time.”

“My apologies ma’am. My name is William Jeffery-Nash McAdam (formerly William Jeffery Nash-McAdam). Here is my i.d. card.”

Back in the office, the nurse sits me down. Her accent is tells me she hails from Jersey.

“Why are you here?”

“They couldn’t find a vein.”

“What? What the fuck? There’s a fucking vein right there, are they fucking blind?”

“Perhaps.”

She sticks a butterfly into the one untapped vein in my arm and the blood makes its way up a tube and she subtracts three vials from my body.

“All done. You’ll have your test results back in seven to ten days.”

“Thanks.”

I return Justin’s call outside the lobby. I drive home from Chandler, and take off my bandage and cotton upon entering the bedroom. I spend the rest of the night in downtown Phoenix, and end up walking slightly ahead of the group by accident, my mind somewhere else in the dirty city streets and bright city lights of the inner cities that I love so much. After dinner, Arica and I walk to the corner of Roosevelt & 7th to kill time, away from the noise of Arkansas created inside. Later, I sit on the curb with a beat poet, the same beat poet whom I say on this curb with while we chatted and took photos with Joy Electric almost a year ago.

Back then things were still a struggle, or maybe. Things were still confused. The poet and I concluded the conversation with lunch at a dim sum cafe in south central Phoenix the next day. I tell him where I am now. He listens, but shakes his head, and his opinion could have been echoed verbatim by countless others. Where is the line between a challenging friendship and cutting ties with those who don’t understand? Where is the line between love and judgement?

I know the answer, but the answer will upset many.

The next night I meet with my personal trainer, then return with Justin to downtown Phoenix, and further explore the city lights, and we recap a night and have conversation that only we seem to understand.

The city nights are now cold, and the palm trees reek of home.

This Is Why I’m Not Answering My Phone

I’m up and down, pacing back and forth. I’m trying to connect what I wrote yesterday with what I wrote last November, because, damnit — that’s where the book is at right now. I can’t think. I’m at Coffee Rush and I can’t focus. Mainly because I’m trying to pull back up memories of a time that I was extremely depressed and then trying to write about them. I feel like throwing up. Why am I doing this? Because’s it’s in me, and I need to get it out. I need to fucking get it out, and it hurts. But I need to get it out. I need to write a story, I have to — it’s in my blood. I do not have a choice. And that story must be true, must be honest. It must be real. And nothing’s real it seems, that doesn’t hurt.

I want to say that I write this to help others. That I am doing this not for me — but I’m doing it for others who are where I have been, and so that I can’t help them. So they can know they are not fucking alone. So they can feel vocalized. So they, and maybe The Others, can understand.

But in honesty, I am doing this because I am selfish and I need to get this done. I am almost done with this book project, and it’s almost out, but not quite yet. It stings. I still feel like I want to puke, but I can’t, it won’t help. Only thing that will help is the true voice of writing that is true to the Irish — bare your fucking soul and slay it on the table. And only then will you write from a place of honesty, only then will it be worth the time, only then will it be what you need.

This book will not be the weak attempt at vocalizing confusing that the last book was. “Churches, Pubs & Hostels” was written from a place that was still trying to be consumed by the quiet. It was written from a place that was hidden, that was masked, where I wouldn’t let you see inside. In the end result it was limp and confusing and not what it needed to be. It was a long cause and effect essay that never mentioned the cause.

This book is different. Fuck opinions, this book deals in honesty. This book deals in raw honesty, and I do not expect everyone to agree with it. It is not an angry book — not by any means — but it is a slow, honest, complete book. And the slowness it takes is painful. Why do you think I don’t write for weeks at a time? Why do I think I don’t write for weeks at a time? If I spent as much time writing as I did pacing the book would be complete, but it would not be whole.

Only when it’s whole will it be worth the time, and only then will it be what I need.

Procrastination

It was my goal on Friday, with the long weekend ahead of me and Justin out of town, to get my paper (that is due Monday) done on Saturday morning, and then spend the rest of the weekend working on my book.

I am sad to say I have accomplished neither so far, and it is Monday. What have I done you may ask, besides the Friday night/Saturday morning downtown Phoenix adventure? I have slept in. I have hung out with my parents, cooking them dinner one night and having Pei Wei the next). I have filled out two MySpace surveys. I have reconnected with a couple old friends that I have not spoken to in awhile. I have been involved in random conversations with strangers at Coffee Rush. I spoke at length with Mo, the owner. I spoke at length with Crispy, Beau, Ryan Patrick, and had shorter conversations here and there with Sirena and Jon Paulin — being as I just ran into Jon while sitting here at Coffee Rush (he just got off shift from Jamba Juice next door).

Speaking of running into people, this has been quite the weekend for such. I ran into an old acquaintence just now, Ryan, from East Valley Bible Church. He is actually sitting at the table behind me as I type this. He told me he just got married, is finishing up with school, and bought a house. He asked me how my life is. I tell him I live with my boyfriend in an apartment, am in school, and just bought a mocha. This weekend at First Fridays, I ran into Jakob from my old Central Christian high school Bible study at Tranzylvania, ran into Matt Picone (of Starbucks fame) and his new boyfriend at First Fridays, and L’il John from Central Christian / Chicago, and learned he has just relocated back here to Phoenix from Chi-Town with his girlfriend. Of course, Corey has to ask if his girlfriend is pregnant. John says “no, but she gets that alot.” Smooth.

So I just spoke with Justin and because of flood waters — a deep creek seperates his parent’s house from the 87 –

– break for scene from last time I was at his parents during a storm -

“The Carters called!”

“And?”

“The creek’s flooded.”

“The creek’s flooded?”

“The storm. The Carters can’t get across, we may have trouble getting the family back to town tonight.”

From STAGE RIGHT, Michael Landon enters with an oil lamp at a dripping wet, wide-brimmed hat. “

–end scene–

–because of these flood waters he’s staying one more day. I do miss the boy, but in all honesty I couldn’t have spent much time with him this evening as I HAVE to get my report done tonight, so nothing lost nothing gained.

I then attempted to fill in this evening’s plans with whatever may be appropriate to do once my essay is completed. But Crispin got called into work, and Tim threw his back out and isn’t answering his phone. I refuse to call Brenden, Ethan, Grant, or Arica again as they all owe me calls back.

Fuck it. Perhaps I really should just get on that book I’m supposed to be writing …

Banner Pic #2

This photo was taken one day when I was bumming around Jerusalem solo. I had spent most of my time, even when I was with Jamie and David, in the Christian and Arab Quarters of the Old City. This particular day I had wandered from my youth hostel back down King David Street to the Jaffa Gate — and instead of going through the Jaffa Gate to the New City as I usually did, I made a left at the plaza and begun exploring the Armenian Quarter. The Armenian Quarter is what you might consider the ghetto of Old Jerusalem — as I felt a bit unsafe there, but only because of the very militent fliers posted onto the walls, the chain link fences with barbed wire, and the gates on the windows. The people there seemed very — hard. They seemed like people who had been beaten and now were just angry.

This was all in stark contrast to the Christian and Arab Quarters — the Christian Quarter having been a shrine to pious atttitudes, rituals, and shrines divided by denominations, and the Arab Quarter being home to the barters and slick salesman but also the very kind runners of hookah establishments and juice and schwarma stands.

After exploring the Armenian Quarter and Mount Zion, just outside the city gates, I went back in the Old City and walked the ramparts to the Jewish Quarter, which was mostly closed up to the fact that it was Shevat, their holy day. The Burn House Museum was closed, as was a few other points of interests. I truly had no idea where I was in the city and was completely lost — but I kept walking deeper and deeper through the tattered walkways of the city, thinking about all those that have come before and what it must liked to have lived there.

I know I was nearing the City of David and Mount of Olives, only because I could see the spire of the Church of Transfiguration in the distance. Then, suddenly, the Jewish Quarter came to an abrubt stop and I found myself on an old staircase ledge, starring out at the Wailing Wall, the Temple Mount, and the huge amount of above-ground crypts covering the Mount of Olives just behind it.

I took this picture about halfway down the staircase, before I entered the courtyard of the Western Wall silently and respectfully, and stood among the praying Jews. The wooden ramp in the picture is what is used to access the top of the Temple Mount on non-holy days, and is how you can come to stand at the front entrance of Dome of the Rock and walk above the Western Wall.

The tunnels just to the left of the ramp are how you get to the Wall from the Arab Quarter, and is how we came to the Wall the first time. It really is intense and dramatic standing here, looking out upon this scene, knowing that this very place has been the scene of such destruction, prayer, torment, and war since the beginning of time.

We’ll Never Stay the Same

I left work promptly at 4pm yesterday … and between getting caught up in conversations with my manager, and then my coworkers in getting the details of the evening worked out, didn’t actually roll off campus until almost 5pm. After getting on the incredibly slow-moving I-10, I called Arica to see if she wanted to come tonight, and also placed calls to Tim and Crispy, and they all passed, but KT Lewis finally agreed with an enthusiastic heart.

Once on my beloved US 60, I got off at Dobson and swung by Fiesta Mall to try to find a new black shirt for work, but was unsuccessful in finding one I liked. Hot Topic had a decent shirt, but some of the words written onto it were way too emo … something like “There are lots of problems in the world, and all of them are mine.” Yeah. I left Fiesta Mall empty handed, but swung by Starbucks to get some tea for the slow drive home. There I ran into Ambie, my good friend from back in the day who moved to West Hollywood last year to pursue working as a finance officer for a major record label. She told me she had tempoarily moved to Valencia, but was now back down in West Hollywood. She also told me of the drama that was created recently when Burbank’s 818 area code was split into the new 661 area code (which my friend Beau, from Santa Barbara, also now has), and I mesmerized her with stories of when the 213 split into the 310 in Los Angeles and the protests — yes, protests — that were held when the 714 was split in half by the new 949 (the former prestige of the 714 OC area code has now come to mean the ghetto north county of Anaheim and Huntington Beach while the 949 was become synonmous with Newport, Laguna, and even Irvine. Tustin is still the akward stepchild that really fits into neither, but sorely wants to be of 949 class but is stuck with 714 phone book stereotyping).

I finally got home with the intent of taking a good nap before we ventured out to the sparkling lights and gothic dungeons of downtown Phoenix for the evening, but ended up getting caught up in television, then filling out a myspace survey, then fielding calls from friends about where we are going to meet for the evening (making me wander why in the hell the phrase “Stapley Starbucks at 8:30″ is so difficult to comprehend). I then showered, dressed in my finest denim jeans (the same pair I always wear), a styling black button down (the same one I always wear), used massive amounts of hair gel to fully bring out my oft-not-used faux hawk haircut, and liberal amounts of black eyeliner, and I must say, “damn, I do Goth well.” Off to Stapley, and while I waited for everyone else, spent some time catching up with Ricky and Neil, as well as barista KayeLynn, who reminded me with happy smiles how much she was in love with my boyfriend, and then hugged me saying, “You’re okay, too!” Thanks dear!

We drove out to Phoenix — and it felt so liberating passing the off-ramp for Sky Harbor and subsequently UOP — and the city looked different through the passenger’s seat. The palm trees were waiving and downtown curved in the distance as we sped along the 10, and the night — our Friday night in a car full of friends blasting acoustic Brand New, Jimmy Eat World, and Nine Inch Nails — the night seemed filled with an air of excitement and invincibility. My mind briefly drifted back to two years ago when “The Perks of Being A Wallflower” was the best book to read and how Charlie and his friends felt “infinite” driving into downtown Los Angeles late one night. This evening was significant in that I didn’t wish to be driving into Los Angeles, Seattle, or even Portland or Tel Aviv for that matter — Phoenix and the night before me was what brought my happiness and my satisfaction.

In downtown we bummed around Roosevelt and ventured into the galleries — including the one that the City of Phoenix condemned half of last month, and the other ones that closed early now — 8pm — because city fire code recently reemed the owners for exceeding maximum occupency every First Friday (so long Eye Lounge and The Modified). We crossed Roosevelt and watched two young, semi-nude college students dance in a window with Samurai swords to pounding Japanese music until a cop came by and warned them of indecent exposure laws.

An hour hour later we searched up and down Garfield, Central, and Roosevelt for the ravers, the flame throwers, the sword-swallowers, the bands-in-the-back-of-pickups and the Goth magician who would contort his body out of 400 pounds of steel chains. We searched for the First Fridays that we knew of last summer. We didn’t find a single one — but we did find plenty of officers to check the contents of any styrofoam cups we might be carrying (nevermind our flasks of vodka poured into a cherry icee), and every other car that passed down the main drag behind Westward Ho was a patrol car.

Oh — at last! — at last! — c’mon — a crowd has gathered! A street performer! We spent twenty minutes watching a man walk on glass and break out handcuffs, perform tricks of physical skill and entertain the crowd with quick quips. But then three police cars pulled up and six cops in riot gear flooded out and surrounded us on the dirt lot of Roosevelt & 1st Street with our Goth makeup, as one officer approached the magician and asked to see his performance permit, which he was without. We were then commanded by the fine folks of Phoenix Police to remain where we were, and that we were all to be cited for our disorderly gathering. The men in riot gear then huddled, and many of us slipped back onto the quiet and over-regulated city sidewalks while scenes from “V for Vendetta” and the government’s most recent faux “Oh Look! Terror Thwarted! Aren’t You Lucky You’re Protected? Oh By the Way, No More Toothpaste on Airplanes” played in our heads.

But then we were all freed and our lemon drop martinis consumed and we could be free to gather around and fucking dance. And talk. Within the confines of Tranzylvania, we watched as the clock struck midnight and the red-and-black decor gave way to Underworld Goth, and the vocals of Trent Reznor were followed by the chords of Tool and the warning pleas of an over-governmentalized society were sung by Marilyn Manson; and the warnings fell on anything but deaf ears.

This Week

I don’t really know where to begin with this week, so here it goes:

• –Last weekend I worked overtime on Saturday, to make up for the previous Saturday that I tried to go to work, but my front passenger tire blew out on U.S. 60 while I was going 60mph. My spare was also flat, somehow. Four hours and almost $200 later, my car was mine again.

• –I spent some time writing at Coffee Rush Saturday night. At least I tried to write. I got some organizational work on the book done, merging what I had written on Justin’s laptop with what I had written on my new laptop with what I had written last November on my desktop at the House on Mill.

• –I forgot to bring my ipod and earphones with me to Coffee Rush, which resulted in my work being constantly interrupted by evangelicals who wish to make C.R. their own personal reaping ground for souls by the way of silly and rather used-carsalesman-esque approaches and handy booklets. For example: “Hey slick, you sure do type fast. You doing a school report or something?” If it’s not the evangelicals, it’s the pyramid-scheme-vitamin-pill-hey-sell-this-product-to-your-friends-and-families middle agers, who, in all honesty, just creep me the fuck out.

• –On Sunday, Justin and I mutually had the complete day off (a RARE occurance), so we spent it sleeping in, and I also caught up on a bit o’homework. We also went to Wallace Cinemas at Gilbert & Warner to catch “Pirates of the Carribean 2.” It was cool that it was only $10 for two tickets, but we were completely surrounded, on all four sides, by large Mormon families. When one family whispered to their children about US, we kindly whispered back about THEM. Somehow the whole scene looked like a lost scene from “SLC Punk.”

• –On Monday, I resumed my working rituals as did Justin. Nothing exciting happened most of the week.

• –On Tuesday we attempted to watch “The Boston Strangler” that just came out at Hollywood Video. This movie was made so cheaply that it didn’t even have a DVD menu … just started playing. We didn’t pay no mind to it, and I spent most of the movie doing homework.

• –On Wednesday my mom called me at work, she had gotten bit by a brown recluse spider and needed some accompaniment and a ride to urgent care. So I leave my cubicle in south central Phoenix and proceed to whisk away to Gilbert, but luckily a kind DPS officer pulled me over on the U.S. 60 going through Tempe, and proceeded to kindly warn me about the implication of driving 82 in a 65mph zone. I explained to him my speeding and apologized, but he was insistent on kindly assisting me with the scheduling of a court date. Not wanting to leave me in a bad situation, however, he also gave me the option of mailing some money directly in or attending defensive driving school.

• –Luckily the cop did not notice I was neglecting in buckling my seat belt.

• –After the kind officer released me, I pulled back into traffic only to find that I had run over something, and it had become lodged under my car, creating sparks on the pavement as I drove. Knowing the piece of shit that my Pontiac is and not wanting it to burst into flames, I pulled back over (still on the far left-hand side of the freeway), and attempted to free the stuck piece of plastic/metal. Keep in mind that in order to do this, I had to lay on my stomach DIRECTLY IN FRONT of my car, and reach under as far as possible, while cars going at 70mph were two feet away. I could not help but dread the cell phone talking or make-up applying driver who could have easily taken me out. Needless to say, I made haste of the project.

• –Got my mom to urgent care, got her meds, then had a very enjoyable lunch with a very good conversation. I liked that.

• –Spent some time at my parent’s house talking with my grandmother and playing with their new puppy, Cocoa. Pit bull puppies are fun.

• –Returned to the apartment, very tired and drained from the day. Noticed we were out of vodka. Damnit. Justin asked me to go buy some from Walgreens. I told him no, it was too humid. I told him to go buy some from Walgreens. He told me no, he was too tired. So we watched South Park for awhile.

• –Later — still Wednesday evening — Justin’s swords came in the mail, as did some new posters for our room. We spent some time reorganizing the room to make way for our new decorations.

• –Thursday morning, after visiting Justin at Starbucks, I got back on the 60 to go to work. During the turn onto the freeway from Stapley, a large white diesal truck swerved into my lane, running my off the road and my car into a chain link fence. That was fun.

• –Thursday, after work, I had some time to kill before I was due at Arica’s house for dinner. I decided to drive to Headquarters over by ASU to look at some posters for the room, and to get zome boba tea from Ewok’s across the street. I forgot it was game day over at ASU (I don’t really follow this kind of stuff), so traffic sucked big time, but I really did enjoy being down around Mill Ave/ASU again. I lived down there for awhile, and miss the atmosphere. It is quite funny though, watching all those suckers pay $10 for parking, while I know all the good, free, secluded parking spaces. I had to walk a bit to get where I wanted, but again, I missed it, so it brought back good times to walk around Forrest Street, past the e-joy lougne (where much of “Avenue of the Giants” rough draft was done, as well as the final draft of “CPH”), and the old site of Long Wong’s.

• –The Headquarters didn’t have any good posters this time, but the guy said they were revamping the poster selection tonight and to check back tomorrow. I bought a pack of cloves though, just for the hell of it. It’s been awhile.

• –I walked across Forrest to go to Ewok’s, but it apparently went out of business. This sucks. This place was the best boba/soup/sandwich joint in the area, and I spent a good amount of time here. Before I moved to Mesa, I would even bring my schoolwork down here and study. Another loss of a stellar independent business in Tempe. Seriously, this almost made me as sad as when Java Jungle closed down.

• –I walked back to my car and decided to drive back down Mill and take Rio Salado Parkway into downtown Mesa, but of course the traffic still sucked because of the Sun Devil game. And I have to mention — am I the only one that thinks that the Sun Devil’s new advertising style is just — ghetto? I would expect this kind of Ebonics-style sloganing from Compton Community College or any given Raider’s game — “This here’s Sun Devil country” — but dude, we’re in Tempe, and most of your team is white. No one is fucking scared of you. Just play good football. Whatever.

• –Since Arica paid for the homemade Thursday Night Meal last time, I volunteered to pick it up, and we got Stouffer’s lasanga (didn’t have time for COMPLETE homemade) and I bought all the ingrediants to make Ceaser salad from scratch. Plus, what would an Italian meal be without a nice bottle of chianti?

• –I hung out with Arica and Nikki for a bit, Ryan and Tim got there late, and Brandon, Andrea, and Randy were all at the ASU game. Jee was visiting with his girlfriend from Portland, Arica’s roommate, Nikki, was absente, Justin was passed out at home from work, and Token was never anyone we knew in the first place. In short, I didn’t stay too long, as I was tired and wanted to get home to Justin before it was too late, since he was leaving Friday morning for his parent’s place in Payson for the weekend.

• –Got home Thursday, saw that my sword came came in the mail … a black and red Samurai sword. This thing is badass. I shall post a picture soon.

• –Friday morning came way too early. I said goodbye to Justin, pretty bummed that I wouldn’t see him for the rest of the weekend. I was going to go up to his parent’s with him, but elected to stay here to work on my book, catch up on school work, and catch up with a couple friends.

• –This morning at work I am all done with this weeks work, save for returning a few voicemails / emails. Score! At work, our manager, Katie, brought us in bagels from Einstein’s … tasty treat. Some of us, including Corey and Sirena, also began planning tonight’s trip out to First Friday and the goth-industral club Tranzylvania. VERY excited about tonight, as I rarely get to hang out with the very cool people I work with outside of work.

• –Made plans to hang out with my friend Crispy on Saturday for a little while, been a long time since I’ve talked with him.

• –Made plans for homework and book work this weekend, too.

• –And finally … justin comes back Sunday, and I have Monday off. Yay for paid holidays!!!