One of my favorite bands was in town playing a couple sets at a downtown club. Coby was my roommate and he had to close the kitchen at the rib joint he worked at. In some ways that was just as well, for it was often a chore to take my friends into public with me, especially Coby, a sub-human degenerate that either lost, broke, destroyed, or catastrophically demolished everything he came in contact with. But in other ways it was a shame, because going out with a degenerate buddy is better than going out with no buddy at all. All of my buddies at this time were degenerate miscreants. I fit in well. But none of them would be joining me on this evening, a night where my actions would prove depraved beyond even my peers' reprehensible standards.
The dynamics always change for me when I go out partying by my lonesome. I mindfuck myself to the point where I become uber-conscious of the fact that I am there alone. This is especially true when I see people I am only semi-acquainted with. Do I rush over in attempt to join their party and alleviate the "flying solo" demons? Or do I play it safe and wait to be invited over? Normally, I never know what to do in those situations and those funny feelings can linger like a disease. Not coincidentally, however, this disease is easily treatable with the elixirs dispensed at the bar. See, once I get all boozed up, those kind of decisions just flow right over me and before I know it I feel like I am the center of attention. So when I am by myself I tend to pound the drinks at a level that would make the great alcoholics of the past proud. The faster I can drown out my day-to-day insecurities and go swimming in a altered state, the better.
On this night I was determined that there would be nary a uncomfortable moment from the instant I walked into the club. To this end, I made an early evening trip to the Idaho State Liquor Dispensary. I was but 22 years old at the time and still reveling in my newly acquired freedom to browse amongst such a variety of substances to abuse. After I enjoyed a random and thoughtless selection process, I proudly showed my ID to the clerk and walked out with a fifth of some moderately priced gin. On the way home, I had the bottle open before I hit the first stoplight. If you find that disturbing, you had best cease reading this story immediately, because that is just the tip of the iceberg where horrifically irresponsible driving decisions are concerned.
When I got home, I still had several hours to kill and I thought it best to let the gin chill a little while in the freezer. I sat down and watched some TV. I flipped through the channels. There wasn't much on. I looked at my watch. Hmmm.....several hours to kill. What to do? I managed to hold out for another five minutes while I distracted myself with a cigarette and then I bolted towards the still room temperature booze. I put down a few shots and turned on some music. The music was grooving and was very danceable, but I didn't quite feel like dancing yet. I took some more shots. By golly, I was gonna feel like dancing soon enough!
The next couple of hours are naturally a blur for me to recall, but I have been able to draw some conclusions as to what occurred. Evidence I can clearly remember includes an empty bottle, blaring music, piney scented sweat dripping from my brow and livid downstairs neighbors. From this I concluded that I had spent those two to three hours bolting a fifth to my head and playing a dance-dance-party solitaire style.
(to be continued)
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
1980-1984 (cont'd)
Other memories from that era include:
Photographic evidence indicates that I had a birthday party at that house on Latah, probably my fourth birthday. Among those in attendance were Josh Morgan, whom I would later have frequent contact with, Geena Somethingorother (Her mother, who served as midwife for my birth, was named Kathy MacDonald for at one time) and a girl I have vague memories of, Emily Giametti. I'm not sure how we became acquainted with the Giametti's, but I recall there being some bad blood between our famalies by the end of the relationship. Something to do with the old man being an attorney and subpoenaing my mother or some shit. Like I said, I don't really remember this, just fragments of the story last told probably twenty years ago.
I had a little yellow car. I can remember the little yellow car. I don't, sadly, possess concrete memories of the famous yellow car story, however. As the tale goes, I announced to my folks that I was taking off and heading over to Lucille's, who was something of a godmother to me in those years and lived several miles east of us. Of course my mode of transportation was to be the little yellow car. My parents, no doubt bemused with my gumption, played along much in the way Calvin's mom would play along when Calvin announces he's moving to the Yukon or Mars. "Oh, Ok be careful. See ya when you get back". They allowed the charade to continue until I got my little yellow car on the cusp of the street (and pointed in the right direction, I might add) before they came and put an abrupt end to my journey. What I do seem to remember is that I *DID* know how to get to Lucille's. I had the route memorized. I likely thought that I could make it there.
We had this woven doll figurine, the kind of shit they sell in little wicker baskets, I don't know if they are Indian or something, Aztecs. Hell I don't know, but we had this doll prominently placed in our living room for some time, hell it is probably still prominently displayed at my folks' place. Anyway this doll was an older woman, adorned in blue with an eerily taut mouth and haunting, slanted eyes; she scared the piss out of me. Her name was Stochie, which at the time did not seem like a particularly welcoming name for a woman, and frankly still doesn't. I was afraid to be in the room with Stochie alone. I recall one morning waking up and making my way from my room to my parents room to hop in bed with them, but in order to get from my room to their room I would need to navigate my way through Stochie's territory: the living room. I remember waiting on the other side of the wall, gathering up courage, certain that Stochie was ready to take me out once and for all. At once, I burst forward, through the enemy lines and into the ally territory, the safe haven of my mother and father's bed. I took no chances remaining in the provinces Stochie's evil empire for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
I used to hang out with a couple older boys in the neighborhood once in a while. They were probably five or six and i was three or four. I don't know for certain if it was alongside these boys or with another group of peers, but I recall straying much further down the street than I was at liberty to do at the time. All the way down Latah to Overland, in front of what I believe was then and is now a thrift store. Anyway, if memory serves, I was down there chilling with some older kids (who may have obtained privileges to stray that far from home) when a concerned neighbor (was it Grandma Maxine?) was alerted by my premature demonstration of freedom and quickly arranged for my return (maybe five houses down the block.) Of course, as you will learn, I would over twenty years later spend my days pushing a broken down car around this neighborhood, living in it for a few weeks once I found a suitable spot, before pushing it to a different spot once neighbors became alerted to my nightly presence. But that is a tale for a different time. We are going chronologically here!
Photographic evidence indicates that I had a birthday party at that house on Latah, probably my fourth birthday. Among those in attendance were Josh Morgan, whom I would later have frequent contact with, Geena Somethingorother (Her mother, who served as midwife for my birth, was named Kathy MacDonald for at one time) and a girl I have vague memories of, Emily Giametti. I'm not sure how we became acquainted with the Giametti's, but I recall there being some bad blood between our famalies by the end of the relationship. Something to do with the old man being an attorney and subpoenaing my mother or some shit. Like I said, I don't really remember this, just fragments of the story last told probably twenty years ago.
I had a little yellow car. I can remember the little yellow car. I don't, sadly, possess concrete memories of the famous yellow car story, however. As the tale goes, I announced to my folks that I was taking off and heading over to Lucille's, who was something of a godmother to me in those years and lived several miles east of us. Of course my mode of transportation was to be the little yellow car. My parents, no doubt bemused with my gumption, played along much in the way Calvin's mom would play along when Calvin announces he's moving to the Yukon or Mars. "Oh, Ok be careful. See ya when you get back". They allowed the charade to continue until I got my little yellow car on the cusp of the street (and pointed in the right direction, I might add) before they came and put an abrupt end to my journey. What I do seem to remember is that I *DID* know how to get to Lucille's. I had the route memorized. I likely thought that I could make it there.
We had this woven doll figurine, the kind of shit they sell in little wicker baskets, I don't know if they are Indian or something, Aztecs. Hell I don't know, but we had this doll prominently placed in our living room for some time, hell it is probably still prominently displayed at my folks' place. Anyway this doll was an older woman, adorned in blue with an eerily taut mouth and haunting, slanted eyes; she scared the piss out of me. Her name was Stochie, which at the time did not seem like a particularly welcoming name for a woman, and frankly still doesn't. I was afraid to be in the room with Stochie alone. I recall one morning waking up and making my way from my room to my parents room to hop in bed with them, but in order to get from my room to their room I would need to navigate my way through Stochie's territory: the living room. I remember waiting on the other side of the wall, gathering up courage, certain that Stochie was ready to take me out once and for all. At once, I burst forward, through the enemy lines and into the ally territory, the safe haven of my mother and father's bed. I took no chances remaining in the provinces Stochie's evil empire for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
I used to hang out with a couple older boys in the neighborhood once in a while. They were probably five or six and i was three or four. I don't know for certain if it was alongside these boys or with another group of peers, but I recall straying much further down the street than I was at liberty to do at the time. All the way down Latah to Overland, in front of what I believe was then and is now a thrift store. Anyway, if memory serves, I was down there chilling with some older kids (who may have obtained privileges to stray that far from home) when a concerned neighbor (was it Grandma Maxine?) was alerted by my premature demonstration of freedom and quickly arranged for my return (maybe five houses down the block.) Of course, as you will learn, I would over twenty years later spend my days pushing a broken down car around this neighborhood, living in it for a few weeks once I found a suitable spot, before pushing it to a different spot once neighbors became alerted to my nightly presence. But that is a tale for a different time. We are going chronologically here!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
1980 thru 1984
I was born on February 24th, 1980 in a small yellow house on Latah Ave. in the "bench" area of southeast Boise. There I spent the first years of my life, the vast majority of which, of course, I have no memory of. I do have several memories from that period however, dusty and faint though they may be.
I remember my day care provider "Grandma Maxine" who lived kitty-corner to us on Latah. I can vaguely recall the names and faces of some of my contemporaries at Grandma Maxines; I believe there was one kid named Augie, for instance. Likely the memories I do have of the later stages of what must have been a two or three year stint Grammy Max's. This seems to jibe with the fact that some of the more vivid memories I have of the place include Meghan.
Meghan was born on January 19th, 1980 one month and five days prior to my third birthday. The birth took place on the same stage where I made my worldly debut, the little yellow house on Latah. I have some especially fuzzy memories of this event, I believe I was sent over to Grammy's house during the procedure. Soon thereafter, some of the finest photographs ever taken would be shot of my precious little sister. Perhaps some day I will share them with you.
I remember one evening Dad came home and announced that he, my mom and I would be going out for Ice Cream. But someone else was going to be coming with us, he said. Who? Who's coming with us? He pulled something from behind his back, revealing who our fourth companion would be....Skelator! That was quite exciting. I still wonder now what the occasion was. At first when I thought about it, I wondered if this was Dad's way of making amends for a fatherly transgression; maybe he had gone out binging several nights in a row and was looking to save face.
Upon further reflection, I came to the conclusion that most likely it was a concerted effort to show affection and attention to a youngster at a time when most of the attention is being consumed by a little squirt wrapped in a blanket. It was said that I, in a desperate attempt to get someone to pay me some mind, announced to my mom that I had to go to the bathroom and then marched up to her and forced her to witness her already potty-trained son soil himself and the living room carpet.
Well, that's all I got for now. But stay tuned. I've got years of memories to jot down for this assignment I am working on.
Peace,
Pleas
I remember my day care provider "Grandma Maxine" who lived kitty-corner to us on Latah. I can vaguely recall the names and faces of some of my contemporaries at Grandma Maxines; I believe there was one kid named Augie, for instance. Likely the memories I do have of the later stages of what must have been a two or three year stint Grammy Max's. This seems to jibe with the fact that some of the more vivid memories I have of the place include Meghan.
Meghan was born on January 19th, 1980 one month and five days prior to my third birthday. The birth took place on the same stage where I made my worldly debut, the little yellow house on Latah. I have some especially fuzzy memories of this event, I believe I was sent over to Grammy's house during the procedure. Soon thereafter, some of the finest photographs ever taken would be shot of my precious little sister. Perhaps some day I will share them with you.
I remember one evening Dad came home and announced that he, my mom and I would be going out for Ice Cream. But someone else was going to be coming with us, he said. Who? Who's coming with us? He pulled something from behind his back, revealing who our fourth companion would be....Skelator! That was quite exciting. I still wonder now what the occasion was. At first when I thought about it, I wondered if this was Dad's way of making amends for a fatherly transgression; maybe he had gone out binging several nights in a row and was looking to save face.
Upon further reflection, I came to the conclusion that most likely it was a concerted effort to show affection and attention to a youngster at a time when most of the attention is being consumed by a little squirt wrapped in a blanket. It was said that I, in a desperate attempt to get someone to pay me some mind, announced to my mom that I had to go to the bathroom and then marched up to her and forced her to witness her already potty-trained son soil himself and the living room carpet.
Well, that's all I got for now. But stay tuned. I've got years of memories to jot down for this assignment I am working on.
Peace,
Pleas
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