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Disbelief

3/26/2016

I decided to go in a different direction with the latest installment of the Scarecrow music project. Inspired by bands like Godflesh and Strapping Young Lad, this is more aggressive than the previous songs. Now a discerning ear will be able to tell early on the material isn't exactly like the bands which inspired it. There's a good reason for that. Inspiration isn't a form of cloning. I took my sense of musical direction from those bands when crafting this song, but my goal was never to sound exactly like them. To do so would mean making their music not mine.

In addition, I stepped away from writing about cultural references such as comics or films. Part of me wanted to do something a bit more serious as well as abstract, and the outcome was this. The lyrics, while straight forward to a degree, leave room for interpretation. Though the theme seems to be religious there are many variations on what that can mean.

So here it is... DISBELIEF.

lyrics:
Hand me your heart
Do it quick, do it blind
And I will reward
By enslaving your mind
Disbelief
is release

Hopeless
Shapeless
Lifeless
Bled at the shrine

I made you fragile
So you're easier to break
Fear for my love
I give less than I take
Disbelief
is release

Hopeless
Shapeless
Lifeless
Bled at the shrine

You can be anything
You can be god.
Just do what I say
No matter how odd.
Disbelief
is release

Hopeless
Shapeless
Lifeless
Bled at the shrine

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St. Patrick's Day 2016

3/17/2016

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Hopping a river of green I jumped into my car trying not to think what composed the sludgy gutter brook, though the clogged sidewalks offered hints aplenty. From spilled beer to puke to tears, the annual St. Patty’s run off had begun. Glancing at the clock in the dash, a bit passed noon, I cocked an eyebrow. People seemed to have started later this year.

I chalked it up to St. Patrick’s falling on a weekday, and started the car. A shirtless man in lime green boxers fell on the hood of my car. Laughing, he pointed at a fresh tattoo on his chest. It read, “Kiss me I’m shitfaced.” I shifted into gear, and pulled away from the curb, the cheers of holiday drunks carrying me off. The man sat up on the hood. He waved to pedestrians who hollered back unintelligible joyous hoots. We cruised along peacefully navigating the green strangled streets like the cheapest parade float ever until I sped up, and he realized I intended to get on the highway.

He smacked the windshield. I turned on my wipers to slap his hands away. He shouted. I pressed the pedal to the floor. As I accelerated along the on ramp he flopped off the hood. I didn’t check to see how he fell. If he made out okay didn’t matter to me. I had places to be.

#

Barbara Kelly lifted a pint. Balancing it on her head she closed one eye then took aim. I stood still as a statute, an unlit cigarette protruding from my lips. With a graceful flick of the wrist Barbara tossed a dart. The tiny javelin speared the coffin nail, securing it to the bull’s eye in the dart board. Everyone in Mr. G’s let out a triumphant holler save for Danny Portomaso and his crew. His buddy, Joey Bag-o-Donuts, handed Barb a roll of twenties. Still balancing the pint she curtsied then snatched the glass off and chugged it down.

Throwing the cash in the air she shouted through the rain, “Who’s getting cunted?”

A collective cry declared that everyone inside certainly would. The money shower made its way to the bar, where Jordan surreptitiously counted the lot. Finding enough for a round all around, he poured shots of whiskey for the room.

Making my way to Barb I said, “Well done, but the first landed right under my eye.”

She shrugged, “That was the plan.”

“The plan was to hit me in the cheek, not near blind me.”

She shook her head, “There’s no way I’d put out one of those blue beauties.” I opened my mouth to suggest otherwise, but the cougar cut me off, “And you’d look good with an eye patch.”

Gathering shots for us I replied, “Of course I would, but that’s not the point.”

Barb sighed, “The point is ya on yer fuckin’ period, is that it?”

Raising my shot to her, “Touché.” And we drank.

She yipped then said, “You’ve been in a mood since you got here.”

“Before I got here. Had to go in the city for a bit. The holiday drunks, they get on my nerves.”

Barb lit a cigarette, “Fuck ‘em. The day doesn’t belong to the loos showing up once a year.”

As if on cue a brigade of roaring drunks in green plastic bowlers charged into Mr. G’s. Several regulars groaned at the arrivals. Jordan immediately apologized for having forgotten to turn off the neon shamrock in the window. Demands for whiskey and car bombs soon filled the establishment. Two girls looking like Emerald city hookers giggled over to the jukebox. Pop music soon thundered from the speakers. The men they came with complained about the lack of green beer, and I started to wonder if my gun was at home or in the trunk of my car.

Patting my back Barb said, “Don’t be so glum, ya judgmental li’l bitch. You used to be not much better.”

“How dare you?” Taken aback I slapped her hand.

She flicked her cigarette at me, the cherry exploding between my eyes. She nodded, “Yeah. See what happens?”

Point taken I said, “Doesn’t change the fact I was never like…” I pointed at three green Seussian top hats gagging on thimbles of whiskey, “Like that.”

Barb bobbed her head side to side, “Maybe not like that, but oh how quickly we forget.” She shifted to lean, an elbow on the bar, drink in one hand, and words aimed at me, “They’re just having fun. You used to. You should try to again. You’re so glum lately I keep thinkin’, ‘If only he had a dick worth looking at I’d suck a smile on his face.’” Seeing a grin crack my gob she said, “That’s the spirit. Now come on, I’m pretty sure we can squeeze more money out of that fat I-talian.”

Firing my drink I joined her quest. Pool sharks pack hunting – we went after Joey’s wallet. Granted, it’s not really hustling when everyone knows everyone; however, honesty doesn’t make anybody a guaranteed winner either. And the chance to beat a skilled opponent right out in the open, that’s better bait than cash.

Barb did the most damage, murdering with masse shots, but I landed some life threatening blows. We could’ve walked away three hundred bucks a piece, but Barb insisted we “lose” a bit back. She claimed it would lure Joey back for future bleedings. Still, 185 is nothing to sneer at.

While we shot pool the irregulars cycled in and out. They came in giddy, left staggering, and I doubt I ever saw one frown. They sang, they danced, they drank themselves silly; and I started to remember once upon a time too many years ago when having fun seemed to be that easy. Stepping into Mr. G’s (or most any bar for that matter) my problems waited outside. A shot of whiskey hushed the voices in my head ranting about work woes, feeling lovelorn, or any of the myriad hobgoblins creeping through thoughts sabotaging every attempt at being happy. I always knew the problems lurked on the other side of a hang over, but for a few hours I could get peace of mind before coming back to the fight. Then one day a goblin sat down on the stool next to me. Before I knew it I’m buying a pint for myself, and the horde of hobgoblins following me in.

Barb slapped my ass, “Well kid, thanks for not sucking taint.”

“You’re welcome.”

She laughed, “When you’re not thinking you’re a lot of fun to be around.”

“Thanks?”

She grabbed me by the head, pulled me over, and planted a loud smacking kiss on my cheek, “Enjoy yourself.”

She headed off. I saw her out to the parking lot. Lighting a cigarette I watched Barb get on her motorcycle. As she rode off, the cougar queen roared by giving me the finger with a smile. Couldn’t help remembering something she once said, “Cancer killed my husband before I got a chance to. He always was a lucky fucker. Doubt it if you want, but he married me.” A tear in her eye emphasizing instead of belying the point.

No one’s immune to a bad day.

When I went back inside I looked down the bar. Regulars mostly gone, the bar filling again with holiday amateurs I took out my wad of cash. A goblin leered from a nearby barstool. It held a crumpled bill in one claw. Winking at Jordan I tossed the money in the air, “Who’s getting cunted?”

The crowd cheered.

Someone shouted, “Grom uh gree nuh grish-knee – I forget the rest.” Then passed out, thumping his head off the bar on the way to the floor. His friends carried him out, depositing him in the back of a minivan before hurrying back inside. A young woman squeed at the top of her lungs then started dancing alone, the music in her head better than anything the jukebox could provide. Two guys, clearly fourteen, made pledges over pints regarding the zombie apocalypse should it ever occur:

“We’ll kill yer neighbor, and take all his guns then just like fucking bam bam fucking kill zombies all day.”

“All day?”

“All day!”

“It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Yeah it is. Shit. I love you man.”

“No! I was gonna say it first.”

As Jordan poured a mile of shots the jukebox kicked up a tune by The Rumjacks. Those who knew the song started singing along, myself included. Drinks made their way to hands and down throats. The hours slipped away. Everything is fleeting, but not everything is a good time.

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I Fell in Snowtown

3/12/2016

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Back in 2005 a comic book came out called Fell. Written by Warren Ellis and illustrated by Ben Templesmith, the series soon won two Eisner awards. One for best continuing series, and the other for best new series. I stumbled across the first issue when it came out, and obsessed over that single issue for years until finally getting my hands on a collection of the first 8 issues. The collection, Feral City, did not disappoint. The series is one of my all time favorites even though it's never been finished.

Fast forward to recently, and I'm working on this Scarecrow music thing. After completing Blue Velvet Valentine I remembered what mattered most is being able to write with a passion. Now, I intend to delve into matters other than films and comics, but getting the ball rolling it seemed like a good idea to go with the casual passions rather than plunging into more serious depths. Of course, Fell may seem like an esoteric topic; however, I think the lyrics paint a clear enough portrait of a mad city infecting a person with insanity.

If nothing else I had a lot of fun putting this song together. If you'd like to learn more about the comic Fell, I encourage you to check out the wiki page, or better yet, pop over to your local comic shop and pick up a copy. If you like dark, twisted things you'll enjoy it. But I would encourage you to listen to the song before getting intimate with the source material. See if it reaches you without a focal point directing your impressions. Meanwhile, my best to you and yours.

Lyrics:
I can only take so much
Before the demon's touch
Gets in hands
Inspiring plans
Like
Hey ma'ma give Pops a scotch enema.

I can't ignore a single horror (x2)
Hey Mayko
Brand me
So I don't go psycho.

Even the best
die like the rest
hiding something
we'd all detest
and the mental pollution
has one solution
to avoid brain rot
a self inflicted shot

I can't ignore a single horror (x2)
Hey Mayko
Brand me
So I don't go psycho.

Light's starting to fade
I don't care how it's made
Keep sleep off me
With another death coffee
This feral city is getting more shitty
Death down by the docks
Injecting turds into Goldie locks
Getting off easy
For being crazy on BZ

I can't ignore a single horror (x2)
Hey Mayko
Brand me
So I don't go psycho.

I can't ignore a single horror
Cuz no one is nothing
If we're gonna cure...

Smoke children and the Nixon nun
When I can't deal my day is done.

It's not far to the Idiot Bar
When I can grab a chair
Try not to compare
The horrors outside
To the ones in mind
They're all the same
I'm scared to find.

I can't ignore a single horror (x2)
Hey Mayko
Brand me
So I don't go psycho.

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And this is the news -- Shitstorm -- "You'll get used to it."

3/10/2016

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Melinda adjusted the mic in her lapel. She recited a brief affirmation (“I am the wind that spins the world.”) before slapping on a grin. The usual plastic expression she put on couldn’t compare with this smile. It’s not every night a reporter gets to scoop the president. Her producer spoke to her through her earpiece, confirming last minute details and changes. Melinda muttered acknowledgement. She sniffed the air. Her face contorted. She turned on the air freshener under the anchor desk. Refreshing mint fumes wafted up in invisible clouds fighting the shit stink polluting everything.

The camera operator signaled her. The countdown began. 3, 2, 1…

“Hello, and welcome to the nightly news. I’m Melinda Rutherford-Sanchez. Tonight’s top story is the only story on all our minds. It’s been sixteen days since skies all over Earth began raining, for lack of a better word, shit. For sixteen straight days irregular outbreaks of nightmarish fecal smelling mud have fallen from the sky. Reports from around the globe confirm no part of the world is safe, and though these, what are commonly referred to as shitstorms, do stop they can continue for extended periods of time.

“Tonight we’re joined by Dr. Uli Gerstner.” She pivoted to acknowledge the bearded, bespectacled man next to her, “Dr. Gerstner.”

Camera cut to include him as he spoke, “Hello.”

Melinda steered the conversation, “Let’s get right to the point. You know the cause of this phenomenon.”

Dr. Gerstner nodded, “Yes. Myself and other scientists around the world have all shared their data allowing us to discover the cause of this… unpleasantness.”

“Please, doctor, what have you found?”

“The simplest way to put this is that interdimensional gateways have opened in our atmosphere, and through these the, uh, sewage, has come.”

“I see.” Melinda did not expect that answer. Dr. Gerstner had only spoken with her producer, who kept details vague. When it came to big stories the man feared leaks like a sail boat.

Her slight hesitation caused her producer to hiss, “Keep him talking.”

“You said ‘sewage.’”

“Yeah.”

“Most people would call it, if you’ll pardon me, shit.”

Gerstner nodded, “Yes, well, it’s not solely, uh, shit. Although there is a fecal component to the waste raining on us, investigation has discovered much of it is composed of several different putrefied materials. There’s reason to believe – how shall I put this? Think of it like bio-mechanical waste. If your car broke down to an unfixable degree, and it began to decay like fruit, much of what you call the shit is made of this: biodegradable industrial materials.”

“Fascinating.”

Gerstner’s eyes brightened, “In a way it really is. The sophistication of this other dimension is astounding.”

Melinda leaned forward, “But Dr. Gerstner, if this pollution is biodegradable why are they pumping it into our world?”

“Ah, well, you see biodegradation doesn’t happen overnight. It can take months, maybe even a few short years, during which time there is still a problem of buildup. Consider, in the United States, the average person produces 2 kg of garbage per day, about 4.4 pounds. And it stands to reason that a society that has limited environmental consequences from their refuse might become, however inadvertently, more wasteful.”

Heeding her producer’s advice to repackage that answer tighter Melinda said, “Since it doesn’t matter what they throw away they throw away more creating mountains of slowly rotting materials.”

“Exactly.”

Covering the bases, “Why is this the first we’re hearing about this? Why hasn’t the government informed the public?”

“They’re afraid people will react badly to the news. I feel the people have a right to know, good news or ill.”

Asking the obvious, “Is there anything we can do to stop this?”

Dr. Gerstner rubbed his hands together, “We do not have the means to close these gateways, but although travel is one way we were able to send a communication through. Our hope being that they did not know what they were doing.”

“Have you received any response?”

Hesitation.

She pressed, “Doctor?”

He sighed, “It is an Earth from a parallel universe, so to speak. In many ways we have much in common.”

Her producer came thru her earpiece, “He’s stalling.”

Melinda cut in, “Doctor. Have you received any communication from this other Earth?”

“Yes… They are aware this reality is inhabited by intelligent life, and they stated that after observing us they decided… and I quote, ‘You’ll get used to it. It shouldn’t be a great leap.’”

Melinda blinked. Her producer shared the silence. The quote appeared beneath her onscreen just as Melinda started speaking again.

“You say we don’t have the technological capability to close these sewer gates, but can’t we reverse engineer any of the biodegradable tech that’s come through?”

“Perhaps, given time, but it’ll take at least a decade to make any progress worth mentioning.”

Melinda donned a tight grin to hide the impact of that grim forecast. She already guessed that the average daily waste of a society probably didn’t offer many peaks at their scientific prowess. Her own lifetime accumulation of garbage wouldn’t afford a glimpse of how to split the atom. Maybe some tossed out paperback hinting at such a discovery, but the actual means of accomplishing it certainly wouldn’t be there.

Her producer warned her she only had a few moments left. Melinda always tried to aim for an optimistic close, “Dr. Gerstner, is there anything you could tell us that might be of some comfort to those at home?”

Dr. Gerstner said, “I’ve heard rumors that parts of the world, areas in Africa and so forth, have reported revitalized land, this sewage acting like powerful fertilizer, but I can’t confirm if such stories are true.”

“Thank you doctor.” Melinda turned. Camera cut leaving her alone on screen, “When we come back, sports and the extinction of open air arenas.”

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Mrs. Plim

3/5/2016

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Mrs. Plim cleared her throat, “I’ll just read the first paragraph.” She peered over her glasses. Receiving no objections she went on, “‘I made my bed this morning. It’s good to be a good boy. Now it’s time to get the ax and do my chores. Chopping up hobos isn’t easy, but Daddy says it must be done.’”

Twisting her lips Mrs. Plim set the notebook aside. Knitting her fingers together she rested her hands on the desk. Though her posture meant to imply a person at ease, she came across as a gargoyle waiting to pounce. At least that’s how I remember her: the threadbare sweater draped over her shoulders like withered batwings, rectangular spectacles framing burning eyes, and a mouthful of nicotine-yellow stained teeth, lips encircled by an oval row of vertical dashes; the constant string of pearls around her neck like some totem allowing her to cling to life; or as my buddy Sid presumed, kept her from being sucked back into hell.

She patted the notebook, “I won’t go on because it gets rather.” She swallowed hard, “Graphic.”

Basement shelves lined with mason jars full of red paste, ground Hobo used to concoct a sort of snake oil cure for impotence. I chuckled. Dad smacked me across the back of the head. Mom took a drink from a water bottle we couldn’t convince her was empty – “My boys are such pessimists.”

Mrs. Plim continued, “I’ve asked you both here, not so much because your son is in trouble – I accept a degree of responsibility here for not saying where their stories shouldn’t go – but I must say this is… unsettling.”

Dad said, “He’s always been odd. I’m sure he’ll end up in the loony bin at some point. Are you helping us out that way? We show this to a doc, kid goes straight in one of them jackets?”

Mom beamed, “Fingers crossed it’s before the full moon.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a potpourri of wolfsbane and sage soaked in holy oil, and threw the mixture at me.

Pulling a flask out his coat pocket Dad gestured at the two of us as if to say see? He took a slug then offered some to Mrs. Plim. She politely refused. Pops eyed her with suspicion. I think we all did.

Nonplussed, Mrs. Plim said, “While I don’t wish to punish the young man for having a vivid imagination, I’m not comfortable accepting this material. However, I do want to be fair, so if he could do some revisions, make it less dark, I’d be willing to give him a passing grade.”

A bit of ceiling tile fell to the floor. The revelations of catholic education: watching buildings decay in acts of blatant symbolism.

Mom leapt to her feet, “Saints be praised. The sky is falling. This wicked world is coming to an end.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Plim withdrew a fresh, blank notebook from her desk. She held it out to me. Dad elbowed me hard in the ribs, prodding me to take it. I stayed in my seat.

Dad said, “You take that fucking book.”

I asked Mrs. Plim, “Was there something wrong with the grammar?”

She blinked, “No? No.”

I asked, “So there’s nothing wrong.”

Her mouth hung open a second, not sure how to respond, “From a technical standpoint, there is nothing wrong; however, a twelve year old…”

“The assignment was to write fiction. I wrote fiction. Did I not complete the assignment?”

I felt my Dad’s hand grab the back of my neck. His grip tightened. I wondered if I would hear the bones crunch, or feel them break and only imagine the sound, but he held back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him cock an eyebrow.

He said, “Kid’s got a point. You didn’t tell him no blood and guts, that’s on you.”

Mrs. Plim returned the blank notebook to the desk drawer. She settled back into her rigid calm pose. She looked at my parents, one at a time. At this point Mom stood by the blackboard drawing spirals in chalk. She started a new one whenever the lines seemed too wobbly. Mom always thought downward spirals should be smooth – turn the fall into a slide.

Smiling without an ounce of feeling Mrs. Plim said, “Fine. I wanted to see where else his imagination could go, but I won’t penalize his grades. After all, like I said, this meeting is just to make sure you’re aware of his story’s… content.”

Dad stood up. He gestured for me to do as well, so I did. Adjusting his pants Dad said, “Then we’re on the same page. You give him the grade he deserves, and I’ll whip his ass for being a fucking weirdo.”

#

As part of the schoolyard legend, Mrs. Plim then spread a broad grin. Drool dripping off her fangs she practically came at the idea of me catching a beating. That didn’t happen. Mrs. Plim remained as impassive as ever. Her glacial façade barely cracked. That said the only detail other kids needed was that I beat the teacher. Didn’t matter if I caught an ass whipping I won, high fives all around.

Some memories can sustain a person through rough times. Getting older I collected better victory recollections than beating Mrs. Plim: first kiss, first fuck, screaming down the highway at 115 miles an hour, playing guitar in Sid’s garage, getting drunk with Kelly Anne Duvaine; but there was a time that memory, student beating a teacher, helped keep my head above water. It still flitted into the foreground now and again, rarely lingering, quickly overshadowed by other memories, yet part of the bright side lurking in my subconscious – the old timer telling stories to the other expatriates, stoking the fires of their passions as they dwell in exile, driven from the conscious mind by the reigning cynicism.

But memories are not immutable.

#

Sitting in Mr. G’s order another glass of rot gut, sailing towards the weekend black out, but smart enough to do it cheap. Pennies saved, the throat will burn. Let it. The burn won’t last forever.

See a friend. Order another round. Everyone is an excuse to keep the river running.

A toast! to all of us still living in the old neighborhood.
A toast! to any possibility of escaping the old neighborhood.

The jukebox blasts a tune instantly beloved and quickly forgotten. A desire inspired. Feed the machine dollars for a choice. Punch up that song – can’t recall the one – from that day the other day when Sid and I went to the beach, but couldn’t remember why so we just sat in the sand watching the waves roll in until I felt sober enough to drive again; and on the drive home this song played. What was that song? Holy shit! The jukebox has Rick Dees Disco Duck. That’ll do even better.

Dancing with a fifty year old beach bunny, her skin and brain baked to overdone. She’s always got good weed though. Twirling to the music can’t help wondering if Mom is still up shooting flares to check the night sky for flying octopi.

The old woman at the end of the bar looks familiar. She keeps to herself sipping a glass of red wine. Her eyes sometimes flit to the television, checking the hockey score. Something about her seems… so familiar. Like I’ve seen those batwings before… but those aren’t batwings. That’s a sweater wrapped around small shoulders, covering the top half of a body thinner than a train rail. She must be cold all the time. Traces of blue tint her skin. Her frame confesses she’s always been tiny. The skeleton never grew enough for more than a few ounces of meat. Predators have passed her over preferring entrees to appetizers. Ropy arms and sunken cheeks hint her body got lean chopping away at debt. Discolorations in her eyewear show where she glued her glasses back together then painted over the cracks rather than spend cash on a new pair. Covered in a layer of chalk dust her digits are a ghostly white. She keeps leaving vague prints on the glass, the bar, and her clothes.

She drains a bottle, steps outside for a few smokes in-between drinks, cheers the Hawk’s win, then pays and leaves, but not without infecting the memory of Mrs. Plim. Maybe it was her, maybe it wasn’t. Either way the gargoyle is gone. The impassive glacial witch transmuted into a woman holding herself together by sheer will while everything she does for the best is resisted and reviled. The gargoyle is gone, my victory gone with it, but what did I do with that win that’s worth mentioning?

She’s still in the parking lot, fumbling with her car keys. I should… order another round.

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Disbelief

St. Patrick's Day 2016

I Fell in Snowtown

And this is the news -- Shitstorm -- "You'll get used to it."

Mrs. Plim

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