Sunday, October 25, 2009
I rode the coattails
found on yellowed pages
warped pieces of vinyl
downloaded off the internet
looking for something
I’d recognize when I found it
I went to ghost towns,
drank in pubs
low enough to satisfy
the high standards of Tom Waits,
drank the cheapest beer with artists
who sold their paintings
outside of motel bars
like the Hope Motor-Inn
where on my first day of tour
I listened to Ken Paquette
tell me about his 11 or 12 kids,
how his mother was Cree
& he never knew his father
but always felt that
because of his spirituality
the he was part Sioux
I followed poets
who followed poets
formed opinions about
but still, I went
while traveling South East Asia,
that speaking English
to the locals
can be a language in itself-
for starters, forget conjugation
& those little words like “is” and “are”
just get in the way
there are a few other changes
such as word order,
but you pick that up quickly
when you’re immersed in it
sentences like “I yesterday go Palabuhanratu”
got me through
Thailand, Lao, & Indonesia
I took every train I could
played a G harmonica,
thought about being Woody Guthrie
tried to convince myself
was the only thing standing between me
& living the proper hobo life
I sat cross-legged
& drank rice whisky
in the home
of a rice farmer in a village
across the Nam Song, in Lao
& when we ate
I was told
that I eat like a Lao person
I took that as a compliment
& since that day
eating fish with a fork
seems kind of awkward
I accepted hospitality from people
who had so much less than I did
& began to theorize
God keeps an ocean between
people like this
so they don’t turn out like us
I sat in that house
elevated on stilts
on a wooden floor
with gaps between the boards
that I could have
dropped coins through
a Lao boy drew a picture of me
& he included the dreadlock
hangs down the middle of my face
that I often draw on myself
when I document my journeys
in black pen on white paper
because my digital camera
had given out on me
a few weeks prior
I saw my ego inflate
but quickly realized
that I didn’t deserve to be
the subject of this boy’s drawing
and that his dad
was far more deserving
of being the subject
of his son’s portrait
I had given him a pad of paper
& and a pencil crayon
with rotating colours
while his dad gets every morning
makes a farm work
raises four kids
(with number 5 on the way)
& on top of that
was willing to invite a complete stranger
into his home
& send him on his way
with an open invite to return
a bottle of whiskey
to keep his stomach warm
when it rains
I was just a traveler
who in the morning
would be on the road, again
at least to them
I looked for these vague notions
of a utopia, nirvana,
an outlet to heaven
on the road
but I didn’t find it
so I kept moving
but I also kept returning
I went caving in Vang Vieng
although I feel anxious in small spaces
& inside the hollows
of the mountains that frame the town
the thought of collapsing caverns,
Norther BC mine disasters,
and Chuck Ragan’s song
Dream of a Miner’s Child
never leave my mind
I went though,
& each time
I tried to go further
to challenge myself-
once, I was led through
by a six year old
brought into spaces so small
that I had to crawl
on my stomach
& push my backpack in front of me-
& this one time
four of us
were swimming into a limestone cave
against a current
guided by a single non-waterproof
I literally couldn’t see my hand
in front of my face
when we turned off that lamp
& in that charcoal dark
rendition of Two Hands
I felt blessed beyond belief
to be surfing in Indonesia
but felt, at the same time
longings for my home breaks,
for water that’s cold
in an enduring way
who look like a circus of
playing in the waves
despite the gray,
and a tree-line with needles
I kept moving
and I kept returning
I’ve been told that
that I have
what my friends call
the hand of God constantly
taking care of me
saving me from cigarette fires
in the bed of my Bangkok guesthouse
or any and every
escape that statistically
I shouldn’t make
but I do
& take for granted
I have a tendency
to view really sketchy situations as
& this is why I look back longingly
to the time spent in a dorm
in a Jakarta hostel that I eventually
realized was kind of
a whore house
I treasure the afternoons
of coffee and cigarettes
with Indonesian prostitutes
who, for me, strongly reenforced
the cliche of the
hooker with the heart of gold
I sometimes think of Conor Oberst
& how he claims that there’s nothing
that the road cannot heal
& I haven’t been coming and going
as long as he has
but I’m not sure
if I’ve healed anything
but the road is
at the very least
a good band-aid
I’d refer to someone
who walks the road
as a nomad
a man of the land
but someone alone
who stays in one place
as a hermit
so I idealize the road
(or the rail or the river)
wrapping loneliness in gauze
until it can be passed off
I sat on a boat
that was more or less
a canoe with a propellor
dodging rocks on the Mekong
I sat behind a European guy
who had been traveling the world
for the past nine months
I listened to the European guy
complain about the boat trip
not complying to the schedule
that he was told
to our Lao boat driver
who spoke minimal English
as if sentences that weren’t understood
could change the speed of the river
that we were riding against
if they were repeated enough
I remembered The Gum Thief
& the French Revolution
(well... I remembered learning about the French Revolution)
and how that more often than not
when things happen to people
people mostly just stay the same
& I’m not sure
what this poem is trying to say
it’s not that I’m well traveled
because I’m not
& It’s not to say
from any other Westerner
of the opportunities his passport
But this one time
I heard a live recording of
I Still Haven't Found What I’m Looking For
preformed with a gospel choir
played on a minidisk player
by a German DJ with a huge head
(physically bigger than mine)
In Ton Sai, Thailand
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Last night we found a whiskey bar
that charged 10 bhat per glass
and had two jars
of free rolling tobacco
Kaare and I
sat in front of that
checkered table cloth
on those short
buying the round
We bought a last drink
and headed to the tattoo shop
buy out guesthouse
The artist finished mine
but the gun broke
before my tattoo was filled
and before Kaare’s was started
We returned to the whiskey bar
to celebrate a half successful mission
Back at the guesthouse
I played the mini tat theme
for Kaare on my laptop
before we went to sleep
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A Goodbye Poem for Bob
-a poem written in transit
When i said goodbye to you
i didn’t cry
i wanted to
i had every intention about it
but when our time to part ways came
i was in the middle
of that slew of goodbyes
But this morning i left
and i bawled my fucking eyes out
i really did
because it was the last goodbye
--what the past 2 weeks
have been building to
I cried as i said goodbye
to the people who stayed out late
and got up early to see me off
and i know you couldn’t have been there
but that didn’t stop me
from crying this morning
partly because i don’t know
when i’m going to see you again
Now, as far as i know
i’ve crossed the international dateline
and i’m about 4 hours
away from seoul korea
and i’m listening to 'Ruby Soho'
the last song we sang together
for the third consecutive time
and i’m feeling better
than i have in months
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
In the summer
between grades 7 and 8
I bought a Rage Against the Machine t-shirt
from a Music World
in a half built mall
It had a picture of Che Guevara
who I, at the time
thought was the singer of
Rage Against the Machine
It instantly became my favorite shirt
I wore it at least 4 days a week
and managed to find out
who Che Guevara actually was
with minimal embarrassment
I bought Che’s Guerilla Warfare
and Socialism and the Man in Cuba
and became convinced
that a socialist revolution
was exactly what Kelowna needed
and I began my feat of attempting
to win the hearts and minds
of the locals
I began hating George Bush religiously
and maybe, it had to do with
my left-winged role models influencing me
but the more I read
the more I became disgusted
with Republican policy
I printed One Term President shirts
before the 2004 presidential elections
which I then began to wear
at least 4 days a week
and petitioned the right-wingers
at my church
attempting to convert them
to my side of the political spectrum
(to say the least
my success was limited)
I could attribute
my escape from
to my hatred for
the Bush Doctrine
and right wing policy
and (eventually) that lead me
to my exodus from the
social and political conformity
that some tried to sell as the only
true interpretation of Christianity
When I went to university
I had a political science professor
who introduced me to
and I abandoned
my Marxist theory
and the overstatements
that are carried by ideas
grounded in modern ideology
I idealized the EZLN.
as they were the first
post-modern revolutionary group,
and Subcommendante Marcos
(but only as the idea of
because I didn’t want to
be contributing to the
Marcos personality cult
that the EZLN has
attempted to avoid)
The insanity of modern ideology
and neo-liberal economy
took its toll on me
and the bottle
found a place in my life
to escape the reality
of a world going insane
While the idea eventually,
but somehow suddenly,
that I may just be
a product of my t-shirt,
and not actually
Because in actuality
how is poisoning myself nightly
sticking it to the hard-right?
Will bottles that tower beside my bed
(that I, of course, recycle)
change the minds
of the half of my continent
who hold, and act on
a completely opposite
idea of of right and wrong
than what I’ve come to?
But this morning
I had what I hope I can call
a moment of clarity
everything was tear inducing beautiful
vomit inducing disgusting
and in this shimmering disgust
I woke up with a stomach
like a jar of pickles
and skateboarded in the wind
to closed buildings
and put up one poster
and felt thankful to be lost
in the (sometimes-catastrophic) mystery
of Earth and humanity
and under-slept clarity
Because my leftist ideology
will never be quantitatively
proved to me
and maybe, solitude
is what’s in the cards
and being happy with
being disconnected from
the culture surrounding me
wherever my feet are planted
But I’ve been getting better
at walking away
and calling it progress
as I walk a little to the left
of where my compass points
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
In Pursuit of Jerry Dude
By Scott Gibson
This story is presented as a work of fiction... names and like likeness and... um... coincidence... and all that.
A Cool Section Title Goes Here
Alison was driving me home from Creative Writing 480, and I was telling her about attempting a 9 kilometer longboard ride home after drinking two bottles of wine the previous weekend (I think). The conversation shifted to her weekend, and her friend’s birthday at The Cabana restaurant in the Mission and local billionaire Jerry Dude, who somehow made his way to their table and never left.
Although Jerry Dude only knew a couple of the women at the table to a very limited extent, having kids that also attended Anne McClymont Elementary, Jerry Dude proceeded to supply the table with $600 bottles of Champaign throughout the night.
It struck me, “He should finance the wetsuit friendly bar!” I said to Alison.
“The wetsuit friendly bar!” I reiterated “You know, the Bar me and Weez and Anthony are going to make, out of the run down resort on Cox Bay... We’ll get him to fund it... well not fund, like, invest in it”
“You’re just gonna ask him?”
“No I’ll befriend him first, then, when we’re tight enough, I’ll tell him about the bar. Jerry Dude will be stoked on it, and he’ll put up the money. Really, the wetsuit friendly bar can’t not be successful, it’s a good investment for him too.”
The Hottest Place North of Montana
Alison had heard Jerry Dude’s appearance at The Cabana was not an isolated incident, and had seen him there herself twice. So we assumed The Cabana would be a good place to start the pursuit. I asked Alison if I could refer to her as the bait, in this piece. She agreed when we established that she was only the bait because her children went to the same school as Jerry Dude’s.
We sat on the patio, close to the entrance. I figured there would be a good place to start. I didn’t want to come on too strong. It was my first time at The Cabana, since before I went to Asia, I was far from a regular. And I had to present myself properly to Jerry Dude; I had to get into his world, or at least blend in with the vapid charm of the Mission. I had to convince Jerry Dude that I was worth the few millions of dollars that I was eventually going to be asking him for.
And we sat, and drank our drinks. Nursed our drinks. My beer wasn’t getting fuller and Jerry Dude was nowhere to be found. Could it be that Jerry Dude is just a weekender and spends his Wednesdays reading to his kids or volunteering at the hospital? I hoped that wasn’t the case. I usually had time to grab a drink at the Cabana once or twice a week, but volunteering at the hospital is a commitment.
The glass emptied to my reflection. And like I was driving though a tunnel, holding my breath, hoping that everyone else in the car wouldn’t notice I was doing it, I didn’t acknowledge the empty glasses, and waited just a little longer.
Alison brought my attention to the door; there he was, Jerry Dude. Walking through the door, glowing like a Greek god as his shirt shimmered a vapid gold and green. There’s not many middle age men who can pull off done up and scruffy as well as Jerry Dude. He looked as hollow as I’d expected, which I have associated with being a plus when trying to extract money from someone.
Alison suggested playing by debit as it would bring us into the closest proximity to Jerry Dude. At the debit counter I stared at Jerry Dude as much as possible, without looking like I was staring at Jerry Dude. As we walked out I turned to Alison, “Wave to him, and then we’re set up for next time.”
My Wet-Suit Friendly Bar
Think about it. A bar with grip on the floor, that can easily be hosed down at the end of the night. Right off Cox Bay, one of Tofino’s main surfing spots, the most consistent in the summer. There’s an abandon resort there, no one’s using it, and it could easily be converted. the problem lies in purchasing said resort. The solution lies in Jerry Dude.
I’m torn about using glass in the wetsuit friendly bar. I don’t support using plastic, but I do support people being able to walk barefoot.
I was traveling though South-East Asia this past summer and I wondered why no bars in Canada have hammocks in them. My wetsuit friendly bar will totally have hammocks.
The reason that the bar couldn’t fail would be that, in Tofino, there are only 2 other bars (and one of them only is a restaurant with a pub section, the other has eared the affectionate nickname of “The Dirty Maq”), but neither of them are near the resorts. So in the summer we make the money from the tourists who are coming right off the beach, and in the winter we become the main watering hole for the people living in the Tofino staff accom(modation)s.
Jerry Dude would really benefit from this investment.
The Other Scott in Jerry Dude’s Life
Not long after my first Jerry Dude sighting Alison spotted him again. Jogging: no shirts need to be as tight as his was. I would assume that his ipod was playing the Scott Stapp solo album. (Scott Stapp is the former singer from the band Creed.) I Wikipediaed Scott Stapp. Scott Stapp, in his Wikipedia picture, was also wearing a shirt that presented more nipple than I needed to see. Coincidence?
Scott and Jerry Dude go to Thailand: A Jerry Dude Fan Fiction of Sorts
I had told Jerry Dude that I had bough hammocks in Ayutthaya for 20 baht a piece (under $1). Within 48 hours we were in Bangkok; Jerry Dude makes things happen.
We sat on Khao San Road beside Chan’s beer and bucket cart. I told Chan that Jerry Dude was my rich-uncle while Jerry Dude ran to the bathroom. I was kind of embarrassed to be with him, and I felt that a family tie would be the best excuse for me to have crossed the world with him. He was excessively drunk (I was too. Had i not been I may have realized there was no reason to say that he was my uncle,) and way making passes at an uninterested Chan.
I convinced him to try silkworm larva, but he began vomiting before they reached his lips. I took off my checkered bandanna and Gave it to Jerry Dude to clean up with, and apologized profusely Chan. She wasn’t that upset, it’s happened before.
The next morning I woke up on the floor of Jerry Dude’s room. (He had an air-conditioned room.) I was wearing a shirt that I had never seen before and my dreadlocks smelled worse than usual.
I walked to a store and bought two 1-liter water-bottles. I began drinking one and brought the other one back to the guesthouse. I placed it beside Jerry Dude’s head and left. I walked towards the bookstore that I had been to yesterday. There wasn’t a poetry book that I wanted yesterday, but I like looking for books.
Lisa the Alumni
I hadn't stalked in weeks. and quickly the stalkless weeks became stalkless months. I intended to, but my student-budget had already demoted me to box-wine; going out for pints was out of the question most weeks.
Jerry Dude was proving a more difficult target to acquire due to the lack of time and resources at my disposal. The clock was watching me, but, unfortunately, I was not watching Jerry Dude.
However, I did find out that a girl I knew from high school, who was a couple years younger than me had worked at Cabana. I asked her about Jerry Dude. She said she didn’t know much beyond him being rich and kind of dirty. I told her that we’d grab a drink some time and I’d try to extract a story from her. She said that she liked the phrase “extract a story.”
We never went out for drinks.
Scott and Jerry Dude go to Thailand Part Two: The Snake
Jerry Dude is wearing his custom made snake-skin blazer and boots. Apparently in Thailand you can choose a live snake and get clothing made out of it’s skin. I suppose it’s somewhat similar to choosing a live lobster. It’s also highly illegal.
We spent fours being questioned by Thai authorities, all of whom spoke minimal English. However, during out interrogation there was a shift change, and an official who spoke Mandarin came on. Jerry Dude is apparently flaunt in Mandarin and somehow we left fine free, but only after the officials shared a pizza with us. It was a meat-lovers pizza, but I ate it anyway. I felt that putting on a good face was more important than sticking to my pesco-ovo-vegetarianism.
I’m not going to lie, I enjoy the times that I have to eat meat.
Not the Box-Wine Tonight Thank-You
I was at The Cabana with Alison and Lindsey, there to celebrate the survey that Alison and I had failed to accomplish earlier that day. We looked for Jerry Dude but didn’t see him. However, the smoked salmon pizza was fantastic, even if I did have to pick off the bacon.
Passing the Torch?
I was about ready to head to bed but a friend began talking to me online. He had started a website showcasing the music of the Interior’s composers. He told me that the idea is for his website to be resource for film companies to find scores and composers for scores in their movies.
He tells me that the talent is here, and he just needs an investor.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
In Jakarta a girl asked me my name. I replied “uh’scott.” She reiterated it back to me to be sure she’d heard correct “Uhscott?”
Having to take a moment to think of an answer, when the question was my name only further confirmed to me how distant myself and my nameare. This realization isn’t a new. For about as long as I can remember a part of my mind wanders in search of a name that I find fitting for myself. So far, no luck.
Elliott Smith was born Steven Paul Smith. He began calling himself Elliott because he felt that Steve was a “jock name”, and that Steven was too “bookish.” His girlfriend at the time had an ex named Elliott. There’s a street named Elliot (note the single ‘t’) in Portland Oregon where he lived at the time.
I was born Scott Edward Gibson. I was never taught how to spell my middle name, and I spelled it “Edword” until my friend corrected me in grade eight or nine.
Scott means one who is Scottish. I’m not Scottish. Three out of my four great grandparents were born in Canada, and as far as I know my European heritage is mainly English and Irish. We aren’t in contact with any European relatives that I know of. My parents just chose the name because they liked it. I’ve met other Scott’s who aren’t Scots and the name seems to work for some of them.
While searching for deeper meaning behind my name I read that some people suspect that English called the Scot’s Scot’s because of their tattoos, and that the word Scot may have meant tattoo. So when I make my parents proud with a new tattoo, I remind them that it is essentially because they didn’t put enough thought into naming me.
Somewhere along the line I removed the capitals from my name. I forget why, it was probably inspired by the linear notes in a punk CD, maybe the Ataris.
GG Allin was born Jesus Christ Allin because his dad believed that he would be a great prophet. The name GG evolved from his brother Merle’s inability to pronounce GG’s birth-name when he was a toddler.
I’ve never understood common-names. If someone has a child who they think is special and completely unique. why would parents name their child something so common that the name may not even be unique within their child’s kindergarten class?
I think if I had a daughter a would name her Astoria (it could be abbreviated to Tori) after the town in Oregon where the Goonies takes place. There would be no other Astoria in her class (touch wood).
A friend of our family named his first daughter Iclyn. I think it’s a gorgeous name. That same friend of our family named his first son Xanthan (pronounced Zanthan). I think it’s a stupid name.
While washing dishes in Tofino Weez asked me when I’m going to change my name to something that fits with my personality and lifestyle. On that shift the conclusion was reached that my name should be Star Dinosaurbones. If he reads something of mine and doesn’t feel that I’m being true to myself he’ll tell me that it isn’t Star Dinosaurbones
Sufjan Stevens claim that his name reflects his cultish upbringing. He doesn’t use the word cultish with negative connotations.
I’ve always wondered why some married couples have different last names. I figure if you choose to spend your life with one person you would rather share a name with them than with your parents.
I do understand the equality element. But there are other options. For example, choose a name that describes you as a couple and both take it. Instead of being described as the sons of an Man named Gib whom we’ve never met, not shall we ever meet, we could be referred to as “the Awesomes”
Or both partners could hold both their own surnames, their own surname and the surname of their partner. And in holding both surnames they would be holding the histories attached to each surname. I suppose this could get out of hand if the couple’s children were to do the same with their partners.
I would be uncomfortable taking my wife’s last name, mainly because I know it would require an explanation almost daily. But I suppose there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the right person.
The Ramones required and “ee” sound to be at the end of a member’s name. The classic line up is Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Tommy. I felt C.J. Ramone was a bit of a stretch. Elvis Ramone completely broke form, but he was just a fill in for two shows.
My friends don’t generally seem to feel that “Scott” is an adequate pronoun for the person that I essentially am. Usually I’m referred to as Scott-Gibson, if not to my face, at least when I’m mentioned in stories.
A partial list of my names:
Scott Edward Gibson
Scott Edword Gibson (no longer in use)
scott fucking gibson
scott fuckin’ gibson
Scotch (by my god-daughter Kennedy, who can’t pronounce my name properly... It’s kind of awesome)
Tim Commerford from Rage Against the Machine is listed under a different variation of his name in the liner notes of every Rage Against the Machine album. These names include Timmy C., Y. tim K., Simmering T, Tim Bob, and tim.com.
When I worked at Greenbay we had to choose camp names. It was the summer of 2003 and I ended up with the name Crush, alluding to the turtle in the Pixar blockbuster Finding Nemo. It worked well enough for the time I was there. There are still people who only know me as Crush.
A friend from camp whent under the alias of Switch. We still usually refer to each other by our camp names. When we’re in public it sometimes reaches my attention that we sound like we think we’re super-rad and therefore gave ourselves nicknames that we think are super-rad. We do a poetry collaboration occasionally and have titled it I Have a Crush on Switch.
When I sent a friend request to Elizabeth Bachinsky on Facebook I pondered how to sign my name. I went with no capitals hoping that it would portray me as artistic.
At the same table in Jakarta, where I introduced myself as “Uhscott” I was taking with another Indonesian, a boy. He had an Indonesian name, I don’t remember it, but I will never forget the name that he initially introduced himself to me with: Rocky Montana. When asked about the origin's of his chosen name he talked about the rocks in the bottom of the oceans, and the mountains of Montana that he had seen in pictures. His name told of the interconnectedness that he felt to the Earth, to it’s highest and lowest points.
I didn’t leave Jakarta with any more name than I had when I came with. But I left with a good example of a person who has a name.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
here are the character sketchers
and here is Jerrid's deviant art page
Saturday, April 25, 2009
The Dirty Glass Chronicles
Whiskey from a dirty glass
is clean enough to drink
The fridge if out of ice-cubes
so it’s water from the sink
It’s nice to have you hear my friend
so come in and sit down
It’s a far cry from top shelf
but let’s pour another round
You call yourself a traveler,
no where to call your home
I hope you can find comfort
in bar stool legs, longer than your own
This town will never be forgotten
but we’ll drink to every ghost
of the ones who sat at these here stools
and the ones who come and go
Tomorrow I’ll be leaving
just a rucksack and a book
But won’t be able to forget
the way I think I should
Just the same I’ll take the train
cause it’s time to move on
to another place, a blank page
I’ll be scribbling upon
The road will take me in
It’s somewhere to begin
Sleeping on the floor
doesn’t phase me anymore
I’ve never held a pickaxe
but I’ve found some hearts of gold
The only times I’ve seen angels
have been alone on the road
The ones who share a cigarette
the one’s who share a word
the ones who bring out a dirty glass
where stiff whiskey is poured
Then I’m on the road again
then I become the ghost
an ever distant memory
that once sat in the house
(But) once a man gave me a bottle
and I carried it on my back
until I passed it around a table
where half the world sat
Whiskey from a dirty glass
is clean enough to drink
The fridge if out of ice-cubes
so it’s water from the sink
It’s nice to have you hear my friend
so come in and sit down
It’s a far cry from top shelf
but let’s pour another round
Saturday, April 11, 2009
In first year I wrote this as a screenplay. A few months ago a friend of mine said that he would be interested in potentially making it into a comic book. I hope it happens because that would be awesome. Anyway, I haven't made any changes to this since first year, but I thought that some of you may enjoy reading it.
Chris (typing): …wtf is wrong with u u guys r fags u dont even no wat emo or screamo is seriously ur soo dum.
Mark (enters): Dude, Dude guess what!
Chris (about to open mouth)
Mark: Simple Plan is coming to Vancouver, next Wednesday.
Chris: Dude, you know that our parents would never drive us down there. It’s a school night.
Mark: but man this is Simple freaking Plan. Seeing them is the only think in the world that I’ve ever wanted. That, and a date with Avril Lavigne, the punk rock princess of my dreams. But this isn’t about Avril Lavigne...
Chris: This isn’t even about Lorelei Gilmore.
Mark: dude that’s gross, she’s like 40. Her daughter is too old for you. And even if you were her age she wouldn’t go for you. Anyway that’s not what this is about. This is about…
(Both look at camera both raise a fist and say…)
Mark and Chris: SIMPLE PLAN!
(Mark and Chris throw open a door and run in)
Mark: Jarard Jarard, dude…
Chris: dude, what the hell? Are you wearing girl’s pants? What the hell is wrong with you?
Jarard: Hey…whatever…shut up, all the guys in MCR (My Chemical Romance) do.
Chris: yeah, but the guys in MCR are cool, and I don’t think that they stole their girl-pants from their older sister.
Mark: Anyway dude! Were going to see Simple Plan in Vancouver! Next Wednesday!
Jarard: Man, I don’t listen to that stuff.
Mark: Since when?
Jarard: I’m Screamo now.
Mark: What the hell is screamo?
Jarard: It means I listen to scream music, heavy stuff, like MCR and stuff.
Chris: Is it screamo to dye your hair black and put a gay blond chunk in it like yours. You don’t even know what screamo…
Mark: Shut up you guys! Who cares what screamo is right now! We have a chance to see the band that has got us though all the tough times we’ve been through. Like when all the jocks made fun of us…well they didn’t like all make fun of us but like a few of them say “punk is bunk” sometimes, and one of them pushed Chris….
Chris: It was really more of a nudge.
Mark: That’s not the point. When girls wouldn’t go out with us, or when Avril wouldn’t return my calls, emails, faxes and letters, or when my parents made me clean my room Simple Plan was there to help me through those times. When I thought that no one else in the world was dealing with these things I could listen to Piers amazing lyrics and I realized that I wasn’t alone. So guys we’ve got a chance to see Simple Plan, but it will ironically require a very complicated plan to get there.
Chris: Are you sure that that’s irony?
Mark: I’m pretty sure it is. Do you have a better definition of irony? …Didn’t think so. But that’s not what matters right now, what matters is… who’s in?
(Mark and Jarard nod their head slowly with a look of understanding on their faces)
(Mark, Chris, and Jarard in a basement talking)
Jarard: or maybe… we could…um… we could rent a car and…
Chris: Are you retarded? Do you think anyone is going to rent a car to a group of grade niners? And even if they did none of us can drive, and I’m sure that the car company would want some kind of credit card number or a ridonculous deposit or something.
Mark: How about we take the bus, or a plane.
Chris: Because that would take us to a bus station or an airport, and how would we get from there to the punk-gig.
Jarard: Dude, punk-gig is such a lame word.
Chris: What the hell do you call them?
Mark: I usually say show.
Chris: But then half the time people think you’re talking about like movies or TV or something like that.
Mark: The Ataris call them shows, like in that song “Are We There Yet” you know “I just want to make it to the show, but I don’t think that…” you know. Anyway regardless of what we call seeing Simple Plan., how do we get there?
Chris: Why don’t you ask Josh to drive us?
Mark: Like Josh my brother?
Chris: No, Josh your… um…freaking whatever I can’t think of something clever to say. Yes Josh your brother.
Mark: Because he doesn’t have a car for one, he’s in school, and he doesn’t even like Simple Plan… he says they’re not real punk.
Jarard: They’re so punk.
Mark: I know.
Chris: Wouldn’t Josh be aloud to drive your parents mini-van.
Mark: Yeah, but if we took my parents van how would we be able to go without them knowing?
Chris: you said you wanted a complicated plan, well you got one!
Mark: (pauses) Well, it’s the best idea so far, let’s give it a go.
(Mark knocks on Josh’s door and lets himself in. His friends follow)
Mark: Hey Josh
Josh: What do you want now?
Mark: What makes you think I’m asking for something?
Josh: Am I wrong?
Mark: …no, Can you drive us to Simple Plan next Wednesday.
Josh: It’s a school night mom would never let me drive you.
Mark: But she’d let you go and we could make an elaborate like about where we are and go with you.
Josh: But why would I go in the first place? If I’m going to drive that far them I’d want to see a real punk band.
Mark: Shut the… I mean please man, we’ll do anything.
Josh: well you’re 13.
Mark: (cuts off Josh) 14!
Jarard: I’m 13
Chris: Shut up Jarard!
Josh: Anyway you’re “14” and in Jarard’s case “13” so there’s not too much that you can actually do for me!
Mark: Commmmoooonnnn Jossshhhaa, this is Simple Plan; you know how much this means to me.
Josh: Well let’s see the “truffle shuffle” and maybe I’ll consider it and think up some conditions.
Mark: Dude not now, my friends are here.
Josh: The truffle shuffle.
Jarard: What’s the truffle shuffle?
Chris: They made Chunk do it in the movie the Goonies. They made chunk lift up his shirt shake his belly around and make a bunch of weird sounds before they let him into the house. And Josh always makes Mark do it when Mark wants something from him.
(Mark in the background with his stomach exposed shaking around making noises)
Josh: So firstly you need to pay for gas, you need to pay for all of my food, and I’m
talking like steak and lobster. Chris you need to lend me your Gilmore Girls DVDs until I say that I’m done with them….
Chris: What? I don’t watch Gilmore Girls!
Mark and Jarard: Yes you do!
Josh: Since I’d have to miss school for this you guys need to find and buy me the following CDs before we go. Tom Wait’s “Blood Money”, The (International) Noise Conspiracy “Bigger cages, Longer Chains” and I guess… Norma Jean “Bless the Martyr and Kiss the Child”, mine’s scratched and hmm one more no actually two, well I might as well make it three cause there’s three of you that’s two each. Sooo the Bright Eyes/Britt Daniel collaboration CD, the Bright Eyes “Lua” EP and I guess the Chariot “Unsung” EP will be out before the show so yeah, that.
Jarard: Where are we going to get the money to pay for those?
Josh: You guys are upper middle class kids who live in the suburbs, your parents give you more then enough money.
Jarard: Good point
Mark: So were good to go?
Josh: Not yet. You need to make my bed for like three months.
Mark: Dude you never make your bed, mom doesn’t even make us make our beds.
Josh: do you want to go or not?
Josh: Okay, You guys have to make up your own lie and take any blame if you get caught.
Mark: Okay, so we’ll skip school that day and you can pick us up from somewhere. We can’t leave from the house.
Josh: Okay, you guys can work your own junk out.
(Josh pulls his van up to the back gate of the school. The boys are dressed in “gangster” style clothes complete with gold chains and Jarard has a clock around his neck. The boys are hiding in the bushes. They quickly get into the van)
Josh: What are you guys supposed to be dressed as? Mark are you wearing Fubu? You look ridiculous. Are you going to see Fiddy Cent now instead?
Mark: Were in disguise Josh. Like, what if one of our parents friends drives by and sees us and tells our parents.
Josh: I donno man. I think they’re a lot more likely to mention it if they see you decked out and gold chains with clocks around your necks.
Christ: Jarard is the only one with a clock around his neck…. We couldn’t talk him out of it.
Josh: Where did you even get these clothes?
Mark: Mom gives us a clothing allowance, remember?
Josh: So you spent it all on Fubu and Phat Farm clothes and in Jarards cause a clock necklace so you could be disguised for like ten minutes?… You should have just told me that you were this pathetic and I would have felt sorry enough for you to drive you bribe free. So what did you guys tell your parents anyway?
Mark: We made out fake permission slips saying that our French class was doing an overnight field trip to the B.C. Royal Museum, and…
(Gets cut off by Chris)
Chris: And we even got our parents to pay fifty bucks for the trip. That is except for Jarard, who told his parents that the school would accept personal checks.
Josh: Fake permission slips eh, that’s risky, but on the other hand very stealth. Has your school done parent teacher interviews yet?
Mark: Yeah, they do them really early in the year now.
Josh: Then you’re probably safe, but interviews would have been trouble.
(They are pulled over, Mark is peeing and the side of the road. Chris hits Marks arm with a rock.)
Mark: What the hell dude?! I got piss all over my hand now!
(Everyone else is laughing)
Jarard: Well, sucks to be you.
Mark: Sucks to be you guys, who are sitting with me in the van. How do you like them apples?!
Josh: Mark there is no way you’re cool enough to be saying “How do you like them apples” especially when your threatening to touch someone with you piss hand. Just get in the van.
(Drive into Vancouver, joining the slow moving traffic)
Mark: We’re almost here! I’m so stoked!
Chris: I am too…. I think Jarard might be a little too stoked
Mark: Yeah man seriously, you need to switch back to guys pants. Those girl-pants don’t hide anything.
(Traffic stops completely. Chris looks at his watch)
Chris: Were never going to get there in time if traffic is going this freaking slow.
Jarard: We should just get out and run
Mark: Good call dude.
Chris: Yeah man, let’s do it up.
Jarard: For serious? We’re going to do what I suggested?
Chris: Jarard just shut up and let’s go.
Josh: Wait! How the hell am I supposed to find you after the show?
Mark: Just look for us, we’ll try and be around the front. And we’ll look for you too.
Josh: This concert is going to be freaking huge, that’s going to take forever. Aw, screw it. Just go. We’ll never make a descent plan. Have fun… (Yells) You guys so owe me for this! (As they begin to run)
(They run up to the ticket booth)
All: We need 3 tickets for Simple Plan!
Booth Operator: I’m sorry, but I just sold the last three tickets.
Jarard: Dammit! This only happens on movies!
Mark: Dude, well, umm, if this is like a movie then let’s try and get in like they do on movies.
Chris: Mark that is a retarded idea!
Mark: My retarded ideas have got us this far. You guys should start to respect my retarded ideas!
Chris: ….okay, so what do we do?
(Next two lines blurted out at the same time)
Mark and Chris: dress as security guards
Jarard: hide in a laundry basket
Chris: Jarard, who is going to have laundry baskets coming in and out of a punk rawk concert… especially ones that are big enough for us to fit in?
Mark: And besides, it’s two against one.
Jarard: Okay… Then I guess we need to go get some security uniforms.
(The boys are looking at a group of security guards)
Jarard: Man these guys are way, way, too tough for us to mug.
Chris: Jarard’s right… and twice in one day. New record. So what do we do?
Mark: Let’s make them ourselves… I have a black marker. We can draw facial hair on and stuff too.
Chris: looks like it’s the best we’ve got.
Jarard: Dude! Can one of you draw me a handle bar mustache?
(The Simple Plan bus drives into the parking lot. A camera shows the band inside the bus, looking out the window.)
Pier (singer from simple plan) (to his band mates): Hey look at those kids!
(Camera shows Jarard with a “handle bar mustache”, Mark writing “securtety” on his shirt in marker and Chris reaching for the pen.) They’re pathetic as hell, trying to get into a show by drawing on fake mustaches and stuff. They must really want this… When I see kids that lame I totally feel sorry for them. (Rolls down window and sticks head out) Hey… Umm marker kids… Come over here. You’re coming in with us!
(Camera goes to the boys faces and shows tears forming in their eyes)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Who would have guessed
that 4 years later
we would be the only ones
still sitting in this bar
(I used to call it my bar,
but I can’t name every bartender anymore)
I think that one night we had ten poets
around one table
competing in wing consumption
smoking cigarettes (because it was still legal)
or telling stories of abandoning
the nicotine vice
all drinking $10 pitchers of Winchester
or the house red (and stealing the vessel)
in practice of the perfect Wednesday
Poetry was something new
at least in the way I interacted with it
I felt like everyone around me
was the next Charles Bukowski or
and in this dingy bar
there was a place
for all of our first-year-brilliance
But if we were to try
to take the group picture,
that we never took then, now
most people would be unavailable
in fact it would be just us
in a bar that neither of us frequent
where the cheap pitchers on Wednesday
are Blue instead of Winchester
The Banana Pancake Trail (Plus Java)
When someone tells me their travel plans
I tell them to make sure to take time
to walk the road alone
It’s not what I planned to do
even though my flight from Vancouver to Hong Kong
was on a plane filled with strangers
In Hong Kong my friend met me
as soon as I’d passed security, he was expecting me
while he explored the city alone for 3 days
Once we were together we ran across the airport
to catch a plane to Bangkok
were we’d find seven more of my friends
To make things happen in groups of more than two
can be like pulling teeth
and even pairs have their limitations
Alone means the itinerary is yours alone
and the only baggage you carry
is the baggage you bring
But it means that no one will carry that baggage with you
if you stumble or start to burn out
and if you can’t carry it on your back, leave it
When someone tells me their travel plans
I tell them to make sure to take time
to walk the road alone
Because in walking the road alone
I learned everything that I need to know
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Why, you ask?
No real reason... mostly an impulsive decision that I made in class today.
What does dirt from 6 different countries that has been stored in dreads for over 3 years look like on the floor of a shower?
Kind of like coffee with cream... maybe a double double.
I guess that's it for now.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The urinal at Creekside Pub
always flushes before I’m done
The stream just barely begins
to hit the puck
and I hear activity in the pipes
that indicates that a cascade
of back-splashing water
is seconds away
I take a half-step back
and try not to get any on the floor
I’m thankful that my pants are dark
and no droplets will be visible
but a pretty big drop
got my hand.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Today I saw a poster
actually, a picture of a poster
it that the rapture is coming
on October 28th
I guess I missed it
In the fall of 1992
my parents told me
that our dog was going to a farm
that we could never go and visit
but our dog was happy
It just seems a little too convenient
Tall, dark, and handsome
not quite, but maybe one out
of three is your thing
What am I up to
tonight? just some wine with Friends
...Friends the TV show
Just a reminder
girls who go for the bouquet
aren’t always single
On the side of the
Greyhound there’s a light that looks
like the dogs nipple