Rantings of a Town Drunk

Finished

2009-09-30T07:59:00.001-07:00

Well, I finally finished my first book. Let me tell you, there is a lot more in that undertaking than you first think. Now I have more time so I'll be able to write more shit and post it on here. I guess it really doesn't matter since no one follows this shit anyways. I guess I don't rant as much as I used to, but I don't drink as much as I used to either. I have a lot of shit finished but I have to type it up, and god only knows how long that shit will take me. I may even never get around to doing it. Right now I'm trying to find a fucking band, which is proving more difficult than I first thought. Tried out for some shit and jammed with some dudes, but haven't really found anyone that is into the same shit as I am. Who knows? Probably never will. Other than that, I'm in a new city, I have no friends, and really no life to speak of. Shit, I can't even make friends on the fucking internet. How fucking lame is that?! That really shows how antisocial I've become. So, I guess this post is done. I really only wanted to brag that I finished my book, but since no one reads this, I'm only doing it for myself. Well fuck it, who cares, right? Since I woke up early because I'm a fucking insomniac, I'm going to get to work on writing some fucking songs. As if writing any of this shit really fucking matters. Ha ha. Who am I kidding?

Stranglehold By O'Neal Rodges

2009-07-19T23:11:00.000-07:00

These are some lyrics I wrote for this one band that did nothing and went nowhere. I think I took the lyrics and put them to another song later on, but I don't think we ever played it as The Reprehensibles. I think its safe to say that we were pretty drunk when we were in that band, so memories are a little foggy, to say the least.

Stranglehold

Since I was a boy, freedom was something I could not grasp
Read about what my forefathers wanted in the past
I thought America was free, but never understood
You can only be free if you pay elected hoods

If this tyranny is freedom, what is it like to live in Guam
Being fed from a dictators palm
Only in America we're fed blood money and oil
The rich men laugh as the poor men toil

So what the fuck are we supposed to do?
Live life in a stranglehold
Or just hang from a noose
Hope the legs on the chair don't fold
I won't hang by the neck, I'll string up all of you
When I cut the rope from my neck, what the fuck are you going to do?

Well, I'm a man now, and I see right through their shit
Hope you're not a fool who believes any of it
The fucking media will tell you all sorts of lies
Come up with your own conclusions, thats how I get by
I'll never be happy with this corporate country
Because it wasn't designed for me
If this is what patriots wanted, why the fuck did they die?
I'm a new kind of patriot that's not satisfied

It feels like I'm chasing
Figments of my imagination
Running myself ragged
Over things that can never be
But when the face of freedom looks me in the eye and laughs
And says you cant catch me
I'll shoot that fucker in the legs, so he cant get away

...And Found By O'Neal Rodges

2009-07-19T22:47:00.000-07:00

This was a song that I wrote for my old band The Reprehensibles. I'm not sure if we ever recorded it in the studio, but I do know that there is a live demo of it floating around somewhere. If you want to check out other recordings just go to www.myspace.com/reprehensibles. You can see pics of me with short hair, and talk shit about how we broke up. Its fun for the whole family!

...And Found

A kick to the ribs, a punch to the face
A knife in my back puts me in my place
Bloody and violent I'll still state my case
Feels like I'm going faster but I never changed my pace

That smile of yours makes the whole world melt
Gives me a feeling I've never felt
I want heaven but can't get out of hell
Another beating with a fucking belt

I'm going to bring you down to were I'm going to be
Because misery loves company
I want to destroy all of humanity
Because misery loves company

Feel the pain and the state of shock
I was born with nothing but bad luck
I writhe in pain, face down in the muck
I scream for help, no one gives a fuck

Hopes and dreams, everything is smashed
Tried to get on easy street, but I fucking crashed
With nothing but heartache in the past
Someone give me your hand because I'm sinking fast

I'm tired of the bullshit, tired of the lies
Sick of that fucking look in your eyes
Death with a glance, now I want to die
But I haven't yet, to my surprise

We're all going to die, all going to rot
I want to cut your throat and watch the blood clot
For all the times you never fought
And the bullshit life you fucking sought...
... And Found

Totally Bitchin' Sweetness

2009-07-19T22:42:00.001-07:00

Well, I have now started working on my first ebook. Its about skateboarding, and right now it is still in the planning stage. I'm still pretty stoked about it, nonetheless, and have been working on it just about nonstop. I decided the other day that I was going to start posting some songs and stuff that I wrote, along with some other poetry crap. This may or may not prove to be entertaining, who knows?

As for when I'm going to get around to writing all of that shit out, I really dont know. Yeah, yeah I know, I've been slacking on this for some months now, but hey, I got other shit on my plate right now.

Other than that I have no news, and will try to get something on this poor excuse for a blog whenever I have time.

Ya never know, it may be sooner than you think.

support burzum!!!

2009-07-14T14:08:00.001-07:00

thats really all you have to do. click the link and support varg vikernes!

Sick of it

2009-07-03T23:44:00.001-07:00

i am so sick of hearing about michael jackson i think im going to go crazy. i really hate all of those stupid shows that do nothing but talk about what famous persons ass got fatter or what famous person is fucking some other famous person. who the fuck cares what happened to bubbles the chimp after michael gave him up? hopefully he went to a proper monkey facility to live out his monkey days. its sad that we as a society are so obsessed with death, especially the death of a famous person. nobody seems to give a shit about farrah faccet. dont get me wrong, thriller was a great album, but i really dont give a shit about any of the other shit these, so called reporters, are saying. i find it hard to believe that anyone would. who cares if michael had a secret girlfriend? just because he's a celebrity doesnt mean his life is automatically open to the general public. give it a fucking rest. who cares what women michael fucked when he was alive? i know i sure dont because i thought he was fucking guys for a long ass time. what i can tell you is that the man obviously wanted privacy about the matter, and that should be respected, even in death. just because the man was famous, and is now dead, doesnt give anyone the right to pick apart every aspect of his life, like vultures picking at a corpse. let the dead die, once and for all.

Welly Welly Well!!

2009-06-28T09:45:00.001-07:00

Well, I've been doing a lot of freelance work recently. Its been pretty fun and I have to say that having a job you like is much better than serving assholes coffee and donuts all day long. Its actually a big relief. So now I write some kind of something everyday, whether its an ad or a blog or whatever. I guess it beats a real job, or what some people would call a real job. I'm just glad I got this opportunity and that its actually working out for me. The Rangers have been doing good to, so that is always good news. As far as creative projects, I havent really made the time for them right now since I'm trying to get paid and what not. But I should have some other stuff posted soon. Yeah I know, it seems like I havent posted a new story in a long time, and I havent, but its a lot harder than some people might think. So those doubting that I do anything can know that I do work, so its not always easy to get around to everything I would like. Hopefully soon though, with any luck. Until next time, which will hopefully be sooner than later.
Cheers,
Your faithful town drunk

Time flys when you dont do jack shit

2009-05-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

Holy shit, its been a long ass time since I've written anything on my blog. I guess since I haven't had the time to type anything out I sort of forgot that I had a blog. I really dont have anything to say. I guess I just wanted to post something so its not like this is up there for no reason. I should be done with a few articles soon. But you can always check me out at examiner.com. I'm going to start writing for them pretty soon. I'm the Dallas underground music examiner for those of you that care. Hopefully some of you will find what I write on there. Once I know what the actual url is I'll be sure to post it. For all of the people that dont read anything on this.

Yeah, Yeah. I know.

2009-01-27T14:49:00.001-08:00

I know, I know. I haven't posted shit in a long time but I have been very busy, if that counts for anything. Not to mention its hard as hell to concentrate on a story when I don't have anywhere to sit and write and think. Jesus, I thought I really pissed someone off for not posting, but then I realized it was Zuri so I wasn't to worried about it. But anyways, with that being said I have some shit in the works but not complete yet. I've been really busy with my car and work and shit. Plus I'm about to go back to school so I got to get ready for that. Well I know this isn't much of a rant and I'm not even drunk, but it's all you get for now seeing as how only about two people ever fucking read this thing. I'm sure they're going to bitch about this to me cause I don't have any new stories but whatever. You can't please everyone, so I try not to please anyone. Until next time, which should be much better than this one, cheers...

Voting is Complete Bullshit

2008-11-04T15:40:00.000-08:00

Well I have to say I've never been happier that its November 4th. I'm so sick of hearing all this shit about the fucking election I think I've actually gotten stupider because of it. Well, either I have or a shit load of people around me have, I'm not really sure which. You would think that people would want to ban together for the common good but instead they feel the need to argue over petty party politics, and numb their brains with reality television. I guess the brutal truth of the matter is that no one really gives a shit about anyone but themselves in the world we live at who could really expect them to. Lets just hope that one day people decide it might be a good idea to pull their heads out of their asses and get something accomplished. Whatever it may be.

Busy as shit

2008-10-22T17:26:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I know. I havent posted anything in a while but I've been really busy trying to fix my car. It's a '73 v dub bug, so I guess you could say I have my work cut out for me. I have been working on some writing projects but most of that is just research so far and not anything readable thus far. Hopefully, I can get my car running soon so I have more time to write. So anonymous person, whoever you are (cough, Zuri, cough cough) I'll try to get some work done as soon as my baby is on the road. Thanks for posting though, cause I know nobody reads this shit. Hardy Har Har.

The Black Dahlia Murder

2008-10-02T11:47:00.000-07:00

I found these bitchin' ass pictures of the Black Dahlia Murder. They're fucking heinous, so I wanted to post them so more people could see the gnarliness of them. Fuck the C.D.A. (Communications Decency Act). Thanks a shit ton Congress, you bunch of fuckers.

A Curse of Unknown Savagery By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-09-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

It's three in the morning, and I can't sleep, as usual. This shit sucks. I hate having insomnia. It seems like I'm stuck with this shit though, doesn't seem to be because of stress anymore. At least the ball game is on even though they keep moving the game ahead so you never get to see the Rangers bat. That shit pisses me off. Fuck Boston, yeah I said it. If you're going to replay a game you should at least replay the whole god damn thing. The Rangers pitching is really fucking sucking right now, but hopefully all that will change soon. With Nolan Ryan as the new President of the club, I'm going to expect nothing but the best. It is, after all, Nolan fucking Ryan. Nobody can talk shit on him because everybody knows he was the shit back in his day. Well, lets all cross our fingers and hope Mr. Ryan can get these boys to give it the old college try. He better, because the way the pitching is looking now, the rest of the team has to work extra hard scoring runs because the pitching isn't holding them off. That's why the team has a great batting, ERA, and still can't place first, not even in the wild card. Well, it seems, the Rangers might have a curse set upon them. Maybe by George Bush. I bet as long as there is a Republican in the White House the Rangers don't win shit. We'll see if Obama gets elected and the Rangers sweep the series. Who knows? The brutal truth of the matter is that no one does. But those are at least two things that would make me happy, even if it makes the rest of the world cringe in fear or disgust. Some people don't like the Rangers, much less a Republican or a Democrat, but, the simple fact of the matter is that they must like something. Times are strange and only getting stranger. It's the kind of world that would make any man of good morals and decency want to leave it all. At least thats my feeling. Thinking of all the things Bush has done, mainly the U.S. PATRIOT Act, makes me wonder how many years he has set back our democracy. I'm sure it will take our government years to right that wrong, if they even consider it in the first place. Lets just say that the federal government gets its kicks by suspending citizens rights in the pursuit of peace , justice and the American way. I still cant help but think about what history will think of my generation. I think we might actually be the generation they got to. Maybe its from living in the Bible belt in Texas. The only thing I hope is that we are not regarded as the generation that decided to roll over and let the rest of society tell us what the right way to live is. I hope there are people like me out there, that are thinking the same thoughts of freedom. I only hope to find it, because most people don't, and others spend the rest of their lives looking for it, whatever it may be. I've actually tried to research us to see if we do repeat our history. If you haven't noticed, we still live in the Gilded Age. For those unfamiliar with the subject the Gilded Age was a time in American history, about the 1870 somethings, where America looked like the land of promise, privilege, and wealth only if one decided to live there. Only upon the arrival of starving immigrants from Eastern Europe could the complete and utter squaller be seen. Making it a Gilded Age, one that looked golden on the outside but only after having scratched the surface could one see the lead. Things aren't much different than what they were and if history has taught us anything its that there has and always will be a class society. The only way to deal with it is to rise above it....

please....

2008-09-15T00:09:00.000-07:00

Please check my older posts because I don't just write bullshit about my life like I'm writing a diary. I write stories, poems, and articles, so please don't think that if you see my older posts they're about some shitty day at work or about how chics don't dig me. They are stories and my artwork and I hope people enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them. Thanks...O

Seed of Regret By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-09-14T23:56:00.000-07:00

This one is very personal and is about some issues I had to deal with recently. I got through them, like I knew I would, but the events portrayed in this poem were difficult to deal with, to say the least. I just hope no one ever has to go through what I did, and I hope those that do have to deal with things like this get through them however they can. There are just some things people shouldn't have to go through, and although I am not going to come out and say what this event is, I hope no one ever has to deal with a situation like this ever again, even if that is wishful thinking. I hope someone enjoys this and either reevaluates their life or the peoples lives around them because of it. Here it goes.......

Twisted and convulsing, lying on the floor.
The smell of bleach stings my nose.
The vomit on the floor reminds me of lost time.
Of long fights with no winners.
Your lips are blue from your decision.
Your stomach burns with regret.
I wish I could have helped more.
Sometimes loose ends get caught up with current commitments.
Then commitment gets lost in ignorant arrogance.
We both lost something we may never get back.
The charcoal on your teeth speaks for itself.
You were the one that gave up,
And in the end it was all for nothing,
Now we're both alone.....

Lost in a Sea of Oblivion By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-09-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

This is a poem I was working on. I think its ok, but if you don't then, uhhh, I guess fuck off cause I didn't ask for opinions. This is another one that my painter friend was going to use too. So when she's done doing what she does I'll post the painting.

Brainwaves never cease.
Always moving at high speed.
Why am I doomed?
I guess we all are.
To smart for our own good.
Our genius will blow us away.
Or we'll all die out because we're to stupid,
To realize that we're all the same.
Cookie fresh from the cutter.
All for one,
Good for nothing.
Reflections are different in each mirror,
In each eye,
And yet the main picture is still the same.
Time is just a wheel,
Give it a spin,
See where it goes.
Upon each wretched wall the fruit of hidden knowledge abounds.
You have to know which walls are the ripest.
The ripest are the tallest,
To eat forbidden fruit,
You have to smash some walls.

uhhhhh

2008-09-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

I was going to post some more shit I've been working on, but I really don't have time today. I have to go to a funeral, and then I have to go to work. It's a pretty sad situation, I guess, and its crazy that its supposed to be raining all day. I've never been to a funeral when its raining, so I guess its about time. Hopefully, when I get home I'll have time to work on some of my stuff but I'm not sure what I'm doing today. Funerals kind of make your head wander, so we'll see. Who knows?

Unanswered. Forever? By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-09-12T18:51:00.000-07:00

This is some other stuff I've been working on. Here goes.

Feeling empty,
Nothing inside but hate,
I wish I could learn to love.
Life is a question,
I have no answers.
In the end its nothing but wasted time and mixed emotions.
For once I wish things would work out right.
Expecting the worst is all you can expect.
When everything seems wrong, what can be right?
Questions seize the brain.
Answers pose more questions.
Are we born to question everything?
Society, history, economy, life, war, death, afterlife?
Is life a constant quarrel,
Or do we just make it so?
The wings of my soul have been clipped.
My eyes burn from insomnia.
Cursed nights and petty regrets always get the best of us.
Death is a frightening fascination.
It plagues us all at night.
Are we all doomed to repetition?
Will there ever be release?
Does heaven have a waiting line?
It seems like everybody wants in.
With all wars fought,
And very few won,
Have we gotten anywhere,
Or just fooled ourselves into thinking we did?
Some things will always go unanswered,
At least in this lifetime.
Can the human mind conceive its own potential?
Some questions have answers.
Some answers pose questions.
Where I come from its called life.
But what is life anyways?
Answering questions with questions,
You would think we would have it figured out by now.
One day, we'll get somewhere.
Hopefully.....

Contractual Obligations By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-09-12T18:37:00.000-07:00

This is a poem that I wrote. One of my friends who is an artist asked me to write some things down so she could use them in her next painting and this was one of the things I came up with. It's one of those sort of think pieces, if you're into that kind of shit, but I say writing is an art form in itself. I guess thats the beauty of it. Sometimes you dont know what the hell your talking about until your done. Now I'm just ranting. I hope whoever reads this enjoys it. If and when she finishes her painting I'll post it with the poem.

Pieces of a puzzle, that don't make a picture.
Out of focus, out of view, out of options.
The only thing to fear is the fear of one's self.
The rest is just a variation of the above.
A needle in the arm, or a bullet to the head.
We all share the same fate.
That's what makes life beautiful.
You knew what you were getting into.
We all did...

Busy

2008-09-08T03:05:00.000-07:00

I am currently working on several writing projects at the moment, which is why I haven't posted anything. It's not like anyone reads this anyway, so I guess this really doesn't matter. All in all I have some good ideas that I'm kicking around right now, however, since I am currently working on a cartoon with a couple of friends, it has managed to take up more of my time than I expected, so its been difficult to finish what I've been working on. I guess that is life. I have finished some poems, but I've been debating as to if I like them enough to put them out there. I'm going to read over them a few more times to get a feel for if I like them or not. I guess we'll find out together.

Drunken Thoughts in a Sober Mind By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-06-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

This is just a thought that I wanted to share.

Once, I thought that society was full of meaningless distractions.
Only until recently have I realized that this statement is false. Sometimes, without even trying to something will smack you in the face.
An epiphany, is what they call it.
The real distraction is society.
Making a living, earning your place in society, the stock market, tv, politics, sports, celebrities are all just meaningless distractions. Every last bit of it.
All of these things blind us our entire lives to keep us from really living life. That's why everyone is looking for something.
Something out of life.
Or after it.
Everyone is looking for the meaning of life. The only problem is, no one knows where to look. Either that or they never think to look in the right place. No one knows that the true meaning of life is right in front of their face the whole time.
From when they first started looking it had been in the same place.
Only no one sees it.
No one catches a glimpse at the true meaning of life.
To many people are blinded by all these distractions.
They have to much shit going on around them to notice it.
That's why life is so fleeting.
Because the whole world could give a shit less to really know what the meaning of life really is.
The whole world is to caught up.
To caught up in earning a place, a living.
To caught up in what everyone else in the fucking world is doing.
To caught up in doing what everyone wants them to do.
Or what god wants them to do.
Or their friends.
Or the tv.
Or celebrities.
Or gossip.
Or food.
Or drugs.
The list is endless.
So much to where, before they know it, it's gone.
Life is gone, and that's when they notice.
The meaning of life comes screaming at them. The painful reality of it all smacks them in the face, and they realize they were to late.
They figured it out to late.
To late to enjoy it.

To Whom It May Concern By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-06-17T14:12:00.000-07:00

This is a story about a guy that can see how he's going to die. I don't want to give anything away, so you just have to read it and figure it out for yourself. This is also another fiction piece that I hope you enjoy.

To Whom It May Concern:
There are just a few things I want to clear up. Just so no one thinks I’m some kind of crazy that lost their cat. There are reasons behind everything. Like when a paragraph ends, it ends for a reason.
When you’re scheduled to die, it doesn’t matter if you knew about the appointment in advance. It doesn’t matter if you knew a few hours, a few weeks or even a few years in advance. It’s going to happen.
There’s just no two ways around it. You’re just going to die and no matter what you do you can’t escape it. It’s just going to happen.
For me, it all started as a dream.
Two E.M.T.’s standing over my body.
Instead of looking up at them, I’m looking down. Down on the paramedics and my body.
I see them standing over my body laying in a pool of blood and broken glass. An upside down SUV sits not far away slowly starting to burn. The flames beginning to lick the side of the gas tank.
I see the police blocking off the street.
The fire department trying to extinguish the flames.
The lights of the squad cars, fire trucks, and ambulances shining and reflecting everything in a flash of blue and red hues. My eyes begin to hurt.
It is there where I see them over me, me over them, and I begin to wonder.
Do they know that I’m above them?
How many pints of blood are in the human body anyways?
How many pints have I lost so far?
I see them take out the defibrillator and begin to rub the paddles together.
They give my heart one good jolt.
And nothing.
I’m still flat lining.
I can see the paramedics working, and although there should be a wall of noise from the crashed car, from the sirens, from the traffic, there’s nothing.
Complete silence.
They go to give my heart a second jolt, when I wake up.
I awake with the excruciating body aches.
It feels like when I open my eyes I’ll discover that my body has been turned inside out. My heart, liver, lungs and stomach on the outside of my body, still trying to function without succumbing to the open air bacteria that slows them to a stop.
Laying there with my heart beating on the outside of my chest, with my scars, tattoos, bones and flesh, all stuck on the inside.
That’s the way the aches feel.
I got these kind of aches every time I had that dream.
I know there are a lot of times when people dream that they’re dying. That feeling that you know it’s a dream. Or at least you think it is. Everything seems so real. You can’t feel any of the pain but you can see it all. You can see all the blood.
All the trauma.
You know it hurts, but you can’t scream.
Then it passes.
You find yourself staring into blackness.
Just for one single second all you see is blackness.
Knowing your eyes are shut, but afraid to open them. Afraid because it might have all been real. The morphine they use at the hospital makes everything seem like a dream. At least if they use enough. And they always use enough.
You just sit there in the darkness for a couple of seconds. Knowing when you open your eyes you’ll be in the emergency room.
Then you open your eyes and your home. Safe in bed. Your own bed. No tubes coming out of your arms, no hospital gowns, no mechanical beds you see on T.V. late at night.
No machine tracking your heartbeat.
Nothing.
Nothing but everything you know.
It’s almost a disappointment to wake up and there be nothing wrong with you.
This is how it felt every time I had one of these dreams.
It didn’t bother me at first.
Before I realized how often I dreamed this particular dream. After the first really detailed dream like this I began to remember.
More and more until I realized I was dreaming my own death.
I first realized this at the age of eight years old. That’s the first time I remember having one of these dreams. Since then, my nights have become nothing but fate taunting me. Night after night of the same torture.
I know it’s coming, I know how it’s coming. But like I said earlier, it doesn’t matter if you know your going to die in advance.
You’re still going to die.
There’s just no two ways around it.
I didn’t know that then.
When I was young, the dreams were a rare occurrence. As I got into my teens the dream became more and more frequent. When I turned sixteen I refused my birthday gift from my father. It was his old GMC pickup truck. It was about ten years older than me, but I don’t really remember. I try to stay away from cars. I gave him a lame excuse about the environment and global warming. I told him I didn’t want to be a slave to oil companies like all the other drones in America. I told him if he was going to get me a car, it was electric or nothing. I would just ride my bike instead. I told him he would see. Whenever I was his age and all the bike riding I was doing finally paid off. After a long enough battle he caved and gave the truck to my uncle. My uncle was supposed to hold onto it for my dad since he didn’t have any room in the driveway, and didn’t want it rusting away on the side of the street in front of our house. My fathers words. It was either mine when I got the balls or my little brothers when his dropped.
Let them drop is what I told him, and he never asked me again. Even to date I don’t have a drivers license. Just a state issued I.D. card. Good thing too. It’s how they would later identify me and call my parents to tell them what happened.
Like I was saying, it doesn’t matter what you do. There’s just no escape.
The way I figured it was that I was driving the car in my dream. In order for me to live, all I had to do was never drive a car. That’s what the dream had to be telling me. It was advice to stay away from cars and not drive them. Not the detailed account of my own death.
I had it all wrong.
That’s what I led myself to believe.
That was before the accident.
Before the dream came true.
It was a day just like any other day. I had gotten up at around ten o’clock that morning. I didn’t have to be at work until late that afternoon. I spent the morning as I usually spent them. After I got up I had a quick shower. Once I was done with my shower I made myself some coffee and eggs. I spent a good hour showering and eating breakfast before I stepped outside at around eleven.
This was my usual Tuesday morning, and when I stepped out I was on my way to the local convenience store to buy the daily paper. This was one of my daily rituals. No matter what, I would always stop by the store for a paper. For some reason reading the paper made me feel better.
Not just about the day, but about life in general. Reading about war, famine and other people being downright shitty to each other brightened up my day.
When you know how you’re going to die, seeing other people at each other’s throats is soothing in a way. An, “At least I’m not them,” sort of thing. You would be surprised at how knowing how you’re going to die takes the spice out of life. After realizing what the dream really was, life seemed to loose its luster. It was just comforting to see someone else suffer in the world. Especially, when you think you’re the only one that does suffer. It’s good to know you’re not alone. That somewhere out there in the world, there was someone else just as miserable, if not, more miserable than you are. It makes your own problems seem a little smaller than they are. Or at least smaller than you make them. Call me sick for thinking like that, I don’t care. If you woke up once a week, dreaming the same dream as before, of your own death. Life ending. You would look for comfort too. Any way you could.
I guess people just have different ways of dealing with the situations they’re in.
I grabbed my paper and walked home. The store is really close to my house, so it took me about five minutes to get back after retrieving my paper.
I spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee and reading what they like to call the news.
War in Iraq.
Stock market down.
Serial rapist on the loose.
The usual headlines of the daily news. Reporting on how shitty the world is. Letting us all know, just in case we forgot everything from the day before.
By now it was one o’clock so I decided to get ready for work. I quickly changed into my work uniform. My hat, apron, and ugly black no slip shoes. I locked the door to my apartment and started out for work.
My job is only three blocks from where I live. I only have to cross two streets. The first one is always dead and I often find myself alone on the street. It didn’t matter what time it was either. When I look both ways before I cross, the street is always dead. No cars, no kids playing, no dogs barking, no couples walking.
Just me.
This is usually the most nerve racking part of my journey to work. Thinking that something might happen and there be no one around to call the police or ambulance, I would just end up bleeding to death on the side of the road. I would always end up swallowing my pride, though. Most of the time, if there was anyone watching, they would see me sprinting across the street. I imagine this looks pretty ridiculous. A man in his late twenties sprinting across a street, afraid of cars that might come from around the corner, but I don’t care.
It’s my life to live and not anyone else’s. If running across a street would keep me alive longer than I would do it. Stupid looking or not. But like I said earlier it didn’t matter.
It never did.
All the superstitions and quick reactions that I thought were saving my life were just meaningless distractions that kept me from really living it. A feudal attempt to delay the inevitable.
I’ve found that this is how most of us humans work. Even if you know something like running across a street won’t actually save your life, you do it anyways. Just for the comfort of it. Just to be sure. What if you didn’t run across the street one day. Surely that would be the time that someone comes barreling at you. What if today, you were walking down the street and stepped on a crack. Your mom might call later to tell you that she broke her back falling down the stairs.
Poor old ma.
It’s the superstitions that get us through life. They never really work. The only thing they do is make you feel better about the situation your in. But other than that, they’re useless.
After I cross the first street I have to walk about the length of a football field to the light at the end of the street. For some reason that street never scarred me. It was always a really busy street too. It’s right off the highway and usually by the time I’m heading to work it’s jammed packed with cars filled with people on their way home from work. I guess that’s why that street never bothered me. There was always a lot of people around. Plus, the cars were packed so close together they would have to work extra hard just to try to hit me.
At least that’s what I thought.
Before the accident.
I’m always a very cautious person. Before I cross the street, I usually look both ways about ten times. I always cross at the lights. I push the button on the posts at the corner and wait. I wait for the little man to light up.
The little walking man that shows you which way to go, just in case you forgot. He always knows when the best time is to cross, so I wait for him every time.
Just like they taught me to do when I was younger. When we had to ride tricycles in a mock town, abiding by or disobeying street laws. We would stop at stop signs and try not to run the slower kids off the road.
Just like the grown ups did.
Just like we all should do.
The only thing I remember from the accident is a loud noise. I’m standing at the corner, waiting for my little friend to tell me when it was safe to cross. After I wait for about two minutes the light turns red, and the little blinking man tells me it’s my turn to cross. I, still, look both ways and it looks clear. The cars going in the same direction as me had already started to move. I was heading east across the street, and there were no cars heading west, in my direction.
Then, I hear a loud crash.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see something big coming at me, then, blam.
Lights out.
Goodnight.
With that last second before I was hit, I caught a glimpse of the car that hit me.
My last thought was simply - Fuck!
All that hard work.
Avoiding cars, being superstitious, and the constant agonizing worry I had put myself through.
That’s when it kicked in.
The dream.
It was just like my dream.
To every single detail.
So much to where I couldn’t tell if I was asleep or dead.
The police report tells what really happened the best. From what I can piece together from it and my dream, it is pretty amazing that I’m alive to tell this story.
When I was crossing the street heading east, there was a Volvo heading in the same direction.
That’s not who hit me though.
The car that hit me was a Chevy SUV heading south which went through the light. When the driver ran the light he clipped the back end of the Volvo heading east. From the direction the Chevy was coming, he never even saw I was in the street. When the Chevy clipped the back end of the Volvo, the Volvo went into a spin in the middle of the intersection. The angle and velocity of the impact caused the SUV to turn about ninety degrees and flip.
The SUV flipped three times.
Once right after it hit the Volvo.
The second time it landed right on top of me.
The impact knocked me unconscious.
The third roll finally got the car off of me. It landed upside down a few feet away from me, leaking gas, and slowly starting to burn.
Only when the Chevy hit me it was rolling. I was like a pin in the most painful game of human bowling ever concocted. The car hit me and knocked me unconscious causing my limbs to go limp. The car landed on top of me and kept on going. My arm kept going with it. The windows had been broken out on the first flip. When my arms went limp my right arm went into one of the windows. In the split second the car was on top of me it rolled off, ripping my arm off just above the right elbow. Leaving me with nothing but a bloody stump for an arm, I now have seven inches of my right arm left.
When the paramedics got there I was dead. They brought me back. They had to wrap a tourniquet around my arm. The impact also shattered the bone in my left leg, and broke three ribs. I was loosing blood pretty steadily, and I kept going in and out of the shock. That’s when they hit me with the morphine. I don’t remember anything from the time of the accident. Most of the hospital stay is still pretty hazy.
When I woke up in the hospital I was scared. It sounded like I was being held underwater at a Baptist revival. I could hear things going on around me, but it sounded like I was underwater. Every word I heard had an eerie murkiness to it. Mostly what I remember was being afraid.
I was afraid I was going to wake up at home.
I just wanted it to be over.
To just die already and be done with it.
Enough torture.
Enough games.
That’s the first time I remember coming too.
A week after the accident I woke up. Everybody looked like they were looking at a dead man. The room was full of my family and a few nurses that would come in periodically to make sure I hadn’t slipped into a coma. When I opened my eyes everyone I knew looked really surprised. That’s when they told me that I was on the verge of going into a coma, that I was dead for a minute or so, and that I didn’t have a right arm, and my left leg would never be the same. It was a lot to take in at the time. I was still pretty dazed from all the drugs and the sheer pain of everything that my body had been through.
They told me that’s what the tests were for. I told them I didn’t remember anyways. I told them I didn’t care. Mostly I remember being doped up. Pretty much all of it is pretty hard to recall. I knew it hurt. I could feel it. Sometimes.
Never too much.
If I did the nurses would just come in and give me a little more morphine.
Laying there doped up and staring at my mangled body, I started to wonder why I didn’t hurt. I knew it was because of the drugs. It just seemed like it should still hurt. I shouldn’t be getting off this easy. I should at least be feeling the pain I was so sure was going to kill me.
Now, aches and pains are all just a normal part of life. Not a day goes by when my body doesn’t hurt, from one old injury or another. I can’t stay out in the cold for to long. Otherwise the pins and plates they put in my leg to fix it, start to hurt. Sometimes I can still feel my missing arm. The doctors call that phantom limb syndrome, or something to that effect.
But I do have to say the best part about it.
Some people would say that the best part would have to be that I’m still alive.
That I made it through.
“Ok,” is always at the end of that sentence.
“You made it through ok.”
It always makes me shutter.
They call me a miracle.
They say I’m blessed.
They tell me it was divine intervention.
I always tell them they’re full of shit.
When I died, and saw the paramedics standing over me like in my dream, I left out one part.
I forgot to mention that I kept screaming.
I kept calling. For god. I begged and pleaded for him. I cried my eyes out. I asked why.
There was nothing.
Just the sound of silence.
The sound of death.
I cried and cried.
For Jesus, Buddha, Allah, God, Muhammad, Satan, Vishnu, Abraham, Anyone.
But there was nothing.
No one answered.
No one was there.
I firmly believe that the only reason I’m alive is because I died to many times. I already knew what was going to happen. Since I was eight years old I began to die.
After coming out of my mothers womb, I began to die.
That’s when it hit me.
We’re all bred to die.
Sometimes, I would have dreams of doing something with my life.
Climbing Mt. Everest, winning a Super Bowl or a World Series. Most of this stopped when I was about twelve years old. While the other kids where dreaming of becoming the next doctors, lawyers, and athletes, I was dreaming about dieing.
Its true when you think about it.
We’re all bred to die.
Everyone and everything.
Some people tell me to live life the best I can while I still have it. I took this advice for awhile, but enjoying life is a lot harder than it sounds. Now I have medical bills. And lots of them. Coming back from the dead sure does cost an arm and a leg.
No pun intended.
But I also have all my other bills. Rent, gas, water, electric. Just the basics and I can’t even pay them. I can’t work. The government sends me a check but barely covers anything.
My refrigerator is usually empty besides the occasional six pack and sliced cheese. My parents are trying to convince me to move back in with them. I really don’t want to. I think I’d be to much of a burden. I’m already a burden on myself. That’s why its hard for me to enjoy life. At first I didn’t mind, because of the checks from the government, until I saw how much they were. I can’t afford to go out and have fun. The guy that hit me with his car had good lawyers. He got out of all of this with some scrapes and bruises, and paying me a lousy twenty grand.
Well, I guess you could say I did enjoy life.
I really did.
Until it happened again.
This time it was different.
This dream was new.
This time I see my face.
Almost like I’m looking in the mirror.
Only, I don’t really look like myself.
My right eye has popped out of its socket.
My tongue is hanging out of the side of my mouth like a twisted caricature of my dead self.
Nature’s Picasso.
My left eye has rolled into the back of my head.
There’s blood coming out of my nose and beginning to run down my lips. Then I look down and see it.
Tightly wrapped around my neck is a noose.
It’s tied to the ceiling fan in my bedroom.
I’ve been having these dreams everyday for the past few months and I can’t take it anymore.
I know what has to be done.
So, whoever reading this, I want you to know that I don’t claim to be a psychic. I don’t think I am. Everything I told you is true. I know whoever finds this is going to think I’m crazy, but I’m not. You can check my medical records from my state issued ID. It’s in my pants pocket. I’ve lived and died, and lived again.
Only to die.
Again.
But we all die. It’s one of the only things we can really be sure of.
Excuse me.
I finished tying the noose hours ago.
I have something to do.
I guess the last letter is always the longest one.

2008-06-13T17:19:00.000-07:00

This is a painting by Michael Hussar. I think he is very talented, and this piece spoke to me in a way. I hope it can do the same for someone else. check out his stuff at www.michaelhussar.com

She Speaks By: O'Neal Rodges

2008-06-11T17:23:00.002-07:00

This is a little something I just finished. It's about a guy that gets a hooker. Then stuff happens. Purely fiction.

When she speaks, her words are soft and reassuring.
“Don’t worry.” She says, “It’ll be okay.”
Everything she says flows out of her mouth like a river of words that drown your ears. Her words are rushing past and sinking into your brain, depriving it of oxygen. Every word she says sounds so true, but has a hint of bullshit along with it. Like when the dentist tells you your going to feel a slight pinch.
That kind of bullshit. The kind of bullshit that you know is bullshit, but you go along anyway just to get it over with. Your try your best to believe her even though you know you shouldn’t. The only way it works is to pretend she’s someone else. You try to fight the effect her words are having on your mind, but you eventually succumb. Just like so many before you.
Yet, there is something in her voice that you can believe. Something in her voice tells you that she knows it all. She can account for all the things she has done with her life in just a single sentence. Although, never spoken, you know this sentence. This simple sentence burns its way into your mind. Bores down to your very core. And that’s where you keep it. Deep inside, just far enough to forget about.
“Just trust me.”
She sounds almost smug and the sound of her voice starts to spark something inside of you. At first, you think its hate. It has to be. Then, you realize what it really is. Its always been easy to buy emotions. Not happy and feeling down, get some booze, or some weed. Help you get into that happy state of mind. Feeling to slow and sluggish, just pick up some blow or meth, and you’ll be zipping from room to room in no time. Feeling abandoned by your wife and family, well… that’s what you buy. Whether its coke or booze or sex, its all filling the same void.
The same emptiness inside. You come to realize that all your emotions are store bought and packaged. You have no idea what to feel.
“Trust me.”
She wants you to trust her.
She tells you, “Relax.”
Apparently, she knows what she’s doing. She has done it time and time again. For some buying emotions is difficult. For others, they’re just selling what they never had, in the hope that they may one day achieve that feeling so many of us have sought after our entire lives to no avail.
She lays down and you feel the warmth of her body next to yours. You feel her breath, hot and sticky on the back of your neck. You smell the faint smell of latex, vodka, and menthol cigarettes, and you wonder if she had time to brush her teeth or if she thought the menthol would cover up the smell of the vodka.
And the latex. You try to not even think about the latex. About the taste of condoms in your mouth. About how she doesn’t have the decency to brush her teeth after sucking a condom covered cock.
You forget about it. Besides, its not what you paid for.
You roll over. Instantly, your eyes meet hers and they’re locked. Now comes the dance. The ritual she is all to familiar with. So familiar, some might call her a professional.
Her eyes are dark and deep. As you stare, you begin to lose yourself in them. You imagine yourself as a wish penny thrown into the vast wells that are her eyes. You begin to let go. The drinks from earlier in the night make it easier. Just to live and breath in the moment you created. The fake sense of satisfaction. The fake sense of love that you know will be gone when your hours up.
Feeling.
Actually feeling. After all this time you thought it was so far out of reach, when this was all you had to do.
The ritual begins.
She jerks and twists, and screams.
It’s somewhere between her over exaggerated screams of desire, the smell of a venereal disease, and cuming that you realize. Feelings come and go every second of the day. The feelings you get in your pants just cost more to subdue. Costs more to tame for another night.
The smell. She smells like body odor and cheap gas station perfume. She has the smell of another mans jizz on her. It’s a thick and wild smell. Like the stalls in the porno theater.
In the middle of it all you lay back and watch her. How much feeling she has in her face.
There’s nothing.
Nothing but the desperate drawn out cries that could be heard any night, in any cheap hotel room, by anyone with enough money in their pockets. You realize that she is nothing. That’s the reason why no one will ever marry a hooker. Because they are nothing. They’ve seen it all. Every shape and size. God only knows if the bitch can actually feel anything in her loosened and worn out excuse for a vagina. Little do you know that she cant have kids. That she was raped so very long ago, and was deprived the right to be a real women. Deprived of the right to give birth and life to the world. So she took to the streets searching for a way to feel whole again.
The Pretty Woman fantasy she’s waiting to make a reality.
Just like everyone. We all want to escape somehow. We all have our fantasies.
“Harder!” She says, “Give it to me!”
She wants you to give it to her. As the words leave her mouth you begin to wonder if all hookers go through the same job training. If they all read the same manual before going to work. If they had been taught all of the same moves, and the appropriate line for the appropriate time.
With the appropriate tone, and the appropriate face.
Step One: Wear skimpy clothing. Always show ass and tits. Even during the winter.
Step Two: Charge more than your worth. You can never put a price on yourself. If you think you can get less bang for more buck, then go for it.
Step Three: During the act remember to say, “Harder! Give it to me! Fuck my pussy harder!” Or any combination of the above. ( See more in section entitled Perfect Things to Say While Getting It On.)
Step Four: Always remember to thank your customer and ask them if they want to cum again.
That’s probably the way it would look. The worlds oldest and most profitable profession put in a nutshell, or a nut.
Thinking all of this makes it harder for you. All you wanted was to get your rocks off. Spend a little cash. You think about how you should have had more drinks.
Before to long its over. You lay next to her, still feeling the warmth from her side of the bed.
She lights up two menthols, hands you one, and you lay on your side smoking and looking at her. Staring into her eyes. Seeing yourself. You staring at her, her staring at you, staring at yourself. It is there you begin to wonder if she really wants your money or if she really loves you. You stare deeper and deeper into her eyes, and you begin to wonder.
You wonder what it would be like to stare into the same eyes twenty years from now.
Thirty years from now.
Forty.
You wonder what her voice will sound like in twenty, thirty, forty years. No doubt raspy and hoarse from years upon years of menthols, and god knows what else.
You finish your cigarette, and lie on your back. Thinking about the fuck you just paid for.
Wondering whether or not to go to Planned Parenthood and get tested tomorrow.
You drift off to sleep, still thinking of the stranger you just paid for sex. Thinking about how in a perfect world you could get your wife to do those kind of things in bed. Only she would do them for free. At least in a perfect world. The main thing you can’t get out of your mind is those eyes. How deep and dark they were. How lost you could become in them. You dream. Even though your just a blip on her infinite sexual radar, you dream. Indulging in the fantasy you paid good money for.
After all, who are we if we don’t dream, once in a while.
Faster and faster you drift off into a babies sleep. The sleep that comes after a long night of sex. It’s a well deserved and peaceful sleep.
You awaken.
Your laying on your side facing her. Her eyes are locked with yours.
You felt a pinch. The reason you woke up is because you felt a pinch.
Right on your side, between a couple of ribs.
It felt like a stab. Now, here you are staring into the face of a stranger. She said her name was Ginger.
Or was it Tiffany, or Candy, Or Lillie.
You were sure there was an e sound.
Or was there. All you know is that you wake up and you locked eyes with this stranger, and although the pinch you felt in your side is now starting to feel like a fire poker, you can’t take your eyes away from her.
“Don’t worry.” She says, “Relax.”
She wants you to relax.
“It’ll be okay.”
She said it’ll be okay.
“You shouldn’t be feeling much pain for long.”
This is new.
This feeling. This one is new. Out of all the feelings you’ve ever felt. This one is still wrapped in its plastic.
“Your lungs don’t take that long to fill with blood. It gets harder to breath by the second. “
You didn’t pay for this.
“Just relax, because you won’t be able to scream. You probably don’t have enough breath to even talk now.”
Damn, you know she’s right. That’s when your eyes start to close. You think you see her stand and start to dress. Your mind doesn’t really understand that it’s the end yet. Then it clicks. You open your eyes and look down at your side to see a stab mark the size of your hand. There’s a ten inch butchers knife still deep in your side. You can still see a little bit of the silver, so maybe, eight or nine are actually inside. You close your eyes again, only this time you don’t want to.
You try to reach to pull the knife out when you realize you can’t move your arms. You realize that this is the first time in your life you’ve ever truly felt defeated. This is what it has to feel like. All the lost football games, half scratched lottery tickets, missed appointments, forgotten birthdays, never amounted to shit compared to this feeling. This is what it feels like to loose a game of life.
Only this time your really dead, or about to be. There’s nothing you can do about the knife in your side. About the blood filling your lungs. It feels like drowning. It feels sleepy.
You look at her from the bed. Staring into the mirror on the wall behind the dresser, she stares back at you. You looking at her, looking at you through the mirror, you see her pick up your wallet. She doesn’t take anything out. She just stuffs it in her purse, and out the door she goes.
Fuck.
The only words that come to mind.
Fuck.
You feel like the biggest fool in the world.
You close your eyes one last time.
Fuck.
You think.
Fuck.

Rerun: Sonnet to a Useless Generation By:O'Neal Rodges

2008-06-11T14:31:00.000-07:00

This is a poem I've been working on. I let a few close friends read it and they said it was pretty good. I don't know. All I know is that I really wanted to write something. I did, and thats what happened. Enjoy, or don't. Who am I to tell you what to do.

Just rinse.
Re-use.
Repeat.
Whatever you have to do to keep the masses drugged,
Feeling and thinking nothing,
Only about getting the next fix.
The next cup of five dollar coffee they need to shake off the drowsiness of the night before.
To shake off the sleeping pills,
Or the valium,
Or the booze,
All the downers.
To get rid of the sinking feeling in their gut that brings them down.
Only to go home and do the same as they’ve always done.
Choke down more pills,
More booze,
More,
More.
Just spend and consume.
The American dream’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
Now,
Go,
Make your place in society.

My friend Jeff

2008-03-01T10:33:00.000-08:00

This is a short story I wrote about my friend Jeff that died of a heroine overdose about two years ago. It's about how we met and became friends, and the effect he had on my life. He was a good dude that made some dumb decisions and I hope someone will read this one day and realize that the decisions they make effect other people in ways they may not know.

The last time I saw my friend Jeff, they lowered his casket into the ground.

I had first met Jeff at the Red Blood Club when I was about sixteen years old. He was a couple of years younger than me, and I think he couldn’t have been more than thirteen at the time. I had heard a lot of my friends talk about his band Armed Riot, and how badass they were for being so young. They were the usual kind of punk rock music but they were good nonetheless and Jeff was one of the best front men I had ever seen at such a young age.

During the show, which couldn’t have had more than thirty people at it, Jeff jumped off the stage with nothing but me between him and the ground. When he jumped his body went completely parallel, as if trying to crowd surf with no crowd. When he came down, his hand that was holding the microphone came crashing down into my mouth, chipping my tooth and causing me to bite my tongue. I could taste the salty taste of blood in my mouth as I spit out bits of a chipped tooth. All the while I could not stop laughing. I was having a great time.

After the show Jeff came up to me.

“I’m really sorry about punching you in the face,” he said with a mild sincerity.

“It’s alright; I’m not worried about it much.” I said, “You guys played a badass show, I had a good time.”

“Thanks,” he said.

That is what sparked my friendship with Jeff, a show and an accidental punch to the face. I have never been happy about getting hit in the face, but I’m glad that it happened. Over the next few years Jeff and I would become good friends. We would see each other at shows and at parties after shows, always having a laugh and a brew. Jeff would never forget to apologize for smacking me in the face every time he saw me. That’s why I grew to love him like a little brother.

The next few years were great, and I have the best memories of Jeff from them. Drinking Mickey’s forty ounces in parking lots of shows, going to parties just to drink more, playing shows together, and having loads of fun the whole time. All the while Jeff never forgot to apologize every time I saw him for the crack to the jaw. That was just how Jeff was. After all our years of friendship I couldn’t believe he still felt bad about it, but he did.

That’s about the time that word had gotten around through our friends that Jeff had started doing drugs. Heroine, smack, junk, boy, shoot, whatever you want to call it, that’s what Jeff was doing and I didn’t want to believe it. Heroine is a semi synthetic drug derived from morphine. The name comes from the German word “heroisch” which means heroic or strong because heroine is stronger, or more potent, than morphine. It was discovered in 1874 and was introduced commercially in 1898 by the Bayer Company. I never thought that a stupid fucking aspirin company would ultimately be responsible for the death of my friend.

I remember the first time I confronted him about it. I think all of our friends did. I took Jeff aside one day when we were hanging out.

“Jeff, I need to talk to ya,” I said, trying to look as concerned and serious as possible.

Jeff’s facial expression changed when he saw mine trying to understand why it was I was looking the way I was. To this day I don’t know what my face looked like. For all I knew he thought I was pissed at him but he still wanted to talk to me and looked at me in the most serious way.

“What’s up dude?” he said.

“I heard you were doing junk dude. What the fuck is that shit about?! Dude you know that shit will kill ya, I know I don’t have to tell ya that. So why the fuck are ya doing it? I mean at first I thought you just did it once or twice but it’s changing the way ya fuckin’ look man. Can’t ya see that?” I told him, trying not to yell but almost doing it anyway.

“Shit, man,” he remarked, putting his head down in shame. It seemed as if he was about to cry because he was so ashamed of what he was doing, just like a little kid caught in a lie.

“No bullshit bro, that shit can and will fuckin’ kill ya an’ I don’t want to see ya go out like that,” I finally stated after a long silence between us.

“Yeah, I know it will man. It’s just that this shit is hard to kick man. I’ve been trying but it’s just fuckin’ hard man.” He told me sounding defeated, like a person with nowhere to go.

“You’re my boy Jeff, and you’re better than that shit. If you ever need anything don’t hesitate to ask me alright.”

“You know I won’t,” he replied with a smile, his eyes still looking watery and the look of shame still fresh on his young face.

I know I’m not the only one of our friends that said something to him about it. A lot of us did. All of us did. We had all noticed him change from the goofy, happy go lucky drunk kid, to a guy with big red bags under his eyes, who always wore long sleeves, and never seemed to have any time to talk, always rushing off in the middle of sentences, still having a conversation with you while he was halfway down the street. Not like he didn’t want to talk to anyone, but it seemed like he always had something better to do with his time even though he wanted to talk he had to keep going.

I remember not seeing Jeff for a couple of months and starting to get pretty worried about him, when I ran into his older brother Michael. I asked him how Jeff was doing, and he already knew what I was implying.

“Ah, man he’s great now!” he exclaimed with a smile, “I got in his face and told him to leave that shit alone, asked him if he wanted to die or be a piece of shit the rest of his life. Even turned on the old water works. We talked about that shit long and hard so he decided to give it up, and he’s been clean for about a month now. I’ve been helpin’ him get offa that shit but all in all man, he’s doin’ real good.”

“Great dude,” I said with a smile, “That’s good news to hear.”

“Yeah I know dude. He was worryin’ me for a while, but he’s gonna be okay man. Thanks for askin’ about em, I’ll tell him you said hey or whatever. Later dude,” he told me as he walked away.

Another month went by, and almost everyday we were at the Red Blood. Still there was no sign of Jeff. After not seeing him around for about two to three months, he showed up and everyone there was ecstatic to see him. I have to admit I was excited just to see him and to see that he was okay and healthy again. It was like seeing someone come back from the dead, or at least the living dead. As if we were all in a zombie movie and Jeff was bitten and was going to die, but we found a magic potion somewhere that made him come back to normal. I remember one of the last times I saw Jeff. He was wearing short sleeves again, the bags under his eyes were gone, and the smile that had left his face for so long had finally returned and everything seemed to be going back to normal. When I saw him he gave me a big hug and, yet again apologized for busting my tooth all those years ago. I was glad that we finally had our friend back.

Another month went by, with everything seeming normal, when I came home from work with a note tacked to my door which read:

“Joe called said it was really important. Said to call him back A.S.A.P.”

I recognized my mothers’ neat and flowing cursive writing, and I wondered what could possibly be so important. Joe played drums in my band and I was pondering what he could be freaking out about. Maybe it was an upcoming show, maybe it was practice, or just maybe he wanted to know when we would be recording. I didn’t know, but I had to find out, so I went and got the phone and dialed Joes’ number. After waiting for a few rings Joe picked up the phone.

“Hey, what’s up?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know man, I just got off work. So what the hell’s so important man?” I asked him without much sincerity seeing as how I thought it was all band related and such things don’t require sincerity.

“Jeff’s dead,” he said shakily. I could hear in his voice that he had been crying.

My jaw dropped open wide enough for anything that wanted to the chance to crawl or fly in could, and thinking back on it I’m really surprised I didn’t catch a few bugs, or at least a fly or two.

“Wait what?” I asked in disbelief, “Jeff is dead? Which Jeff, Jumpy Jeff? Our friend Jeff? No fucking way! What?”

“Yeah dude,” he remarked, seeming to know what I was going through since he had already been through it himself, “The funeral is gonna be this weekend sometime. I’ll give you a call and let you know when. I don’t know what to do man, this fucking sucks!”

“Yeah,” I said, still not being able to come up with any words to make him or even myself feel better.

“Well I’ll call ya,” he said ready to hang up.

“Yeah, later dude,” I replied hanging up the phone still in disbelief.

Jeff had overdosed on heroine the night before. When you overdose on junk a lot of things happen to your body. When you inject heroine, 68 percent of the drug is absorbed in your brain. It all acts on key receptors in the brain causing euphoria, extremely small pupils, low blood pressure, a weak pulse, and tongue discoloration. Your breathing begins to be slow and labored like you don’t know how to do it even though you’ve been doing it your whole life. Your mouth gets really dry and you lips and finger tips turn a bluish color, much like your already dead even when you’re still alive. Stomach muscles along with other muscles begin to spasm sending you into convulsions. When you o.d. recovery can take up to twenty four to forty eight hours, that is if they get you to a hospital in time to inject you with another drug that counteracts the heroine along with a laxative because you get extremely constipated when overdosing. They didn’t get Jeff to the hospital on time. His brother Michael had woken up and went to the room he was in. He saw Jeff lying on the bed not breathing. His eyes were rolled into the back of his head and Jeff seemed like he was already dead. Michael tried to give him C.P.R. but after pushing down on his stomach blood began to spew out of his mouth and nose. It was already too late for anyone to do anything. I remember, I didn’t cry when I found out. The first thing I did was punch a couple of holes into my wall because I was so pissed at him for dying at the time. To this day I don’t know why anger was my first reaction, but I guess in times like those when you hear one of your friends is dead because of something stupid you told him not to do in the first place, things seem weird at first. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it, and I think my denial only made things harder for me to handle in the end.

Two days later we all went to his wake. Everyone we knew was there. Just about every street punk kid in the Dallas scene was there. We all walked past his body with family members and friends crying their eyes out. The only thing I could think about was how Jeff was going to sit up at any moment to tell us that we should have seen our faces, and how bad he had us going because we thought he was dead. But he didn’t. He just laid there motionless with his face looking much to fake from all the makeup the mortician had to cake onto it. It depressed me more than anything to see him like that, looking like a doll in a box at a toy store, so plastic and fake after I had seen him so full of life just a few weeks before. If you’ve ever been to a friends funeral, especially one that is younger than you then you know what I mean.

Another two days after that was his funeral. I remember it was on a Friday. I had to take off of work and it was damn near impossible since my boss was an asshole, but after telling him that one of my friends had overdosed and I really needed to pay my respects, he didn’t have a problem and let me have that whole weekend off. Part of me thought he might know exactly what I was going through but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want anyone asking me about Jeff, so I figured it might be mutual if I was right.

During the funeral we all got up and told our stories about Jeff. The ones that made us laugh, the ones that made us miss him, the ones that made us remember how caring he was, and the ones that made us remember how human he was too. Jeff’s brother Michael had gotten up to talk about his brother, and I was prepared for some kind of long speech about how he was going to miss his brother. But the only thing Michael said was, “Jeffery…..Jeffery….He was my best friend.” Then he walked away from the podium and sat down.

The last person to talk was Jeff’s dad. He went up to the podium with tears in his eyes, trying to hold them back and said, “Jeff was a performer. He loved going and playing shows and he loved music. But I also know he loved every person here. Look at all the different people in this room all brought together by one kid and how much love he had to give to the world. I’m going to miss Jeff just like I know all of you will. So lets give Jeff one last standing ovation and show him how much he meant to all of us.”

At that moment everyone that was sitting down, seeing as how it was standing room only, stood up and began to clap and cheer for Jeff. That was when I couldn’t take it anymore and I burst into tears. I just couldn’t take it anymore. It finally clicked in my head that he was gone and that we weren’t going to get him back. The last thing I did when I walked by was give him the bandana that was tied around my head. After that I walked outside, and a few minutes later we all walked over to the grave site.

They wanted us to say something about Jeff before they lowered him down forever and I couldn’t think of a single word.

When they lower caskets into the ground they put these straps on it and kind of just let it go, slowly but surely, so you know they’re going down. There’s some kind of weird pulley system too, but I’m not really sure how it works exactly, but while they were lowering Jeff one of the pulley’s got hung up on one of the straps and it seemed like the coffin didn’t want to go down. “He doesn’t want to go!” someone shouted from the crowd. We all laughed in the middle of our tears, Jeff giving us one more good laugh, that was just like him. After that his parents asked us to grab a handful of dirt and throw it on his casket lying six feet beneath our feet. I picked up a big clod of earth ready to heave it onto my friend below me. When I got to the hole and saw the pine box inside I stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t be responsible for putting dirt over my friends head. I didn’t want him there and I was going to be damned if I was going to help the undertaker do his fucking job. Those were my initial thoughts, but I know that wasn’t what it was about, it was just about closure, which I probably needed.

I sometimes question the after life. I don’t really believe in life after death, or god, or Satan, or any of those conventional ways to think about your own demise, but Jeff made me question my own beliefs for a while.

We were convinced Jeff had something to do with us locking our keys in the car. Seeing that our friend Lance that was driving never locked his car because he didn’t care if it got stolen or not, it made us wonder. If you’ve ever seen four punk kids trying to break into a car in front of a funeral home, then you would know what I’m talking about. Me and Lance ended up breaking the back window with our hands. I cut open my thumb and Lance slashed open his index and middle finger. We were just wondering what kind of people gets scars from a funeral, and I still don’t know the answer to this day. But I can tell you one thing. Jeff brought smiles wherever he went. Even at his funeral we all couldn’t help but smile at how much of a great dude he was and how much we all loved him.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I miss you Jeff, thanks for all the laughs, and I’m sorry I didn’t say anything at your funeral. I said everything now. Till we meet again bro.

My Rantings

2008-02-14T16:35:00.000-08:00

I know a lot of people drink, well at least everyone I know drinks, and sometimes when I drink I feel like I obtain some sort of higher wisdom. Like most drunks, many of these rantings are about nothing in particular, however, there is an occasional grain of truth that slips from my drunken lips and manages to get put down on paper. Granted, I do not write any of this drunk, I merely call it the Rantings of a Town Drunk because that is what I am at heart( a drunk) and what I seem to be doing (ranting). My only hope for writing anything is to inspire, enlighten, and possibly entertain. I hope to show people there are better things to do in this world than taking yourself seriously all the time. I honestly think that if everyone learned to laugh at themselves, this world would be a much better place. Oh yeah, and all the pictures are just of stuff I think is cool. I didn't take any of them and I'm not taking credit for anyone else's work. Just letting other people know about it. Until next time, raise your glasses and drink one for yourself and for me. I know we both need it. Cheers!