Ronnie Writes

Mystery Pills

2008-05-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

Flex keeps pill bottles all over the house, and it's become something of a joke. We call them his "mystery" pills, because none of us know what they do, and even though he'll tell you otherwise, Flex doesn't really know what they do, either.

While cleaning the house today, I decided to take one of them, and now I find myself feeling all at once inspired, anxious, powerful and yet somehow dangerously unstable. Because I'm done cleaning the house, and because I still have nervous energy, I've started cleaning my computer hard drive.

Amidst the thousands of truncated documents, I found this:

"Miss somebody so desperately that you feel it in the corners of your eyes like tears, but there are none, and in the top of your throat like something to swallow, but there is nothing, and in your chest like a bruise. Let the pain of that loneliness keep you awake at night, awake on the side of some freeway, somewhere, and let the cars drive by and hiss and whistle and think of all the places they are going to and of the people they’re going home to and think of how you are going nowhere and fast. Then call her, and hear her voice like something very real and close and be hurt together."

I wrote that while on tour. Now, a lot of people have been asking when I'll be going back out on the road, and let me say here and now that no amount of mystery pills, beer or money would ever make me want to go back there.

What We Eat, Who We Are

2008-05-12T13:03:00.000-07:00

Each and every last thing you put into your body becomes a part of you, if only for an hour, if only for a moment. Even those things you didn’t really mean to put in your body, the ones that give you diarrhea and cause vomit—even they become a small part of you. From apples to zucchinis, aspirin to Zoloft, we’re all getting high all the time, and most of us don’t even know it.

Most of us eat what tastes right, smoke and drink and swallow anything we’re told to, and breath the only air we know of. Most of us don’t pay mind to saturated fats, hydrogenated oils, or any of the many known carcinogens. In short, we’re abusing our own bodies.

For example, I recently noticed that I had become dependent on Caffeine. I couldn’t get out of bed without a cup of coffee. Then, one cup turned into two, and I switched from coffee to carbonated energy drinks. Before I knew it, I wasn’t sleeping at night, and I couldn’t function during the day without my fix.

Yesterday, I cut myself off cold turkey, but it hasn’t been easy. My withdrawal symptoms so far include headache, nausea, fatigue and a constant cold sweat. My body had become so accustom to caffeine that it stopped producing it’s own brew, and now, I’m paying the price for my careless consumption.

I hope that I’m preaching to the choir, but if by chance I’m not, take a moment to think about your own habits. Are you feeding yourself? Or are you fighting yourself? It's worth thinking about...

A Short Rant

2008-05-06T00:21:00.000-07:00

I’ll be outside enjoying the weather, perhaps I’m riding a skateboard, or maybe it’s a bike, and then as I cruise along, some guy who thinks he knows me throws a half-eaten apple out the window of his car. When that apple, ripe with inertia, finds the back of my head, makes impact and then explodes, it causes my mood to shift slightly. Later on, when I get home, I’ll log into my computer, and some kid from halfway around the world will ask me a very personal question via e-mail. Not fit to field such an invasion, I might respond with my own uncut, raw wit, and that kid may suffer some emotional bruises.

He or she may go on to carry that original bad apple across social synapses and into new lives. And thus the cycle remains unbroken. But instead, should I go home and refuse to log onto my computer; rather, should I pick up a guitar and create art, I just may let ill air clear. So, that’s what I’m going to go do. I’m going to let the past pass, and I’m going to re-align myself with the current moment.

Done.

Live and Uncut

2008-04-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

Let me set things up like this: the words I just typed are clicking through cyberspace... I can hear my fingers moving across the keys, and then I hear it again, delayed through my web-cam feed. We installed three cameras around the house, and for the next month, as I track, mix and master my album, we will be broadcasting live 24/7.

The first day was rough, especially trying to fall asleep. I had to lie there for an hour, knowing all the while that somebody was awake and watching me. But eventually, I stopped thinking about it. Showering has been a bit awkward; the same goes for bathroom breaks, but overall, it’s been surprisingly comfortable.

Through the chat window, I’ve had the chance to meet dozens of interesting and unique people from all around the world. It’s also allowed me to throw impromptu concerts whenever the urge strikes, and it’s nice to have companionship on demand. I was skeptical at first, but I’m really starting to adapt.

I don’t know how long this experiment will last. I’ll probably turn the cameras off once the album is done, but who knows, maybe I’ll log in every now and again. If you’d like to check in on the live feed, just click through to RonnieDayMusic.com.

Don’t be shy. It’s fun to lurk.

What Life Gives You

2008-04-23T01:09:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, I heard the same bullshit you did: “Dream it and do it”. My teachers all said it; my mom said it; even fictional T.V. characters weighed in; and before long, I actually started believing them.

I’d put my mind into something, and then if it didn’t work out, I’d just put some more of my mind into it. Needless to say, I always got what I wanted… ‘Cause when you put that much into something, you either get it, or you get sick of it. And if you get sick of it, then you’ve won by default.

Right now, I’m putting a lot of myself into Simplify. I’m working towards independence... Whether I’ll get what I want, or end up looking elsewhere, I can’t say. I’m just happy to have the challenge before me.

When life gives you lemons, you squeeze them…

Does that work with tangerines, too?

I'll know soon...

Earth Day

2008-04-22T14:24:00.001-07:00

I wake beneath cotton sheets, my head atop an organic cotton pillow. The trailer in which I sleep has been converted from a tour-tugger into a bedroom. It is small, and well insulated, so I don’t need any heating. The walls are covered with hemp burlap, and the carpeting is recycled.

Molly (my pug dog) sleeps by my side, and as I open my eyes she gives me a few quick kisses. She’s small, so I help her down the step and we both walk inside.

We find Puggy (my other dog) sleeping on the deck, and he joins the caravan. Then, the three of us climb into the shower where I wash the dogs and quickly dry them off. Afterwards, I jump back in to rinse the fur from my hands and feet.

I bought some new soap, and looking at the packaging, I’m pleased to see the various eco-friendly stamps and labels. It feels good to know that you’re working towards an ideal.

I wonder what people would feel like

if they were confronted with these images more often.

And then I consider a more imperative quandary:

Would they change their habits if the costs of their consumption

were no longer hidden?

I know that people are busy. But really, if you’re posting pictures of yourself on Myspace, and videos on Youtube… If you’re reading other people’s blogs (you are)… And if you’re gossiping about what you’ve seen going on, then you must care about the world outside of yourself.

Even 'fashionistas' have the wherewithal to track trends and discipline enough to follow them... If we take time each day to think, I’m sure all of us can find something worth changing.

It’s Earth Day, so I’m going to grab a Burrito, ponder and celebrate.

I hope you’ll do the same!

Here’s some of the stuff mentioned above:

Green Guides:

-The Green Guide

-National Geographic’s free web-resource for living green.

Pillows:

-Eco Bedroom

-No chemicals, no bleach and cruelty free filling called “Pure Grow Wool”.

-Rawganique

-100% organic filling available in three different lofts.

Cruelty-Free Soaps, etc:

-Peta2 List

-A large list of various products which I haven’t actually read…

-http://www.chooseveg.com/animal-cruelty.asp

Misc:

-http://www.gaiam.com/

-Anything from yoga & fitness supplies to organic household goods and sustainable living tools.

-http://www.google.com

-Search for more… Educate yourself!

<>/steps off soap box<>

Free Falling

2008-04-21T13:25:00.000-07:00

I’m in free fall and nobody knows it, yet. For months I had been pacing around up there, between the edge and the path down. That single moment of my life stretched on, and as I stood in contemplation, the world rushed past me.

Do I go to school?

Should I sign to another label?

Or do I have the conviction and confidence necessary to forge my own fate?

I knew what I had to do... What I would eventually do... But I needed time to gather my strength. And then, a few weeks ago, I took the plunge.

To quote a famous poet we all know and love:

"I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.”

...I don’t want to give the wrong impression, though...

I'm talking tough... But really, this isn't a road that I plan on walking alone. I hope to create the infrastructures necessary to develop a community in which anyone can become involved. Most importantly, I want this involvement to hold significance on a personal level.

Am I being too cryptic? Maybe so...

I promise that all of this will take shape with time, but for now, I just want to make it clear that something (simplify) is coming.

It’s like I said…

I’m in free fall and nobody knows it, yet.

In Denial.

2008-04-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

We started filming yesterday; filming each other for my vLog. It’s nothing special, just a camcorder passed between friends--and still I find that I’ve become more self-conscious.

Whenever there’s a camera around, I can’t help but feel like I’ve got to be something more than myself. I’ve got to be grand—I’ve got to be a ham… But then, because I put so much unnecessary pressure on myself, I just end up looking uncomfortable. When I watch the footage back, I think, “Shit, do I really sound like that?” …And I know that I do.

Maybe I’ll grow to be comfortable… Indiscriminately comfortable… Regardless of the circumstances. Maybe I’ll grow to be the titan I expect myself to be… But probably not.

I think it’s a road best walked in the opposite direction—best to seek humility and to accept myself for who I am. Hopefully this whole camcorder experiment can help me to do that. And if not, I can always edit out the parts of my life that fall short.

Denial... It’s the human condition…

Life and Death

2008-04-16T00:50:00.000-07:00

It’s late, and I’ve been working on the computer all day. My eyes are tired. My neck is soar. I pack my bag, put on my sweater, and turn off all the lights. Then, I walk into the night and mount my bicycle.

Every night I ride five miles across town to the room I sleep in. It’s not convenient, but it helps to keep me grounded; it forces me to step back from technology and embrace my humanity...

Tonight, because I’ve worked so hard, I’m a bit tired. My legs feel numb, and my hands are cold as they grip the bars. The cars that pass me look warm inside, while a frosty wind bites at my face. To keep my mind occupied, I chew on my sweater.

I accidentally pull a thread from the fabric, and roll it in my mouth. I grow tired of the string and decide it's time to spit it out. That’s when it happens...

As I turn my head and spit, I startle two cats by the curb... In one instant I see them having sex. Then, in the next they’ve torn apart, and as both cats dart across the road, a passing car narrowly misses hitting them.

By chance, I nearly brought death upon two lovers. I imagine the scene, both of them there, down in the street, kissing and licking and fucking. Then, I come along and bring with me mass-bloodshed.

Recently I’ve been thinking about mass-bloodshed, too—about the unfortunate people of Sudan and their drought. These are people who have contributed negligibly to pollution, and yet it seems they’ve become the first victims of global warming.

Sometimes mistakes just happen… Sure… But if you ask me, I think we should all be a lot more careful about where and when we decide to spit. Sometimes it really is a matter of life and death. I think the people of Sudan would agree, and I know the two cats would say so.

People of the Web,

2008-04-03T18:20:00.000-07:00

If you’re still interested in reading these words, I’d like to thank you for your patience. I’ve been one year in my absence… A year within myself… And after taking stock of my life, I’m ready to transition back into a more public role.

This past year was time that I needed for my own health and growth, both as a person and as an artist. Sometimes change becomes a bit overwhelming, and this has been one of those times.

Someday, when I feel like sharing the details, you’ll hear all about broken hearts, pregnancies, psych wards, and divorces. But for now, I’d rather hold onto some of those things. I won’t be too much of a mystery, anyhow.

The whole ordeal has been set to song… Hundreds of songs… And I’m in the process of recording them, now. I can’t say how long this will take. I can only say that the wheels are rolling.

I hope you’ll continue to support me through this transition, and if you never supported me in the first place, this might be a perfect time to start.

Here’s to change,
And a better tomorrow,

Love.

Niacin Nightmare

2007-02-11T17:34:00.000-08:00

The lead singer from another band is smoking his cigarette across the parking lot from me. Large clouds of white smoke plume from his head and hang for a few seconds in the air around him. “Putting those big singer lungs to work,” I mumble to myself. He stands shrouded by the smoke for a few seconds before stepping aside, allowing the air to clear, and raising the cherried cig for another drag. This goes on until he reaches the butt, and tosses it towards a can, failing to make half the distance. I watch as he takes one finalizing breath, looks both ways, and then walks across the lot in my direction.

I’ve been standing in my place for the past twenty minutes, which could really be thirty minutes, or two hours and I wouldn’t know the difference. I get stuck like that, deep inside my own self. I prefer to watch the world, and to keep myself company.

While I watch Josh, the smoking singer, I fail to notice my brother, Flex, join me at my side. Flex is now standing behind me, just over my right shoulder, and Josh calls out to him.

“Ay, Flex, how’s it going?”

“It’s going,” Flex replies in a voice much too bold to be his own.

“Good to hear it. Hey Ronnie,” he adds.

Josh stops in front of us, and pulls another cigarette from his pocket. With the cigarette, he’s also palmed a lighter, and with one swift move he lights the cigarette and returns the lighter to his jean pocket.

“Fuck,” he says, dragging the word out to match his toke blow. “Last night, I tried this Niacin stuff, and it messed me up, man.”

“What happened?”

“My whole body turned purple and my eyes went blurry. My face puffed up like a goddamn water balloon and I got hot flashes.” He drags long on his cigarette.

“What’s Niacin?” I ask, but before he can answer, before I can finish asking the question, Flex chimes in with something he’s memorized off a website.

“Niacin is a B3 complex,” Flex says, “It can stimulate cell respiration.”

“Yeah, and it fucks your face up.” Josh adds. “It’s supposed to heat you up and flush out all your toxins and bad shit,” he says, “but, man, this shit just fucked me up.”

And with that, he took one last drag on his cigarette and stamped it out on the cement between us. “Well, I’m gona check this place out,” he says, and walks off towards the venue.

Flex tells me that he’s got to check in, and follows Josh into the club.

I settle into my place, and resume my watch over the lot.

***

Later that night, after the show, Flex and I unpack our groceries. While we were shopping around, I had decided to buy some of the now-legendary Niacin, B3.

I pull the bottle from a bag, and we eagerly swallow a dose. Flex hits the shower, and I start up a yoga tape for a quick, relaxing workout. As the program starts, I laugh alone and aloud at the oncoming adventure.

After a while, I begin to wonder whether or not I’ll feel any effects from the Niacin. Then, about halfway through the routine, I notice something.

My ears are tingling; a hot sensation. They’re burning, now… They’re burning and it hurts. It feels as if the blood in my ears is not blood at all, but jalapeño pepper juice, and I am painfully aware of each and every heartbeat.

“Let your mind fall inward,” says the yoga tape.

“Fall inward,” I think to myself.

“Watch the relaxation of your sense organs,” says the tape.

Right. Relax. At this point, my sense organs have caught fire. My breathing intensifies involuntarily, and I try to focus on that.

My ears feel like they’re bleeding, and my face feels like a massive, fleshy wound. The skin of my neck is swelling, and my eyes won’t open much more than a crack, puffed fat and swollen, too.

“Feel your Body Mind melt,” says the yoga tape.

“Melt, yes. I can do that. I’m melting!”

My back seems to be cracking open like a snake’s skin. I fight my way through the rest of the yoga tape, and then, sure that I must be red as a sun burnt crab, I check my reflection in the mirror.

My face is swollen to a hideous mess. My eyes are puffy to such a degree that they barely seem to open, and my cheeks are rounded and resolute. I rush to the bathroom to share my shock and amusement with Flex.

“Dude, check it out!” I chime, and he draws the curtain back from the front of his bath.

“Cool.”

“I’m all swollen,” I tell him.

“Yeah, you look stupid.”

“This sucks! Look at me! Check it out, dude.”

I can’t force my excitement upon him. I often try, and usually fail.

“Heh,” Flex checkles, and then sinks back into his tub.

I leave the bathroom, and step outside into the cool night, naked and aflame. It’s snowing, and the flakes melt instantly with their contact to my hot flesh. I stand steaming in the snow for a minute before turning back into the room. Flex is now out of the tub, and he’s also naked, holding the bottle of Niacin at hand.

“I’m gona’ take another,” he says, and then pops one into his mouth.

“Have fun,” I say. My excitement is exceeding my ability to express it, so I pace around the room, my flaming, pendulous penis flopping between my fevered legs. “I’m on fire,” I remind him.

“Soon to join you,” he says.

“Try this,” I urge, “I’ll bet you can’t finish the tape. Just try.”

“Yoga?”

I play the tape again, and now, having felt some of the heat subside, I repeat the routine with him. We go to Downward Dog, two naked boys in a hotel room, one swollen and red, one dripping wet from the tub. Upward Dog is called for, and I ask Flex if he’s feeling anything yet.

“Nope, nothing,” he says.

“Just wait.”

We’re almost done with the tape when I look over and see that he’s red as an open wound. The whites of his eyes are red, his legs, his torso, and his arms are red. His face, though, and the cheeks of his ass are a deep purple like an uncooked steak, and I stop him from working any longer.

“Dude. Look in the mirror!” I shout.

“I fucking know! Holy shit! I itch all over!” He screams.

“You look like something’s asshole…”

“I feel like diarrhea,” he says, and runs to the mirror. “Shit! Look at me!” He cries.

Flex turns circles in front of the mirror, examining every corner of his body, itching at his back all the while. Every time he looks at a different spot he stops to appreciate it’s own unique inflammations.

“These ones look like cheetah spots,” he says. “And look at this… Oh shit! Look at my butt cheeks!”

“I know! I know!” I choke, laughing and coughing. I’m thrilled, charged up and finally feeling some relief from my own bout with the blood rush.

Flex drops to the floor and starts cranking out pushups. I don’t know what’s possessed him, but he’s out to win gold tonight.

“Drink some water,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he groans, and reaches for a jug of milk instead.

For the next hour, Flex scratches at his skin and paces back and forth from his bed to the mirror. His purple hue doesn’t dim one bit, from the moment of it’s onset, until he settles into bed and falls asleep.

Now, the room is dark, the excitement has died, and Flex sleeps a heavy sleep on the bed across from mine. I’m left here, again, in my head, watching people and things float by through my mind’s eye… It’ll be a few hours still until I’ll feel like sleeping, so I relax and replay the night again and again.

I laugh softly, so as not to disturb the slumbering salami in the bed next to mine. I laugh and laugh some more, thinking back to Flex on fire, and then back further to Josh in the parking lot, seeing now more than I could have then the distant dread in his eyes. Sometimes, I think it’s worth the pain to learn a small life lesson… But then other times, it may be best to leave certain waters untested.

Fly In The Fridge

2007-02-08T16:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, every once in a long while, I’ll go to the refrigerator for some milk or just to browse, and a mosquito eater or a fly will venture in. Not wanting to kill the invasive pest, I’ll try halfheartedly to lure it outside. I’ll wave a hand about the air, but the damn thing just hides deep behind some yogurt and an old turkey. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask the pest, “Want me to lock you in here with all that turkey?” I say. It’s a rhetorical question; I know that’s exactly what he or she wants.

I’ll play God in my head—an omnipotent and vengeful God. The fly, or maybe it’s a mosquito eater, thinks it’s found safe haven, and there’s turkey and Jell-O and old stew to be had. Ignorant is the poor creature to the oncoming darkness, and the cold, and then death; a slow death.

I imagine the bug will simply eat, until it’s jaw tenses up, and it’s insect thoughts, whatever they may be, lose pace, and then it’s juices inside of it’s tiny exoskeleton will freeze and it'll curl up to die. The bug will have died happy, and I will return the next morning to find it… Only I probably won't find it, but I'll try, and then a couple of weeks later my mom will wipe it out with a sponge along with a bunch of other crap.

Sometimes, every once in a long while, I’m the fly, and I realize that I’ve been short sighted, but it’s usually long after I’ve lost myself inside of a dark refrigerator or a long tour of the Midwest.

State of Things

2007-02-06T16:48:00.000-08:00

Bags of garbage crowd my feet. Bottles of piss, sometimes fifteen or twenty of them will tumble out each time we stop. And the boxes, all the boxes full of shirts and posters and albums and all the other shit we’re out peddling—the boxes are constantly falling over and spilling. Then, despite the apparent abundance of clothing, I haven’t a single clean anything to wear. I’ve been cycling a few pairs of underwear, two shirts and three socks for the past month. Flex can’t even keep his bedroom clean at home. How are the two of us to keep a small, overstocked van tidy?

I’ve started cooking while we drive, too. I’ll cook up eggs, and steaks and chicken while Flex drives, and the mess this makes... Our upholstery is starting to smell like breakfast, and everything is stained with hot sauce.

I need a day or two at home… Just a couple of days... Then I’ll leave again, and try to sell records to people who don’t buy records anymore… And I’ll sing to rooms full of talking nobodies… And I’ll love it. I swear I’ll love it.

Photo Blog

2007-01-01T16:42:00.000-08:00

Do You Accept Charges

2006-12-14T16:28:00.000-08:00

The Man says he’s an Angel

And he’s calling collect

So we pay him our taxes

Then pay again with regret

He’s got nothing to say to us

Just a salesman’s pitch

He’s a self-proclaimed patriot

That’s a bunch of Bullshit...

He’s a fan of himself

More than anything else

Just a kid playing God

Lopping heads, looting wealth

He says, don’t you forget

Worthless fish in my tank

You’ve got citizenship

So be proud and give thanks

Forget not, We tell him

It is your job to listen

He pretends not to hear

And retreats to a distance

Give us Life, demand We

And he sells us more bombs

All our Rights, preaches he

Can be purchased with Wrongs

Reminds us time and again

That there are fights raging on

Yeah,

You got that one straight, motherfucker

We’re going to fight till you’re gone.

Lady Cold

2006-12-10T16:26:00.000-08:00

With towels covering all of our van’s windows, the orange glow of a street lamp is kept outside—the cold, it seems, does not play by the same rules. She slips past my carefully placed towels with a boastful grace, so sexy and cool in her approach that my nipples stand erect in awe.

The CriDicks

2006-11-21T16:22:00.000-08:00

If not for the pride of production, what does one work towards? When so many things seem to be foul and backwards; when men fight in the name of peace, and preach in the name of enlightenment, and kill in the name of life-- what should I be expected to do? Should I be expected to write my music for anybody other than myself? Should I be expected to consider the critics? …When critics write to make a wraith the words of others? When they complain that we’ve nothing to work towards but their grace, and nothing but misery to be our reward? When they strike at an ego as if it’s light alone threatens their darkness, what should we do? We the workers, the writers, the right...

Yes, I am proud, and my ego is huge and healthy, not by any fault, but because I know that what’s right is right. When did society decide that "ego" is a dirty word, that self-esteem is a dirty thing? ...I create, and I share, singing from as true a place as I can find, because I know that I am good. Should I dedicate my life to something other than that one thing I believe myself to do best? No, I shouldn’t...

So critics, all of you, whether working by blog or by big mouth: if you would like to see it done differently, then go do it. Never will any of you find a way to steal greatness from those around you. Like everything else we seek, it must be earned.

To Be Alive At 6:00AM

2006-11-03T16:18:00.000-08:00

A new day is beginning

And still I can’t sleep

Because the hours I keep

Are in fact keeping me

And the thoughts that I meet

In the deep end of night

Are like air being breathed

Mystic keepers of life

Oh, these thoughts never stop

And they run on their own

Without food, without rest

Roaming Thoughts, come back home

Roaming Thoughts, don’t you know

Someday, too, you will die

Rotting Flesh, answer they,

When we do, rest your eyes.

Seasons

2006-10-31T16:13:00.000-08:00

I've been rolling across this country for the past couple of months, jumping from one town to another without a minute to spare between. The seasons changing blended perfectly with the ever-evolving state of my surroundings. Leaves are different wherever you go, so you don't really notice them browning until you stop and get to know a few. Well, I recently stopped by California for a couple of weeks and found myself transfixed by the weather. It seems as if the world around me is settling like a snow globe. As it turns out, nature is always changing, whether or not you’re driving circles around it… Who knew?

Still busy, I hadn’t found any time to write until now... I’m here in my parent’s kitchen, drinking a huge mug of tea while Flex cooks something stinky on the stove behind me. There’s alcohol in the produce section at the grocery store, leaves on the ground, and the air at night is cold and laced with fireplace fumes. It’s a season, something new, and I’m eager to get back on the road and share it with all of you.

Easy Like Love

2006-10-13T16:11:00.000-07:00

Oh, What does it mean

To have everything,

with no trace of desire,

no thoughts to reach higher-

To be without Boundaries Between?

Oh, What does it mean

To be Bold and Courageous,

yet modest and gracious?

Is it found when one follows his Dreams?

Perhaps that may be,

But as Time's shown to me

'One More Dream" is never enough.

So, before you believe

That with work, you'll achieve.

You should try something easy... Like Love.

Night Slide

2006-10-10T16:07:00.000-07:00

We’ve been on the road for months, and tonight we finally lost it (the road that is). While driving through a mountain pass somewhere on I-80 we hit black ice and took a full spin towards the median. I forced more thoughts into those few moments than I’m accustomed to thinking over the course of a day—everything from “we’re going to die”, to “it’s cool, I’ve got insurance”, and “where’s my camera when I need it?”

Eventually, we stopped safely on the side of the road. My brother, Flex, turned back onto the highway and we kept driving. We lost control a few more times, but nothing too severe. Then, upon reaching the summit, we stopped for a bit of Flip-Flop Ice Skating.

This is the life. Really, it is.

Whisper to the World

2006-10-01T16:04:00.000-07:00

If I could stop all The World

Each and every person in place

And hold them that way

Heart to heart, face to face

Well, what would I say

To the whole human race?

What words could I say

That would not fall to waste?

Would I tell all the world

That I love them sincerely?

Should I expect them to care?

Would The World even hear me?

Would I tell all the world

Something hopeful and fake

Something mystic and grand

Some bold lie to embrace?

Or instead, should I say

Something both sweet and bitter

Something true as a raindrop

Fell free from the weather

Something everyone knows

But nobody considers

Should I tell all The World

“I know that we can do better”?

Waking In The Van

2006-09-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

Since I started sleeping in a van, I have developed a deep hatred for flies. Every morning I wake to flies-- hundreds of flies. I swing at them with a nearby towel, but these flies are masterful in flight. They easily maneuver around the towel with a skill that seems to be understood by them and flaunted. Cocky flies.

I abandon the van, and spray a full bottle of aerosol cologne through a cracked window. I then light a bundle of incense, and place them inside the van. I wait for the air to thicken, and then open a single door. A cloud of musk, smoke and flies billows out past me. I reach in, grab my bucket, and head to the bathroom to fill it with water for my shower. It’s another day on the road, we’re in Phoenix tonight, and I’m as rested as I’ll ever be under these circumstances. Good morning.

Homeless Dancer

2006-07-29T14:24:00.000-07:00

Having lost all shame, we now shower with industrial sized water bottles wherever we feel like showering. We wear ridiculous bandannas with our shirts off and moccasins on our feet because they’re comfortable. We are infallible, indestructible, shameless and proud. We do what we want, when we want-- because what we want to do is usually what we need to do.

People avoid making eye contact with us… I think they’re mostly scared that we’ll ask for spare change. Other people offer to sell us drugs, because we appear to be desperate, but we’re not. We’re comfortable, happy and fulfilled in our routine. We’re the coolest people we know of.

One night, after I play my set, after we change into our pajamas, after the van is packed and all the people have left, Tony and I go looking for dinner. A real dinner.

We’re in Memphis, and we heard of a place called Beale St. It’s already two in the morning, but we were told by a knowledgeable source that this street doesn’t sleep. And as we drive downtown, things come alive. The closer we get, the less we fit in with our white skin and white van. Memphis is a black town, and if you don’t believe it, you’ve never been downtown at two in the morning.

Neon lights play off of platinum rims as thunderous bass rolls towards us from every direction. The culture shock sets in like a high, and my blood starts dancing through my veins. We park the van, and having been told that it would be stolen and we’d be mugged, we take with us those things which we wish to part with in person, and leave the rest to be stolen in private.

We don’t know where Beale St. is, but as we walk, the density of dark bodies increases. I start to forget that I’m white. Taking advantage of my new found blackness, I talk to the first person I see. He’s a malnourished homeless man, skeletal and withered like a dried weed.

“Some change?” he asks with a hopeful tone.

“Of course.” I say, reaching into my pocket. I extend my arm to the man, but he won’t take the coins.

“I need to earn it,” he says. And he starts dancing; at least, I think that’s what he was doing. He crouches down on both knees, and gyrates his hips—slowly, tenderly. Then he stands again, and walks in place a bit. Tony and I let him know how impressed we are, and I ask him for some advice.

“What you need?”

“We’re looking for some barbecue.”

“Bar-Bee-Coo?” he reiterates.

“Yes sir, Memphis barbecue.”

A smile wiggles its way onto his face. I can see that his teeth are small and separated like a mouthful of stained and sea-battered shells. His eyes are yellowish and set back into his oily black face the way cartoon eyes are when the screen goes dark.

“That’s the best place in town,” he says, extending one long, boney finger.

“Then that’s our spot.” I say, and then ask if he’ll join us for dinner.

“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t,” he says.

“Why not?”

“They’ll arrest me.”

“They won’t arrest you,” I say.

“They sure will.”

“You’re my guest,” I assure him, “They’re not going to arrest you.”

I really don’t know whether or not they’ll try and arrest him, but I’m excited at the possibility of confrontation. “Follow me,” I say, and he does.

We walk towards the restaurant, towards the neon signs, towards people, and more people. It’s like an urban cornfield, and it’s a good crop; a river of black heads as far as the street stretches, rolling off of one another like greased ball bearings. This is Beale St.

I enter the restaurant with the homeless man; Tony follows closely with a camcorder clutched nervously in his hand. Time seems to slow as we enter the restaurant. Laughter outside fades under the brassy moans of an old jukebox. This is not Beale St.

The dining room is still and removed from its active surroundings, like an exhibit in a museum. We seat ourselves near the window and wait for service.

The other customers look smug and settled; they’re regulars. I can feel their eyes on us-- hateful eyes-- not looking to understand. Just looking. Judging. The homeless man feels it, too.

“I’m jus’ a bum,” he mumbles, looking down to his lap and folded hands.

“You’re not,” I tell him, “you’re a guy just like anybody else.”

“Naw, jus’ a dirty bum,” he insists. “Trash. No good for nothing or nobody.”

Tony stops filming.

Our waiter approaches the table, his face twisted as if he were approaching a dead thing on the road. He’s white; everyone in this restaurant is, with the acceptation of our homeless friend. It seems that they’ve come here to get away from the black outside. I can feel their hate.

Tony and I place our orders, and I ask our homeless man what he would like.

“What’ you think I want?” he smiles sarcastically. “The rack of ribs, Baby!”

“Rack of ribs,” the waiter recites, meeting my eye for confirmation, as if the homeless man were a small child who could not be trusted to order.

“Rack of ribs.” I confirm.

“And a Coke,” he adds.

“Yes, a coke, too” I say.

We close our menus and wait for our food. A woman brings us drinks, and the homeless man complains about his Coke being watered down.

“If it’s going to be watered down,” he tells her, “I may as well just have water.”

She brings him water.

Then, just as she’s leaving the table, he changes his mind again and asks for an orange juice. I smile apologetically. She sighs.

“We don’t have orange juice,” she says.

“Ya’ll can’t find any?”

“No,“ and without another word, the woman walks away.

I start talking to the homeless man… I want to prove to him that he’s not a bum, and I soon find that he doesn’t think himself a bum anymore than I do.

Underneath his act, he knows himself to be a dancer, an entertainer, and a lover to a nameless woman in Chicago. He says he hasn’t seen her in years, but he knows without a doubt that they’re still very much in love. He is also a hard worker, but as he says, “it’s work enough just looking for a job in this town”.

“There’s nothing you can do?” I ask him.

“Not without an I.D.”

“You don’t have ID?”

“Left everything up North,” he says.

“Well, why don’t you get a new I.D. card?”

“Costs $50, and I don’t have my birth certificate, anyway.”

I’m quiet for a moment while I think about his situation. The government has a way of complicating simple things; I know this from my own experience. This man has no money, and no identification. With no identification he can’t work, but without a job he can’t afford his ID. It’s a horrible catch, and I wonder how many others have found similar circumstances. Across the table, Tony’s face is drawn down. He doesn’t speak, so I keep talking.

“You can’t get I.D. because you don’t have a job, but you can’t get a job without I.D.?”

“Now you’ got it,” he tells me, “Pops got to sleep on the streets.”

“We sleep in a van,” I confess.

“But you have money in your pocket, and a place to rest your head.”

“That’s true,” I admit, but I can’t help feeling like we’re both caught up in the same net at different places. Everybody is filled with wanting-- eternal wanting.

The waiter walks out from the kitchen, and asks me if I’d like our food "to go". The homeless man had said that he wanted to eat elsewhere, but I deliberately ask for our food "to stay" with a smile. The waiter walks off, and I turn back to our dancing friend.

His homeless face is as dark and oily as an olive, with scars and holes cut cleanly and healed perfectly like carvings on a tree trunk. He has been places, I imagine. Beneath the shreds of tattered clothing and torn pride I see the unmistakable glow of stashed candor and confidence. He knows that he deserves better than the world has given him, but it seems that he keeps this knowledge hidden somewhere deep inside of himself… safe. He is as complicated a person as any other, and in need of love just as much.

The waiter returns with our food, boxed up and bagged. “I brought it to go,” he announces, obviously pleased with what he thought to be a very cleaver way of asking us to leave. I don’t leave, only thank him and begin unpacking the boxes at the table. The waiter, feeling personally attacked, exchanges a glance with the manager who is now standing across the room.

“That’s the manager,” our homeless dancer tells us.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony assures him.

“Yeah, fuck that guy,” I agree.

We eat our ribs and gumbo, drink and talk. Our new friend, the dancing homeless man, shares his ribs with us. The feeling of warm food in a proper restaurant must have settled his nerves, because he seems to relax, and a sustained smile sticks to his face. Tony and I exchange our own smiles, both of us vicariously happy.

Eventually, we say our goodbyes. I make sure to personally deliver my gratitude and a generous tip to the waiter. At this, he looks slightly apologetic and ashamed. The homeless man, not at all ashamed, marches proudly off into the night.

Tony and I walk back to the van, and are happy to see that nothing has been stolen. Once inside, Tony starts recording me on the camera. Sometimes we film each other in an interview setting, and he thinks I should put a closing on the footage he’s collected. I realize that I never learned the homeless dancer’s name, and struggle to think of something better than “bum”.

I could address him as “The Homeless Man”, but it still seems to have negative connotations. Maybe he would prefer to be known as a dancer, or perhaps a lover. I don’t know much about him, but I do know that him being homeless is probably one of the least interesting things I learned, and I didn’t even have to talk to him to figure it out.

Maybe that's why people tend to choose words like “bum”, because it’s easy, obvious, and it says absolutely nothing about the humanity of the individual. Maybe it’s too hard for us to accept that there are millions of people around the world with dreams and feelings not at all different from our own-- people with no hope of ever realizing these dreams. Maybe it’s a reality most would rather ignore, but I feel fortunate for our encounter.

Over a plate of ribs I had my first conversation with a new friend, we were black and white as any two things can be, but not at all different. The world walked by while we ate our ribs inside-- Tony, myself and our dancing friend all knowing something about ourselves, something secret, something great.

The Edge

2006-07-18T14:12:00.000-07:00

Night starts falling on the desert like oil down a pane of glass. My brother Tony and I keep each other from falling asleep in the van, all the while driving down some road longer and straighter than the equator. We’re in Arizona, and it’s almost time to park the van to sleep for the night. I start watching for rest area signs, and realize that we’re near the Grand Canyon. Tony's never seen the canyon, and I remember the bathrooms having been clean, so we decide to stop. That’s all the reason we need to justify going out of our way.

I start telling Tony about the canyon and it’s grandeur-- about the seemingly endless expanse of red rock, the deep-breathe depths, and the environmental impact of impeding smog. Tony and I like to teach each other things, even if we’ve got to improvise the details. In our minds, we know everything...

Entering Grand Canyon National Park, I guide Tony towards a parking lot I’m familiar with. He kills the engine, we unpack some boxes, and then I walk him to a guard rail several yards from our van.

“Look out there,” I tell him.

“Where?”

“Right there. That’s the Grand Canyon.”

"OK..."

Though he doesn’t know it yet, he’s standing on the edge of a cliff that in the daylight would have made him shit his pants. Tony’s afraid of heights... We return to the van and share a can of cold refried beans. I try and explain to Tony that he was standing on the edge of the world, but I don‘t think he‘ll understand until daylight. So, we finish our beans, wash our faces with a bottle of water, and sleep.

The next morning, Tony’s already out exploring when I wake. I crawl from my sweat soaked sleeping bag and join him on the edge. In underwear and flip-flops, we must be as bold and beautiful as the canyon itself, because flocks of tourists turn and take pictures of us. I pull Tony back to the van, and we put our clothes on. We’re going to jog outside of the tourist zone, where there aren’t any restraining rails.

As we jog, Tony films me on our video camera. I dart towards the edge of the canyon, stop on a dime and feign fault. Each time, fully convinced that I’m seconds away from a fatal fall, Tony screams and drops the camera. I just laugh and use as many different variations of the word “vagina” on him as I can think up. Around the bend, I see a remarkably precarious rock formation, and I speed off towards it.

It's a thin, flat, triangular rock slab balancing atop an infinitely high, slightly concaved peninsula-shaped cliff. I walk out towards the edge, and feel the blood draining from my extremities. I’m not afraid of heights, but this isn’t height, this is really, really, really fucking high… I grab a rock and toss it off the edge. I lose count before it hit’s the bottom. It’s a long way down. Tony is screaming at me from a safe distance, and I tell him that I’ve got an idea.

“No ideas. No stunts. No jokes," he says, and I can tell he means it.

“Calm down, Tony. I need you to film this.”

“I’m not filming it.”

“Film it, damnit!”

“I’m not filming it!” he screams.

“Film it or I’ll do it twice,” I tell him, and he starts filming, all the while telling me not do whatever it is that he didn’t know I was about to do. And then, I do it.

I walk to the edge of the Grand Canyon, and stand with my back to it. I reach down, grab onto the rock and throw the rest of my body over the edge. Tony screams, and then his echo screams back and I’m surrounded by his terror. I start to become worried myself, and as I hang by my fingertips on the edge of the Grand Canyon I think for a moment that I’m going to die.

“You’re a fucking idiot!” Tony yells.

“Yeah I am,” I reply, not really hearing him over the chatter of voices in my head.

“This is really stupid!”

“Yeah it is,” My responses flow from my mouth mechanically. I’m on autopilot.

I look down at my legs dangling. A redwood tree on the canyon floor below becomes a blade of grass. Rocks and debris I’ve kicked free from the wall tumble and chatter like teeth, and hawks fly by at eye level inside the canyon walls. I look up to Tony, and seeing that he’s got it on film, I smile, regain focus and pull my body back up from the edge.

I’m overcome with adrenaline and euphoria. I say something about appreciating life, and start running around in circles, cheering and smiling. Tony looks as if he’s just crapped his soul out, and is now being forced to eat it down with a spoon.

We jog back to the car, pack our stuff and start driving towards the next town. As we drive, the gravity of the situation weighs on me, and I play the tape on repeat to maintain my feeling of triumph. Whether or not it was a good idea, I can always tell the story about that time I hung by my fingers atop the Grand Canyon, and that’s what living on the edge is all about.