Kerosene Dreams (2004)

“For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.” -Luke 12:2

"You know what you get when you play Twisted Sister's 'Burn in Hell' backwards? 'Go to church and pray on Sunday.' " -Jay Leno

      The kerosene heater had scorched the ceiling and faux wood paneling black, and the carpet was already a deep gray from years of cigarette burns and spilt beverages.  Pentagrams appeared daily on every flat surface, graffitied with ashy fingers, mostly because the ceiling was caked in soot and we were stir-crazy and restless.  All these fumes, which had not only blackened my walls and ceiling but also my body and soul, seem to have also redirected this downward trajectory into darkness.
     Years of heavy immersion in all kinds of unsavory music had caught up with me; I began to write about it again after a five-year boycott.  Everyday sounds started to take on anthropomorphized qualities- even when no record was spinning on the turntable, the tactile humming of the Kero-Sun heater, the static of decaying appliances, the roar of passing cars driven by crazed and twisted meth heads…they became an entropic choir in my increasingly unreliable brain, a backbeat to my hallucinations.  Armies of steel-booted dwarves danced frenzied circles on the base of my skull.  The fumes were getting to me.
    I also began exploring other esoteric aspects of the music that surrounded me constantly.  Developing a fascination with bogus rock artists, con men, and hacks, I sought out the no man’s land where petty crime, psychology, and music overlapped; I also started a band in tribute to my favorite musical hoax…but that’s another story, too.  Let’s get down to business, and light the black candles…
    

The Ghost of John the Baptist

     The house squatted on Lexington like a big pink skull, leering blindly out of its dirty window eyes, and the kudzu crept up the sides like black cobwebs.  It was, of course, abandoned - empty for years, and doomed to be only irregularly inhabited by ghosts, rats, and drunks.   Behind the house, we were well on our way to being quite drunk ourselves, between the whiskey and wine and the full moon. 
     It was one of those nights, stiflingly hot and dead calm; far-off voices floated on the air, mingling with the crickets and the traffic.  We had been moseying back to my tent, nestled deep in a nearby kudzu patch, when I copped an earful of joyful singing from the back of the big pink skull.  Was that an Otis Redding song? Having most of a jug and no immediate plans, we followed the sound around back to investigate.  Four or five old guys, obviously well-lubricated themselves, huddled in a circle, bottles in the air, while one, gazing skyward, rasped “These Arms of Mine” out into space. We sat down in the dirt and joined in.  I noticed that another guy was singing to himself in Spanish, eyes closed, swaying on his seat.  Two others nodded their heads, stomped their feet, and swore.  Next to them sat John the Baptist.

A Brief History of Broken Noses

According to legend, Jack Palance died with the longest recorded string of broken noses in recent history: twenty-one times, starting with his failed career as a boxer and then as a stunt-man and famous cowboy actor. He also broke some pretty famous noses of his own, notably that of Marlon Brando. Male model and margarine spokesman Fabio was riding on a roller-coaster when a pelican slammed into his face, shattering his manly schnoz. Paula Abdul tripped over her chihuahua.

I mention these merely to make the point that we cannot control our surroundings, that fame and fortune are no better defense against destiny than fear or strength or protective headgear. Whether it be the brick wall of a YMCA gym, a hurled beer can, the elbow of an anonymous booty-dancer, or the fist of a wrathful woman, there will come a day when it has your name on it, or at least the name of your nose. All you can do is duck, and if that fails, at least stay awake until the concussion wears off.

I Spit in William Shatner's Omelet

     Fight scene from Star Trek: Captain Kirk is stranded on a desert planet, sweating in his impractical uniform, and a Lizard Man is heaving boulders at him. He's been losing the fight for six or seven minutes, he's run out of rocks and karate chops, and so he just turns and runs for his life over the burning sand.  You can't win 'em all. 

      The first time I swore off of the restaurant industry was when I quit B**nstr**ts.  At the time, I was convinced I had some form of brain damage from working there, or maybe several years of my life had rotted away.  The place was a mecca for perverts and aimless head-cases, staring down the barristas with their hands hidden under the tables.  Most of the art was pictures of nude women, some painted by the owner himself, and the kitchen had murals of grinning sunflowers and a big happy sun, leering creepily through half closed eyes.  Every time a can of whipped cream emptied, the employees would scramble for it and rush into the back, greedily sucking the nitrous oxide out, starved for a moment of merciful oblivion. I never wanted to see another snickerdoodle latte or open mike night again.
     One hot day, some weeks before my own Kirk-in-the-desert-with-Lizard-Man moment, I had to shove my way past a line of people to get in the door to go to work.  At the head of the line, bright and early, was William Shatner, loudly complaining about his flight to Hollywood in half an hour.  Now, I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure it's impossible to fly to Hollywood from Asheville, or at least it was in 2002, and anyway there was no way he was going to get to the airport in half an hour.  On top of that, did Shatner really have a pressing engagement, or did he just think he was entitled to get his omelet ahead of everybody else?  I was pretty groggy still, hungover and reeling from a bad night of suppressing the rage and angst that hung like cologne around this place.  If the first thing somebody said directly to you on a morning like that was “Shatner's being a dick.  You should spit in his omelet,” what would you do?