Monday, December 01, 2003

Well, We Insist! was an unmitigated success. Packed the bar, read untoward poems, played drums and bass, had a good time... and got drunk. a poet named Dir nailed my ass and blew me away with his Seamus-style verse, Sitka was blusin' it and chased away the 10pm non-believers (read this as most of our audience) and lots of the old Uberhaus tales got aired out.

I absolutely see this as a vindication, and will continue to because I NEGLECTED TO TAPE IT.

As I always do....

Friday, November 21, 2003

here's a poem


You can fuck the goddamn shit up
ruin all of it
kill it dead, dead where it stands
whatever

still, walking away
your thoughts
are your own

guilt may stalk you
corner in dim light
against what reasons may come
in day

talk to the bottle,
your pard,
whatever

it's all the same
and dying is
only
name


Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Jesus, I am so sad. It's one fifty-six AM, I've had a terrible fight with my wife, I'm all alone, I don't have a pillow, I'm only half drunk and I feel like such a loser. I already feel like a a shmuck, having made the mistake of looking at the last few poems I wrote. I used to think I was good. I'm even feeling sorry for myself IN MY BLOG, for chrissakes. I'm just glad that there are virtually no links to this goddamned thing. All my blogger friends have gone the way of the horse and I haven't bthered to acquire any new ones.

Ah well. This little time capsule is fun every now and again for me to llok at. I just bought a live journal subscription, sucka.

Friday, October 31, 2003

So, here I am up an hour early becuase I forgot to set my little alarm clock back. I'm going fishing with my brother. I really am very annoyed about this... I avidly dislike fishing and have said so again and again. My bro has mom's knack of thinly guised altruism, seemingly doing something for you or with you when it's really something THEY want to do and you're just along for the ride. I am hungover and irritated, tired and stressed. I have work issues with this as well.

Goddamn it all to hell.

Tuesday, October 28, 2003

Um, well... Am I hot? Sick? Famous?
Well nobody has risen to the bait of the five bucks offered for the first reply to the post below. Five bucks isn't a ton of money, but I think the cause of the apathy is more likely a dearth of any visitation to this tomb of a Website. Every so often I will get someone who comments (should the comments be functional), but attendance to any part of this site has been a-dwindle for the past three years and was never all that bandwidth-threatening to begin with.

Blogging on the whole is a self-serving and vain exercise engaged, for the most part, by wannabe writers and ha;f-assed journalists. A sad, self-serving and all to smug lot they are, too, reading Blogs only to see if they themselves are mentioned.

My wife, who distains blogging and focuses instead on writing, has received a postcard from Gordon Lish (of Raymond Carver fame) telling her that he read her work in the Raritan and is recommeding her to a few friends at Knopf. Considering that this is a woman whose sister has recently risen from utter obscurity and written 2003's most proifitable screenplay ( Freaky Friday), this is no small achievement. She has a fine collection of short stories already written, too, all equal to the one which Mr. Lish has read. Great thigs on the horizon.

Me? Well, I'm blogging. Drunk and blogging in the basement, trying not to feel the patos of my obvious lot. I float in a sea of self-delusion, because nobody reads even this.

I have always believed that my day was coming. This is a sad thing toi continue to indulge in, but I cannot yet quit it and settle for my lot. This has seemed to be a mantra in my family, the family who never really does squat. They get close, but are unrecoginzed and unheralded. I have almost-famous and almost-influential figures in my bloodline dating back several dozen years, names that appear in no history books or dedications. The inluential, well-rgegarded and forgotten ancestors of me.

Boo fuckin' hoo.

Saturday, October 25, 2003

Finding this now to be essentially a dead ender for anything but the oddest of googling, it is again easy to hide in plain site as I once did ten or so years ago, still retaining the delicious thrill of airing my dirty laundry in front of potenetial millions. This is the cheap, tawdry exhibitionist thrill of stripping in front of the hi-rise window. My wife, a beatiful young girl living then in Midtown, used to parade her lovely naked form in front of her windows at all hours of the day and night. When a wiser friend hipped her to the situation, she hung some drapes. WE MISS YOU was posted in window of the offices across the street, an earnest and naive pleading to get her to regain her innocence.
I have much to post here, surely, but as usual I am too drunk to type it in. Besides, the flavor of personal despair that drives me here is already well-acquitted throughout my voluinous archive, let alone the site which I have hosted for the past seven or so years. Well-known are these moods, and all-too blogged by many more eloquent, caring and rigorous than myself. I find that, like so many, I have little to say in this secret/public venue and am feeling less apt to say what I will, lest it either betray me or sap my will from more private and rewarding ventures (such as a pen-and-ink journal).
So tell me, if you have a moment, if anyone reads this at all. Actually, if you do read it, comment and I will personally send an autographed photo and five US dollars to the first person who posts. A fin, a pic and a refresh of perhaps my faith in humanity!
Look to the trolls who google five bucks for 1st comment!

Friday, October 03, 2003

Odd how everything hangs on the moment when
I love you is said
spent, the hour fading to a tiny
pink something

set to soothe, odd how
it happened without
any of us

knowing so much as to know
much better
how it should be, odd

how we never knew

Sunday, September 28, 2003

Rocking Ethy to sleep while TBN is in the background. TBN is taking a cue from the WB circa 1996 and having what appears to be all-black programming. The higher-ups are not deacons, nor reverends, nor pastors. They are Bishops. Man, they wear awesome suits and are BISHOPS. Makes me wanna up and get my ass to a tailor.

We went to a very old cemetary that dates from 1849, ancient in West coast history. I gathered chestnuts while lokoking at the gravestones, moved beyond description. Plots reserved by ancestors ant used (two graves in a space that could easily hold thirty, pushed up in the corner like cereal boxes on a Russian supermarket shelf). Names and stories, consecrated ground that I walked over with abandon. Beautiful trees growing up and out, a peace that passeth all understanding. The flow of time, people who died in 1885, 1906. The world has changed more between then and now than between 1000 BC and then.

And the Gettysburg address carved on a memorial to the fallen in 1937. I read it aloud, and a more eloquent and humble speech has never been uttered. Say what you will about the constitution, 1. it's fuckin; long and 2. it's arrogant as shit.


(side note: PATRIOT act. One thing about Bushy, he is the most blantant of presidential liars. And he has foerce competition there, bud.)

The Lone Fir Cemetary has more living history than most places you might see. Gotta look for it, that's all.

Saturday, September 20, 2003

Juxtapose Spike Lee's ill-advised post 911 foray of 25th Hour with tonight's House of Cunt performance and you will see some similarities. An awkward attempt to reconcile past sins and an equally awkward attempt to fit world affairs into satire.
The pica crowd was imaginably well-connected (I stood next to Todd Haynes and talked briefly) but pretty clueless as to why, exactly, they were there.

Portland's hipster set is curious, ever looking to get laid or coked-up but also amible for an artistic venture of the spirit.

Sadly, they are all white, but oh well.... it is a culture in and of itself.

As I age I am distanced from it and yet, as I age, am wholly a part are is Walt Curtis, Greg Sage and any other of the elder saints.

Uberhaus is legend, sure, but what is not?


This was a sad night.

Friday, September 05, 2003

Now that I know no one reads this aside from the chance googles earcher who types in "giant hairless titties" or "agressive female bodybuilder" I can safely say that:

life with somebody I love who behaves inexplicably all of a sudden SUCKS ASS and is still totally cool. I think my wife's long explained behavioral disorders (see the archives to sift for clues) drive me to drink, but being a drunk, still confide to the Überhaus standard of life at its fullest: life that you experience No Matter What.

That incudes whatever may will be, will excluded. My will is always subject, even when drunk, to honor and fidelity.

But I am sgtill willing to wake an old acquaintance with a drunken cajoling that may shake his sleep and make him wonder if I was ever his friend in the first place.

Fucker answered the phone, right?


Magic night all the same..

Sunday, August 17, 2003

october14, 1998
I keep waking up and finding these bruises on me. I'm not talking about little ones from minor knocks. No, these are mammoth purple bruises which are so dark as to be black in the center, huge dark violations of my skin that look like the bones beneath have been crushed.

And they don't hurt. Not at all.

It's really weird because when they first started showing up I thought I was sleepwalking and jumping off bridges or getting run over by taxis. I asked a couple of my friends about it and they didn't believe me, thought I'd covered myself with permanent markers or paint or something. I can't explain it myself. See, they fade like regular bruises. In two weeks they are yellowish and you can see the cells healing beneath the skin. Then a new one appears, sometimes on my abdomen, sometimes on my arms. The worst was one which was on my back, a huge purple lesion which covered one whole shoulder and part of my neck. You could see it through my shirt, it was so dark. People at work thought I was a drug addict or something. They're like kids, really. When something they don't understand happens they usually say it was drugs just like their ancestors probably blamed things on witches.

I wish it was that easy.


Friday, July 18, 2003

Just found out this very evening that my mom reads this blog now and again, no mean feat with her 1994 macintosh. Amazing that she alone of my enitire vast family would read my sometimes excruciating entries. And ironically, she is thus concerned about my mental health, etc.

Stop drinking now, advises mom. Sound counsel, and yet...

drinking sounds so good. And even if the result is as bad as tonight (read this as: as bad as bad can be save getting shot) I would still elect it because it is uncontrolable. In this world, that level of frankness needs appreciation. Indulgence, even.

Right, mom?

Sunday, July 13, 2003

Man, I am realizing all the more that the world sucketh. Here I am listening to some pirated-ass live Charlie Parker MP3 of the genius playing all strung out for a bunch of white boys in 1951 who are so trying to be hep and dealing with the very real, very now suicide of my wife's dear old friend Nancy who despairingly hung herself in her basement a couple nights ago.

Meanwhile, my daughter is also here watching this play out and processing her mom's penchant for discussing suicide, etc. We're fughting for custody, and I pried a shotgun from her mother's hands a few Xmases ago, an image that haunts me to this day.

I try to hold all the ends together and think about my own long-ago brush with this nonsense.

Jesus. I already feel like a fuck ass poser, a shadow of my former creative juggernaut. This helps. Oh yes.

Sunday, June 15, 2003

Thing about a giant sea of nothingness is some guaranteed anonymity. Of course, having had this site up sonce 1997 or so, I would be a fool to discount random luck finding me out, especially bad luck. This has a way of getting you when you least, and most, expect it.

Take this as an example of common sense kicking in before any true confessions leave my fingers.


But oh, they are spicy.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

Ugh. Continuing my tradition of only blogging when depressed, I again appear here sad and gloomy. I'm in the midst of an increasingly ugly and awful custody battle for my daughter. I spent Monday in court being flayed alive for nonpayment of child support I didn't know I still owed (this is a long story). I watch my daughter show signs of mental illness while in her mother's care and find myself performing like a seal with a ball on its nose when she's here to make up for it. Her mom's attorney is a son of a bitch, greasy and mean-spirited (a former personal injury lawyer, the type who needs to walk up three flights to reach the sewer) and his comments continue to lie in my stomach, smoldering away like corrosive chemicals. Jesus. The worst is seeing my sweet daughter torn asunder by her clear desire to be with my wife and me. This whole thing is long, drawn out and extremely expensive. Today I feel like crying. Maybe I should, eh?

Thursday, May 29, 2003

The less true things are, the more they seem. And even this is bullshit.
I barely even think about this weblog, much less its original (and quite vain) inspiration. In fact, I hardly think of its progenitor, the original uberhaus Website.. These things used to matter to me. The voice of one man shouting into the wilderness, the attemórt to write poems against all odds and other such romantic notions. Sigh.

So, the things the old folks always told us are totally right. You get older and you begin to give up. Slowly at first so as you don't notice, but you gibe up. You give up fitness and beauty, then strength and finally dreaming (only later to re-embrace dreaming in it's fabulous true state wherein you harbor no desire whatever to realize the dreams). You give up ambition and finally even your will. It is odd how so much is given to the very young, ironic how it is always wasted. Indeed, the young are so callow on the whole, so self-centered and irredeemably narcissistic that when any work of deoth comes from a young author into the public it is greeted with disproportionate acclaim. And more than fair marketing efforts to boot, because in these parts money and success are one and the same. But I digress.

No, the effort of spitting whatever ideas into the void begins to seem more and more meaningless, especially in this blog world where the main readership is largely interested in expanding its own readership and thusly comments everywhere it can to spawn whatever obligitory visits that might result (and thus setting up a chain of action of blogging to gain readership of other bloggers, adopting their tone, etc.). It's fucking GROSS.

I still do it, mind you, but it's because I will (like so many of the age-ing) be stripped last of my essenial vanity.

Lift me,
lift me,
from the common sea
of humanity


This is my (and likely your, dear reader, plea). Lord help us all. And please pass the wine.

Tuesday, February 04, 2003

Monday, January 20, 2003

This from several years ago. Still online, and more than I would care to know about myself. As was its ultimate purpose, I suppose. Damn recurring hosting bills, I suppose, You don't even notice 9.95 a month.

september4 1998

I walked down the night street with a hollow feeling in my chest. It had been fiercely hot for over a week and the city was a tomb. Parking spaces, usually a rarity, were everywhere and the waiters went about their few tasks with a set determination to see the night through and get it the hell over with.

I had been drinking, and maybe that accounted for my emptiness. It felt like my soul had been sucked out. Maybe it had. I had met many people I considered soulless, and perhaps now I was becoming one of them. I'm dead but I won't lie down.

I went to Higgins' and sat down at the bar. There was an overstuffed blonde holding court at the far end of the bar, talking ceaselessly about fiction or history or something. She wouldn't shut up, and her pallid attempts at listening were merely pauses while she waited for her friend to finish talking so she could continue. I understand that, the talking. I used to be that way too, using my arsenal of trivia and invective to impress and thwart my company. Good at a party, but a godawful bore at the dinner table.

The barman came by and took my order, making a fast weak drink and gliding by, setting it down noiselessly. "Cheers," he said with downturned mouth. Hilarious since I looked like I'd been at a funeral marathon. I looked at my face in the polished mirror. It seemed ashen, eyes hollow and crazy. I glared at myself and sucked down the drink, setting the glass and the money down with a silent speed that rivaled the barman's. Out the door, into the street.

I passed two long-haired hippy-types. From a distance they looked like pans, but as I got closer I saw one of them had an extra-big coffee cup. They were roadies bitching about work outside the stage door. "Toni Braxton was the worst. One time I..."

I walked past.

There were fireworks going off over the ballfield as the final game of the summer ended. The sound of the explosions bounced off the buildings, back and forth until it sounded like machinegun fire. I thought of all the combat men that would have to override their war instincts to avoid ducking down the street, running for cover.

At the Brasserie the bar was full, all men and all staring straight ahead as though standing at the urinals after a long movie. The drink was much stronger this time, and I spent my time gazing at a tall blonde sitting by the pillar. Her boyfriend was sitting next to her, but I couldn't see him. I thought about how people pair off, how in the beginning there was mystery and romance, passion and discovery. Then things settled down, routines were established and they each had a side of the bed. Then they fought, made up and fought again. It seemed like a lot of work. The blonde had a colossal body, but I wondered if he even saw it anymore. You get used to anything, I supposed.I paid and left, the barman never leaving the far end of the bar the entire time of my stay.

As I walked uptown I felt like crying. I was taking a subtle beating this night, like fighting an opponent two weight classes down from you. Lots of little hits you barely even feel until you're on the canvas. I didn't have far to go.

I turned up Washington and made my way back to Cassidy's. It's right across from the Überhaus, so I go there a lot. I used to work there once, and in a way it felt like my parents' house. I knew what to expect, and it wasn't much.

Typically, it was slow. I sat between a man I've known for years, a wild-haired stunted genius who has held the exact routine for over fifteen years. An interesting talker, and just as content to sit silent. I used to wonder what went on in his head as he sat there for hours, so one day I asked him. He was thinking about a Pink Floyd concert he'd been to years before. Another time he was recalling Jack Johnson. I never knew what to expect from him, yet it was always the same.

After a while, Case popped down next to me, finished with his shift. He's a guy who is endlessly cool and steady, a natural soldier. "Dude, got any pot?"

No, I said. Two weeks there'll be so many buds in Portland that we'll be wiping with them, but the last weeks of August are notoriously dry times.

"It happens every year," said Paul from behind the bar. "People ought to stock up."

I could tell from his calm demeanor that he had taken this precaution; he possessed none of the frantic, jonesy look that so many wore at the summers' end.

I should've too, I suppose, but my mind doesn't work that way.
reaon, aways friendly
presents itself always
a majority voice, though the bombs rain
down and death is a crucilble among
other functions

easy to question the faltering
sable words curdle faced with bullets and blood
and so as all will
the majority rules

but what private guardian
sits and waits for such time
that unguarded, the bones of the castle
laid bare in the late
will reinvent gospel and retell bedrock truth

watches any cocked arm
poised to wreak passioned destruction
of fire wrought in gasoline and glass
for any pause

look to it, the old may say
look to it for
regret will never be conquered
so easily as this

headed off in some firey passage
of truth or retelling
of it

Thursday, January 09, 2003

My friend Bryan believes that the only reason anyone ever reads a blog is to see if their blog is mentioned. I recall so many times sitting feeling mopey and lonely and hating everyone, everything and myself and realizing that every other blog said that exact same thing! Makes you rather pine for something a bit more meaty.
Blogs suck ass.

I am still hung over. Second day of tasting puke in the back of me throat.

Wednesday, January 01, 2003

I am forever putting this down and taking it back up. Silly me. For some reason it has its own rewards, beyond that of the various poems and other postings that have dotted this site for so many years. Perhaps it is egomania and perhaps it is more than that. For one so willing to completely turn his back on the past I seem to be more than willing to document it online. As one review of this blog said, "nothing special here." Perhaps not for them. But for me, anyway, I look throug this tripe and read and reread the various and sundry stuff I have written throughout the years. It gives me little comfort other than to serve as a reminder that the better parts of me might yet endure. There's hope anyway. Another year flies by.