I wrote this fast and didnt have time to proofread, gotta go to work.

At nearly exactly 5am today I awoke to what I had no doubt was a shotgun blast 15 feet outside my bedroom window, on my neighbors back porch. I snapped awake. Petrified, I listened. Thought I heard footsteps. Thought I heard a voice. Seconds or minutes later I was finally able to get my hand to reach for the phone. From under the covers I dialed emergency. She couldnt understand me. I was talking too fast. From under the covers every sense tingled. I heard squirrels birds and roaches thinking to themselves, "what the fuck was that?" I felt every vibration, grasped every fluctuation of light and color. Nothing moved, including myself. Too terrified to look out. A million seconds or minutes passed before officers lit up the back yard. I went out to them. Pointed where I heard the blast. One officer looks over the fence. The other a few minutes later looks around in the air, "sir, do you have power?" I have nothing in my room that requires power other than a lamp that wasnt on, so if the power was out I would have no way of knowing. Before he could finish asking me the question, "did a fucking transformer blow up?" I said. Almost more angry at entergy than if there was an actual assassin that night taking shots at my new neighbors. By that time Matt and Susannah were up. They said, "why didnt you call out, Eric? Or come into our room?" Because I couldnt move. Any movement I would have made would have clued the perpetrator of my existence and of my new title as WITNESS. He would have had no choice to have me dispatched. It took nearly an hour for my heart to stop racing. I laughed at myself. I thought of two things to help me calm down. One was a daydream of me being powerful and smart. The other was my happiest moment of recent history. The daydream was a reaction to how weak I felt. I needed an absurd story of me being gallant and brave to balance out how cowardly I just acted. It started like this: I was at the restaurant closing up the register. The rest of the employees were around doing the they need to do to close their respective station. Two white men enter with guns. One comes directly to me points his gun at my face and demands cash. I calmly do as he asks. He asks if all the employees are right here. I know one is not and one is the dishwasher that doesnt speak english. I ask Tyler to calmly ask Ballardo to step up front. Then he makes me take him upstairs to the safe. As I go I tell everyone to be calm. We have insurance this no big deal. Upstairs I empty the cash boxes for him. Impatiently he smashes the top of my head with the butt of his pistol. I black out from rage. Bathed in white light I somehow overcome him and beat him unconscious. Now I have his gun. Everyone is still downstairs unaware. I call the police again. Chris has already called the police from his dark hideout behind the oven. I tell 911 that I have one of the men down and the other is downstairs with my employees. I tell them where the back entrances are and how to get in quietly. I know if too much time goes by the second guy will have to do something. I wait by the door down the hall. It open out from me. I hear him come up the stairs calling out to his accomplice. The handle is touched. When it is open by about 2 inches I kick it open as hard as I can. With force that surprises even myself. I point the gun at him. As he hits the ground he raises his arm to me. I shoot him with the purpose of hitting him the tight shoulder. No lung, no vital organs. I succeeded. One is unconscious in the office the other has a 9mm hole going through him. I yell out to everyone that I am ok. I yell to Tyler to bring clean dry towels up and for everyone else to stay right where they are. I ask the guy to drop his gun and that if I put this gun down and put pressure on his would will he be cool and not attack me. He accepts my help. He's more afraid of dying at this point. He is a little younger than me. Out of genuine curiosity I ask what it feels like. The same way I asked my sister what being pregnant feels like. He said it feels weird. Doesnt hurt exactly but it does. His whole body resonated. We figured together that was the body going into shock. Now Tyler was there and we both put pressure on the entrance and exit wounds. I asked him his name. I told him mine and introduced Tyler. For some reason I told him we were in a band together. He told me he played guitar so I asked him about specifics. What kind, model, color, pickups, year, string preference. All the basics we get out of the way when talking with another guitar player. I wanted to keep him talking. He was fading. I slapped him awake a couple times. What kind of amp? Pedals? Banalities to keep us both calm. But also probably the most surreal topic of conversation given that I just shot him. And he shot at me. Emma runs over the bottom the stairs to help. I yell at her to get away, I didnt want her to see this. She didnt need to see the blood or this dude die on me. I told her to find Chris Mac, get him out of hiding, call Scott, John and Quin and get them here now. Call an ambulance(which I pronounced AMBALANTS and made a joke out of a minute later, "can you believe I just said ambalants?") And tell them we have a gunshot wound. The police swarm in. As they come up the stairs guns drawn I tell Tyler to put his hands up, stand up and get back. The officer asks me to step away. I told him I have constant pressure and I am ok staying until EMTs arrive. I tell him to grab the gun from my back waistband. We all agree. The paramedics arrive, things calm down. They decide the crack on my head doesnt need stitches. They give me and Tyler stuff to wash the blood off. But before I can do it the police want a statement, John, Scott and Quin arrive in time for me to tell it all. So in my head, in the daydream I am telling it again but in a way that I am saying to cops. Details only. Just the fucking facts. And I play it all out again in my head. Adding details. I', sitting on the back of the ambulance. Telling the story. Someone puts a cigarete into my mouth. I keep talking. When I need to take it out of my mouth the blood gives me pause. The sight slows everything down and chokes me up for just a second. I continue.Tyler and I are at the back sink scrubbing our hands. I'm in bed after some drinks and talk trying to sleep. Ok, now is where it gets silly. The next afternoon I sit down with John, Scott and Quin. They are overwhelmed and gushing praise and thank yous. They decide that I need some time off. Paid. At this point I was already 5 days from taking a week off to fly to Minnesota to see you. That added a second was and to take the rest of this week off. They decided to buy me a new car. I said that was too much but they insisted. Quin mentions that I was still trying to save up for a new laptop. John puts his fist down, "Scott, take Eric car shopping I am going to Best Buy." So I now have 3 weeks off, a new computer and car and a bunch of cash. I get interviewed by tv and newspaper. I refuse to do any big national things because I am so humble and noble. Men dont brag about what they did. I'm even laughing at myself at this point. Now I call you and tell you all this. I tell you I am going to drive to Chicago for a day or two then come see you for as long as you'll have me. I needed a detailed stupid daydream to occupy my mind. I do it often before bed and before I get up. I create these too perfect scenarios. But this morning I needed it. This morning was the second most scared I have ever been.
The other thing I though about, the happiest moment in recent history, was you laying with me that morning, arm across me, head on my chest. You were with me this morning. You did protect me. You helped me sleep.

The arrogance of youth and male pattern baldness.

Oh shit. I cant tell the story of how I became a graphic designer without telling you about Pete. Pete was the son of a well off farmer from DeMotte, Indiana. DeMotte was once in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most churches per capita, per square mile. Pete was another rotten spoiled kid. Painted his bedroom black when he was 21. Always drove his car 120mph. Last I heard he was married, never showered, had black teeth and joined a motorcycle gang. I enjoyed his craziness for a time. We worked together at Applebees. Soon we formed a band. Found a singer and bass player. Nonetheless was born. We played out a lot and because we were all so broke I took on the job of making fliers. Soon after I started working for the construction company and had many hours and two photocopiers to experiment with. Woodcuts became the main way of mass producing color posters. It was so much cheaper than kinkos. I pirated photoshop and learned it without any help. After a while I was designing album covers for friends' bands for cigarettes and scotch. One afternoon while designing the insert for Lights Over Bridgeport I had a realization that I LOVED doing this. Maybe I could pursue a career in graphic arts. Never before had I thought that a possibility. Never in my growing up was the idea of a JOB in the arts a tangible profession. We worked in the mills. In restaurants. In the mall. Forever. No one went off to become successful in advertising. No one went off to be in touring rock bands. No one opened restaurants. Everyone I grew up around loitered in the courtyard of banality. Too scared or too tied down to open any of the doors. So, as excited as someone that fell overboard is to find a plank of wood I found an art school to enroll in. I loved college. I wish I had figured all that out before I was 25. A goldfish will expand to the size of its environment if you keep feeding it. Thats how I felt at Columbia College Chicago. I fed off the camaraderie and competition. I excelled and kicked ass. I knew I was better at this than most. It fed my brain as much as my soul as much as my ego. I was in art school. In Chicago. I was smart and strong and could lift city buses off the ground with a properly placed and chosen font. Its been 5 years since I could not afford to go to school anymore. I thought about going back to UALR. They have a nice art program. David paid me a nice compliment the other day. He said that I dont need school. That I already got it. What else can they teach me.? Its arrogant for me to say something like that but less arrogant to agree with someone that says something like that to me.

I wanted to tell a happy story

I fell in love with Sue one afternoon when we were shopping for a pickup for her cello. We ate lunch at this fancy place that served very tiny meals. I was the only one with testicles in the room. And I had to check them at the door. She was a friend of a friend but up until a couple weeks prior we had not met. That first night I did a rare thing and walked right up to her and asked her out. She said yes. We planned on meeting up at the other bar we all hung out at. The Tuesday bar, of course. I was all set for a date. Before then it had been over a year since Randi and I dated and that lasted only a week. And before that- Carol Ann, that was 1999. So Sue and I sat down and talked. Talked for two straight hours. It was going so well. We got along splendidly. We had senses of humors that meshed. We could have facetious conversations that lasted weeks. Just make up shit. After a couple hours she interrupts me to introduce me to the fella thats been sitting across the table hanging out with his friends all night. Her boyfriend, Jon. Crushed. Seriously crushed. She knew what she did and felt bad. I think I excused myself and went home in the following moments. Somehow we ended up hanging out again. And again. I tried to accept that it was never going to happen and I had found a really great new friend. Friends, even. Jon turned out to be a really cool guy. So we became close and my desire to be in a relationship ebbed and flowed. Then I started dating Holly. Sue and I grew apart for a while. Then Holly and I broke up. Sue and I hung out again. She was still with Jon, but unhappy. Holly and I got back together. Holly and I broke up again. Then I ran into Sue for the first time in nearly a year. She was at a table being hit on by 3 guys. I walked up and without missing a beat, in 45 seconds, we convinced these 3 guys I was her husband, we pawned our rings for coke, we had three or four kids that helped us cook and deliver meth and Sue had a penis growing out of her left shoulder. They walked away. It was awesome. We were both single and hanging out again. I had moved into the Hammond house with Terry. All was great until the morning I woke up to see his door locked and her car outside. That hurt. Really hurt. I worked next door to my house so I saw her car there all afternoon until she got up finally and left. She knew what she did and felt bad about it. But we stayed friends still. Then Holly came back around. Holly started hanging out and crashing at our place. We were sleeping together again. One night I went to bed and she wanted to stay up longer. She asked me to make sure she got up at 430am so she could get to work on time. I was happy to do so. 4:31 I found her and Terry on my couch. But thats another story I already wrote. I cried to Sue and she told me what I needed to hear, man the fuck up. I didnt need either of them in my life. They are both poison. I moved to Alabama 4 weeks later. Even though it sounds really fucked up she is my best friend. Like brother and sister we have been for years. We all just drink too much.

....

I just witnessed the coolest thing. A storm is literally blowing in. I stepped outside to see the very first gust blow all the sun dried leaves from all the trees all at once.

BEEF

I hate tattoos. I feel the need to finish my sleeve just to be a completest and to be more graphically pleasing. But there is no meaning to my tattoos. No special reason other than I liked the idea at the moment. There are no regrets, at all. I have inserted meaning into my pieces. My right arm speaks to consumption. The image is of a candy monster boiling children to make more candy. Asking the question whether you would continue to buy candy if you knew the consequences. I like that. Never have I been comfortable being a consumer. I dont eat meat because I dont need to. I have always liked to think about where things come from. Machines, clothes, food, expressions. “Hair of the dog” comes from the literal act of feeding a rabid dog its own hair. At the time people thought it was a positive treatment. Most of America's meat is processed in and around Colorado. The companies actively recruit Mexicans and smuggle them in. They live in squalor around the plant and pay them next to nothing. They fire the ones that get injured or limbs cut off and have them deported. The people, not the limbs. Instead of taking the time and money to properly train people they simply shuffle through poor undereducated souls that do what they need to get by. I dont want any part of that so I stopped. I say to those idiots that think that illegal immigrants should go back to where they came from to stop eating meat. You are the ones giving them a job. You are paying them to be here. Heh, I just made a lot of meaning around my tattoo.

*Insert Alkaline Trio lyric here*

After Erin and I broke up, which was on the way back from Chicago, I took another road trip home for Russel's wedding. David let me use his car. I drove alone. In seven days I was to return to Arkansas and move out of the Booker house into Valentine. I was single and on the road and out of that miserable house. To say I was relieved doesnt say it. I was elated. Joyous. I turned the radio up and sang along so loud, I was so happy it was hard to get all the words out I was crying so hard. I feel a bit like that now. I have everything in front of me. But I have managed to let a few things into my head that is holding me back from being truly happy. I have the same things I had last year and more and only more is to be expected beyond the horizon. When this summer finally ends. Maybe it is the heat that has me all worked up more so than usual. I want to wake up and be an earthquake. Shake this fucking place up. Hold hands with revolution. But I feel more like I am biding time. Waiting for an opportunity to pounce. I hate waiting. I get so frustrated. Why cant anything be easy, simple? Ever. You know what? Fuck easy. I opine and wine about shit being needlessly complicated. I like girl, she likes me, why cant we just be....blah blah fuck that. I dont want it to be easy anymore. I'll wait and wait. When it does finally happen, if it ever happens, I'll be so happy I'll cry like I'm driving home.

2 Years

When I arrived at my parents apartment in Alabama all I wanted was some of that cheap shitty whiskey I had left there a month before. I was nearly drunk by the time my dad got home from work. I'm pretty sure he was stoned. My brother-in-law had some cartoons on and my dad giggled, GIGGLED, for the duration. Never before had I heard a grown man, and never imagined my own father could titter to himself that way. It was beautiful and amazing. I read a lot in Alabama. It was hard to go outside. There was no one besides my family I knew in that state. Once I walked toward downtown Huntsville looking for a cafe or a bar that looked cool. Never found one. I walked and walked. I explored without maps. I hate cities without consistent sidewalks. Little Rock can be bad about that but Huntsville is the worst. It got too hot to walk anymore so I stayed inside. Work didnt seem like a thing I wanted to do. So I sat at the apartment. I started jogging just to keep from being sore from sitting all day. I started to get paranoid and lonely. I couldnt go jogging if I had seen another person from my window. Even if they were on the other side of the street. I didnt talk to anyone. I hated it. It was July. I had made up my mind I would move to Little Rock in November. I moved on the morning of the first Sunday in August.

Gapless Playback Information

It was still cold in Chicago then. I have a theory about Chicago winters. It normally first gets cold enough to snow around Halloween. Our(as in everyone in greater Chicagoland) mentality is as follows:
“Ok, fine. Here comes winter. Summer was hot, autumn was nice, its winters turn to take the throne. Snow, sleet, slush, cold, 70degrees, 30degrees 50, -14, 45, 0..... this is messed up, but I do live in Chicago. Ok. Its thanksgiving. Will it be freezing or can we toss the football around this afternoon? December. Christmas. Its consistently colder now. But last year it rained, so who knows. January. Shit, its cold. And windy. Nothing happens in January. No holidays. Each of the last 3 months had a nice present at the end. What the fuck is next? Valentines day? Fuck Valentines day. Presidents day? I dont get off work for that. Its really cold. My toes hurt and all I did was smoke half a cigarette outside this bar. Well, it is the end of February, it can warm up now. March 21st, first day of spring, remember? .... .... ..... ITS APRIL 9th! Hey spring! I can see you over there! I am huddled in a doorway with seven strangers trying to stay warm until the bus arrives. Its still snowing. My pants are soaked up to the ankles with slush and ice. I have come to love these people.

Its may. Its cold and getting colder. The sun is getting farther away. We give up. We are one snow covered white flag. You are winning but have not won. We are together, steadfast, leaning into the wind. We will go to work. We will drive our cars and walk our dogs and get the mail. We dont need spring anymore. We have each other to keep warm. “

It was the end of April when I left for Alabama. Never to have a home in Indiana again. The wind was blowing white dusty trails of snow across the road. Some beginning to collect in the short brown grass which was frozen and broken short in the median and on the shoulder. Its hard to tell what time of day it was when its gray all the time. Guitar, cello, books, clothes, computer. All that I could not leave behind. So I did what I thought was right. I did what any reasonable man would do in my position. I listened to She's So Unusual by Cindi Lauper on repeat for nearly ten straight hours. It was heaven, believe it. Running away. Not having a single care for what the future holds.

This is my sext.

My roommate likes to keep the air conditioning at night set at around 105 degrees. People poke fun at me because I dont sweat, or at least sweat as much as they do. In most cases when its hot I usually resign to the fact that it is indeed hot and I am in it. We, the heat and I, coexist as if two big dogs that just met only behaving for the moment because our masters are in the room. If either of us flinches there is no solid odds on who will come out alive. Working so many years in a kitchen over a broiler, skateboarding in Phoenix and living in Orlando, where it rains every damn day in the summer for 15 minutes between noon and two pm(I'm not comfortable being able to predict the rain so accurately on a daily basis, its weird), I have had spent some intimate time with the heat. We go way back. Of course I do sweat. I just dont let it bother me, most times. When we were building our new house I was enlisted to go into the unfinished basement to spread the gravel evenly, so the concrete guys could pour a level floor, part of which would be my bedroom. In middle school I played football and sprained both my wrists but would not tell anyone. I wanted to be tough. No excuses, is what my coaches told me, and I just realized I still carry that lesson with me. When I fuck up, I fuck up, no excuses. So, my dad was forcing me to shovel gravel around with two sprained wrists. July in Indiana. Not as hot as Arkansas but hot enough to make 15 year old Eric sweat the time I was a reluctant outfielder drenched with perspiration and paranoia that the ball would be hit to me, for a second time, and I would be forced to try and catch it, for a second time, and I in fact dropped it, for the second time. I hated baseball. I also just 'simile-ed' myself with a younger myself. It was soon obvious my wrists would not support a shovel. The emergency room we went. A few days later I played a game as defensive tackle without trying to use my bandaged wrists. I hope you can imagine how difficult it is to try to bring down a person that does not want to be brought down, all they want to do is move foreword, without using hands because it hurts to move them. The next year was my freshman year in high school. I spent the first week of football practice being speared by the kids that grew up over the summer faster than me. I dropped my pads and picked up a skateboard, with no sweat or regrets. Oh, right. so its hot. I have been given the task of writing about myself in the present and future. I am so much more comfortable writing out of the end zone. (to keep the sports metaphors alive for just another moment) Out of reach of anyone directly involved in these stories I have. Less personal, I guess. No fear of hurting anyone's feelings. Or worse letting people know how I truly feel and having to deal with the consequences. A cowardly way to write, now that I think about it. What am I doing now? I feel I am in a life of rounded extremes, extremes with kid corners. I am in not one but two fantastic rock bands that I love and could put me on the musical map one day. I work at a place I love and could make me rich one day. I have friends that love me and want me around. I have neat clothes and stuff and a cool moped. I'm so alone it hurts. The one I think I want is so far away and may never come back to me. I dream, dream is wrong, fantasize sounds too creepy, I envision her coming back when I move into the first apartment I will ever have had by myself and live with me. For the first time ever I dont care about sex or a trophy. I need to revel in her and what she can do and what she brings out of me. I think. I guess. I'm not certain. I do not know. In this present, my present, I just want. I want so hard and I dont know what exactly it is that I want. Spero tells me I'm a genius because I can figure out computer systems and problem solve at work. Its food. Its not that hard. Is that all I am good for, making strangers happy? I suppose that isnt so bad. Playing music is all about making strangers happy. I dont take compliments well. When people tell me how good I did I feel like they are talking about someone else. I am someone else one stage. At work. So that leaves how much of my life to be myself? Am I truly myself when I am a mirror for what people want in that moment? A song that makes them dance and meal that makes them full. Am I my own puppet. Sometimes I feel a characture of myself. A Websters definition of what someone like me would be. I dont try. I just do. I do what I like with only some consideration of what it looks like. Only some of that is a lie. I'm not sure which.

Disgusting romantic

So today I borrowed Joe' car to run some errands for the band. I got to drive his 75 El Camino around.


On the highway I couldnt help but feel joy. One, of the freedom of having a car. Really felt like a teenager again. I could literally go anywhere I wanted. Anywhere just happened to be the eyeglass place and Guitar Center. Second, the thrill of an American muscle car. Chevy 350. Pure. Loud. Power.

So I was torn between how fun and how sickeningly wasteful it is. The kind of consumption that is totally unjustifiable. But still, somehow, is.

My second favorite car I have ever owned was a 1975 Lincoln Continental Town Car, 460, dual 4-barrel carbs and straight pipes. A ludicrous amount of power for anyone, much less a 17 year old boy from Indiana. I bet that tree I hit still holds a grudge- 'really? you couldnt have hit me with a Civic?'


The best car I ever owned was a 1971 Volkswagen Type 3 Square back.


A 1975 El Camino is rated at 400 horsepower. The Lincoln, even more.

My little squareback was maybe, MAYBE 60 horses. And it hauled everything I needed and was quicker off the line than both American cars. Not to mention way more fuel efficient. The Lincoln got 10 miles per gallon. But which engorges the good old American erection? The fucking El Camino.

Its a perfect car. You can haul your stuff but its kind of too small to be asked to help your friends move. The main flaw in owning a truck. As Marshall noted, "you can go on a date in it, or go fishing." Its efficient and wasteful, economic and costly, ugly and beautiful.

I forgot how great big old cars are. And the guilt that goes along with the pleasure.

Its been a while

I can't remember his name. He was Dina's boyfriend, I guess. He was around a lot after I learned she was sick. Tony was her son, my cousin. A third my age. A ginger. An alcoholic asshole dad and a mom dying of AIDS. All of the disease I knew then was gay men and junkies had it. I never met a gay man or a junkie. Dina got it. From some guy with a past I could not imagine. We huddled around as she faded. I was so young. It went so fast. It must have been forever for her. She was leaving her son to us. To this guy that I cannot remember his name. This guy that took care of her to the end. That came over one holiday after she was gone and it was awkward. I was 12 and felt the oddness in the air. This guy that took photos at the funeral. No one takes pictures at a funeral. Dina wanted it that way. I remember sitting between her and my dads other sister, Jennifer, one Christmas laughing at my grandma being drunk on white whine, supporting herself on a chair, sustaining, being adult. Us laughing. Dina was thin, red hair. I could tell at 10 she liked to party. Me in twenty five years. I don't remember Tony's dad. I haven't seen Tony since I left Indiana. Last I heard he was getting married and worked at a restaurant in an expressway oasis but was trying to get an HV/AC apprentice or something. I might have just made that up. I wish I could remember more about Dina. Its my dad's sister. I think she was younger than my dad but older than Chris. He was in the army and was gone for most of my adolescence. He came back and told corny jokes I was too young to get. He lived in Grandma and Nana's basement. Grandma moved in with Nana from the apartment she had by the health club. Grandma and Grandpa got divorced when I was 2 or 3. She worked at he hospital in the kitchen or dietary something or other. Chris was hit and killed at an in intersection driving around with friends. Apparently the ambulance was doing 80 through the stop sign without its lights or sirens on, because it may have disturbed the residents of the suburbs. The collision killed him instantly. I remember when the ambulance took my dad's mother away from our house when dementia finally overtook her and she could not live at our house anymore, the ambulance waited until it was off our street to hit he lights. My dad said to me that if he ever got like to to shoot him in the head. He said it twice. We didn't talk much. We bonded over musical instruments some or cars or building shelves. I went to art school. He bounced back and forth from truck driving and building houses. A man. Tough and quiet. He never sat around drinking white wine writing sad stories. Its been two years since we all left Indiana for Alabama an lived under the same roof. We watched stupid cartoons and giggled. We have the same laugh. We sit on back porches and put our feet up the same. I never told him I love him. He would do well here in Little Rock. You would like him. We could porch sit and tell dumb jokes. He would tell you stories about truck driving he never told me alone. I wished I could be a comfort to him. When Dina, or Chris or Nana or Grandma died. I hid. I hide. What could I say. The day of grandma's funeral I spent energy thinking about where I would get the proper shoes and dark socks. Doing anything the day of a funeral is odd. Pedestrians and other drivers should automatically know what I am on my way to. I'm an adult on the way to my father's mother's wake. Please give me the right of way. What do I say. What can I do to make it slightly more okay.

Sorry, I cannot edit myself. Paragraphs are for sober people.