What Happened to Tuesday?

So holy fuck. I realize I haven’t been keeping up too goddam much with this. Something I hope to remedy by the way.
So I was in Auburn for  a few months. Doing the whole nefarious, greasy street hustler routine. Made a lot of money. Spent it on bad drugs mostly. Got things together with Johnny Blank, had some sort of band together up there…but the final pieces needed to fall together. Never quite did. My axe got stolen by some tweaker, and I decided to beat a hasty retreat down here to Tacoma.
Rather glad things worked out this way.
Seems I find myself on lead guitar playing with Klondike  Kate. Good solid  punk band, been at it awhile. Just so happens I find myself in the right place at the right time, I guess.
Its 7:14 in the morning. Kate, our drummer…there was a bit of  a bash to celebrate her birfday last night. I had like three drinks, smoked some NW herbage. Passed the fuck out. But not before running through the set and spending some time jamming with ex-abolishment guitarist  Lonnie….someone I got arrested with 26 years ago and hadn’t seen until the other night.
It’s fairly incredible, the way things have worked out. I never thought that at 41 years fucking old I’d have a whole new lease on life. I got out of the joint back in 06…figured everything was just fucking done. Got married and everything. Decided to submit to domesticide. Stupid shit.
Seems I made a mistake. At least  I kept honing the skillset though. As it turns out it all came in handy, I guess. Found myself in the right place at the right time with the right friends…and now I’ll be playing a show up in Seattle next month, while the bookings for a summer tour are falling together.
Un-fuckin-believeable. Yeah, I guess ts been kind of  a hard knock life for awhile. But fuckit. I’m doing alright, I guess.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Hit The Reset Button.

It’s been like seven fucking months now. Seven months since my wife left me to hook up with my one of my former bandmates, and now very former close friend. It would have been one thing if there was at least a modicum of honesty and a bit of decency in how she ended the marriage…I mean, fuck, ok you want to go sleep with my friend and you want a divorce…fine, whatever. It would have hurt still…but nowhere near as much as her spinning a web of lies and deceit telling me she was having some issues with everything and just needed to get out of the valley where we lived-so if I moved back across the state where we lived when we first got married and got everything set up with a job and place for us out there, she’d bring the kids and we’d start over and be all happy again and shit.
Of course, I was stupid enough and blinded enough by my love for her over the past sixteen years that I fell for it. Just like she knew I would.
The result was that I left my job and home to move across the state, found out it was all a scam engineered so they could hook up, lost my fucking mind with grief and focused on staying fucked up constantly so I wouldn’t kill myself.
I had jobs out there and all. Had a place to live. Let it all go down the tubes. Simply did not give a fuck anymore. No one had ever betrayed me so viciously. I was destroyed.
Wound up basically destitute. Flat out fucked. Was working 12 hour shifts at a foundry killing myself for shit pay then spending most of it on booze and narcotics. Nothing really dulled the pain though. Worst period of my entire fucking life.
Then some old friends of mine from my days in the Northwest who I’d been back in touch with for a couple of years invited me out on tour with them and their band. I’ve written a couple of books and have a long running ‘zine I publish new issues of every now and again, and over the summer I co-authored a chapbook with a buddy out in Los Angeles. So the idea was I’d jump in the van with the punk bands and do my book promo stuff at shows, winding up with me and Mike Essington, the chapbook co-author, having a signing thing at the last show of the tour in Hollywood. Then I’d come back up here to the Puget Sound with the band and, well, y’know the whole start over thing again.
So thats what I did. Dumped the last of my money into a bus ticket and a one pack of tortillas plus two cans two cans of vienna sausages to make plugaritos with for sustenance while riding the dirty dog.
So I headed across the country with my remaining two dollars and eight cents…and the next two weeks provided me the time of my fucken life. Well, except when I’d wake up in the van in the middle of the night after dreaming of her and the tears would come.
But I made it. Out to my old stamping grounds of Auburn, Wa. about 20 or so miles South of Seattle. Got to see my old hometown again. Four times the population as when I left. Everyone spun on meth and/or strung out on cheap, abundant and potent as fuck heroin. Homeless familys living in the park down the street. Cops strapped up like the fifth infantry brigade and packing semi auto combat shotguns and asault rifles. Gnarly.
I’ve been staying with two of my oldest living friends here, J. & D. Like myself, crusty middle aged anarchist punks. Me and J. have decided to undertake a musical project. The drummer and frontman, an ex bamdmate from my days playing in hardcore bands out in Scranton,  were supposed to be coming out from Pa. but it’s looking like despite a whole ass ton of talk, neither of them has the balls to pull the power move it would take. Pussies.
But there’s been other shit. I’ve kind of been reinvigorated in my attitude towards the North American anarchist project, and the ongoing revolution overall. My politics and social viewpoint has been antiauthoritarian my whole life. I was raised by a radical feminist Earth mother type single parent around people steeped in the sixties and seventies. My mom, she passed in 91 after years suffering from the Multiple Sclerosis she was diavnosed with when I was eight, taught me what my good pal Marius would recognize as a “Yeggs code of ethical conduct” or what others would maybe term Anarchist morality. I learned that the police are not my friends from a very early age, mom was a weed dealer and engaged in targeted fraud against the government regularly, as well as taking up boosting, or rather “overstock shrinkage auditing” for extra material resouces like kitchen appliances or to bust returns so she could buy me my own set of encyclopedias and other autodidactic educational material since we both knew the stuff taught in school was generally bullshit. She also imbued me with critcal thinking and, a chef prior to becoming wheelchair bound from the MS, she taught me how to cook my ass off in the kitchen. Skills that have proved valuable to me ever since.
So…I was raised a certain way. And then She had a serious exacerbation and couldnt care for me, so the state stuffed me off in a childrens home when I was 12. It pretty much sucked. I escaped three times the first summer. But they let us go to public school and I made some friends and wound up in my first band. We were little metallers slogging through Judas Priest and Black Sabbath covers before discovering hardcore punk and skateboarding simultaneously back in 85. Everything changed from that point on. We got fucked up haircuts, started playing really fast and still sloppy, changed the name of the band to Toys for Twats and by our first year of high school we played our inaugural teenage beer party show. It was pretty rad. I almost got laid cause of that band, which is saying a lot considering I was just a bass player.
But then I moved back with my mom when I was fifteen. She’d come out here to Auburn with her douchebag boyfriend and I moved into the trailer with them. Didn’t last long. Me and him just never got along. I guess it all came to a head when I beat the fuck out of him on Christmas eve for stealing a grand from my mom and losing it at the dog track in Portland.
So I left home.
But by this time I had read enough anarcho-punk lyric sheets, ‘zines, a few pamphlets on the subject plus pored over the near impregnable partial reprint of the anarchist urban guerilla manifesto used as the introduction for the original Anarchist Cookbook…I couldn’t really decipher all that much of it, but I still recall to this day reading the classic “make kaput what makes you kaput” summation of revolutionary direct action. It was enough overal, that I could articulate my politics somewhat..something helped immeasurably by nights spent drinking beer and holding urgent conversation with the guys from Subvert and the members of Abolishment in between trying to fuck up army trains below Stadium high in Tacoma.
Years pased. I wound up moving to Seattle and getting into heroin in the interim. Eventually I moved out to Pennsylvania after my mother died to skip out on a parole tail incurred after catching a felony malicious mischief case out here. I’d decided to undertake an autonomous act of class war by basically fucking single handedly destroying a million dollar yacht at some exclusive rich fuckers’ boating club down in Olympia.
So I moved to Pa. to live with relatives and got my parole transferred out knowing no one was going to check up on me out there anyway.
And they didn’t. So I stayed out there awhile, started working shit jobs and so on, hustled weed on the side, began frequenting dive bars and drinking like a fish.
Wkund up in more trouble with the cops. Did a short stint in county and was convinced to go sober. Did that for two years. Sucked. Plus everybody knows A.A. is just a weird religious cult anyway and I was having a hard time with that whole shit.
Played in a bunch of bands out there. Two of them particulary notable, Skunkwater, the first and still only hardcore band to ever come out of Old Forge, and my last band out there Belas Fix. The latter, we recorded a demo (its on Bandcamp, free if you want a copy. You have to search box it up though, as I’m typing this on my phone and am too fuckin lazy to link)and played a few  shows around Scranton and up in New York before I started shooting dope again, quit the band, wound up running heroin up from North Philly full time to support mine and my girlfriends habits, fucked up my money, wound up trying to rob some dude for a bag of dilaudid…and ended up in the penitentiary for eight years on a robbery and asault conviction.
While in the joint I read alot and started my ‘zine. Somehow got in touch with the mythical CrimethInc. Collective and did a prison writing guide ‘zine they distributed to prisoners all over the place. Did some other prison ‘zine how to stuff for Words Break Bars and had some shit from my ‘zine show up reprinted in Profane Existence. Was supposed to have an interview with me on doing a prison ‘zine in Maximum RockNRoll…but I kinda fucked that off after going kind of nuts for a bit.
But maybe most important me and some other prisoners in there started the R.E.S.I.N. collective, the acronym standing for radical element subversive information network. It was basically just a decentralized library of whatever antiauthoritarian literature made it past the mailroom censors to us. It was cool. I don’t kniw exactly hiw much of an impact it really had, but a lot of anarchist/radical prpaganda was disseminated around the prison. Enough to really start bothering the jailhouse nazi crew. So they dimed me out to the pigs up in the Security/Intelligence office, my hut got tossed and the pigs found a Loompanics catalog or some other petty yet banned literature…and they just so happened to have kicked my gate open just as I was pasting to layout sheets an article about playing an MC5 song with the prison band. Busted.
Almost lost a third shot at parole over that shit. Fucken jailhouse nazis. I fucken hate jailhouse nazis.
Anyway. I was already fairly radicalized before I got locked up. My years in there ly reinforced everything.
But I was released and not long after my old girlfriend tracked me down and called me up. A few months later we were married. I made the choice to just buckle and commit self administered domesticide. Figured I could play the role of monogamous husband and try to be a father to her kids. After all…despite everything I had still been subjected to enough mainstream cultural conditioning to believe I could, and even should, do it. After all, I was all old and shit. It was well past the time I settle down and have a standard nuclear family so I could pass along that conditioning to the kids and they’d grow up and go to college and be successful…all that bullshit you buy into to rationalize basically just giving up. Rolling over. Selling out. Becoming a housepunk. Reifying with the dominant system and it’s roles and following it’s rules. However you want to put it. It’s all pretty much the same thing in the bigger picture.
At least I never started listening to indie rock though. And I still read alot. Kept in touch with my peops back here and other anarchists and radicals across the globe. Got into blogging soon after I hit the bricks from prison and posted the occaisional rant brimming with situationist rhetoric even.
You all know how everything turned out with my good try at dropping into the reigning consensus reality concerning how I should be married and hold steady work and all that claptrap.
As it was I wasn’t very happy all those years. The Kaiser valley of Northeastern Pennsylvania is possibly the most condusive reigion in America when it comes to being a miserable drunk and it sure the fuck was accomodating when I took myself down to that level a few years into my marriage, and for that period shortly after everything changed for me again thjs past May.
But in the final analysis I guess you could say what was making me kaput got taken care of by Universe itself.
Now I’m impoverished, can’t land a job, couch surfing. But I’m free. And I’m happier when I wake up each day than I have been in years. Me and J. are still going to do this band. Universe even provided me with a guitar. I’m going out to scout potential squats tomorrow after finishing up an “anarchist overstock shrinkage audit” that would make my mom proud. I’m considering hitching out on adventure when the weather breaks, but a friend of mine down in Tacoma might be securing a warehouse for the staging of an art/showspace collective typr thing and I’ll probably stick around to see if that materializes.
After a recent spell of mental constipation the words have come in a torrential outpour over the  past few days, I’ve been sessioning eight to ten hours a night writing. Apparently that scumbag ditched my wife recently. Shit happens. Too bad it hadn’t occured sooner maybe, but now it would take a whole fuck of alot to get me to where I could feel etirely comfortable in the same state as her, much less anything closer. But really I do still care about her deeply and time does heal all wounds. The saying that a person will do anything for someone they once loved but love them again is really just more bullshit propaganda to foster the popular mythology in our cut and run, move along to the next in line while we search for the perfect monogamous gf/bf wife/husband. As if people and our relstionships are as disposable for your convienience as everything else in this society.
When you dont close your heart, when forgiveness and the strength of what you’ve shared in life over time…when you don’t shut that light out you don’t have to trip on loving again because you never stopped. No matter the status of a relationship.
By choice I’m celibate, non monagamous, and never lonely these days. I’m in love with a bunch of people, and try to be loving in all my social relationships. My friends out here and people who I share friendships with spanning the country as well as oceans. My pal Marius, one of the last writers to engage in literate blogging, wrote about our meeting up and hanging out at that last show of the Reagan Youth/13 Scars/Dust Angel tour I joined up with. He referred to me as a good yegg and a noble savage. Wrote about how he wanted to poke me with a stick to see me hiss and spit like a wild animal in its natural habitat at that show. Told true whole fucking internet (I’m paraphrasing) that though I’m like some kind of indestructo survivalist from the underground underground, I’m really a sweetheart. I read that and didn’t even  want to go back to California and kick him in the balls for the sweetheart thing. I rather took it as the compliment it was meant to be.
And it made me feel good. Y’know…even if I am one of those baby eaters from the barbarian anarchist hordes or something.
Yeah. Things are alright. Like I said, I’m free. I’m forty one years old and I have the rest of my life ahead of me.
Plenty of time to get back to really starting undermine the totality of the capitalist money-comodity exchange economy and its enforcer the state, I figure. And while hard at banging paint off the fenders off a monster truck full of weirdos, suburban commandos in exile, black hat anarchists with or without dei ntrrnrtscriptive adjectives attatched, punks, assorted freaks of infinate variety, newly armed to the teeth homeless park people, last ditch junkies, would be revolutionaries disguised as students and housewives suffering from terminal ennui, noble scoundrels, unemployed dope dealers…anyone and everyone who fucked system to enjoy some of the high grade happiness I almost forgot is inevitable, too.

@uburn!

So tour wrapped up and now I’m back on my old stamping grounds of Auburn, Washington-after an almost exactly 20 years back East.
I moved to Pa. in December of 1993 from Tacoma. I had some legal entanglements stemming from a felony malicious mischeif case caught down in Olympia after performing an autonomous act of class warfare….well, basically I smashed up some rich motherfuckers boat at the Olympia Yacht Club when I was having a big time manic episode back then. That’s not to say it was entirely random and senseless, but all the same I was a bit loopy at the time.
Anyway, I copped an insanity plea and served about a year in the Legal Offenders Unit at Western State Hospital down in Steilacoom. I got out, but had a ten year tail-not termed outright parole, they call it “conditional release” but it amounted to the same…so of course I wanted to get out of it so I could smoke weed and drink beah like a normal NW punker, right? Totally. So with the help of some relatives out in Pa. I was able to have all my paper transferred out there along with my skinny ass and of course, my guitar & other shit.
And so I went. And I stayed there for waaay too long. I played in a bunch of bands in and around Scranton, Pa., notably on guitar for Skunkwater and as bassist for Belas Fix. Then I got involved heavily in the use and trafficking of heroin, got busted in 98 on a robbery beef and served eight years in a Pennsylvania state prison. While I was in there I started my current ‘zine, Usual Suspect, did seven issues from behind bars, played bass in the intitututional ensamble for a few years, lifted some weights, jerked off a lot.
Got out in 06 and paroled to Erie, Pa. In 08 I married the woman I was with before I fell on state time. It was a huge mistake, the whole marriage thing. Ever involving myself with that female in the first place…
But had I not gone to prison I would have come back out here to the NW in the later 90′s, and had I not wed I would have come back after I got off of state parole in 09. However, she didn’t want to be away from her family so I wound up stuck back out near Scranton. I didn’t want to be living there in America’s armpit, but…well…she had the pussy so she made the rules.
At any rate. This is supposed to be about Auburn.
I moved here from Spokane Wa. in 1987. Went to the beginning of my last grade of high school here-10th grade. Then I dropped out because I had more pressing concerns involving getting drunk, stage diving and riding a skateboard.
Auburn, A-town, Aubburned Out, it’s a special place. About 20 miles south of Seattle it carries the pedigree of being the birthplace of some damn fine NW hardcore bands from the latter cold war era-the legendary Subvert got their start here, and as well It’s the birthplace of Social Wart, Blowchunks, Ghosts of Roadkill, and The Bongwater Endeavor-the latter being a long lost tape session of me and Marvin Starr. Basically just guitar and vocals, Marv on guitar and me yelling mic’d shit. It was pretty funny.
Anyway…here I am. Auburn. The town sure has changed. There’s way more people. Used to be like 26,000 people or something…it was just a lot smaller. Now theres like seventy grand. It’s all pretty huge now.
And everyone is on meth. I shit you not. There should be a sign on the highway as you come into town….Welcome to Auburn! Plan on staying awake a long fucking time, yo!
It’s crazy. Wandering zombies. My first day in town I saw this little girl…like fouteen years old…and she’s riding this bike and all uber-pale and skinny like a toothpick…and she looks at me locking her pleading eyes into my fucking soul and she whimpers out, “i need shards…”
I’m like whafuk? Thinking to myself thats what they call it out here…I learned that in California the night I smoked some of that shit out of a vaporizer. Shards. Gnarly shit.
Still. It was a shock. This little kid. A child.
And that’s really it, my thing with Auburn. I’ll always love it here, but it’s also always going to have a pall of sadness for me. Everything from the dead body discovered at a woodsy drinking spot out near Black Diamond…to the stuff documented in my second book…to now, the ongoing tragedy, displaced families living in the park, the lives of some of my oldest and dearest friends as they still have to struggle…my own problems landing work and trying to keep my head in check. Been getting a bit too fucked up lately. Drank a bottle of American Honey with Johnny Blank last night and got tore up. Oh, and because I now reside in a state where it’s legal as fuck to smoke ganja….
Well nevermind. I do have a new band coagulating. We’re called Holy Fucking Shit. Seriously. It’s me on guitar and Johnny Blank playing bass. Deric is supposed to be coming out from Scranton to lay down vocal stylings, and if we’re lucky Xtian will drag his hobo ass out from Erie to play drums. It’ll be epic, as they say nowaday. Maybe a punk rock train wreck of epic proportions. I’ll give it that much. Well, thats our intent at least.
Yup. Fucking Auburn.

He Was A Good Yegg.

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The Politics of Beer.

Excerpts
Sept. 14 2013
So much has happened. Here I am now back in Erie…sleeping at the mission.
I guess I manage to survive. Kind of self evident really.
And here I am scribbling at this.
Nov. 13 2013
More shit happened. Some bad. Mainly before I got out of Erie. All before really.  Since, it’s been pretty good. The past week and a half…two weeks…what ever that haze is back there in my head.
Just finished tour with 13 Scars and Reagan Youth. Headed back to the NW. It’ll be my first time back in like 20 years.
After that…I dunno. Maybe wander the Earth until Spring or something.  Maybe wash some dishes or run jackets and weights at a foundry for sustenance wages.
Uh. Yeah. I’m all over it.

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Reagan Youth/13 Scars/ Dust Angel. Tour 2013. Photos.

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