Bloody Marys at home with a clown skewer.

Fuckin’ rock.

Lil’ Knuckles drove me to my parent’s house in South Carolina, as I stated before. Adventures on the highway…I was smiling…we got lost. I asked directions at the record store (that I remebered from before for having an AMAZING metal record selection) and she (the clerk) told me to go the waythat we were travelling…just go go go…a few doors down, at the five and dime, Knucks was lost in the waterfall aisles of bullshit/toys/flags/masks/gags. Needless to say I lost Knucks for twenty minutes, only to find her bewildered by a toy ________, saying, “Oh my god…this is GREAT”. We spent a healthy 80 minutes spilling our vocal frosting on everyting from joke top hats to rebel flags. “We gotta get to Mom’s.”

“I know, baby, but, god, LOOK at this!”

We hopped back in the Volvo…(at first I was worried, honestly, that she had left me there. Maybe it is a deep concern of mine…I found myself myself in the record store…taking a long time…I thought that she was going to be there…you know, I come outside and I DON’T SEE HER CAR! SHE LEFT ME HERE! IN THE MIDDLE OF SOUTH CAROLINA!)

We leave and take the directions given by the girl at the record store…which are not accurate. Imagine that. Looking out the windows to the factories and warehouses thirsting for human interaction, I ask Knucks, “You think we did something wrong?”

“Yes.”

She goes inside of a gas station while I call my sister, asking Where the Fuck Am I?

“What do you see?”

“A guy that is going to rape someone and an empty bottle of Dr. Pepper.”

“I don’t know where that is. Can you be more specific? Like names of streets…or landmarks?”

“Uhhhhh…wait, she’s coming back now…”

“Duder…,” Knucks says, “He didn’t have shoes on…but he told us to look for White Horse Lane.”

“White Horse Lane.” We have to take a left after Kmart and White Horse Lane will be there…and then we’ll be there. That’s what I was told.

In the Carolinas street names don’t mean shit. Directions are like whether or not you want whipped cream on your Slush Puppy. “Well, yeah, if you got it, bro.” Nothing…we got nothing except headaches. And one way tickets to where the weird shit goes down…where-the-back-roads-and-the-backroads-people-hang-out-and-give-outsiders-bullshit-directions-because-I-don’t-have-to-give-actual-directons-because-I-have-no-shoes-on…

Oh, shit.

Dad gets on the phone.

He’s had two strokes. And he doesn’t like me very much.

“Where you at?”

“I just figured it out with Annie.”

“Where you at?”

“Uhh, there soon?”

“Where you at?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

“Hmmmmmm.”

I could see him sitting in his recliner really giving it some thought.

Where you at? was what I expected out of his mouth…the fat retard.

“Where you at?”

Jesus chrsit. I felt so sad and mad and depressed at the same time.

The sun was setting before my eyes…

…but I couldn’t enjoy it because I was lost and because my parents hated me and because I was lost and because I would never be an upstanding (blank).

Fuck.

My mom told me to take a left at the canoe store. We made our way there…where we found the canoe store that is…and Kate said, “There’s the canoe store.”

I looked and said to her, “You think that’s the one she’s talking about?”

Honestly, that’s what rang in my head.

“Really, Luc? ‘Is that the canoe store?’ You just asked me that? What fuck other canoe store would there be in this backasswards place? Your parents live in Traveller’s Rest, South Carolina…WHAT OTHER CANOE STORE WOULD BE HERE?”

“Hahahahaha.” But yet I feel like a chode for being honest.

Maybe there was another?

Mom told me on the phone that she would be in front of the house.

I told Kate that and she thought that it was really funny. She was there, though. FUPA and all. There’s mom.

More…coming up.

I always thought that my words held volume.

It was until someone held a boggle timer up to my scenarios that I thought twice about the validity of my sentences. Nothing was lies…but was anyhting important?

I will put together the Vacation Part Three soon enough…it’s just the part that deals with my parents…it’ll take a while before I know what the hell happened there.

…one being change that jersey. No more Patriots…no, no, no…fuck Boston. Yeah, that’s it. Put on the Colts jersey.

Okay, now don’t start drinking…and, you’re not Canadian, are you? No? Good. That’s a plus.

Well, you’ve got all the other tools that you’ll need:

-The best offense since the days of the eighties Dolphins.
-A defense that is a top ten powerhouse to keep field postion in your favor.
-A strong-willed, classy coach. What? Yeah, I know he’s a christian but we all have our faults.

Let’s do it. 2006-07. Oh, my.

Vinateri…don’t fuck me now.

Lil’ Knuckles, Apple, and that girl that I don’t remember her name had a splendid time on Thursday night. We drank beer and more beer and then everyone gave up on the beer to bike home or play lesbian guitar…but I drank more beer. Listening to Lil’ Knuckles’ songs kept me entranced…so much that I didn’t think of anything when she said that she had to go to the bathroom. I then heard her say behind the closed door, “I’m gonna throw up.” and almost as the last syllable spilled out her beer replaced her speech. I walked in and moved her CTA shower curtain to rest on the edge of the tub and rub the rest of it out…as if it was in her back. She fell asleep to the television…something I remember her doing when we were dating (for those etheral six days)…but it was King of the Hill. I cursed and moaned until flowing into the darkness myself.

The sun shone in brightly through the windows as my eyes shook hands with the rays. “I feel okay…I need coffee, though.” I called Lil’ at work to see if there was a coffee shop within walking distance…”Where are you?” she asked. “I don’t know. There’s a wine shop and a Chinese place that used a play on words as the name.” There was nothing there or close. I found a grocery store called Bi-Lo. On the left wing of the roof said, “Bakery – Cafe” so I went inside. The cafe was where a video store would be in any other grocery store. High School Cafeteria Booths lined the walls and Auto Trader magazines blanketed the table tops like the Sunday funnies at grandma’s house. I found the coffee machine. Filled the cup with an amber liquid and accidentally put hazelnut creamer in it. I waited at the cashier’s station for what I hadn’t known would be nothing. I carried my cup of hot beverage to the checkout line. I asked the cashier, “Can I pay for this here?”

“What?”

“Can I pay for this here?”

“Oh, I thought you said ‘Can I keep it?.’”

“Well, after I pay for it can I keep it?”

Do yankees sound weird to southerners? Was I mumbling?

I walked back to Lil’s and played her guitar for a few hours. Then I watched television. For some reson, WGN (the Chicago SUPERSTATION!) came in and I watched the news. It seemed so far away. Like I had only been there once. I had a few hours to kill before she would come back from work and then we were to drive to my parent’s in South Carolina.

I opened the back door to fill the room with yellow. The screen turned from black to gray in the sunlight. I watched the neighbors going to and fro…errands, I suppose. Surely nothing more exciting than that happens in Charlotte. Oh, except for the heads of local banks stabbing their twin daughters.

Lil’ returns and is worn out from all the drinking the night before. “Whew,” she says as she plops on the couch…”You smell like booze,” she says after resting her muscles for three seconds.

“Really?” I had only had beer the night before and only coffee and water that day.

I then went through a process that I thought would cleanse my body of the smell before arriving at my parent’s later that day.

Teeth were brushed.

Shirt was changed.

Lasagna was consumed.

Cigarettes were smoked.

When we hopped in her car, I smelled like booze. Oh, well.

We made our way through Charlotte when she said, “I want to stop by a few places before we go to South Carolina.”

“Okay.”

At American Apparel I bought a T shirt for 18 dollars. It was plain and I had every faith that It would somehow remove the booze from my body. “Aren’t you going to change into it?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“When?”

“On the highway. It seems romantic.”

We made it onto the highway. I watched the passing signs and semi-truck accidents with pure glee and wonder. I tend to treat different states as if they’re different cultures completely. The way that state highway signs look are a wonder…what are the children that live here see in the shape of them? A sign comes up that says “Tobacco Outlet – Next Exit – Cartons $12.99 and up.”

“We’re going there. I mean we have to get gas anyway.” That way I can see if it will really be able to erase my smile, I think.

I instruct her to get off on a completely wrong exit, one that takes us to a back highway that is the only way to get into a weird factory/warehouse/elephant graveyard of sorts. A drunk southern dude is walking down the highway…the MIDDLE of the highway…wearing black and a stagger. After we realize there is no tobacco outlet, we retrace back to the interstate only to see the drunk in the other lane. I wonder if he does this regularly. I wonder if he has somehow “trained” his rosatia to signal lane changes.

The tobacco outlet is found. It has been such a long time since I’ve had to pump gas that I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. I found and followed the instructions and then marvelled at the price of gas. Mercy. I pondered it while I removed my shirt, covered myself in the LA sweatshop magic, and watched a man attempt to yell through the window of the gas station, “What the fuck you think?! Gawd…”. He was eating an ice cream cone.

With the tank filled, I went inside and found Lil’ smiling with a bag containing two cartons of Parliament Lights. “Fifty bucks,” she informs me.

“They have a statue up there that is a dragon holding a sword that doubles as a letter opener,” I inform her.

I look at their tobacco choices…not so good…and decide on a carton of Camel Filter 99s. They were $19.99. I questioned my decision immediately after purchasing them. No turning back.

Hopping back into the car, I felt the freshness that comes with a road trip and stopping at a gas station…even though we’d only been on the road about an hour. We went though the typical road shenanigans…telling jokes…telling stories…making fun of other drivers…smoking…eating Chex Bold Party Mix…listening to the radio…doing imitations of the artists on the radio…discussing the pros and cons of road head…informing Lil’ that I’ve always wanted to sleep with her old roommate…Lil’ informing me that she wanted to sleep with my current roommate…

The sun warming my legs like an underage bonfire.

Smoking the clear air into blue.

Nothing will wipe this smile off my face.

Until…

On a side note…I wrote a song tonight that is going to be on EVERYONE’S playlist in 2007. It’s called…

(I Took the) Headphones Out of Your Butthole

Airports, airports, airports. I will never get used to them. HUGE cylindrical houses of danger, doom, and prevention. The man behind me couldn’t understand why he couldn’t bring a knife larger then anything I’ve used to cut down a tree onto the plane. I watched and laughed as I re-laced my boots. I then grabbed an “Italian Chicken Wrap” and ran to the plane. Looking out the window, I got infuriated at the business men who travel all the time and can’t get off their PDAs, etc., to look at the clouds. Arriving in Atlanta, I was amazed at the size of the port…there are trains to take you from terminal A to B to C to D. I walked from C to B. It was long and hot but better than waiting for the train. It was so small that I expected Ronald McDonald to be the engineer. I smoked next to a 3-year-old and boarded my flight to Charlotte.

“Everyone should have that sticker on their bag,” said the passing business man missing his front teeth. I agreed. The sticker said, simply, “Slayer”. “You get into Lombardo’s other shit?”
“Yes.”
“You seen (sic) Fantomas?”
“No. I was supposed to. I missed it, though. I did see Tomahawk.” That was a lie. I just wanted to talk to him.
“Aw, yeah. Tomahawk’s sick. I was listenin’ to “God Hates Us All” earlier today. Ooooooh…,” and he swirled his head around to display his into-it-ness. I smiled and drug my cigarette in appreciation. “Later, bro,” he said as he abruptly walked away. I nodded and waited for Lil’ Knuckles to show up.

She did just that in a Volvo. I’ve never seen her in anything but a Blue Line train. It was funny and welcoming. Driving up, she looked like a Van Halen teacher. We hugged a warm embrace and ventured into the city. Charlotte, North Carolina.

“You mind if I change before we go to dinner?”
“No.”
She lights a Parliament and I follow suit with a cigarette of my own. “So, how have you been?”
“Wonderful.”
“Me, too.”
We eat at a dive bar/wonderful restaurant. The recipes were given to us by the waitress by just asking and the bill was paid with currency that would cover only cab fare in Chicago. We buy big bottles of fru-fru beer and hop into the car.

“What in the hell are you doin’?” she asks as we drive down a residential street.
I look around me and realize that I’m doing nothing. “Nothing.”
“You’re in the south…crack one of those.”
“REALLY?!” I was happy to drink WHILE driving. While passing the Duvel to and fro, she told me about the bank executives freaking out and killing their kids. “Three this month,” she said. I smiled and looked at the mansions and drank.
Twins bleeding and Executives crying. Trophys wondering and watches coughing blood. Ties traded for shackles…the easiness of everything filled me with glee.
Pulling down the bottle for passing headlights, we drank ourselves into conversation. Warm air Volvoing into my nose and yummy Duvelling into my stomach. “This is great!” she said. I guffawed in agreeance.
We arrived at Magnolia Apartments and I promptly called Josh, one of Lil’ Knuckles admirers. He was flabbergasted to talk to her. “Donkey Dick” and “slobberjaw” came from her lips and I could do nothing but smile. It was truly wonderful. We were to retire to the back porch to enjoy the fru in 75 degree weather.

The subject remained the same…and it is the same subject that permeates my noggin 24/7…love and the effects. She informed me of Jason. I asked when he went gray and she said fourth grade. I smiled. I informed her of green pants. She asked and I attempted to answer. We blasted Bill Fay and talked about everything under the stars.

TRULY REMARKABLE!

Apple shows up on a bike with friend. A hug ensues and I am reminded that she is amzing with words and style. Wonderfully beautiful and never one to be left empty-tongued. She arched her eyebrows for some shots and then left with a trail of W.A.F.F. (Will Always Fart First). Fucking hussy.

The smiles couldn’t be taken off with gasoline.

Near-death in a hospital bed. I am looking at myself and wondering why, when it is finally semi-warm in Chicago, is it gray? The things mulling in my head like wine:

-My mother calling me at work saying how she is sooooo excited to see me this weekend…but…would it be okay if I stayed in a hotel at the airport (1.5 hours away) because it is conflicting with her church schedule.
-Certain green pants walking around a corner half waving “maybe I’ll see you before I leave the country for two weeks” turning my eyes and heart south though the winter is finally ending.

Sketchy sleep and quiet roommates pushing me into my bed with a book and whiskey and dreams of people I don’t know. Waking up to wrinkled laundry and Harry Nilsson placing hands on my shoulders and patting words of encouragement.

Quiet days, quiet days. The last in an approaching line of responsibilty and late evening phone calls concerning espresso and no call-no shows. I’m ready for something. Go, go, go.

The plan?

Spend Thursday night with Kate drinking cheap wine and chain smoking our lung sacs into unreckognizable raisins. Spend Friday walking around Charlotte, NC with nothing but a smile and a twitch of fear. Drive to my mom’s and eat chicken noodles. Wake up Saturday, be driven to the Charlotte airport and check into my last night of something. Spend the evening in a bar talking to weary travelers and arm wrestling until my reconstructed elbow is piled on the ground.

Objective. Think about nothing in Chicago. Think about nothing in my life. Count my footsteps, my blessings, my scars, my apologies, and the clouds. Make it on time to my flight and then, and only then, wonder why if I am my own god, why can’t I be my mother’s, too?

I’ve come here. Free blogs…great idea…until they start adding entries for you that are impossible to delete. I have nothing to say right now. Except hello.

All my old blogs are available here:

We’ll Miss Mister Buckets

There are some great things on people overdosing in my old bathroom, scaring people away, and monkeys smoking cigarettes.

Leave comments if you have one. I honestly thought that no one came here except my roommates when I would leave it open, but I’ve since found out that some people do….so leave a comment.