Back in the mid-90s, zombie and I caught Tracii Guns during one of his breaks from L.A. Guns. He was touring with some new guys playing this heavy, punky, mean, rockin awesome shit under the name Killing Machine. The Living End opened. It was one of the most awesome shows I’d ever seen.

We each peeled copies of the set-list from the stage. They had these cool red picks with KM on them. Every song or two, the guitarists would each toss a pick they’d been using away in to the audience and grab another one. We bought t-shirts. Even the t-shirts rocked. They fit perfectly. They were the perfect weight, and they had the kick-ass Killing Machine KM logo plastered on the front in HUGE letters. It was one of the most awesome shows I’d ever seen.

They played an entire set of new material, and it all kicked ass. They kept saying the album was done and would be out in a couple of months. Religiously, zombie and I would don our KM shirts once a week and head into the Tower Records across from campus. Each week, the answer was the same. No Killing Machine.

But we have picks, we’d say. We have set-lists! Tracii Guns glanced at us dismissively bÙefore returning to eyeing big-chested band sluts! But the clerk was always non-plussed. Check back next week, he’d say.

For 52 weeks, we continued our pilgrimage. For 52 weeks we held out hope. For 52 weeks, we awaited rock’s resurrection. The second coming, that promised rock rapture. We dismissed post-Nirvana comebacks by Skid Row, Love/Hate, Faster Pussycat. Even Guns N’ Roses. Guns N’ Fuck’n Roses! Even they sucked. Killing Machine would save us. Killing Machine. Killing machine…

And then there was the house on French street. Crazy math chicks. Cloves. Ohms. Bondage shows. Drugged out red heads in suits. Slash Palace. Parties. Parties. Parties.

When L.A. Guns reformed and released a new album with several Killing Machine songs, we noticed, but barely cared. I think zombie was learning why you should never date chicks who are big in the black metal scene*. I think I was crashing out of life.

Browsing the web today, I found that Tracii actually put out that Killing Machine album in 1999, long after zombie and I had abandoned the church of rock and shacked up with crazy goth chicks. We both still remember the show. It was one of the most awesome show I’ve ever seen. I may just have to buy the album so I can put it on the shelf with the rest of the old hymnals.

* Whatever the reason, chicks into black metal are fucking crazy. The theory goes like this: black metal is crazy. To be big in the black metal scene, you have to be really crazy. If you’re a chick and you’re big in the very heavily male-dominated black metal scene, then you have to be really crazy. Like really really really crazy. We have actual field research on this phenomenon. One subject goes all Apocalypse Now on some peeps. It’s crazy. There was blood.

BONUS TRIVIA: On Metalocalypse, when one of the band members was flipping burgers at a fast food joint, the place was called Dormir Burger. Is that not awesome?

Happy new year!

Seems like a lot of people are complaining
about how their year went. That sucks. I’ve
had years like that. 26 SUCKED. So much
so, that I’m suspicious of any 26, so if
any of you turn 26 this year, be forewarned.

My year rocked. I’m an editor. I’m in a
book. I got a new job. I got married. I got
a kid. Tiga’s album came out. I finally got
to see the Sisters of Mercy. And most of the
year was spent having pregnant sex (which
was awesome).

This next year will be ok. Harder than last
year, but the kid will make up for it. He’s
cooler than TV.

(He can roll over both ways now — not just
to to his left. And, and, and he can go
forward in his walker if he wants something
enough. And, and, and he was singing in the
car yesterday!!!)

---

NYE was mellow. We got all snazzed up and
headed out. We were supposed to go by the
Engine Room, but we never made it anywhere.
Too weird. Too many freaks on the road. We
stopped by to harass Roy and Renee and then
went to Taco Cabana. It was like a little
fiesta in Debbi’s mouth. :-P

Thursday at Numbers was cool. We were
supposed to DJ early, but we blew it off to
visit with people. I got to sit and chill
with Anna and Kat which was especially nice
since one is in Poland and the other is in
Illinois. But it wasn’t long enough. And
besides being cut short there, I didn’t get
any quality visit time with anyone else.

The surprise guest that night was Brandon,
and then he disappeared.

—

LSD snuck out of town before seeing the
munchkin, but maybe she’ll see him soon.
Similarly, the Zombies were sick and didn’t
come down. Punks. I have a housewarming gift
for them. And it’s too heavy to mail.

—

We took Aiden down to see all my dad’s aunts
and uncles. All the ones who pinched my
cheeks and called me mijo for so many years.
They pinched his cheeks and called him mijo.
It was great. We got pictures of him with
everyone.

Dad and Diane gave Debbi this beautiful scarf
and I got these neat port glasses (perfect
for the gift of port from Roy and Renee). The
weather was beautiful and Debbi and I got to
take a walk down the beach at night. It was a
perfect moment.

—

We have some great pics of Aiden’s first time
at the beach. I’ll post them later. Or Debbi
will.

midnight. snakebite. caught me in the back of my neck. everything reminded me of debbi tonight. i enjoy dc. i enjoy being a stranger. going out drinking. dancing. not responsible for anything. but sometimes just hearing a voice is all i need, and calling debbi is like roulette. i hope she’ll answer. that i get to hear her voice. the rest of you fuckers are so undependable with the phone.

hopefully, we’ll have a place by thursday. a real place. not one of these balsa wood homes for balsa wood boys, but a real home for a real boy.

debbi’s supposed to drive up here this weekend, and i can’t wait to see her. i’m going to buy a couch. i’ve never bought any furniture ever. but i’m gonna buy a couch. it’s gonna be awesome. i miss every last one of you crazy fuckers, but i’m kind of glad debbi and i have the chance to start over in a vacuum.

i’m different here. not totally different, but definitely not the scene guy i’ve been. no obligations. no responsibilites except to myself. it’s nice. i’m looking forward to debbi being here. laying next to her in our bed in a new city, her smell the same as it’s been for eternity, something to drown in.

we spend so much time enjoying the holidays, getting drunk, seeing everyone, dancing, that we forget their holy purpose, their sublime celebration of the divine earth. it’s mad to think we only every touch the one divinity. mad, selfish, and humanly foolish. every lover, every smile, every uncontrollable laugh is like lightening from the divine, striking the devil down from your soul.

up here, away from every foolish human, all your love, smiles, and contagious laughter, this stupid holiday takes on even more meaning. cloves for incense. vodka for holy water. and today for the holy day it’s always been.

debbi will be here soon, and ensconced in her touch, draped in her smile, swimming in her laughter, suffocating in her smell, her skin like wind brushed across mine, i’ll mark a new holiday. every day is a high holy festival when in your love. fail to celebrate and blashpeme your love.

I limped into terminal a this morning at 6 AM. Sometime while moving yesterday, I injured my knee. We didn’t get out of the Heights apartment till late. Plus, even though I cancelled the cancellation notice, Reliant cancelled the power anyway, so after the sun set, we worked in the dark. So not rock.

Having had no sleep for almost three days, I slept through the flight, and woke as we were landing with this massive hard on. It was FUCKING HUGE. I think it has something to do with sleeping and then pressure change as the plane descends, as if all of my blood fears a crash and evacuates to my cock. ALL OF MY BLOOD. I swear you could see the thing from the cockpit. (Heh… he said cock pit… heh, heh) And since it… emerged… while sitting I have to adjust myself so I can stand, and then adjust myself again so I can walk around without small children pointing and asking questions and their mothers running in fear because it’s the biggest, scariest erection they’ve ever seen.

My baggage — enough work clothes, cock rings, and lube to last two weeks — was considerably heavier than I expected, so schlepping it through the airport, the subway, and the “five short blocks” to the bed and breakfast where I’m working staying aggravated my knee even more.

The inn keeper was almost creepy. That’s really his title: inn keeper. And during Christmas, they put a sign on the door that reads: “No bitches. No pets.”

My room is a joke, a concave bed, a dilapidated chair and some kind of flat-topped, antique thingy I take to be a desk. To get away with this highway robbery, they have everything decorated with antiques. Those of you with fetishes for that sort of thing, the antiques and not the decoration, would start melting the second you walked in the front door.

I threw my crap on the bed, and headed out. I had to do a test run on the subway to make sure I can get to work tomorrow. Yes. If you pay the fare, get on the subway, get off a little later, and then know where you are, you can go to work using the subway. I tested it today, and the stories are true.

Of course I got lost, cause on my map, 18th looks like 16th and when you’re hoofing city blocks after three days with no real sleep, it’s easy to get lost. A homeless guy asked me if he could get a Subway sandwich. He didn’t ask for change, but he held his hand out so I understood. I couldn’t give him anything, but I felt bad, cause tomorrow for lunch, I’m totally planning on getting a Subway sandwich. I wanted to ask him where the Subway is, but then I’d have given away the entire brilliant little scheme.

I saw another homeless guy, which isn’t odd in any city, except he was a total shell wearing a mask of anger, or hate, or negativity… some bad juju. But nothing left inside. He didn’t even look at me when I walked by. He was just staring straight ahead. It was sad. He’s totally given up on everything.

DC has totally exceeded my expectations. I flipped through their version of the Houston Press, and I’ve pencilled in dates for the Pixies, Echo and the Bunnymen, Melvins, Front 242, Corvus Corax, and E-Craft… and all in the next month and a half!!! If you’re nice to me, I’ll send you a napkin tainted with sweat sopped from my balls while rocking out to the Pixies. Just so you cna have some Pixies, too.

Take that Gearmo.

I missed the Dare Ware party. I was really bummed. One of the chief reasons I start work October 3rd, instead of September 26 was that I wanted to hang out
with the Dare Ware peeps again. The original plan was to shower, eat, drive my car to my mom’s, go to the Meridien, and then leave for the airport by 5am. I showered, ate, lay like a zombie on the couch, and then just went to the airport. I will sleep like the dead tonight, like really sleepy dead.

DC began its seduction with two random strips of interational restaurants. Within half an hour of walking around I found middle eastern, cuban, chinese, two kinds of indian (four indian places, total), thai, chinese, italian, french, cajun, afghani, sushi/japanese, seafood, and then… mexican food. The mexican place has this ginat banner outside announcing “Tacos al carbon!!!” like they’re the new gordita at Taco Bell or something. I’ll let you know if their tacos are any good.

I went through the classifieds. I have to find a place to stay by Wednesday, or I will be homeless. And then I’ll be that guy asking if I can buy a Subway sandwich… :-D

I miss everyone. And there are so many people I didn’t get to see, not least of which is my dad. And funny thing is, I’ve been planning a move for a long time, and it always included a trip down to Corpus to spend a weekend with him. That really bums me out. For consolation, I saw Roy and Renee very briefly one random evening. And Ricky called one day when we were moving, so I got to hang out with him. And I had lunch with my mom yesterday. And I said goodbye to my brother last night. At least I got most of my family. But I missed a lot of friends.

Tonight will be weird, sleeping without a cat of one kind or another next to me. Both Alex and Debbi are still in Houston. Most likely peeing on all of my clothes and linens. What I wouldn’t give to have them peeing on my stuff here with me. :-(

I’m actually flying back Thursday night, October 13. My sister gets married that weekend. I should see several of you freaks then. Until that time, y’all take care. Keep it real, unless you like it otherwise.

The last couple of days, a sickeningly talented guitar player and song-writer surfed our couch, stole the neighbours’ wireless, detailed his plot-twisted life, and generally fascinated the fuck out of me. Debbi’s guitars lay strewn about the house, usually within reach of somewhere you’d set your ass. This guy would reach out, grab a guitar, and play — whatever, anything, everything — speaking as fluently with a chunk of wood and wire as poets with words or lovers with bodies.

A couple of years ago, the world’s shittiest girlfriend sold 15 years of musical equipment for drugs. He hasn’t had a guitar since. Watching him play guitar, it’s hard to imagine it’s been so long since he played, or that it was even possible for someone like that to not have a guitar.

He says it’s killing him, not having one.

Several friends have been moaning about their work-a-day jobs and overrun dreams. Maybe it’s the weather, or tax season, but the Muse has everyone filing returns on their souls. You’ve been loaned some talent, and you have to pay that shit back, with interest.

But it’s not that easy. We want to make something real, one lump some payback for the proffered destiny we’re too scared to follow. Regular payments might be better.

Ghandi said, “whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”