On Dangerous Driving: With Corey

Don't dare try to eat Peanut M&Ms. They'll slip betwixt your fingers and get caught in your AIDS quilt of a scarf that's draped over your lap. It's dangerous. Don't do it.

On the Basement of My Former House

Down the narrow wooden staircase and into the basement/garage was our storage area where things we had forgotten we had went to die. There were many tools, a lawnmower, a motorcycle, the washer dryer, suitcases, clothes that nobody wore. There was also an impressive pile of sand under a mass of odds and ends that accumulated courtesy of the mice that lived in the walls, and occasionally in the open air when the house was quiet enough.

The downstairs residence was generally musty and dank. The Butcher, who worked early, when he did, would show up at home with pounds of bacon, sausage, or whatever was about to turn at the shop that day. He looked like Santa Clause at 25. He sounded like Seth Rogan through a bullhorn. The only difference is, I've always been able to mute Mr. Rogan, if I so pleased. If he didn't have to work he would be in some mesh shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt on the couch with the curtains closed on the world watching hours of himself playing video games or hours of television. Plates spattered and marred with grease from charred animal carcass would occupy the coffee table next to him. To keep them company were empty 40oz malt liquor bottles, beer cans, or partially consumed plastic bottles of whiskey. His hair would be greasy. His pasty white arms would be exposed to the world of the living room. He would be glossily coping with something from his own vault of issues. He was a typical "mass-hole" from the Boston area and we shared a couple of tins of mustache wax for a time.

Next to the Massachusetts meat man lived a musician/songwriter who was a self starter and probably the most motivated person in the house outside of the leaseholder. In the past 6 months, He recorded his first solo album in his room in the basement. He fixed up the motorcycle that his boss had given him and got his motorcycle license. He put up a professional website, with the help of the Peruvian's girlfriend, to promote his music. He is the manager of a hostel. He has the propensity to grow a beard in an instant. He has been nothing short of a great of mine. He would motivate me to run when I didn't posses the will. But he wouldn't wait for me if I was hesitant. He was tirelessly supportive and has known my drummer for most of their lives. If I weren't in the right place at the right time I may have never been through all of the wonderful experiences, and some of the bad, that fill my past with experience.

I was kicked out over text message. I was playing guitar too late in my room after many a drink and a few too many j's. Outside of my usual, and often too powerful, inner stream of guilt, it was without warning. I wasn't expected to be out for over a month after the initial mention of my eviction. I was out in 4 days.

On Living with Groovy in My Former House

My drummer lived on the main floor in a sun room off of the kitchen and the vestigial dining room. His savage mane of hair and reasonably trimmed beard growing around his broken glasses seemingly defiant of his day to day. He kept himself busy with going to work at Guitar Center, practicing his drums, and wearing holes through his single pair of jeans, one shirt, or through his sole pair of boots.

He has been my rock in the band. He is reliable and usually more level-headed than I. After long days that finished with rehearsals we would ride home together on the 5 bus out to the Richmond. We would hope that there would be nobody occupying the living room so that we could have a moment of peace after these long days. I would roll us a cone while he put the meatballs in the oven and added spices to a sauce. We would eat and smoke in front of the TV. Relaxation was distorted by our anticipation of the impending onslaught of drunken revelry what could arrive at any moment.

Courtesy was on a sliding scale in our house. Tolerance was just as fluid. Just before my time was up at the house he finally got a curtain for the segmented glass door that made his privacy public to the living room. He lived as if he's ready to leave at any moment but tended to embrace change with the speed and willingness of a glacier. He still does. I appreciate his apprehension even to this day. It balances my overzealous nature.

On the Top Floor of My Former House

I was kicked out of my house a couple of months ago. At the time, I was living with 5 other people in a house in Richmond District of San Francisco. My room was small, but comfortable. I couldn't really have dates for breakfast on account of my Twin bed and the 5 other animals with whom I lived. couldn't be trusted not to ruin any or all labido that I had built up all evening. Any woman that slept over was comfortable, or at least tolerant of my situation. My housemates were all guys, all down for a good time, and all characters.

I shared the wall next to my bed with the leaseholder and my friend. He would, based on the width and acoustic absorbtion of that fatefull wall, be the one who kicked me out of the house. He is one of the most physically clever men I've ever met. Towards the end of my residence, I was in the habit of smoking irresponsible amounts of drugs that he would sell to me at a "discounted" rate. This may Across the hall from me lived the Peruvian. To this day, I'm not sure if he was legally in the states. He kept to himself for the most part and I could hear his girl giggling and moaning from time to time through the door. It always made me smile.

This article had to be split up among three posts due to length. I decided to go from top to bottom, floor by floor.

On the Gravitron.

I am a part of a spoiled generation. We are taught to yearn for that which we "deserve." If we don't get it, we blame anyone but ourselves. Instant gratification is a way of life. We watch characters, whom we seemingly admire, in high definition on low profile, flat screen televisions that we pretend own outright. In actuality, the items by which we identify ourselves' are owned by faceless lenders who bleed us until we are drained on a mortician's table. Even then, our children will inherit these mistakes and the interest in tow. Perhaps one day we will make and effort to identify our worth based on more than the watches on our wrists, the emblems on the chests of our button downs, or the cars that we drive. Who is really behind the wheel? Are we even grateful for the things we truly possess?

This world is a travelling carnival. Let all of us, who allow ourselves to be told how we should live, be on board the open air Gravitron. Centrifugal forces are holding our arms against the walls whilst the carnie, in charge of the good time, smokes his cigarette safely on the ground below, all the while, his finger caressing the curves of the big red STOP button. He wont have ever been told when to depress it and bring the ride to a halt. He is drunk with the only true sense of power that he will ever know.

The passengers lay upright, just inches from the freedom beyond the brightly painted grate behind the torn and worn cushions holding only the illusion of comfort. The hard earned quarters, nickels, and dimes of the riders land at the feet of passers by, grabbing the innocents' attention and, in turn, drawing them into the groaning screams of a tragically neglected machine. All the while, the cheeks of the passengers pressed back to their ears, forcing saliva out of the corners of their wide toothy sneers. Without going into the physics involved in virtual forces and a body's natural inclination to travel in a single direction, one cannot live within these constraints for very long. We will develop what is referred to as learned helplessness in these situations.

If and when we are let off of the Gravitron it takes time to find our feet. The repetitive spinning will be worked into our very being. I feel I am just getting back on solid ground.

On American Dreaming

I woke up in the next door neighbor's back yard. My eyes opened to the sky with the back of my skull on an area rug. My legs, still wrapped in skinny jeans, lay nearly lifeless under a blanket. One of my Paolo pig skin leather boots was lazily untied. I only discovered today that the sun had burned the cheap Irish skin on my forehead. This wasn't my neighbors' yard, It was a friend's neighbor, it was overlooking the Pacific and it was the fourth of July.

Everyone who has been in the presence of the ocean has a connection to it. My connection started early and was reinforced by the beaches of Hawaii. Our family was stationed there from the years when I was two and three years old.

I pursued my interest of the sea as far as spending three weeks working for the collections and quarantine department of the Bermuda Aquarium and starting my college career as a marine biology major. In my ideal future, at the time, I was to live on my boat with my wife and child. I was to discover the origins of life on this planet deep within the hydrothermal vents at the bottom of the Pacific (according to my calculations, anyway). I was to have the ocean as my backyard, my playground, and my livelyhood. I would breathe in it's vopor and it would breathe life into me.

I felt alive, albeit still a little drunk, when I woke on this year's Independence Day.

On "Piss Alley," and living Rock and Roll.

I am the lead singer in The Attack Plan. Tonight's rehearsal ended and after turning off all of the amps, unplugging the Christmas lights and setting the alarm, I lit a smoke and stepped out the door. The dead end alley air, full of a urea and the smell of bodies that haven't been washed properly in far to long is refreshing compared to the muggy heat of our noisy three hour worked studio space which lacks sufficient ventilation. My face feels swollen, achy and hot from smoke inhalation, the heat, and exerting myself singing and playing the Rock and Roll that I love so dearly. Our show on Friday will go as well as our individual moods shall dictate, as is the way with most things. I will play well and I will have fun.

Inspiration struck as I took a step toward my transportation home, the borrowed American truck with the giant apple in a wheelbarrow emblem on each door. My left foot met the pavement after a quarter of an inch of unexpected light resistance. Assuming it was some manner of feces and not being surprised, or alarmed in any way, I calmly stopped and turned to examine further. I found it oddly pleasant to discover that it was merely a mass of cigarette butts, a condom, the heel of a loaf of bread and some plain ol' city dirt. I'm sure, beyond what I could see with my naked eye, that the lot was infected with some strain of flesh eating disease as well. I unlock the passenger side door, put my bag in, flicked my cigarette through the chain link fence, exhale and climb into the drivers seat.

Tonight I was able to get home early enough to not feel the pang of guilt usuall associated with lazily deciding what I can and will accomplish before my time of slumber. I decided to write about one of my favorite places on Earth. I showed our rehearsal space to Julia after knowing her for two days. She appreciated it appropriately.