Slightly Heavier

Over a year later and it's finally finished. Thanks to Paul Foertch from old school tattoo


Here is a picture of the original:


and a link to info about the artist

Swing low

I picked up the gentleman just outside of the "world famous" UP and Up bar. Now, I don't exactly know what this particular establishment is world famous for but in my most recent experience it has been for producing incredibly drunk "I just turned 21!"s who stumble into my cab. I then have to rush the spinning sophomores to their home before they expel their "world famous," burrito (consumed earlier at "Casa Que Pasa") onto my already filthy floor mats.

So keeping my usual experience in mind I was more than happy to chauffeur this mature looking, slightly swaying fella to his home. He works for the carpenters union as an apprentice, hes done with school, wants to try living in Alaska etc etc...

We reached his home shortly and I let him know what he owed me (14.95 if I remember correctly) He then took out his credit card.
"We only take cash," I let him know.
"Oh man, well I only have like 4 dollars."
We both contemplated the situation for a few moments before he asked me
"Do you like white chicks?"
If pressed for preference I would normally say that I go for more ethnic looking women but the sake of simplicity I said, "Sure."
He then replied, "Do you wanna get down?"

At this point my mind was racing. I figured that this guy, with his little carpentry experience had a crudely made pen full of writhing white women. I figured, as I unbuckled my seat belt, that I could at the very least witness the sex den made of old pallets and plywood and then scurry to my running cab. I would then alert the authorities to the aryan sex trade happening under their very noses.

I reached for the door handle just as our friend reached into his pocket, and I backpedaled out of my splintery, pale fantasy. I saw the little bag of white powder in his hand. I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief and disappointment at the same time. I thought to myself "God, people can be so boring."

I let the guy out in his driveway still holding his little bag of boredom, and with my newly earned four dollars I made a note to myself to learn a bit more about drug slang. I don't want to get my hopes up again for no reason.

Love is suffocating

Day four of Taxi driving, and so far I haven't been stabbed or robbed. I don't believe that I could ever make a career out of this type of work however. I haven't quite figured out where my responsibilities begin or end as a paid chauffeur.

Last night an incredibly drunk man tried to strangle his fiance in the back seat. The woman took it surprisingly well, as if maybe it happens all the time? I found myself caught between trying to decide to throw them both out of the cab, just him, or just her. I figured that if I threw them both out the strangulation might continue street-side with no witnesses to speak of. If I threw just the gent out he would probably stumble his way home eventually and the neck squeezing would resume. I could throw just her out but the co-habitation issue would still exist, and I don't know what would be more terrifying: waiting for your abusive lover to come home, or knowing that he's waiting for you when you get home.

As it turned out, just a moment after I had decided to run the lot of us off of the nearest bridge, the favorite song of our friend "Jack the gripper" came on the radio, and he released his grip so that he might begin singing loudly and drumming on the back of my headrest. And we all lived happily ever after. THE END

Hurling From A Cab

I am officially a taxi-cab driver. Last night was the first of many more 12 hour, over night shifts, starting at 6pm and ending at (you guessed it math whiz) 6am!

Tuesday nights are surprisingly eventful in Bellingham. If you happen to fall under the over 40, alcoholic, and generally sad about life category, then Tuesday is your night to party! I met the drummer of a San Francisco rock band from the 80's that I think is called "Fwuzzly Twizzchers" (Im not fluent in Drunkenese yet so I could be wrong). Apparently they are in the rock and roll hall of fame. I looked it up and I'm pretty sure I broke the internet in doing so.

I also gave a particularly short ride to a particularly paranoid drunk man who looked to be about 250years old. He asked to be dropped off on Samish way (a mere 2-3 miles from where he was picked up). After about a block however he became convinced that I was "playing f***ing games!" with him, and tried to grab the wheel. (rookie lesson #1: Drunks go in the back!) Without even stopping I was able to unbuckle his seat belt and push him out the door. For those of you concerned, he rolled out of it quite gracefully.

There is something uniquely intimate about jobs like taxi driver, hair dresser, or priest where people feel uninhibited when talking to you as they launch headlong into personal confessions, or the telling of their sons biography in its entirety (lives in anchorage with his pregnant underage wife, lost his fingers in the cannery, killed a bear when he was only 3, etc...). I imagine the alcohol helps the flow of information in at least two of those professions, but its still feels odd when "Tammy" (who by the way was a hairdresser ironically enough) tells me that she thinks I would look better with a beard, and blonde highlights.

Bickford

"The two worst things about life are:
1) That it's so terrible.
2) That it is so short."
~Old George Bickford

Check it out: http://www.brucebickford.com/

scrawl

Lately, I find in myself an increasing unrest. It seems as though everyone around me is rapidly succumbing to lives of regulated debt and predictable career paths. I have always been uneasy with the prospect of a life in one place or a career without creative freedom (or even a career at all).
My mind at this point is a cluttered mess of half formed dreams and "clever" ideas. How am I expected to create something logical out of partially written songs and scraps of paper with my nightmares scrawled illegibly on them?
I went to Mexico recently, with the goal of trying to sort this situation out. I figured the warm weather and the spicy food would rekindle the creative spark and I would return home to a well laid out plan. What I came home with was a parasite and a duffel bag full of hot sauce stained napkins with pen and ink sketches on them. I guess what I realized was what I already know. I am an artist, and maybe revealing this not so secret statement will hold me accountable at least to the four people that view this site.

Bird

Here is another video found among the Boston era photographs and such. I cannot help but draw parallels from the bird to the way I felt towards the end of my time there. Metaphors aside, I think it is a beautiful video. This bird flew into my closed window and I think probably had a broken back. Not knowing what else to do I left it in the small grassy lawn behind the apartment. In the morning it was gone, but I doubt that it flew away...

orbonica

Here is a video that I made several years ago. It reminds me of the beautiful parts of Boston that I miss. I cannot really foresee myself ever moving back there but the thought of that city has settled itself comfortably in my mind.
A prize goes to the one who can figure out how I made this video.