Punked-Out Punk: Part Three

Oh thank God, they're American-owned!

Oh thank God, they’re “American-owned”

I pulled into the motel parking lot carefully listening for the crunch of syringes and crack vials.  Didn’t hear any.  They must sweep the place.  Classy joint this Comfort Inn.  Can’t see why Expedia only gave it two stars.  Maybe at night it becomes a stable for hookers.  Better get the top floor.  Don’t want to be hearing a bed creak every thirty minutes.  Unless, of course, I’m in it.

I parked the car and went inside the office to register.

A gentleman with a southern Mumbai accent processed my reservation, then directed me to a room on the first floor.  I thanked him and went out to get my bag from the car.

Wow.  Plastic key card.  Free buffet breakfast and WiFi.  Dish TV.  Little refrigerator.  Coffee maker.  Call me the King of Siam.  I was ready to settle for windows without bullet-holes and free local calls.  And I get all this.  The gourmet shit.  The Creator is too good to me.  Spoils me rotten.

I went in.  Nice enough digs.  Didn’t smell too funky.  A dark room.  Always like that.  Especially after I make it darker.

I dragged the blackout curtain across the window.  Unpacked some rags.  Put away the soda and beans.  Checked out the bathroom.  Didn’t get the vibe anybody had ever died in it.  Cool.  That’s worth at least half a star.  I got some ice from the machine and filled the sink.

Still feels a little weird not sticking in a bunch of beers.  But not as weird as waking up in a Mexican jail.  Here, see if you can put in cans of soda instead of beer and somehow still survive.

I did.  And did.

Spent the next twenty minutes trying to figure out the remote for the bullshit Dish TV.  Got to the point where I just started pushing buttons randomly.  That’s what finally worked.  I don’t know why I didn’t just do that right off the bat.  Don’t try to figure it out.  Just keep pushing buttons, baby.  Let mathematical chance work for you.  If you’re not hung up on any particular number–every one is a winner.

Wound up tuning into some football.  Two teams I didn’t give a fuck about.  Perfect.  A stress-free sporting event to kill some time.  I can relax a little before getting my eardrums punctured with punk rock.  I leaned back into my stack of pillows and exhaled.  Exhaled everything.  My previous stress.  My present apprehensions.  My future concerns.  Just gassed them out.

I don’t know what particular meditation technique it is, or from which tradition, but I like to make myself disappear.  It’s easy.  Just let the boundary between self and surroundings blur a bit…and poof.   I cease to be.  At least for a little while.

Now and then, I need to dissolve into the arms of Nuit.  “Oh, holy Eternal Void, I fling myself into Your infinite potential.  My fate to You I trust.  Redeem me, if You must.  But I don’t mind being dust.  Amen.”

Sweet inky oblivion.  It’s very relaxing.  And I’ve learned how to obtain it without a motel bathtub filled with beer.

We're going to need more ice.

As if the TV would be there. I call bullshit.

I woke up– if not entirely redeemed–certainly more refreshed.  I decided to take a shower.  Already talked to Gurz and he said the bands were still on their way to the show.  That meant I had time to stand under the hot water and realize some things.

Like as long you don’t put any expectations on the evening, you can’t be disappointed.  Don’t feel bad if you don’t feel like you’re twenty years old again.  You didn’t feel so great then either.

And even if the music doesn’t somehow erase all your hard-earned wisdom, you can still make bad decisions.  It’s a choice.

And there’s nothing wrong with mellowing.  So what if you’re not the reckless monster you used to be?  Who cares if you don’t pull down the scenery around you in an operatic gotterdammerung anymore, or make a hobby out of endangering the safety of others?  In fact, everyone is pretty okay with it.  You’re really the only hold-out– the only one giving yourself grief.

Huh.  Fucking me.  It’s always something.

Well, that’s where you come in.  You’re going to take care of you.

Me?  Why me?

Since you already have an in with old boy.  You being him and all.  You can put in a good word.  Get you to call the dogs off you.  You know, cool it.

Hmm.  Maybe.  I’ll see what I can do.  But you know me.

I do.  And I know you know you.  And if you’re cool to you, I know you’ll totally be cool.

Yeah, I know.

So we’re cool?

Totally.

Good shower.

I got dressed.  Laced the Martens.  Ate my salami and beans.  And Brazil nuts.  Washed it all down with a can of diet ginger-ale.  Put a key card in my wallet.  One in my sock.  Left the TV on.  Closed the door.

Okay, let’s see if the kids have anything on this old dog.

(to be continued)

Only the Bible survived.

That’s more like it.

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5 responses to “Punked-Out Punk: Part Three

  1. Love your ‘prayer’. Divinity must be pleased with that. Loves all things that rhyme. Like ‘the porcupine who took a concubine’. The almighty was good with that. Not so pleased with the contextual homosexual who abstained from being sexual and became a homovexual. But it forgave him. God loves an intestine gnawer. Enough bollocks for one day. Looking forward to the gig. X

    • Thanks Johnny, glad you liked the prayer. So many people are scared of nothing. By that, I don’t mean they are not scared of anything. Fear doesn’t seem to be a dwindling resource. I mean they are scared of silence. Nobody seems to want to stop everything and just be. For even two seconds. Instead, the TV and radio blare while they thumb out Twitters. Their minds chattering like caffeinated sorority girls. The idea of letting the screen go blank, like I said, even momentarily, is absolutely unacceptable. It would mean the end of the world.
      That world, at least.
      Shutting off the shit would mean dying. And that’s like the worst, right?
      Good thing you and I don’t have that problem. The only way two lunatics like us haven’t died yet, is thanks to our strict regimen of dying daily. “Die often,” is my motto,”And die early.” When the going gets tough, die. Just die, motherfuckers.
      Sagacious advice not oft heeded by neophytes and Philistines.
      Shame really.
      I’m with you on the rhymes, J-Money. Dig them. I love how porcupine and concubine develop a deeper relationship (albeit prickly) just by reason of rhyming.
      Porcupine.
      Concubine.
      Masturbating Valentine.
      Sour grapes plucked off the vine
      fill dirty glass with Boone’s farm wine,
      and turns you into Frankenstein.

      Disparate words to be sure, and yet they all go together simply because they rhyme. I tell you, it’s one of them there goddam miracles of nature, Johnny Boy. That anything can rhyme just amazes me. What would be a real miracle would be if poetry rhymed. I’d like to see that.
      And all kinds of other crazy shit.
      But you know that.
      Staying sexually active in order to prevent homosexuality,
      Marius

      • I like the masturbating valentine. I must admit, I was feeling a little ‘crazy’ after being in the nut-house all day with my bro, so rhyming just seemed to surge my flo. A rhyme a day keeps the psychiatric nurse at bay. So they say. (although I did notice a lot of the ‘clients’ in there were scribbling down stuff. Probably didn’t rhyme though. Although ‘kill them all’ is easy enough to form couplets with?)

  2. “King of Siam” (you asked – now, let me gether up what’s left of my integrity here)

    I enjoyed your linguistic matador-like ability to keenly ear the Mumbai dialect there. Many Northerers would dismiss the almost sing-songy Southern inflections as reminiscent of a Turkmeninstani street sweeper…all brush and no catch. That lilting second syllable staccato is a dead giveaway, in my books. So I am thrilled that you caught that, like a grizzled in a bear trap. Nailed that down. Kept the paw for a souvenir. Rubbed it at Lent to keep the Skittles hobgoblins at bay. Boiled it in broth for a revivalist picnic splashdown. Turned the rest into jerky.

    You gave me a case of the galloping guffaws on your motel descriptions there, Sir G. Almost burst my backup spleen. You have a way with words, don’t you know? Your skywriting days are long gone. Vapour trails compared to what you pull out of your keyboard. Deftness of hand and phrase. But yeah, motels…I know that any sort of road trip for me meant on thing and one thing alone – massive amounts of unsupervised drinking. I was not one for the recreational pills and vials, nor of the women of the evening. But I could spoon up against a 40 pounder of vodka and get as high or low as needed. I could rage against the machine in a disdainful manner fueled on some distilled potato scraps. Motels and hotels were my spa, mani pedi and hair salon trip in one fell swoop (you know what I mean).

    Speaking of spa treatment, I love your wind down before the concert there (are punk concerts called “concerts”? Or are they called something like “earshankings” or “bloodlettings”?) The prayer, the meditation…I sometimes save those for the shower too. I like that whole image of just standing there realizing things. Loved it, actually, because that is how it often comes to me. A place without any frickin’ pen and paper, ya know? I think that’s where Einstein came up with his brilliant idea of the George Foreman Grill, or whatever it was he was known for. But to erase self from the reality, to sink into something outside of oneself, yet connected to that Void. What a trip. No amount of vodka or beer or wine could get me there. Hell, that is what I was looking for in the first place. A little connection with the Universe. Was that too much to ask?

    I wait for the concert, Marius. I love this build up and the ruminating thoughts – the reflection on old self – was that self as great and fun as I remember it? Or am I dancing with pigeons in the twilight of my memories again? Or was it a big farce? I am convinced that there was a twinkle of us in every place we’ve been. No matter how debauched we got, there was still the sparkle of us in there somewhere, fogged by whatever we decided to put into our systems or what behaviours buggered us up…but we were always there. Today we see more of that person…and what I see here, from Mr. G….me likey. A lot.

    Hugs,
    Paul

    • Thank you Mr. P, I really love the concept of that “sparkle of us” still having been there, even at our foggiest. Like a lone lighthouse light twinkling in the pea soup of our self-ingested murk. We never completely went away.
      Came pretty damn close though, eh?
      I don’t know what the deal with motels and hotels is for me, but I love spending time in them. I think it started with the fact that as a kid, I never had to do homework while sequestered in a rented room. That made any motel room a sacred sanctuary. Add to it the vending machines and being able to bounce on the beds, and you have all the makings of kid nirvana. Getting to eat cereal out of those little boxes in the morning was big, too.
      My motel merrymaking did take on more adult themes, but the basics were the same. Shunning responsibility, raising my blood sugar, and bouncing on the mattress. And while it’s not like I didn’t do all that, all the time, there was something especially sneaky and satisfying about doing it from a Honeycomb hideout. I think it tricked me into thinking that the anonymity of the place would not only hide me from any witnesses, but also from any consequences. Does that make sense?
      As for the shower, well, that continues to be a holy sepulcher. I too get my best epiphanies while under the nozzle. Far from pad and paper, as luck would have it. They say that the alcoholic calls for God with his head in the toilet, but hears Him while taking a shower. Okay, nobody says that. Except me. Just then.
      Funny thing about realization. It just happens. And never as the result of my trying to figure something out. Trying to figure something out only leads me deeper into the labyrinth. It’s when I stop trying to figure anything out, and focus instead on massaging the conditioner into my scalp, that the answers and insights appear.
      So why do I keep trying to figure things out, Pauly?
      It’s as if I keep doing the same thing…expecting different results. Does that make sense?
      It shouldn’t.
      Anyway, yet again, your contribution to this comment section has been generous reward for any toil and turmoil I might have experienced while trying to write. Your words are like Scooby snacks for my soul. I know many of my friends look forward to reading them, probably more than the blog post itself. I sure do.
      More than once I’ve put something in a piece, wondering if anyone will “get it” and you turn out to be…that one person! It’s a relief I tell you. To know that some guy in Canada believes I can discern a Turkmenistani from a stiff left Punjabi.
      If nothing else, I can hold on to that solitary straw.
      And thank you greatly for it.
      More love than you can shove under king-sized bed,
      Marius

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