talia wanted words:

Ah, a babeless flight. At least, for this first one. A clusterfuck of layovers and transfers, the train to planeport to the plane to the planeport to the plane to the airport that features in that novel I'm always working on. Cincinnati calls me. There's something about it. Something kindred. And maybe it's the rampant Ohio connections in my life:

a.) father moved to Cleveland after high school to live with friends, above a bar, living on pizza. What story could more attract a kid? A kid like me?

b.) went to cleveland as a child. Saw Indians stadium before it was torn down. Having never been there before, I was still pretty bummed. My dad's nostalgia transferred to me, I suppose.

c.) singer in the defining band of my 20's, that long lost decade (about three weeks past) from Cincy, always talking about it. How scary he made it seem. Race riots and random violence. A strange and exciting place where anything (bad) could happen.

d.) most dreamy of tour dream girls: at my first solo show in Cleveland.

e.) the most AMAZING girl I've ever dated: raised in Columbus, OH.

f.) the Legion of Doom, a place I always wanted to re-create in Portland, but couldn't get it right.

g.) The Reds? Such my team. Failing never felt so good.

I'm sure there's more. I know for a fact there is. But the point is, I can't think of many other states that have such importance in my life, aside from states I've lived in. I mean, Oklahoma? It's dirty, and they have shit beer. That's it. That's the only memories I ever have. For some reason Ohio feels like it's important.

But I digressed from the thoughts of ladies. That's what airport stories are usually about. That random person that I daydream about.

It ain't happening this time, folks. Maybe my Chi-Cincy flight will be more babular, we shall see. It seems like since I've shown up here, so prepared, so ready to go, with my nice pen, and with plenty of paper, and with good music that is mood setting, but able to be a background, and not intrusive, it seems like I should write about something, no?

I left the house this morning, frazzled, tired, spacey, lacking in being ready for action, or, anything, really. I had gotten a decent amount of sleep, but my life has been so fucking active lately that any good night's sleep is just playing catch up. Woke up dreamy, maybe it was the weed from last night. Who knows?

This woman with her children is killing this for me. I'm moving. I don't need to hear you explain to your son that London is not in France.

Anyway. Woke up, showered in one of the most disgusting showers I've ever been in (mine, unfortunately) shampooed my hair and conditioned, a new experience for me. I never understood conditioner. Most like because I always used crap conditioner before. This good stuff I have now, some organic tea tree whatnot, man, it's phenominal.

Updated my ipod as I brushed my hair. REALLY needed Rubber Soul (minus Drive My Car) for this trip. Just a feeling, but it seemed REALLY important.

I'm trying to ignore the fact that my really nice, $12.00 pen, that I've had for at least four years, is finally starting to die. $3.00 a year? Deal. I wonder if this has anything to do with me smuggling drugs in it. The pen gods can be fickle, no doubt. But the gods of writers past seemed to be okay with drug smuggling, and anything else that would make a good story. Hm. I apologize of the greatest sincerity, please hold me through till Cincy, where I will beg and plead for some sort of temporary replacement?

I walked out of my house and started one of the songs on one of the album that I just downloaded. It was perfect walking music and matched my pace wonderfully. Good job, guys

Man, this pen situation is a bummer. I could, of course, have brought extra pens. Total option. After the last debacle, I should have known better. But, this pen has been so reliable, for so long. Optimism? Let's call it that, and not poorly prepared. And it's limping through, no doubt, it's just those stutter and missteps that jog the concentration like mothers and London, France, that make it tough to be the conductor of this train.

Aw, well. Lack of dames, lack of proper pen. BUT! I did get radderall and a half box of Triscuits through security. Crackertastic. Maybe the person next to me will have a pen I can borrow? Or maybe I will be stuck sucking ink out of this husk till Chicago, where I will break down and buy a gold Chicago pen? Who can be sure?

They're offering to let me fly later in order to get free stuff. Maybe? How about a pen?

I knew it! Ever vigilant! our hero has procured a writing device! One of those poorly trained airline employees, allegedly so good at security, has left an ever important PEN (click style!) on an abandoned table. Maybe it's the 200 people you were trying to cram into this plane, maybe it's because you didn't realize that a pen to a writer is more priceless than a needle to a seamstress (or haystack employee), but, WHATEVER the failing, I have reaped the benefits. This NATIONAL GROUP PROTECTION, INC. pen, proclaiming 1-800-344-9016 in beautiful blue, stark white back ground gleaming and inviting, THIS PEN, ma'am, is MINE. A god send, my prayers answered, and I am eager to move on from my previous inky laments and towards greater and hopefully more interesting words for all of you.

There are seriously no babes on this plane. Being the thoughtful reporter that I am, I got a seat towards the back, 32c, with 34 being as far back as it goes. This means, of course, that the bathrooms are near, but, more importantly, it means that I was one of the last to board, and that I had the opportunity to get a good look at everyone on this plane. Not a single babe. What is the world coming to? $15.00 to check a bag, one would hope for a babe. Or, at least, one would hope for no babies. Or free xanax. Fucking something. Someone needs to fix the exonomy, or make everyone else much more attractive.

Uh... Yeah, back to the beginning, where we derailed a bit. So, I was walking, in beat with track one, bus schedules and train maps, and plans of cash back from the grocery store meandering about in my head. I decided on Starbyx Frappamega coffee, cream cheese and chives weat thins, blue line train west bound, and red line train north bound. Oh, and $15 cash back, which would drain my bank account to the level of being good for a train ride home on monday, and nothing else. My pockets would be pushing past $18, including odd bits of change. I'm ready for my Travel Channel show: Moped Rallies on less than $6.00 a day. Thank god I'm not riding this weekend. I wouldn't be able to afford the $2.00 in gas for my loaner bike.

And then I get back, and have three days left before payday. My great redemption is the $5.00 my roommate owes me that he'll "totally have when I get back."

This is the longest taxi ever. I think the plan is to drive the plane to Denver and then fly the rest of the way to Chicago. Anything to save the airlines some money, no?

And there we are. In the air, all feeling awkward and frightened. Not me, though. I learned a long time ago that plane travel is the best non-train way to go. Either are good, but while the plane is quicker, the train is classier.

Ha. Want proof? How about Pink Panther 2 as our in flight. Should I watch it so I can see The Jerk turn into a jerk? Should I spend $6.00 on a mix drink? Or on a "snack box"? Fucking America.

Speaking of better countries, this flight continues on to London when I jump off in Chicago. So there's tea on this flight. I'm dreading it a bit, but I'll be ordering it. Styrofoam cup? My thoughts are paper. Either way, I'm sure I'll be the last to receive it, so it'll be extra fresh.

On another topic, if someone would devise a way for me to be able to read downloadable comic books on a plane, aside from the obvious of me buying a laptop, I'd be a happy camper. I really should have bought a laptop last week when I had money, but the gialnt bass cabinet seemed like a better idea. And maybe in the long run it was, and maybe I'll just buy a laptop next paycheck. I could upgrade to annoying fuck writing in public on a computer instead of serious artist fuck writing in public in a spiral bound notebook (with various obnoxious, failing, and stolen writing devices).

I'm going to attempt a mid flight nap. I'm sure I will achieve restless sleep as soon as they get around to delivering me this suspect tea. Or, worse, I will wake up, parched, as soon as my caretakers and done delivering to the illustrious 32nd aisle. And once that cart passes, it's all over.

The tea was adequate. It certainly wasn't grand. I watched bits of the Pink Panther 2 with the Beatles, Tom Petty, and the Kings of Leon filling me in on plot points. I'm sure it was better that way.

CHICAGO.
Well, specifically, O'hare. I love it. It's like a large city, but without anyone who is too poor to buy a ticket. New York City or SF without the bums. Nice, for sure. I walked around for an hour looking at food opportunities. I'm broke, as I mentioned, but there's never any really cheap food in the airport. So I hunted for the best bargain, walking around, looking at people and food and prices. Meandering layovers. What else was I to do?

I finally made my choice, and though it was a bit more than I wanted to spend, I was okay with it. Dr. Pepper and Popcorn. The soda was over priced, clocking in at a bit over $2.00, for a measly 20oz, but I was craving it, and that seemed like a good enough justification. I got the regular (vs. diet) because the calories seemed beneficial, and thereby more justifiable. The popcorn seemed like a good bet. It was a large bag, with butter, for $2.75? Something like that. Tax makes it hard to tally, but my total was $5.40. At any rate, it took me forever to finish (good), it was crunchy (good), and it felt healthier than McDonald's (debatable).

What could I do in an airport? I'm gonna smuggle ramen onto the flight home, no doubt.

This flight is so less crowded than the last. Something like 30 empty seats? More? Either way, I have a seat between me and the dame at the window. She's older, a mom, but not unattractive. Not my type, but Simon would be in heaven.

I got some sleep on the last flight. Optimistic that I can get some on this flight as well. The baby in the back, as well as the woman in pink who's radiating bad vibes (or is that just sudoku frustration?) beg to differ. I hope if I do fall asleep, I don't fart. I guess I just hope I don't fart on this flight in general. We could blame it on the popcorn, but something's not sitting too well. Fucking poverty, leaving me malnourished and farty.

So, one of the reasons I like flying so much is that it's an exercise in eternal peace. The Christian slogan that they generally ignore, is "Let Go, Let God." It's the only sentence of theirs I really like, except for the God part of it. Should be "LET GO". Period. The ability to reach the level of not giving a shit where one can find eternal peace is hard. Strange that giving up would be hard, but it's true. Start easy, I say. Start by flying in an airplane.

Every other method of travel has an out. An escape. Or something you can do if trouble arises. Not flying. There's not a goddamn thing you can do. Nothing. You can't get off, or swim away, or help take control of a bad situation. You can only hope for the best. And let go.

If you can't do it on your own, there' a host of benzodiazapienes you can take. Let Go Pills. And Let Go Booze in Let Go Bottles. The bitch of that being that airlines won't let you bring it to the airports, and it's too expensive to buy it when you get in. Until the airlines own the pill industry, that's your way to go. Doctors will give respectable types xanax and the like easily. Just go and say, "I HAVE TO FLY FOR WORK AND I'M TERRIFIED OF DYING!" If he's a funny doctor, with a good sense of humor, he'll ask you, "But don't you believe in God?" before giving you drugs. Or SHE. In this day and age, of course.

I prefer Valium. FYI gift ideas.

If you aren't someone who's respectable, or who can afford a a doctor, your friendly neighborhood weed dealer or coke dealer or whatever dealer might be a better alternative. They get the pills intentionally, if your market has a demand, or accidentally, if someone has a bunch of pills they want to trade for drugs. Coke dealers will charge the most for them, as there's not many people wanting to LET GO more than someone who's been up on stimulants for hours. Weed dealers are generally cheaper, man, because they aren't natural, bro, and their custies want the kind shit, dude, not pills, shacka.

Either way, you're generally looking at $2.50-$8.00 for each .5 mg installment of LET GO, which should last a domestic flight with 1 or less layovers. SO MUCH CHEAPER THAN A DOCTOR! Unless, of course, you have insurance. I had amazing insurance and a prescription for xanax. The markup would boggle your mind.

The best way to get drugs? Or anything, really? Be charming, quick witted, and never stop talking. The first will get you plenty of people to talk to, the second will help you seize an opportunity, the third will combat the potential for awkward that results from asking people for drugs. No one wants that. Well, maybe drug dealers. But other people want subtle, and they want to help you out. Because you're charming, mostly. They don't want you to ask them to sell you their prescription. They do want to help their friend who is having a problem with reality, and they're okay with making some money on it, as long as it's their idea.

That may sound manipulative. And it is. But it's not sleazy. Sleazy would be trying to get said reality helper for free. Or to not be grateful. I will always pay (low) fair market value. And I ooze grateful.

Okay, maybe ooze isn't the best word when trying to not be sleazy, but I think you know what I mean. I try my best to be helpful to my friends when they need it, and I love it when they're helpful in kind. Helpful world all around.

I guess we're about to descend into Cincinnati. Fitting that I would be listening to the just finished They Found My Naked Corpse Face Down In The Snow album, as Jerry, my partner in crime all those years, is from Cincy. We broke up in Cincy, Jerry and I, on tour, with Evening at the Black House. Our "last show ever." I played the next day, alone, in Cleveland. It was good. Lots of technical difficulties that tour. But that was my first time in Cincinnati. Actually, that's not true. Is it? the memories get scattered and I'll be damned if I 'm going to dig through old journals to figure it out. I vaguely think that I went through Cincy with the Unit Breed and Morse Code Heartbeat. But I don't think there was a show there? Then why would we go? Am I imagining it? Combining tours? Bleeding Columbus onto Cincinnati hills?

Ach.

One thing's for certain, I could use a good road trip. With the band. It's been too long. Hatred of booking tours ought to take a back seat to love of playing shows on tour, no? No?

We're circling now. The actual landing in Chicago was rough. There was a bounce that affected my LET GO immensely and I can feel it now with this descent. It would help if we could listen to our music on the way down, the prattle from the fellow passengers, sounds from confused and upset babies, it's not helpful. Ah, well, here we go. Down to the ground.

Hello trees. Hello grass. Hello ground.

We hit right when I wrote the g in ground. I have amazing timing.

And there's part one. I'm sure you're on the edge of yer seats. But I have to do laundry. TL:DR?

and more. lots of brennan. I must be in love.

what the hell is going on?

more pictures from Prom.

...

TV CAFE 2, this time it's Cincinnati, and at White Castle.

the last one had too many words. Fine. Hope y'all like no words, then.

TV CAFE. The pilgramige.

DAY ONE

Hm. We're off to a rocky start. Having avoided the stores of home, and left for things to be relied on the vendors of the Port of Portland, I have found myself with a sub par notebook, and a three dollar pen. I toyed with the idea of a nicer notebook, but as this one was 99cents, and the next step up was $13 or some such, and we all know how much TV Cafe can be achieved with $12, I decided to be smarter, even though writing in this thing is as comfortable and comforting as driving a car made out of wet paper. I doubt this notebook can hold my words, and I feel cramped and bound and slightly doomed by it's size and thin cardboard backing.Maybe I can find a more suitable replacement when I get to Fresno, and maybe this one's size and structure will be conducive to an introduction?

As for the fucking $3 pen. It's potentially the biggest fail in the book. Why didn't I have a pen when I left my house? Demanding a new pen is not a common eccentricity, or at least, not one of mine. A new notebook, for a new subject, well, that makes sense. I've got boxes and boxes of spiral bound paper, discolored from it's original white and blue, by the dashings of black that I scribble out hurridly. Most
of them aren't revisited, as most of them are meant for the filling, and would be just as useful as fire material as they would be as reading material. Most of them would have been just as useful to me, had I written random letters, and then just thought the words I had felt that were so important to scribble down.

And so, lord forbid the idea that I use a book half scribbled in with unimportants, as a vessel to carry the words of this writing. However, a pen, a pen is merely a weapon, firing ink, launching words at paper, and in these hands, any pen that's less that a $20 pen, that works, is an equal weapon.

So paying for this goddamned shit pen, no more apt at murdering the white spaces between these blue lines than a common bic (the Coors Light of writing devices), felt like a vicious attack, making me wish I had the time to escape this airport to find a reasonable pen vendor.

The only thing that strikes me as amusing about this pen, dear reader, is the gold. Shiny gold, it's gaudiness a reflection of it's worth, so that the pen MUST know, in it's heart, that it's worth is near nill. It screams out, demanding, in a comical voice, that we stare at it, that we acknowledge it, that we ACCEPT IT FOR WHAT IT IS... the last words trailing off as it knows it's words are lies, and it knows it's
future fate, cast off and forgotten, with the exception of these paragraphs.

I tried my damnedest to peel the price tag off, left it alone when I realized that the sticky residue that was left was so much worse than the reminder of the money I'd spent.

The three of us, notebook, pen, and myself, are sitting in this airport, waiting to get on a plane. A girl is checking us out. I'm assuming it's me, I'm hoping it's not this goddamn pen. Maybe she knows me, although she doesn't look familiar in the least. Maybe she thinks I'm attractive, which would be my guess, based on the glances, the way that she stretches in her chair and looks at me, smiling. It
was almost two years ago to the day that I was playing such games while in the airport in Norfolk, VA.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I'm sort of uninterested. I'm too busy thinking about LA, TV Cafe, even Fresno. I would love to know if indeed she was checking me out because of attraction, love to know if we'd met previously, love to know if we'd be compatible as friends or whatnot, but I'm not in the mood to find any of these things out the hard way. I can't imagine having to work that hard, right this second.
My ideal situation would be to get her phone number, and revisit these questions at a later date, or even more simply to ask her:

do you find me attractive?
have we met before?
is it possible for you to be compatible with a brilliant, if totally insane, artist, who currently is unemployed and lives in a shit house that maybe ought to be condemned? And keep in mind that I neither need someone to fix me, nor do I want someone who finds this pen a good value.

An old couple just sat between us. I decided to stretch as well, remind her that I was still here, on the other side of these seemingly accidental interlopers. At the very least, they are plot ruiners. God knows I don't want to write an "I ALMOST found love in the airport" story.

Not that this is a story about airports, anyway. This is a story about TV Cafe, and everything else is simply polite conversation meant to fill the air before we get to the main event. It's NOT an appetizer, because, truthfully, we couldn't afford it. This is simply filled water glasses and waiting for the waiter to bring our drinks.

I took a shit, something I always do before flying. Any place with rich patrons, such as an airport, will generally have nice, clean bathrooms, and will always have more comfortable bathrooms than the planes do themselves.

I came back hoping to get a seat in a better position to look at the girl. There wasn't one available, so I went back to my previous seat.

She was an MVP flier, whatever the hell that meant, so she got on the plane before me. She walked a comically out of her way route, directly in front of me. Figment of my imagination, I doubt it.

I entered the plane, and she smiled at me, then turned around and glanced at me as I sat, assumingly confirming where I was sitting. She was 12D, and I was 14B, meaning that she had to turn to look at me, where I had peripheral vision of her. But seriously, there is no way that this girl wasn't looking at me. So my conclusions were obvious:

A.) We know each other. Some where in the fog of weed smoke, and the swimming pools of alcohol, have gone the memories of scores of people. She could easily be one. The feeling of recognition isn't there for me, but it could be for her, and maybe that's driving the glances.

B.) She thinks I'm someone else. It's not to be ruled out. Granted, I'm reasonably unique looking, between the tattoos and the beard and the unkempt hair. However, you add those things to a guy with a notebook on a plane, applying shit gold pen to paper at an alarming speed, and people start to wonder. People with their teeth this bad don't generally fly, being denziens of greyhound stations and half running automobiles, so maybe THIS guy is someone... famous? Who else but famous people have money AND the grime I carry around like a coat of arms?

C.) She's been waiting all her life for tall, dark, and hygienically questionable? I mean. Really? There's really a girl out there just craving a guy with RTV all over his hole filled pants? Who sees steel toed boots, one of which covered in dirt, and swoons? It's bedazzling.

And I'm blowing it. My indifference from before, while still a driving force, is being eroded by her persistence and my curiosity. And how am I blowing it? By her neighbor seat being empty, and by me not snatching it up.

But alas, kicking myself in the ass later isn't something that is going to drive me out of my seat. We have an hour thirty for her to make a move, and honestly, I hope she does, but just as honestly, it's not going to be me who does it. SHE grabbed my attention by her gazing, and smiling. I will not be the pursuer. For once, I want to be actively pursued. The plane is taking off. One hour thirty.

This plane feels like it's going to kill us all. You never talk about wrecking the van while on tour, and I get that. I'm just saying. It's a smaller plane, which is always worse, when you do the math.

Odds are really good that you will NOT get in an airplane wreck. So, the more people on board, the greater the odds that the plane won't wreck. Babies, I don't think, factor into the equation.

That take off, from an objective standpoint, was rough.

This flight is giving wine, which is good. It won't be much, but I also haven't eaten since breakfast, so who knows what could come of it, and maybe it'll be enough for sleep, and that would be the best way, next to conversations with Girl, to pass this flight. Hopefully they'll be quick about it, but being that I'm in the back, I doubt it.

There' s a captain, or co-captain, or navigator, on board. 14E, which actually just made me realize that I'm actually 15B. Whatever. So, El Capitan 14E has ear plugs in, and is eating string cheese, two things I've never seen anyone do on a plane. I'm glad he's here. Baby faced, blondeish, I'm imagining Mormon, he seems like enough of a saves the day type that he might be one to rush to the cabin were the captain to need assistance.

DOES ANYONE KNOW HOW TO FLY THE PLANE? is a sentence that would inspire me to ask Red is she wanted to make out as we plummeted to our doom.

Hell, who could resist a line like that? What charm in this tongue this mind controls.

A little background, for those of you need it, as I rocket through the clouds towards California.

This document, simply, is about TV Cafe, a dining establishment, in Los Angeles, California. Less simply, it is about my journey there, as well as what happens there, as well as me. I am not, nor do I have the interest or capability to be, an unbiased reporter. I don't even think it's possible to be one. The only unbiased report comes from a camera that takes random 360 degree photographs. Without a flash. So there will be tangents, and inaccuracies, and irrelevancies, and I don't
care.

Less simply than all of that, this document is about an unremarkable place, filled with hundreds of remarkable people, who, statistically and logically speaking, never should have met.

THAT GIRL just ordered tea, Tazo Awake Tea, I believe. I was busy. I was busy writing, and missed out on if she got a snack. Would she be dismayed with my upcoming wine choice? I shan't be fixed, my dear. As if it were possible.

Fifty five minutes.

The 14E Captain makes sure that every single drop of cream makes it to his coffee. The way he orders it, as well as the way he waits for the cream, it screams violence. Quiet homicidal violence. I want the list of every flight he'll ever fly again, so I can know which towns to avoid. Which towns to not even drive through, less the pilot aims for a freeway. Of course I'm wrong, but it's my impression, and, I think, good literature. The dude next to me playing videogames on his iPhone, while nice, and seemingly a good dude, less than good literature.

Of course, I like comic books, so what do I know about literature?

The 14E Captain has been eating constantly, is married, according to his ring finger, and is reading the New Yorker. I strongly distrust this man.

The wine worked well, though truthfully, I wish it had been a bit more. Fucking airlines, not letting you bring booze on board. My mother is picking me up from the airport, and I couldn't afford this flight on my own, the least they could do would be to let me get drunk. Let the illusion that I'm a grown up continue. But, no. I'm
left with the buzz of a child that stole ONE of his father's beers, choking it down in the yard, riding his bike around the neighborhood.

I'm still refusing to pursue girl, and I've lost track of time and unaware of how much time is left. She checked her hair in her compact, I was hoping she'd pull some spy move to check me out, but if she did, then she's a better spy than me.

I would be a horrible spy. Logistics and planning, I'm all over, but I'm too unobservant. Better by far that the spy's give me the information and I give them the plan. If there's a problem, I can solve it, given that someone else explains the problem to me correctly.

Ten minutes to descent. Are we both letting this go? 30 minutes to disboard. The time to act is now, hun. Or, I suppose, directly after we land. But certainly you're not going to track me to my Mother's house, right?

I attempted to pee, though the bathroom was apparently built for a cat. It can wait, especially if there's not enough room in the can for me AND my beard. I had to take my boots off just to get the door shut.

The Captain of 14D moves his mouth when he reads. Are we all on the same page here?

We didn't die during landing, and 14D didn't kill us, and ol' Girl didn't get the balls to talk to me, and it was all okay. I met my Mom at the (single) security gate, and we went grocery shopping. I'm attempting to get her to fall in love with mushrooms. We shall see.

I drank a half of a bottle of Port, and we watched Everything is Illuminated. It's the pinnacle of moviedom. I laughed. I damn near cried. I've seen it before, so I knew what was going to happen, and still I was glued to the screen.

DAY ONE. 3.24.9
It all adds up. Tomorrow we won't be as lucky, mathematically speaking.

JAY BANDIT
Cheese Quesidilla + 4 piece bacon + Orange Bang
1st Visit! 85/100 Cashier Girl
"How's the Orange Bang?" "Didn't like it at first, but after the bacon, it's perfect."
JASON ELDER
Carne Asada Burrito + Water
1st Visit! 94/100 Foosball/Awesome Posters (Commando/Cobra)
SYLVIA
Veggie Taco + Horchata
10 Visits! 100/100 Sculptures in Front

DAY TWO.

Fresno.
My Mom took me shopping, which has been great, even months later. I'm not sure if my Mom knows that these nice clothes have added to my making out with people, but I know that she'd be happy that I'm happy. I borrowed my Mom's car, and after stopping to meet up with Stevie and catch up on things, I headed to the Tower District, which is the most beautiful and livable part of Fresno. I'm not saying I'd ever go back there. But were I to be forced to go back there, I'm sure that's where I'd end up. It's a pocket of hip, in an unhip town, and even this pocket leaves a bit to be desired. BUT. It is a pocket, at least. And even one who is guilt tripped into Fresno only once every few years needs pockets.

At the bar, we talked about hot dogs incessantly. I had gotten way too high before heading there, and it was making me a bit paranoid. It could be the town though. Too many possibilities for ambushes from my past, and if I run into one more ex-girlfriend who I don't recognize even when they tell me their name...

I ordered mozzarella sticks, and one got stuck half way down my throat. I ran out side so as to not puke in the bar, but swallowed and worked it out. It reminded me so much of my family trip to Lake Tahoe, when I was 12 or so. Faith was there, I was totally smitten with her. She had come all the way from Pennsylvania with her family (out parents were friends from years past), and all I wanted to do was be charming and make her think I was awesome. As we sat at the picnic table behind the restaurant, eating our lunch, I, a fat little bastard of a child, tried so much to entertain and feel like I maybe could even worm a kiss on the cheek out of her. As the onion ring got stuck half way down my throat, and as I grabbed my 32oz soda, pulling lid off, and as I threw up in the cup, at the table, next to the girl of my young dreams, I realized that it just wasn't going to be possible. Strangely enough, the summer following, when we had gone to Pennsylvania, and then to Niagra to the amusement park, you find me ONCE AGAIN puking nearly on this girl. When your father tells you to close your eyes on the teacups, your father will be the only one laughing later.

I got more trashed after the near death mozzarella experience. I went back to my buddy Joe's house, stopping first by the Circle K, with hopes that I could quill my cravings. They were all out of hot dogs. No joke.

KING PAT
Bacon + Eggs + Hash Browns + Toast
1st Visit! 72&1/3/100 The Babes
"The secret to a great meatball sauce is grape jelly." "Secret's out, dude."

TONY BURLISON
5 Beef Tacos + Sprite
1st Visit! 79/100 TV

Eric "I would NEVER go to TV Cafe for the food" Sabatino
Eggs + Toast + Hash Browns + Coke + Beans
6th Visit! 100/100 Dudes Shaking Their Ding Ding on the TV

DAY THREE.

Awoke too early, and went back to Matt's house where I had left my Mom's car. Fucking hungover. Must have been the weed. Went to Robertitos and got a California burrito. Always so delicious except for the one or two random pieces of fat that are just too much. I've thought about pulling it apart, finding those two little bastard pieces of steak, and chucking them, but a burrito opened never folds right, especially if it's been fried.

I cooked my Mom dinner that night. It was a pretty simple, but tasty and healthy recipe. I'll happily supply it if anyone's interested, but the gist of it is:

Bed of steamed kale, cous cous with parsley, caramelized onions and garlic, sauteed mushrooms.

She said she liked it, and I hope it's true, but she's definitely the type to be nice about it if she didn't. She was already putting up with my craving for BBC America, it wouldn't be too far out of her way to put up with my hippy cooking.

Ma gave me a ride to Tower, where I made a plan to not get wasted. Stupid plan that failed after Maker's Mark shots with Baby Dave. The plan went downhill pretty quick, and the night just kept getting better, until I reached a point of "fucked it up". But to that later.

Met a girl named Elenor, who was loud and mouthy and brash and opinionated. She had been drinking for hours, and ordered simply a glass of vodka when she got there. Totally crush worthy. We got cuddly at the after party, but nothing happened, not even a kiss goodnight. What a great crush! Boy meets girl. Girl drunkenly yells at boy about some political theory that I can't even remember now. Girl repeatedly interrupts every story boy is telling, but smiles slyly like she's got the script. Girl cuddles, then leaves. What fun!

Elenor leaves, and I can't think of a single reason why not to walk back to Matt's house. I'm staggering down back alleys in Tower, getting semi-lost, drinking beers, and allegedly making it back to Matt's house. I remember calling him a "sunuffabish" for getting a ride back when I had to walk, and Matt said, "why didn't you just stay at Joe's?" to which I had no answer.

Woke up in the morning to Matt telling me that I peed on the wall in the hallway. What the fuck? I'm that guy now.

EMILY HUMPHRIES
Two Eggs Over Easy + White Toast + Orange Juice
2nd Visit! 63/100 Giraffe

ISAAC HARNEY
Big Breakfast Special
Bagillion Visit! 99/100 MAGIC

DAN KASTNER
Two Eggs Over Easy + Wheat Toast + Water w/Lemon
2nd Visit! 54/100 Signs for Specials

DAY FOUR.

Went out to "breakfast" with Steve. One of the best sandwich shops in the world is in the Tower District, and I ordered one of the best sandwiches I've ever had, and I was so hung over that I almost puked. I think I gave myself alcohol poisoning the night before, or at least really treated my body poorly. I've been attempting to assassinate myself with booze lately, and it's getting old. Well, scratch that, waking up hung over and being told that you were caught peeing on the wall has gotten old. Fucking hell.

Spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for SteveR and Alan to drive down from Sacramento, pick me up, and take me to LA, the home of TV Cafe. I was happy for the wait. It gave me time to pull it together to the point of not feeling pukey, and to shit, over, and over, and over again. I sat at Matt's house, thinking about why I'd been pissing on the wall, hoping his roommate who caught me didn't hate me, and watching their awesome TV. My Step-Mother is an Alien came on. So good. Allyson Hannigan? Precious. Seth Green was a squirly mother fucker. The movie reminded me about how awesome film in the 80's was. Getting legitimate actors to act in zany movies that don't make any fucking sense at all, but they were FUN. Why can't we have that today? Why can't we have sitcoms about muppets from space that want to eat cats, or a girl with an alien dad and some time stopping powers? I feel like an old fuck talking about how awesome things were in my day, but I can't help wonder why the other old fucks like me are currently using their time making movies and TV shows NOT like the ones that were so awesome during our youth.

Eventually got in a car with Alan and SteveR, and we were on our way. I bought some Ammodium, because my stomach was still revolting. Every moped rally I go to, I spend the week before partying some place, and I get to the fucking rally hungover. Every single time. It's so dumb.

The conversation down was varied. Neither Alan nor I ever shut up. SteveR was good conversation, but I feel like he was trying to get between to fatties and a plate of bacon. I heard my voice crack as I talked about my ex-girlfriend. What the fuck? Emotional conversation with two (rad) dudes I don't really know about life? Can't we talk about more vapid things? I for one would love to spend more of the time talking about things that don't turn me into the emotional, self-medicating, self-destructive "man" that I've become. Overall, the ride was amazing, but talking about why you broke up with someone, and realizing that all of the rational reasons now look stupid and silly in the light of day? Could do without.

As we were driving into downtown Los Angeles, we heard and saw packs of mopeds on the Friday Night Ride. And I knew TV Cafe was close.

Got to the warehouse and made camp with the other Cutters. Ran behind the bar to give a hand, and because I knew that helping with the bar was the best spot in the place. How am I going to talk to the 200 people here who I know, or at least know their names? How am I going to track down all of the people that I've pissed off over the internet? Fuck it, they'll come to me. And nothing says I'm sorry for making you look like a twat on a message board than handing someone a nice cold beer.

Dustin, Sylvia, and Sully were behind the bar with me. All saints. All people who's eyes I look into, and I find myself happy to be alive. How good is that? Their smiles are priceless, and it's these fine people that make life truly magical.

I handed out beer to people for hours. None for me though, the killing of the night before wouldn't leave. At some point in the night, I made my first pilgrimage to the place that brought me here. I was sick, so much so that the thought of food made me ill, and I was a bit dizzy as we walked there, through the alleys with dogs fucking, and the alleys with people sleeping in dirt, but the thought of going to the Cafe, especially with some newbies, made it worth while. I gave Sylvia a piggy-back ride for part of it, and it added to the charm and magic to have her on my back as we rounded the corner and saw the lights. I stared at my giraffe friend, and the hamburger and french fries looked down at me with a loving warmth that is unmatched. They sent out a radiant embrace, ensuring me that they would indeed sustain me, and make me feel better.

I hit up the ATM, and bought Sylvia and I dinner. I ordered the Guacamole Burger, with Fries, and a Horchata, and talked to my dinner mates about TV Cafe, and why I thought it was so special, and the memories that it had for me. I gave them my TV Cafe rating questions, where I asked them what they ordered, how many times they had been there, their rating of the place on an AWESOME scale of 0 AWESOMES to 100 AWESOMES, and asked them their favorite part of TV Cafe. The last question was difficult. What's not to love?

We stumbled back, bellies full, and headed to the warehouse. I tended bar for a bit, but the heat of the room, and the lack of enough water, and the booze from the night before, and the chaos, all started to get to me. I needed some fresh air, and I soon realized, that if I wanted to feel truly better, I needed to puke. I had been refusing it all day, but I knew that this violence would make it better, for sure. I sat on a tree stump, and threw up. Who knew their were tree stumps in downtown LA? Their surely aren't too many trees.

As I puked, I saw Graham and Emily Williams round the corner, looking like they were having serious conversations. I was embarrassed. I felt like I didn't even have the excuse of being drunk, and I felt like this was too many times that EmilyW had seen me throw up on the first night of the rally. At least I wasn't chasing Nathan around a parking lot, with Brennan in tow, the both of us trying to puke on him.

As it turned out, they weren't concerned with my puking. I cleaned up my face as best I could, was bummed as I noticed that my brand new shoes had puke splattered on them (thanks Ma!), and headed back to the party, to find out that I had missed a fight. I felt for an instant that maybe puking was for the best. Maybe I felt the fight in the air, and realizing that my mental state would have just led me to take out aggressions I had with myself on the people that were fighting at this rally, I had forced myself to leave the situation? I'm pretty intuitive, but I doubt it. Sure, I saw the weirdo all night long, his shifty persona irking me, and I realized that someone was going to fight him that night. And maybe I felt the tension about to break. Stranger things have happened, folks, of this I am certain.

I fell asleep on the concrete, my blanked under me, doubling as a bed. I was comfortable, until about 6am, when the cold crept in. I renegotiated myself, and went back to sleep.

MATT SMITH
Beef Taco Platter + Coke + Water
1st Visit! 82/100 My Friends

SULLY
French Fries + Sprite
6th Visit! 50/100 The Condoms Next To the Air Fresheners in the Vending Machines

ABBY
Abby would like to express the following:
STYROFOAM IS EVIL! WHY IS THERE BREAST MILK IN MY COFFEE?!
1st Visit! 2/100 Matt's Friends and the Fact that you can Buy a Whole Cake

DAY FIVE

Went out to breakfast with everyone, and it was enchanting. I bounced from table to table, seeing people from the midwest, east coast, west coast, AMERICA, all being brought together by TV Cafe. This is what I'm talking about. This is why this place is magic.

I spent most of the day reconnecting with my best friend from 8th grade to past high school. She moved to LA, I moved to Portland, it got harder to stay in touch. But the second I got in her car, she made some joke about something, I was back in love. Nancy is and always will be my sister. She's one of the most charming and intelligent and funny and caring people in the world, and I'm going to try spending more time remembering awesome times we've had, and less time being bummed about the lack of new awesome times. I met her husband. I fully approve. We went out to eat. We went to the beach. We talked, a lot. Chatter boxes the both of us. It was an amazing day.

Nancy dropped me back off at the warehouse. I spent way too long walking around the bummed out buildings looking for an ATM, finally finding one at the GreyHoundStation, a place where I've spent way too much time in my life. Being a 6'4" guy, with broad shoulders and a decent amount of muscle doesn't mean shit at the LA bus station. That place, especially in the middle of the night, will turn anyone into a scared kid.

Went out to eat at the (much closer) City Cafe. The waitress didn't speak english, but didn't respond to spanish either. It was confusing. The food was amazing though, for sure. Everyone started drinking, and I still couldn't do it. I didn't know it then, but this was the beginning of my sober period, where I had some chemical shifts that resulted in my brain no longer being interested in the alcohol, and my body equally unamused. Fucking Fresno. What other place makes you a drunk, and then burns it out of you, just as easily?

I went to bed early, this time opting for the Cutter Van. I had awkward thoughts of life and danger, I felt like I was going to lie there forever, stressing over it all, but the exhaustion overcame me, and I was out like a light. I awoke at 6am again, this time because I had to pee so bad. I walked back to the warehouse to do so, and found Dustin, being Guardian Angel, watching over the steeds while the riders slept, snored, and secretly wished that they wouldn't awaken to last nights bad decisions kicking them in the face. We talked for a while, an hour or two, before some rustling came from inside. It was a beautiful way for me to start my last day in Los Angeles.

EMILIE PARKER STRANGE
Toast + Coke + Orange Juice
7th Visit! 65/100 Sex on the Roof

AMY F
DEVIL'S BLOOD
30th Visit! 72/100 Perpendicular Bricks

MIKE RAFTER
Big Breakfast Burrito + Orange Bang
7th Visit! 86/100 NCAA Women's Basketball vs. Bret Michel's New Album on the Juke Box

STEVE ROSEN
Chorizo Pancakes + Horchata + Orange Juice
1st visit! 100/100 The Sheer Timelessness.


DAY SIX

We went to TV Cafe for breakfast. I knew it was probably going to be my last trip, which was sort of sad, but I looked around, saw kids I knew and loved, saw kids I didn't know, saw a girl that was cute that I wanted to know, it was perfect. A great way to end the weekend. The Juke Box was randomly playing horrible music, and we made a guessing game about what would come next. We chatted, and I heard way too many people talk about being way too hung over. It was pleasant, and even more than that, it was typical of TV Cafe. It was typical of how much that place was amazing. It showed how a marginally good restaurant, with an orgasm of strange and exciting decoration, in the middle of no where, but NEAR a warehouse district, could bring together some of the most amazing people I've ever met, to eat, and discuss strange television choices and haunted juke boxes. To talk about babes. And drinking too much. And stupid forms of transportation.

I spent the rest of the day with my brother and sister-in-law, and we met up with everyone at the beach, and we ate at a fish house across the street from the beach. SteveR and Alan and I left to head north from there, and I spent the next two days hanging out with my dad, who's beyond amazing. Then a flight back to Portland, and back to real life. I had written more about my trip, about this TV Cafe, but I think I've said it all. Thinking back on that last day, that last breakfast, being in a room with so many loved ones, I feel warm inside. I feel amazing. And I doubt any other flowery words I can think of can beat that.

TVCAFE2010?