whiskeyandacigarette:

Like Joel in Eternal Sunshine, I rush headfirst into women that show me affection. I’m particularly hopeless if they fit into the ideal of a woman that I have created during the last decade of drunken nights where I’ve fallen in love at the bar with someone new over a glance across the top of my…

7-11 in Hollywood, The Full Story

Last night’s blurb, seen here, was short and didn’t have much in way of detail. I’ll fix that.

After The Record Company’s unbelievable performance last night at Hotel Cafe, my friends and I went out to 4100 Bar for another couple of drinks. When the night ended, I needed to run and grab some Ibuprofen to ensure that I wasn’t hungover this morning when I finally decided to roll out of bed. There is a 7-11 a couple of blocks from where I live and I decided that was my destination. A long time ago a friend of mine said to never go there at night because of all the people that show up. I rarely listen to people when it comes to that, I’ve been there before at night and it was fine. Well, tonight made me regret ever not listening to him.

As I pulled up to the  store, there were two guys hanging out outside. I took them for normal homeless folks holding doors open for people in hopes of a bit of change in return for their kindness. I hear them comment on my car as I get out and then they both started to make hootin’ and hollerin’ noises as I walked towards them. I get a reasonable amount of attention for the vehicle so this isn’t uncommon. What’s uncommon is what happened next. As I began to walk away, one of the guys - a stocky Latino guy with a perfectly shaved and shaped goatee with a 49er hat on - extended his hand for a handshake. I figured it was just a “Hey, that’s a nice ride” kind of thing but, oh, was I wrong.

First, he didn’t let go of my hand. He was clearly more drunk than I was and asked me whether he could talk to me about the Masons. Yes, the Freemasons. He showed me his tattoo, his ring, the pin on his button-up shirt. To be polite, I said sure, thinking that it’d be a couple of minutes of my life and I’d be no worse for wear. Well, soon the conversation turned into a myriad of things, all of which I could only nod my head at and say, “Yeah, sure, man.” I can’t provide the blow by blow but I can tell you the following:

  • He gave me his “card” which stated that he was: a 7th degree black belt, a weapons expert, and had an inspirational quote from Bruce Lee. He also carried his cards in a Batman card holder, which I actually thought was kind of cool.
  • He was, in addition to being a Freemason, a former Marine with PTSD. This actually made me empathize with him. He was suffering from PTSD and was having trouble with the VA. This is a larger issue in this country and it pisses me off to no end. We will use these young men and send them off to die or do horrific things but when they come back, they may as well be invisible.
  • He owned 3 (this turned into nearly 9 by the end of the conversation) hot rods, including a ’64 somethingorother. He wanted to buy my Camaro.
  • He was looking for work. And, by work, I mean: he wanted to either be a bodyguard or KILL SOMEONE FOR ME. “I can make problems disappear. I’m licensed to carry.” He then proceeded to show me his gun. This is also about the time I became stone cold sober and looked around to determine whether or not I was about to get robbed for my car and/or shot in the goddamn parking lot of 7-11.
  • He liked my hair. Seriously. He even grabbed it! Then he told me about how long hair means power or something or other. He also kept shaking my hand but now he was doing some weird shit with his thumb, as if he were giving me a sign of some sorts. The next bullet point is interesting, to say the least.
  • I was finally at my car door and had it unlocked, ready to fucking leave because it was nearly 3 AM at this point. He grabbed my hand again, I said I’d give him a call - because if I didn’t he was going to kill himself - and then he gave me a hug goodbye. OK, nothing wrong with that. Oh, one more hug? And a kiss a on the cheek. Sure…drunk people get emotional, I get it. Oh, one more? “Come here, man.” And he started to lean in very slowly as if he was going to kiss me. I backed up, said it wasn’t like that, and pulled my hand back. He laughed and said something like, “Of course not!” and let me get into my car.


I started the car and got the fuck outta Dodge without looking back. All I wanted was some damn Ibruprofen and ended up, apparently, getting hit on by a PTSD’d former Marine Freemason murder-for-hire 49er fan. It was only Friday too, still got all of Saturday and Sunday to see what other random Hollywood weirdness I can stumble into. The lesson to take away from this? Never visit the 7-11 on Hollywood and Normandie after dark.

whiskeyandacigarette:

It is no secret that a song can take you back to a moment. Think of how many times you have heard your favorite song on the radio and you remember that night you were at a concert and the band played it. It transports you back to the moment instantly as the faulty camera of your mind does its…

malfoymannor:

epic songs to write to, a playlist for writers [listen here]

time, hans zimmer; misty mountains, howard shore; what are you going to do when you’re not saving the world?, hans zimmer; genius next door, regina spektor; hedwig’s theme, john williams; star trek’s main theme, michael giacchino; london calling, michael giacchino; mhysa, ramin djawadi; courtyard apocalypse, alexandre desplat; main title, ramin djawadi; cosmic love, florence + the machine; your ghost, greg laswell; one day more, les mis cast; veni, veni emmanuel, libera; oblivion, bastille;

malfoymannor:

epic songs to write to, a playlist for writers [listen here]

time, hans zimmer; misty mountains, howard shore; what are you going to do when you’re not saving the world?, hans zimmer; genius next door, regina spektor; hedwig’s theme, john williams; star trek’s main theme, michael giacchino; london calling, michael giacchino; mhysa, ramin djawadi; courtyard apocalypse, alexandre desplat; main title, ramin djawadi; cosmic love, florence + the machine; your ghost, greg laswell; one day more, les mis cast; veni, veni emmanuel, libera; oblivion, bastille;

malfoymannor:

epic songs to write to, a playlist for writers [listen here]

time, hans zimmer; misty mountains, howard shore; what are you going to do when you’re not saving the world?, hans zimmer; genius next door, regina spektor; hedwig’s theme, john williams; star trek’s main theme, michael giacchino; london calling, michael giacchino; mhysa, ramin djawadi; courtyard apocalypse, alexandre desplat; main title, ramin djawadi; cosmic love, florence + the machine; your ghost, greg laswell; one day more, les mis cast; veni, veni emmanuel, libera; oblivion, bastille;

(via whiskeyandacigarette)

whiskeyandacigarette:

Your flitting nature, in, out, here, there, and nowhere at once. You, too afraid to let go. Me, wanting to to disappear into your lies. It’s easy to run when you refuse to want, when you treat it all like it doesn’t exist. It is your greatest talent. That ache in your chest you desperately want…

whiskeyandacigarette:

She’ll burn your fingertips as you hold her. She’ll glow, sparkle, and light up the night. She will warm you to your core. Her light getting brighter, blinding you to what she is. Explosive, all nitroglycerine and instability.

Dynamite.

There to entice you with her danger, to make you wonder…

The first one

Sometimes, my memory is amazing. Other times, not so much. Here’s a story of young Shawn.

_____________________________________________________

I don’t quite remember how it all started, I’m simply too far removed. I was in the 3rd grade, after all. Her name was Crystal. She had short brown hair that curled at the bottom. Her favorite outfits consisted of pastel dresses and clunky little black shoes.

My class at the time had us sit on the floor more often than not. 30 little kids sitting on a giant brown rug in the middle of a stereotypical classroom. A map on the wall. A retractable white screen for presentations above the dusty green chalkboard since the world had not yet moved on to dry-erase boards. While it may seem odd to have a bunch of kids sitting Indian-style on a rug, there was a bit of order in the chaos. Across the rug were colored tape stripes which symbolized rows for us to sit in. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. At the time, I didn’t even realize that tape came in colors other than clear and duct. 3rd grade Shawn probably didn’t realize a lot of things, come to think of it.

The teacher also didn’t just throw us onto our colored tape benches in any which way either - we sat alphabetically starting from the front. Somehow, there was nobody in the class whose name began with the letter a so I was the first person on the front right corner of the rug. I sat on the blue stripe. Crystal, as it happened, sat directly behind me on the green. I do not know how we got started down the road to being boyfriend and girlfriend - or whatever you’d call two 3rd graders - but it was neat to be sitting so close to her.

During videos and other classroom activities that required the lights to be turned off, we sneakily held hands. Since she was right behind me, I’d just reach back with my right hand since the teacher’s desk was to our left and Crystal would put her hand in mine. She happily embraced my skinny, underfed fingers in her lightly tan digits. I’d rub my thumb across hers and, oddly enough, it’s still something I do today.

It’s funny to think about this and remember how much simpler things were then. No distractions or bullshit that we’ve all accumulated over the years of happiness and disappointment from our other relationships. To be honest, I don’t know how long any of this business with Crystal lasted. I do very vividly remember how it ended.

Sometime that semester in school, my mom and her boyfriend decided to move us out to Texas. He got a job there and my mom wasn’t about to let her meal ticket leave so we all had to move. Once I knew I was leaving, I also knew it was time to begin saying goodbye to everyone. I told my friends, my teachers. I began asking for everyone’s addresses so that we could write to each other and stay in touch. It’s always the best of intentions at this point but eventually we all forget and the letters come less often. Friend after friend, boy and girl, they all gave me their addresses in their terrible handwriting. Everyone except Crystal.

For reasons which I still do not understand, I never got her address. I have a vague memory of her sitting at a table across from me, silently watching me with her big brown eyes. Was she wondering why I wasn’t asking for her address? Wondering why I seemed to have been ignoring her?

In the end, I never got her address and once I’d moved I never saw or spoke to her again either. Was I scared, even then, to keep in touch because I was somehow acutely aware of the fact that nothing could come of it? That I didn’t see a point in it all? I was only 7 and I wasn’t going to be flying back to LA often. It’s weird to imagine that at such a young age I could have any concept of that kind of loss, but, given how my life has played out I certainly think it’s possible.

As with many of my relationships - personal, familial, and romantic - I just moved on and never gave it a second thought. It’s unfair of me to treat people this way and I feel that I’ve improved somewhat during the last half-decade of my life. It obviously still gnaws at some part of me given just how much I remember and that I took the time to write this all out for you.

Hopefully that little girl forgave me and I’m nothing more now than a faint, flickering light in her memory which she cannot quite explain exists and doesn’t associate with me. I’m quite comfortable with being forgotten.

Along with a glass of Bulleit and some story writing. #music #blues #bourbonstreet #bourbon #bulleit #writing

LA nights

The Santa Fe’s chose a perfect time
Cleaning the city
Purging my soul
Carrying with it the pain and heartache of loss
The lives
And love
Lost forever
Memories fading into shadow
Of this glass of bourbon

Something I wrote in 2006 that I just stumbled across while doing some editing…

Under this great sky, we stare at the same stars. Different time space. The same light offers us different hopes. 

Our thoughts pass by each other, whisper hello and move on. 

I wonder, will our paths cross again or am I left to wonder if you see what I do when you look up?