Bar Writings part 3 by Alan Berg

6/10/06  @ John Henry’s

Went to the Horsehead briefly for a shot of whisky.  Nobody there I knew so I checked out the artwork for five minutes and left.

I struggled w/ the “God” concept, again on my way over here.  It’s the math problem I can’t solve.  I don’t know if I’m trying harder to figure shit out and therefore, getting deeper and being faced w/ tougher concepts to understand or if I’m just getting more and more worn out and giving up easier.

Supposed to be some kick-ass metal band here tonight.  I hope they crush my nuts w/ guitar and serve my brain like cabbage w/ their vocals.  Seems to take a foot up my ass to move me much anymore.  I used to think getting older meant deterioration of the physical, but I’m now realizing it’s more insidious.  Age= less and less hope for those who grow older.  Loss of hope= deterioration, not the reverse.  It’s a powerful spell to defeat.  Some folks, they find what they were looking for and lose hope like you lose your tonsils.  No need to keep dreaming, man.  You get the woman, have the kids, good job, people like you…you make a deal w/ the bigger powers to stop hoping for better if they’ll let you live out 30 years or more in relative….

“In The Name of God” = Band (arrgh-metal)

“Sorry I’m a fucking fag” – says lead singer.  Claims that even if he doesn’t come from here, Eugene is the best show.  Apparently, we’re all on DVD here tonight, though I doubt very much the cameras are gunning for my table here in the back of society (and the bar).  Still, I paid only $3.

Where was I?  Obviously I’m not at peace, so my goal is to keep hoping.  The dark brother of hope that must be dealt with is: “dissatisfaction”.  People, all people, hate whining.  Whiners are universally seen as not only bad but justifiably killed in the dark alleys of the universe.  Unless there’s a tribal council, people w/ complaints in this country are viewed as the fuckers in check-out lines who write checks and ask what the date is from the next person in line.

Looking at the mosh-pit now.  I’m not there because I don’t have their energy nor enthusiasm for this sport anymore.  Normally, I’d discredit the worth of said attributes but really, I’m just jealous.  I used to care.  I used to want to be up in that crowd, jumpin’ up and down so bad.  I’d do it (despite my OCD qualities).  Now, from this balcony seating, I merely gaze w/ “old man impunity.”  But I’m not happy w/ this.

Aw, look at these stylish fuckers.  They rock like Iron Maiden during a  solo and they have the stage presence of a topless dancer after Robin Williams bombs.  Needless to say, I like them, but am too nervous to get into the pit and on camera.  If I wrote this 13 years ago, I would’ve smoked pot!  And I did!  Hooray for consistency.

There sometimes is a ghost who lingers nearby me.  I saw him tonight.  Thought about not mentioning it, but re-evaluated, thinking of posterity.  I’ve seen it before.  Always hangs in the shadows when I’m drinking.  Either I’m too drunk ) not the case yet) and wanting to see such or ghost is real and choosing best scenario not to get discovered by outsiders.

More on the Ghost:

Seems neutral for now.  Always corner of the eye thing.  I think there’s someone there, etc.  It is dark and there’s many shadows where I sit.  Could be non-ghost.  Could be shadows, yet seems to have personality…probably one I prescribe for it.  I don’t know, I’m just trying to be smart about this.

So the band doesn’t sound better than any garage in Eugene on a Thursday night.  Why do they get to air this concert on the internet nationwide?  There’s no stage presence (besides the usual black t-shirt-wearing rockers thing, minus any banter w/ the crowd).  I’m thinking they’re banking on the crowd to make this happen by announcing the whole “broadcasting” thing.

For the love of god, it’s not bad but not good.  It, meaning said band on stage, just like hard elements of rock put into a blender and poured out onto the John Henry’s stage, just like 96% of everyone else.  I don’t mind, in fact I condone, bands gettin’ songs together and showing their stuff, regardless.  The thing I hate about this band though, is that they did as I prescribed, yet think they’re unique and good enough to announce “this show is gonna be recorded.”  So was I, at the age of 4, by my parents.  We didn’t call the neighbors over for a CD release party.  We recorded my shit in secret and brought it to light, against my will, every time a new girl came into my life and visited my parents.  Oh well, self-esteem is the big prize.

The band is now done playing and all their friends are getting out of their seats and shaking hands.  I’ve  been here before.  I, too led a band into congratulations from my parents.  Just ask Steve.  Aw Steve…the reason I still drink.

It’s now 10 ’til 2.  I’ve got 11.00 dollars and a full beer.  There’s part of me trying to rebel.  So—– across the street when we finish.  The rebellion is due to the fact that I may engage in a little snuff this evening.  We’ll see.  If no people come out of the woodwork then it’s on.  Meaning: I get chew, call Tamra, get rejected, hate her, write about it, then forget my hatred.

There are people looking at me, but not that much.  A glance, usually.  There is a chemistry of wonder, but they all want to know why without approaching the stranger.

AND NOW  THE WRITER RESPONDS:

There’s a light in my face, to erase the desire to come back in.  But…what can I say, other than I must leave.  Still, I can hear everyone here.  The guy in the kitchen, the peeps at the bar.  They all talk individual talk and its like sucking the sweet flavor out of the Honeysuckle flower: High expectation, low yield.

Parking Meter

@ 2:50 am, called Tamra from pay phone, asked if I could walk over…she seemed pissed, though I did nothing wrong.  She said, “I’m tired of this relationship, Alan.”  Don’t let her forget this tomorrow, when she shows up at your door apologizing!  Chances are she’s finally being truthful.  Could’ve been I’m not happy w/ this relationship.

Or (at another parking meter @ 14th & Willamette).  Could be “I’m unhappy w/ this relationship”- but it really seemed like “unsatisfied”, bases on my faulty memory.

So that’s done for now.  Now I’m @ 15th-ish & Willamette and thinking the streets are almost like the bar: opportunity to BS w/ a cop or a passerby is keeping my interest.  I’ve done nothing wrong and I’m feeling very social yet!, I’m ok w/ going home w/ myself and being with said self.

What I wanted to remember was: this state of mind (siren in background just now).  Alan, its quiet now and you’re all alone on Willamette St.  This feels good.  Maybe cause you’re alone.  Maybe cause you’re finally reflecting when you normally wouldn’t.  This is not a place you should strive for (alone, buzzed, and stopped in the middle of relative* nowhere [relative meaning all is dark and quiet now cause its 3:15 am]), but you always want to distance yourself from this (and for good reason).  Just remember the good of this.

By Steve and Al

I

 

“You suck,” said the nurse.

 

“Yes…” the old man pondered a moment.  Finally he said, “I’m sorry, I can’t get it up.”

 

“I said suck, not fuck, you dirty bastard.  Now lay back and do as you’re told or I’ll forge my name on your will.”

 

“I see,” he sips his box-carton apple juice and spoons a mouthful of watery apple sauce.

 

“Thorazine!” he screams, “or, at least Morphine!”  He lays back on the stiff hospital bed and sighs heavily.

 

It took three minutes for nurse to get him to cum.  It’s a pointless story.  She went down on him after much feigned aggravation.  He always fell fast to sleep, so she took the wallet out of his coat this time.

 

 

II

 

Our favorite nurse, Janie, went home after another shitty night at work at 10:15 pm and stared at the stars through her deep Mexican brown eyes the entire walk home, thinking about how to properly raise her son.

 

“Properly raise son,” the words ricochet in her skull.  “I’m such a bad mother,” she thought.

 

It was a ritual.  A ritual always capped with a random fuck with Mr. Pajamas in the cancer ward.  The filthiness of it all felt so religious.

 

“Bad mother, bad mother,” they used to say back in Alvadore.

 

But the home grown friendliness of Alvadore was nowhere to be found in the city and had no use here.  So, she resorted to half-smiles and light cries in the shower as she tried to prepare herself for another uneasy day of self-doubting fast-food fry-serving in the middle of white Amerikkka’s holy war.

Spontaneous Poem by Alan Berg

Waiting in the lobby of unemployment
for my ride home because
I’m on crutches and can’t help but
stare from this blank table and chair
at this frumpy-gelatinous backside
of this lady who’s exploding
arm gestures reveal what must be
a previous addiction to meth.
One more month of fake job searching
and ankle healing
and a twinkle of empathy,
then I shall leave this woman behind me.

I hope you hate this spontaneous poem with all your heart

Love,

Alan

Bar Writings part 2 by Alan Berg

8/10/08  12:25am  @Head

Still looking for God in all the wrong places.  I’ve bee going out pretty regularly lately and will continue to do so until that gal sitting w/ her friends next table agrees to come home w/ me and teach manners.

Danzig is bellowing across the speakers here in the pool room.  Thought I saw Kim @ the bar for a moment when I got here.  It would make me a haunting ghost if it were true: her all dressed up and minding her own mortal business, me splattered w/ a sloppy long t-shirt, floppy unkempt hair and sunken eyes w/ a sad sappy story leaking from them every time I take a shot.

4:55 am @ Al’s

Still looking but finding Steve on the phone instead.  Apparently he’s going to work or getting ready for it or doing crank and lying about everything.  Point is, I’m back in that in between super and natural again but more calm than before.  Schooled some youngsters at pool this evening.  Felt good when this yahoo told me he’d rather play against a fuck “who knew what he was doing” thirty minutes before I whooped his ass and demanded an apology @ the end of game handshake.  You bitch!  Never underestimate a drunk Al!

Thing is, on the surface I’m fallible.  Step out of your way to insult me and I’m like a Karmic springboard to a spiked wall of irony.  Wait- I can only explain this will w/a  pouch of Grizzly chew-patch in my maw.  That MF cock of the walk pegged me and my washed-up-lookin’ ass as an easy buttfuck- which made me all the better.  Don’t get me wrong.  This unshaven 20-ish, “my gut is ok cause I’m still in my twenties”- pile o’ cocky college-dropout was clearly a better shot than I on what I imagine any normal drunk, pool-playing scenario would be, but the initial insult made all the difference.  What I want to tell these people is: don’t feed the bear or: I’ve already insulted myself enough this evening.  What you’re doing now just makes me the alpha-male I dread.  Wasn’t just at pool either.  I rode the high and whooped some ass at darts immediately after.  Started practicing darts, minding my own bar induced inebriation when some social A-holes thought they would ruin my lonely space and challenge me to a two on one.  Fuckin’ A can I play darts when I’m trashed and have nothing to lose but the job I need to work at in five hours.  After many victories I was given a ride home w/a transvestite acquaintance I met a month ago.  “What are you doing to the public?” he asked.  “Same thing they’re doing to me,”  I said, fuming w/ rum.

Ah shit. While being driven home by a guy  I’m sure isn’t going to rape me I had to drunkenly wonder if my perceived safety w/an admittedly gay cross-dresser wasn’t weird enough to make me stop wanting to achieve that volume of irony I needed to rest.  It wasn’t.  So I made him stop at Circle K for some beer.

Look, I know it’s not enough.  It’s never going to be enough.  No amount of bottle rockets shot off my porch at 3am or naked jogs around the block to slow the caffeine or fist fights w/ the neighbor house’s flower garden is going to make me something I’m not.  Fact of the matter is that I’m not punk and I’m never going to like Sonic Youth even if I believe they do have something cryptic to sell.  I can appreciate counter culture only intellectually.  I have no inspiration to break windows I don’t own and have no urge to crap anywhere but my own kitchen sink.  I want more than my life has to offer but G.G. Allen isn’t strong enough in my veins, I find myself saying when I take phone orders for pizza.  When you yank the snake straight, I still want order to win that day.  I like to rebel, sure.  But can I hit a cop in the face?  No.  Not w/ out being guaranteed immunity.

I’m not morally opposed to dissension.  In fact, I applaud it if I think it has something to do w/ a greater morality.  You know, the whole: “every gov. I’ve lived under sucks balls, let’s make it suck less balls.”  But what balls do I want it to suck?  That’s it!  I want government to suck my balls!  And why not?  My balls are delicious.  I know.  My balls are pure of heart and won’t let you down.  There’s no remorse to sucking my balls.  Just ask that lesbian I slept w/.  We’d been friends for seven years and honestly, she’d had me believe at long last that I’d never get her near them untill one night, when crashed on my couch, she asked if she could suck on my balls.  “Salty but delicious,” she said.

Point is, I think we’re all going about our business the wrong way.  Here I am trying to be something I’m not, yet know not what I need to be.  And all you fucks are being what you ought not, thinking– well not thinking what you ought to be.  I don’t think G.G. Allen figured himself out before he died.  Not that I would’ve taken back all the riot if I were him but w/out self-knowledge, he really just ended up a fly on a windscreen.  I’d rather be a praying mantis w/ a squid in my claws, before I get mooshed.– Hold on, that’s still the same.  I’d rather eat the squid, toothpick pieces from my mandibles and avoid the mini-van, only to create world peace before dying of heart failure at the age of six hundred and five.  Amen.

But I’ve three hours before work, there’s no riot or squid and not much to show for my written gusto.  I didn’t laid by insect or cross-dresser and I’m not calling in sick.  Still want to say love is the answer but being home, alone and naked, and drunk and a bit high from chew- I’d have to say…this earth we live in is hell.  The only way out is good music and patience for all the fucks that aren’t even trying.  Seems like the best break from this prison is a group one.  Maybe “I Live to be Hated” can play while we jump the guards.  Fuck it, G.G. Allen was a martyr.