Raging Bird
Well-known member
- Joined
- Apr 10, 2007
- Messages
- 608
- Reaction score
- 565
- Location
- New Orleans
- Website
- www.ragingbirdofyouth.tumblr.com
I'm writing a zine, but most likely none of you will ever see it, so here is part 1 of the travel story section. I don't like it, but maybe you will:
I took a trash train from Richmond to Baltimore, where we stopped and hid in an abandoned house while the police searched every car for us. Weeks later, packed like 15 sardines in the touring van of an itinerant circus, a girl told a story from Virginia. Driving through the snowstorm last year, she got out of the van to find an inch of multicolored crust on the door, front to back. She asked around and her friend had thrown up out of window, and it froze to the side, like a thought bubble from the passenger seat. "It was almost beautiful", she said, "but too disgusting to appreciate".
Those are the words to describe the ride north. Cutting through the wilderness, over the rivers and through the tunnels at 60mph. Cutting through the heat, under the sun, in a mile of dumpsters, full of medical waste and rotting dog carcasses. Almost beautiful, but way to disgusting to appreciate.
In Baltimore, I stuck my thumb out for 5 minutes before a nepalese couple pulled over and offered a ride to Boston. I've always liked the way married couples can be quiet and unaffectionate, but you can still tell they have an unspoken bond stronger than all the petnames and joking around. They ate curry in the front seat and pumped Bhutanese smooth jazz, and when they laughed, they'd say "lo lo lo" instead of "ha ha ha". The man told stories in nepali, and forgot I only spoke English. When he finished one, he'd lean back over the seat and say something like, "We thought it would never end! lo lo lo lo lo!"
In Boston, I had 2 pairs of shoes, each of which would batter and mutilate my feet in its own unique way during the 10 mile trails of tears that I go through every day. I switched pairs daily. In Boston, it rained for 4 days straight and nothing happened, so I looked for places I recognized from Modern Lovers songs. One night, I sat on Ryan's couch repeating the phrase, "Tomorrow, I will walk around until something cool happens" in my head until I passed out.
The next day, I walked from Mission Hill, through Jamaica Plain, and back to Cambridge before turning the corner adn seeing a gigantic purple fence covered with phrases like "Infinite Structure of the Cosmic Moose" and "Support Free Spreech". I didn't even think before running up to knock on the door.
I spend a lot of time searching for wingnuts and nutcases to hang out with, and the guy who came out the door was still one of the craziest people I have ever seen. If Gandalf wore those glasses with the hologram eyes all the time, he'd approach the appearance of the cosmic mooseman, the proprietor of Boston's Meta-land. Before I introduced myself, he pulled out 2 items from behind the door, a photo album made of tree bark and a plaque immortalizing a signed letter.
The photo album was there to document his 12 year legal battle with MIT. The School tried to build classrooms on his block and he sued, even after everyone else moved out without complaining. 12 years later, the case adjourned, he paid Boston $1 to buy the house, and MIT had to spent $100,000 to have the 3 story Victorian moved down the street on a gigantic truck bed. Clearly, I was dealing with a genius.
The letter read, "This is John Doe, yes, THE John Doe, winner of the December 16th, 2005 powerball lottery for $51 million dollars. The first thing I did with my winnings was sign up for this man's course in Electromagnetic Martial Arts, and it was literally the best thing I have ever done. Life is too short not to take this class, and there is nothing better you can do for yourself than going under his tutelage."
The old man had pioneered Electro-Magnetic Martial Arts, exploring the possibility of mainting a positive energy field to ward off potential harm. He told me you can't be hurt by anything you're expecting, and handed me a list of every bad thing that could befall an innocent man, so I could look them over and be prepared. It started off with predictable standards like "Mugging", "Lost Job", or "Sexual Assault", but he quickly ran out of ideas and moved on to stuff like "Buried Nuclear Devices Activated From Distance" and "Aliens Masquerading As Friends While Working To Turn Allies Against Us".
We talked for a long time and he gave me the kind of advice that psychics give, "I can tell you're capable of a lot, and you're afraid of dying without accomplishing anything. You just need that fear to outweight your natural disorganization - you need to channel your energy". It could apply to anyone, but I think everyone should hear that, so I thanked him and said I'd consider taking his $400 course.
Paul McCartney played the fenway, ten thousand drunks spilled out on to the streets, and I was there to absorb all their change with a sign that said "Too Ugly To Prostitute". The insults were better than the compliments; it was funny to hear Boston accents respond, "HA! Ya got that right, ya fuckin' homo!!!" and only vaguely encouraging to hear dozens of middle aged women insist , "Don't saw that sweetie, you'd make a GREAT prostitute!"
I went back to Danielle's house and we watched the Party Monster Documentary twice. Travelers are the Club Kids of the New Depression, they fed us television and video games and acted surprised when real life wasn't enough. Real life isn't enough, we were raised in a mediated reality and can't live in a normal one. Real life should be noise, fury, and stimulation; a hallucinogenic amalgamation of cartoons, music videos, and sound bytes of human intensity. Real Life should be divided into missions and objectives, sneaking past railcops to the next level - Chicago, Portland, New Orleans. "You found the scanner - use this to intercept transmissions from the rail office and avoid the bull!" We're spitting back what they taught us, and systematically building a life out of it.
The farmers are the real rebels, but I'm too far gone for that by now. I lasted 3 days in a yurt in rural Maine, harvesting garlic without running water or electricity, before running away with the circus to Bar Harbor. Someday, I'll buy a dictionary from the 13th Century, just to see how they defined "fun". Time changes everything, and it never stops.
The circus taught me a few notes on accordian, and how to hammer 4 inch nails into my nasal cavity, and all 10 of them were good people. Jake ate glass, barked at everyone on stage, and whispered everything in conversation. Zack told a hundred stories about throwing up, but he always called it "ralphing" and they all ended with "and...that's it." Megan dumpstered ice cream for everyone 3 or 4 times a day, somehow. The loudest circus members played the minor roles, and the mutes were the ones who juggled machetes and unicycles, or stripped while dancing with a flaming hula hoop.
The Van broke down and we sat at a gas station for a day before some gangster with a cigar came up and told us to ride with the tow truck to Karl's car works, he was doing his good deed for the day. We told Karl Joe sent us, and he replaced our starter and said "Don't worry, it's been taken care of". A girl on the street approached me to ask if I wanted any money, I looked hungry, and another gave me a new cell phone when mine didn't get reception any more. Everything is changing all at once, and slowly, surely, steadily, I'm beginning to believe in the power of electromagnetic martial arts...
I took a trash train from Richmond to Baltimore, where we stopped and hid in an abandoned house while the police searched every car for us. Weeks later, packed like 15 sardines in the touring van of an itinerant circus, a girl told a story from Virginia. Driving through the snowstorm last year, she got out of the van to find an inch of multicolored crust on the door, front to back. She asked around and her friend had thrown up out of window, and it froze to the side, like a thought bubble from the passenger seat. "It was almost beautiful", she said, "but too disgusting to appreciate".
Those are the words to describe the ride north. Cutting through the wilderness, over the rivers and through the tunnels at 60mph. Cutting through the heat, under the sun, in a mile of dumpsters, full of medical waste and rotting dog carcasses. Almost beautiful, but way to disgusting to appreciate.
In Baltimore, I stuck my thumb out for 5 minutes before a nepalese couple pulled over and offered a ride to Boston. I've always liked the way married couples can be quiet and unaffectionate, but you can still tell they have an unspoken bond stronger than all the petnames and joking around. They ate curry in the front seat and pumped Bhutanese smooth jazz, and when they laughed, they'd say "lo lo lo" instead of "ha ha ha". The man told stories in nepali, and forgot I only spoke English. When he finished one, he'd lean back over the seat and say something like, "We thought it would never end! lo lo lo lo lo!"
In Boston, I had 2 pairs of shoes, each of which would batter and mutilate my feet in its own unique way during the 10 mile trails of tears that I go through every day. I switched pairs daily. In Boston, it rained for 4 days straight and nothing happened, so I looked for places I recognized from Modern Lovers songs. One night, I sat on Ryan's couch repeating the phrase, "Tomorrow, I will walk around until something cool happens" in my head until I passed out.
The next day, I walked from Mission Hill, through Jamaica Plain, and back to Cambridge before turning the corner adn seeing a gigantic purple fence covered with phrases like "Infinite Structure of the Cosmic Moose" and "Support Free Spreech". I didn't even think before running up to knock on the door.
I spend a lot of time searching for wingnuts and nutcases to hang out with, and the guy who came out the door was still one of the craziest people I have ever seen. If Gandalf wore those glasses with the hologram eyes all the time, he'd approach the appearance of the cosmic mooseman, the proprietor of Boston's Meta-land. Before I introduced myself, he pulled out 2 items from behind the door, a photo album made of tree bark and a plaque immortalizing a signed letter.
The photo album was there to document his 12 year legal battle with MIT. The School tried to build classrooms on his block and he sued, even after everyone else moved out without complaining. 12 years later, the case adjourned, he paid Boston $1 to buy the house, and MIT had to spent $100,000 to have the 3 story Victorian moved down the street on a gigantic truck bed. Clearly, I was dealing with a genius.
The letter read, "This is John Doe, yes, THE John Doe, winner of the December 16th, 2005 powerball lottery for $51 million dollars. The first thing I did with my winnings was sign up for this man's course in Electromagnetic Martial Arts, and it was literally the best thing I have ever done. Life is too short not to take this class, and there is nothing better you can do for yourself than going under his tutelage."
The old man had pioneered Electro-Magnetic Martial Arts, exploring the possibility of mainting a positive energy field to ward off potential harm. He told me you can't be hurt by anything you're expecting, and handed me a list of every bad thing that could befall an innocent man, so I could look them over and be prepared. It started off with predictable standards like "Mugging", "Lost Job", or "Sexual Assault", but he quickly ran out of ideas and moved on to stuff like "Buried Nuclear Devices Activated From Distance" and "Aliens Masquerading As Friends While Working To Turn Allies Against Us".
We talked for a long time and he gave me the kind of advice that psychics give, "I can tell you're capable of a lot, and you're afraid of dying without accomplishing anything. You just need that fear to outweight your natural disorganization - you need to channel your energy". It could apply to anyone, but I think everyone should hear that, so I thanked him and said I'd consider taking his $400 course.
Paul McCartney played the fenway, ten thousand drunks spilled out on to the streets, and I was there to absorb all their change with a sign that said "Too Ugly To Prostitute". The insults were better than the compliments; it was funny to hear Boston accents respond, "HA! Ya got that right, ya fuckin' homo!!!" and only vaguely encouraging to hear dozens of middle aged women insist , "Don't saw that sweetie, you'd make a GREAT prostitute!"
I went back to Danielle's house and we watched the Party Monster Documentary twice. Travelers are the Club Kids of the New Depression, they fed us television and video games and acted surprised when real life wasn't enough. Real life isn't enough, we were raised in a mediated reality and can't live in a normal one. Real life should be noise, fury, and stimulation; a hallucinogenic amalgamation of cartoons, music videos, and sound bytes of human intensity. Real Life should be divided into missions and objectives, sneaking past railcops to the next level - Chicago, Portland, New Orleans. "You found the scanner - use this to intercept transmissions from the rail office and avoid the bull!" We're spitting back what they taught us, and systematically building a life out of it.
The farmers are the real rebels, but I'm too far gone for that by now. I lasted 3 days in a yurt in rural Maine, harvesting garlic without running water or electricity, before running away with the circus to Bar Harbor. Someday, I'll buy a dictionary from the 13th Century, just to see how they defined "fun". Time changes everything, and it never stops.
The circus taught me a few notes on accordian, and how to hammer 4 inch nails into my nasal cavity, and all 10 of them were good people. Jake ate glass, barked at everyone on stage, and whispered everything in conversation. Zack told a hundred stories about throwing up, but he always called it "ralphing" and they all ended with "and...that's it." Megan dumpstered ice cream for everyone 3 or 4 times a day, somehow. The loudest circus members played the minor roles, and the mutes were the ones who juggled machetes and unicycles, or stripped while dancing with a flaming hula hoop.
The Van broke down and we sat at a gas station for a day before some gangster with a cigar came up and told us to ride with the tow truck to Karl's car works, he was doing his good deed for the day. We told Karl Joe sent us, and he replaced our starter and said "Don't worry, it's been taken care of". A girl on the street approached me to ask if I wanted any money, I looked hungry, and another gave me a new cell phone when mine didn't get reception any more. Everything is changing all at once, and slowly, surely, steadily, I'm beginning to believe in the power of electromagnetic martial arts...
