jacked in

Click

Bottlerocket — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 14:19:04 +0000

This commercial was too amazing not to post (though I know it’s been some time since I have). Be safe.

polaroid

Bottlerocket — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 00:23:34 +0000

out to the field

muted greens of an age gone by

fifty years or so

eyelids holding the picture

shaking it into view

sunlight forward

fast fading

a million tiny shadows

bowing their heads

she comes in last year’s blanket

tied back and curls

bare skin footfall

dark recesses of her arms

the infant night

and the exhaust of youth

trembling tires

gripped hands

scratched record radio waves

broken voices

bring the darkness

peeking from behind the mountain

door closes

glass surrounds

the submarines of discontent descend

until all is darkness

soft lights and gauges

blanket opens wide

bubbles gasp to the surface

Tape

Bottlerocket — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 02:41:18 +0000

When I was young my father pulled out his old reel-to-reel player from the attic. It was a purchase from his days in Vietnam and I would spin his old reels of Credence Clearwater Revival, Johnny Cash, The Rolling Stones, The Animals, Blood Sweat and Tears, etc. Most reel boxes were unlabeled but I put them on and received my education from an untitled class.

When my father passed away, I received the player and box of reels. The left speaker had gone out but everything else was in great condition. I sat in my shed one evening and played reels until the walls turned light blue, the red braided cord rug was under my feet, the large white headphones were strapped to my head and the reel box was placed on the chest of my jammies. The same sounds coming with pops and scratches played from orbiting satellites of otherworldly radio.

Last week I received more items from my mother. Ball glove, old toys and four new untitled reel boxes. I sat on them for a few days and was about to pitch the reels when I decided to glance in the top one. The other three were unmarked, but the top one made me sit down. A folded legal sheet of paper on top and my father’s handwriting started to make pieces of my story come together.

Apparently a generation of cassette mix tape makers was preceded by a small cult of mix reel makers. Perhaps it’s a gene and not an idea after all.

I can’t talk to my dad today, but I can listen to his heart.

Attendant

Bottlerocket — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 01:19:25 +0000

back in 2004 I wrote a blog as The Attendant of the Laundromatt. Stories from a fictitious laundromat in an unnamed city. I would write about the people who came into the laundromat and activities that went on around the street. I would always start the post with what music was currently playing. It was a great creative outlet. I experimented with several ideas and it really helped me write regularly. I’m thinking of expanding it into a small book. Rewriting, which I never do. Make it better and then, put it out there.

So, I’m going to post a few in the weeks to come.

This one was titled ‘Mermaid of La Cygne’ from July 1, 2005

Now playing:

Who Knows Where the Time Goes from the album “Unkown Live Recording” by Nina Simone

Today is a desert. Swirling boxes of water provide a mental oasis to those who stare at the circled windows. Each person imagining what it would be like to jump in; Mr. Epstein actually jumping in. Water all over the floor and a vibrating man scaring Mrs. Hargroves daughter, Kirsten. He stared too long and when the brain relaxes, the dementia takes over.

He grew up on a farm in Kansas. Married a girl and took her to La Cygne lake on their honeymoon. He wasn’t a swimmer so they sat on the edge of the water and just let their legs hang in. The next day he was hanging in mid-air over Europe; falling into a lake. The parachute dragging him down the same day his new wife drowned half a world away. His company, his brothers, there to pull him up and save him. Only Jesus to save his wife.

And now he was back. Sitting on a torrent of thrashing water waiting for his wife to sit next to him. His mind drowning.

Decade

Bottlerocket — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 00:36:31 +0000

So in the spirit of lists, my ‘no specific order’ film and music top tens.

Music

Kings of Leon – Only By the Night

U2 – All That You Can’t Leave Behind

Coldplay – Viva La Vida

Seabird – ’til We See the Shore

Arcade Fire – Funeral

My Morning Jacket – Z

Royksopp – Junior

Richard Ashcroft – Alone With Everybody

Ryan Adams – Gold

Ben Folds Five – Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner

Film

Almost Famous

There Will Be Blood

Lord of the Rings Trilogy

Gran Torino

The Departed

Memento

Royal Tennenbaums

Lost In Translation

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Amelie

I would also like to add ‘Fight Club’ as an Honorable Mention, since I saw it in 2000 and is definitely in the top three of all-time.

Propane

Bottlerocket — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 00:29:24 +0000

Conversation with a random person outside of a Harris Teeter waiting for a gas grill refill.

Spiderman 1. Spiderman 2. The Matrix. Stories about a man’s life. Movies and music. Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller. The Commodore’s ‘Brickhouse’. Songs about a man’s life. You think he gets compensated? You think that’s fair? Makin’ money off a man’s life? You’re taking a shower with your girlfriend. You’re naked in the shower. People filming you. Private life. Everybody watching it. You think that’s right?

“absolutely not.”

My ex wife’s a lawyer. You see that movie Hitchcock with Will Smith? Man sitting on a toilet in the bathroom. People filming him. That’s invasion of privacy. Spiderman 1. Spiderman 2. The Matrix. Stories about a man’s life. Other people making money. It ain’t right is it?

“No sir it’s not.”

Spiderman 1. Spiderman 2. That Matrix. Hah. Ain’t right.

“You have a good evening.”

Picks

Bottlerocket — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 14:16:49 +0000

Catatonia – Dazed, Beautiful and Bruised

Bell X1 – The Great Defector

The Airborne Toxic Event – Sometime Around Midnight

Yeah Yeah Yeah’s – Zero

Coldplay – Glass of Water

Royksopp – What Else Is There

I Am Kloot – Proof

Me Without You – Timothy Hay

Kids – MGMT

Sit Down By the Fire – The Veils

Bluejay – Bif Naked

Cage the Elephant – In One Ear

Sing

Bottlerocket — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 21:18:24 +0000

I’ve been singing too much lately to write. The poetry and words have been building up. The dam will break and flood this blog again soon.

PhD

Bottlerocket — Mon, 04 May 2009 03:09:28 +0000

I sat there in my ponytail and supergirl glasses watching my sister from a folded metal chair. Mirrors all around so I stared at the floor.

She glared at me then smiled at the new instruction from the wrinkled dancer. Two years of coaxing from her. And i relented. But just before the door opened I said I missed him.

Did I mention his name for no reason?

I was only three at the time. Maybe it was the hardwood floors.

My sister looks like a swan. My thighs bulge a little from the tights. But her boobs are too big. Surely the seasoned dancer will notice my flat chest. Enhancing my clean lines.

Maybe then I will glide onto the floor. And the mirrors will love me. But the glass on my face reflects louder than words. And my hands still hurt as she smacked the bag out of my hand for saying such things.

So I clutch them into a tightly balled fist.

Aaron McKinley said you could kick a girl in the crotch and would hurt as bad as if they had balls. I knew my eyes were puffy. But I had turned to the side anyway, enhancing my lines.

Left leg pushed forward slightly – the other tucked in. I had watched all the current dance films.

This was the cleanest line.

But the prune in the leotard kept gently guiding my sister as i removed ballet shoes and slipped into my Doc Martens.

Jean

Bottlerocket — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 02:37:26 +0000

She always climbed to the top before her father. Before the war. And when she was little he would stand at the narrow stairwell and call her back down in the double-decker bus heading from Oxford Street.

Dentist visits were no fun and when she came out puffy eyed and clutching her gloves, he knew it hadn’t gone well.

He would forgo the, “what’s the matter goose?” and only hold her hand and clasp it to his chest and wait for the arrival of the bus.

It was a twenty minute drive to the East End and when they arrived the eyes were clear. The hand again clasped to the chest and he could feel her pulse quicken through the thin wrist as the American leaned in the doorframe of the flat. Grandfather with his old world muscular stance and towel thrown over the shoulder refusing his entrance. And the hand slid out without the exiting kiss and they were gone to the dusk.

Lamplighters were approaching. Lovers clutching on the top of the double-decker bus. A father lights his pipe in the garden. A grandfather polishes a glass through the window of his son’s slowly breaking heart.

And the air raid siren screams. Planes sputter overhead. Schrapnel rains on tin roofs. Dishes can wait for another sunrise.