Altar Eagle! 11.10.09 @ Ronny's in Logan Square, Chicago.

"I wish we had a gun. We all did"
-Punk rock? Pop punk to be specific or so they say. It would be pop if the singer was in tune and had the ability to add syllables together with vowels to create discernible words, then adding these words together making simple phrases.

"We have a long pretty one for our last song."
-Pretty drunk girl next to me closes her eyes and bobs her head in musical bliss; phone dropping, phone dropping, phone dropping. She falls into me then into the next person and somehow on top of the person behind me. Twenty kids in various shades of black and gray with band decals on sweatshirts swearing bleeding heart allegiances and alliances. We are at war. Bobbing like roosters, shaking like snakes. Cure the shakes with PBR.

-So what if they play the wrong chords? So what if the singer is undeniably incomprehensible and flat? So what if he's drunk? This is punk. Sweat, blood, catchy riffs, twenty kids in a room jumping around like a mess of lambs expelling youthful energy in a mad fit, the distant but powerful scent of feces and urine, speedy drums and joyous corrals to the crowd. The girls wear tight black jeans or short shorts with black nylon stockings. The boys look like sewer dwellers. The kids are cute. The kids are fun. Someone needs an adult.

"We got time for one more song Johnny?"
"As long as it ain't eight minutes."

-There's one girl all the boys want. She's my friend. She kisses me when she's drunk. I like her when she's sober. Ronny's in Logan Square. I'll see this band again.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Altar-Eagle/97503502438
(there are more than one altar eagle)

Hold Now, Sirrah.

I want to meet you when we're pouring
I want to meet you when we're fighting to be broken and born again
You've got some cuts
We can still celebrate binary love
I want to meet you when we're starving and young
Dumb and dying at the bank
I want to know your family tree
They were once like us
They were young
They were scared
They were scarred
I've been shot up
We can still celebrate binary love
Your body is a start
Your heart is a home
In your eyes I.. I see god
So many pouring wounds laid out before us
Fearlessly in love
Fearfully in love
Fearlessly in love
Fearfully in love on broken ground

We will we can celebrate
We will can we celebrate binary love
We can still celebrate
Fearfully in love
Fearlessly in love
Fearfully in love
Fearlessly

Cayla mentioned a morning burger

NO SLEEEP!

None.

What so ever.

Six a.m.

Fine. I'll run. It's been two f'ing weeks. Sorry I took so long, legs.

One mile is hard? Damn. Square one.

No sleep. None.

Meditation and the Broken Social Scene poster above turtle's tank.

.
.
.
.
.
She unbuttoned my shirt.
She was drunk.
We’d been drinking red wine for hours.
She put on just about every dress she owned for me to swoon to.
Clumsily, with one hand, she moved down to the last button.

“Brrrup- I’m sorry, how rude of me.” My belly said. She laughed. We were on the couch in the dining room in her parents’ house. They were out on the boat. She was moving to New York City in the morning. I was terrified. I thought… maybe it’s your fault, belly. Maybe it’s your fault she's leaving us. Why must you be so huge some days?
“Fuck you, I’m here to stay.” He said. “And I get gassy sometimes. I like pizza.”
Yes belly, but I like carrots and hummus! Black beans and rice!
“I like beer.” Said my belly.
It was just about that moment when she began fussing with my undershirt. She slipped her hand up my shirt and started caressing the soft hairs of my belly.
“She’s touching us! She’s touching us!” Belly proclaimed from mountain top.

Sleep was soon upon us. Belly and I haven't spoke since. He's upset that I'm taken up Pilates.

Let it bleed.

It was two miles. Chug chuck chuck chug. The rain was pounding on my back like little fists. Dirt bouncing. Spreading. Across my legs, my chest, my face. Drenched in sweat and water from head to toe. Thunder in the distance. Trees hanging low and heavy as Chicago takes a bath.

Another runner. A few miles into his own. Pain on his face. We nod.

The further I go the harder the fall. Wet and pounding. Heaving chest.

Is this why I am who I am? From one day of trauma? From many? Is it climbing trees with my brother in the summer where we would disappear from the world to catch toads by the pond? Is it softball games with the fire department, eating hot dogs in the bleachers with mom cheering for dad when he's up to bat? Is it the first taste of true love in high school with that cute curly haired girl from the other side of the tracks; and the subsequent horrifying breakup over something at the time significant but now lost?

The path soaks. Chug chuck chuck chug. Sweat, rain, thunder. The girl on the back of the mind. Bills, cleaning, school loans, Spanish class, twenty eight years and then some, television, laundry, my body, NY, Chicago, love, lunch, grocery shopping, adopting a dog. What kind of dog? How big? What kind of training? What kind of schedule? Does she sleep in my bed or do I make her sleep on the floor? Big dog? Little dog? Will she get along with Kelly's cat named Nermal? Kelly. I can't wait for you to move in. Show Thursday. Promotion. Rehearsal. Memorize that Smiths song. Don't talk to the girl. Move on. Be a man. Get in shape. Be healthy. Eat right. Hang out with Ellie. Drink light beer. Sell your recorder. Sell your camera. Sell everything. Pay off the credit cards. Make sure you have rent. Fix your guitar. Work on your screenplay. Eat lunch. Veggie burger? Veggie burger.

Sprint this last quarter mile. You like to go fast.

Pain. Elation. Satisfaction. Heart pounding. Soaked. Sweat. Rain. Thunder. Catch your breath. Catch your breath.

Catch your breath.

Emotional Sobriety Day Four.

I was chasing the dragon there. The lady dragon.

-Her teeth are sharp but her tongue is sweet. She likes you when she likes herself. Her skin is soft and her eyes are sirens. Her heart is a guillotine door.-

God. Went to the pound on Monday. It was heartbreaking. There were so many dogs. Puzzle wasn't there. On the way out I lost it and started balling in front of everyone. Had to get back to the job (street casting with Jane Brody). Three hours later, Starbuck's Spinach and Feta Wrap is a must.

The barista.. is.. Cute.

Boy: "Hello" (You're cute).
Girl: "Hi there" (So are you). I'm in the market for a sandwich (Jesus, I like your eyes), Know any good ones (Do you have a boyfriend?).

Girl: "The spinach feta wrap is fantastic" (What boyfriend?)
Boy: "Perfect" (I like you)
Girl: Is this for here or to go? (I like you too!)
Boy: Oh, it's to go (I'm quite the catch)
Girl: That's 3.57 (Take off your clothes)
-Boy hands girl debit card (Come home with me?)
Girl swipes card, bats eyes (I'm off at ten)

Boy waits at the end of the counter watching girl. Girl smiles at boy while serving next customer, trips over words.

Girl gives boy sandwich: "There you go!" (You better come back and ask me out.)

Boy: Thank you (I will)

Girl swoons, boy swoons.

An hour later we wrap for the day. I go back and introduce myself. We're smiling, ignoring customers and employees... they watch the dance.
I get nervous all sudden like and instead of asking her for her number, I just invite her to our next show. She says "So you're a musician." By the look in her eye this information was a serious deal breaker due to a previous relationship with a musician that went horribly wrong. "I have to look you up, Jon"

She smiled and I left.

Point: I forgot my sexy powers. Nice to use them again. Regardless of fumble.

Thank you for your story Sue.

Growling through your teeth at the talented young actor across the table with the glass of red wine and killer sunglasses

I make ridiculous comedies and 70's cop show spoofs in my spare time.

Man oh man I wanted to be a filmmaker.
Holy hot shit I wanted to be a musician.
Aw man I couldn't take my eyes off of being a passionate man.
A life in a big city where artistic types could swoon over each other; and make it.
Wished for a puppy.
Wished for a camera.
Wished for sexual exploration.
Passionate love.
Pop music.
Leggy brunettes in flowery dresses with smarts that could kill.
Fancy restaurants.
Dive bars and corner diners.
Just to watch you walk.
The way you held my hand at the theater, in the dark, in love.
Oh God, I needed it.

When I was a younger man this seemed so far away and ultimately impossible- these thoughts unbearable. Heartbreaking. Defeating.

I read a passage in a book called 'House of Leaves'. It was about two men. One was content, the other was restless. The contented man enjoyed sitting on the porch smoking reefer and petting his dog; and would be happy doing only this for the rest of his life. In his younger years, the restless man could not figure out why he was never happy. He thought happiness was a goal. To combat his idle hands he took up photography, carpentry, and writing. He filled his life with activities that suited his creative nature. Then he realized he is not living to reach a goal. He is living for the process!

The contented man lives to be. The restless man lives to become.

When the heart has broken, it will heal.