1. |
War (Live)
06:02
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And the phone is ringing. Perfect timing. Almost too perfect.
Hold on. It's not for me.
This is just the beginning. If I can find it. If we can find it. Found it.
"Hello?"
And it's not for me.
I take a message for Jocelynn. Jocelynn was my mate. I don't know how much I believe in mates. I believe we're roommates.
I feel like a District Attorney trying to tag a levy before it breaks.
d.a. levy (1942-1968).
And the door opens. It's Jocelynn. Perfect timing.
Whoa. I have to find my pants. Must stay clothed. I'm half-clothed. I pay half the rent.
We have an agreement.
And the first time we met in the Valley she was wearing James Douglas Morrison pants and I asked her to dance. She laughed and we listened to The Verve. She was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with snaps. She still has it. That's when I found out she's from Stamford, Connecticut.
Stamford, Connecticut. So?
The place I was born. Cut.
"Hi."
And she's wearing a polo shirt embroidered with the logo of the emergency response company she works for, black slacks, boots. Sunglasses. Her hair is up.
She seems to have groceries.
"Hi," I say. "How was your day?"
"There's gonna be a new policy around here," she says. "I'm serious about this."
"What is it?"
"No more tap water."
"What?"
"No more tap water. There's been an anthrax scare at a federal building downtown. Yeah, they found a vial containing the anthrax virus in an air conditioning unit."
"When was this?"
"A few days ago."
"Hmm...I didn't hear about that on the news."
"Did you know that one vial of anthrax dumped into the public water supply could kill one hundred thousand to three hundred thousand people?"
"No, I didn't."
"From now on, we use this--"
She takes a plastic jug from the bag.
"Bottled water? Honey, do you know how expensive that could get?"
"O'Grady, would you rather spend a few extra dollars a week or lose your life because some lunatic drops anthrax into the public water supply?"
"Well, now that you put it that way."
"And when you take a shower, don't open your mouth. Okay?"
"Hold on. What about the Brita water purifier I just got a few months ago? It's already saved me--"
"We can't use it."
"What?"
"We can't use it."
I look at the TV. I press mute and the sound comes back on. The news.
War.
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2. |
Los Angeles (Live)
05:30
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And it doesn't seem to make any sense. Los Angeles. Los Angeles...
L.A.
Racing, braking, being stuck in traffic, laughing. Impatient.
I've been settling into unsettlement these days. Shyness is just social irresponsibility, my friends. Talking to myself again. Most music is made to be lost. I keep missin' movies and missin' readings, buyin' shirts at the gym. The Fila jersies with the short sleeves.
I keep sellin' books and tradin' in CDs to buy groceries. Henry Miller for macaroni and cheese. The Dostoevsky and selected Bukowski for lunch meat. My Sonic Youth discography for meatless patties.
Settling into unsettlement was never any uneasier.
Los Angeles?
I gag every time I brush my teeth.
I wipe my mouth and break down on the love seat.
I need money. I need to eat.
I need to go through my CDs.
Again.
But I can't get up.
I can't get up.
Some animals have diseases that may be communicable to humans. For more information I can write to the address on the screen. I look for a pen. I can't find one. Someone screams from somewhere inside the complex. I mute the TV. Must have hit the wrong button. What is this? A herd of sheep? Steer? Silence. Nothing. I press up the volume. A little louder. Something about behemoths of the deep sea is up next. On PBS. I hope we still have that clam chowder. I can fix a bowl of that clam chowder. But I know we're out of milk.
Forget it, I'll add water.
But I can't get up.
I can't get up.
Sirens.
I get up. I can fix it. You can fix what?
I can't fix it. You can't fix what?
It was Chef Schubert, I believe, who said people aren't hungry, they're starving.
I'm not hungry. Yeah, you're starving.
If I wasn't so dehydrated, I'd be drooling.
I look into the kitchen sink like it's some stupid movie.
And I don't believe in Fate.*
Fate is for people on first dates. It's for amateur astrologers and Tarot Card readers who carry pepper spray in their dreams. You know what I mean? It's for Sunday school teachers, lake draggers at their leisure, and your mom in a souvenir t-shirt.
Ooh, that had to hurt. Let it blurt.
The difference between Lester Bangs and Richard Meltzer is like the difference between Mad and Cracked magazines.
And I like the half-burned-out PSYCHIC sign on Reseda that says CHIC (PSYCHIC, "PSY" is burned out, it says CHIC) and the one in the window that says FOR LEASE.
WORLD PEACE--
another one says
--CANNOT EXIST
IF EVERYONE IS
A TERRORIST
Terrorism is also a form of communication.
One at the head shop on Lankershim says,
FINALLY!
EYE DROPS
THAT ACTUALLY
WORK!
There's one that says,
DO NOT WALK DOGS
ON MORTUARY PROPERTY
You can see what they mean.
GOD BLESS AMERICA
DETAILS INSIDE
Where was I?
Los Angeles.
___
* Ash Street's mic cut out on the word "Fate."
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3. |
Drum Machines (Live)
06:30
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Los Angeles...
L.A.
I wish there was a radio station that just played jDub beats.
I wish there was a radio station that just played drum machines.
I wish there was a radio station that just played drum machines. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Eureka! Eureka. I just thought of something. I seem to have just thought of something. It's like a four-panel comic...
In the first frame one guy says to another guy, "Who's your drummer?"
And in the second frame it's just a close-up of the other guy and he says, "Electricity. He goes by electricity."
In the third frame the first guy says to the other guy, "Where's he live?"
And in the last frame is another close-up of the second guy and he says, "In a hole in the wall."
And he's looking at the reader.
Whoa. I'm not paying attention.
I'm swervedriving. I feel like crying. It's raining.
I exit the freeway and pull into a Krispy Kreme.
And I drive up to the window.
And I find my lucky two-dollar bill that I got in tips when I got on the mike at open mike and didn't care if I messed up. And I didn't mess up. A guy in a red, white, and blue tracksuit said I tore shit up. I'm not making this up. And I unwedge a nickel from the dash for the difference.
"Two-oh-five out of two-oh-five. Here's your three glazed originals and one extra one just for coming to Krispy Kreme! Have a nice night, sir!"
I drive off.
And I wish there was a radio station that just played drum machines. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
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4. |
Alarm (Live)
02:37
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Alarm. Alright. I shut it off and press up against Jocelynn. She's murmuring and slurring words. I can't understand her. She's not wearing a shirt. I'm excited. I have to get up.
I get up.
I'm at a point in my life where boxers don't work. Work pants don't work. Socks don't work. And shirts I have don't work. And belts that used to work don't work. Tighten it up.
I need to work. I need a job.
It's too early for news.
There's a documentary on public broadcasting about a famous American poet from the '60s. I sit down on the couch. I think he's from Massachusetts. He has white hair and black glasses. He knew Jackie Onassis. And he must have written a poem about Kennedy and one about snow falling on the Sahara Desert in Northern Africa. Robert Lowell?
The Sahara Desert is the size of the entire United States.
I can't eat anything.
I brush my teeth, gag, rinse my mouth with the mountain spring water, spit.
And I break down on the love seat. No coffee?
And I'm not sure how much time goes by. I see sunlight. I seem to see sunlight. And I get up. I turn off the TV and I pick a CD for the drive, and I leave.
Above, by Mad Season.
Mad Season.
The coats don't work. And I need another coat. Too late. Mad Season.
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5. |
Anthrax (Live)
01:34
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And a criminal investigation begins after a third person in Florida is exposed to anthrax.
That is the time frame for this.
And the setting is San Fernando Valley, California. A suburb of Los Angeles.
And the narrator's new thing is not knowing what day it is.
The drugs don't work. And the pubs don't work. And the moonlight drives don't work. And the books don't work. And the movies don't work. I said books before movies because usually books precede movies. The records that used to work don't work.
And he doesn't work. The narrator.
He's at a point in his life where he doesn't know whether he should get a three-month trial subscription to The Christian Science Monitor or twelve issues of Leg Show and a calendar.
He keeps moving. Moving. Moving?
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6. |
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And my new thing is getting off work and going straight to work. I park behind the coffee house.
And Anthony is standing two doors to the east. You can't miss him. He's checking his reflection in the back window of the closed Italian subs shop. Big Anthony.
He's not a bum, he's a tattoo artist from New York.
He's my boss. Second boss.
And my boss has this thing where he says, "Cut to a commercial." No one knows why he says it. No one asks.
And he seems to be shaving his head with a disposable razor and some cream. And he has a towel draped about his neck. And he sees me getting out of my car.
"O'GRADY!" he calls out. "O'GRADY!"
And I get to my feet.
"WE GOT A NEW COFFEE MACHINE! AND A NEW CD PLAYER! PUT THE OLD ONES BACK IN THE OFFICE!"
"Do we have any water?"
"THERE'S SODAS, WATER, EVERYTHING! YOU'LL SEE IT ALL IN THERE ON THE COUNTER! I'LL BE OUT HERE!"
"Okay."
"CUT TO A COMMERCIAL!"
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7. |
Brautigan (Live)
06:57
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Lupert. That’s the regular host’s name. Rick Lupert. It was Rick Lupert, I believe, who said this interview is over when I interviewed him in 1999 for a poetry review in Kansas.
We weren’t in Kansas, the poetry review was in Kansas.
“This interview is over!” he said in reply to the first question.
It was a pretty good interview.
He has a web site.
I know Rick likes the poet and novelist Richard Brautigan.
Brautigan.
It’s been said that when the ‘60s ended, Brautigan was the baby thrown out with the bath water. Metaphorically speaking, I asked Rick, what babies did (does) he think would (will) be thrown out with which bath waters when the ‘90s were (are) over?
He laughed.
He didn’t (doesn’t) know. He had (has) no idea what things were (are) going to be underappreciated or thrown out with the bath water. His guess was (is) that people were (are) going to get more technologically interested.
We were (are) going to see this technology going faster and faster, he said. At least he hoped (hopes) so because it interested (interests) him and he would love (loves) to live in the future and live forever so he can see what the future was (is) going to be like. At least get a high-speed Internet connection sometime soon, he added.
I put out my smoke. Break’s over. Gotta get back to work. So I can go home. So I can go to bed. So I go back in.
I turn on the P.A. system.
I go up to the mic.
“Check.”
“Don’t do that!” the guy with the framelesses calls out. I can’t see him but I can hear him.
“Check.”
“Don’t do that!”
“Your mom. Can I do that?”
I see him hold up a finger.
“Check.”
It’s working.
I begin.
“Welcome to Row-Row-Row Your Boat Coffee House. Glad you could all make it. Don’t shake it, bump it, sniff it. Forget it. I’ll be your host tonight and the guy fidgeting behind the counter. Simultaneously.”
“Hi Mick!”
“And I might even sign up to read.”
“Yay!”
“Or recite. Freestyle. You never know."
“I signed up while you were outside!”
I look at him. I try to look at him.
“That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s only two of us.”
As if on cue a couple comes in.
“Welcome,” I say.
They keep walking.
“You won’t be smiling very long,” I say. “You’re in for a real treat tonight, let me tell you. From San Fernando Valley, California, over there by the fake fireplace, and weighing in at—“
“Two-thousand-one pounds and no ounces!”
“—two-thousand and one pounds and no ounces, soaking wet in a fuckin' trench coat with a brick in the pocket—“
“Yeah!”
“—from San Fernando Valley, California—“
“You said that already!”
“—I repeat myself sometimes. I repeat myself sometimes. Would you please welcome the one, the only—“
“O’GRADY!”
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8. |
Archivalism (Live)
00:24
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What is the meaning of this? I'm an archivalist. That's what it's called. That's what I call it. Archivalism. Archivalism. And here's where I lose it. I feel like I've lost it already. I'll say.
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9. |
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I was serious about some things. You?
Like music for example. Like the music I listened to.
When I'd get into a guy I'd have to get all the guy's stuff. I had to. I had no alternative. I felt I had no alternative. I didn't want to miss anything. Let's say for example one of the guy's things was called Only Girls Can Smoke in Here. I wouldn't be able to not have it, you know? I'd have to get it somehow.
I'd get it.
Often I'd have to mail order it. I had no alternative. And I liked mail ordering things. The only problem with mail ordering things was that I could never forget I had mail ordered the things.
So it was rarely a surprise when it arrived. Even with the elapsed time. Because I was expecting it.
I expected it.
And same with girls and all their stuff out there. Or women.
I surely didn't want to miss anything.
But that happened. That always happened. I'd always miss people.
I'd keep seeing them on a thing. I wouldn't know why I'd keep seeing the thing but I'd keep seeing it. And maybe it would be on a shelf display. Or it would be in a glass case. Or a bin. Some of the best ones are in bins.
Something about the thing would be interesting. Or the person. Or the band. Or the band's name. O'GRADY?
Or the title. Only Girls Can Smoke in Here?
(Continued in Pt. II)
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10. |
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(Continued from Pt. I)
Only Girls Can Smoke in Here...
I wouldn't know why.
I wouldn't know what it was.
What is the meaning of this?
It wouldn't seem to make sense.
It wouldn't start to make sense until I'd acquired it. The buyer.
Finally.
I'd have it.
I'd look at the thing. Study it. Smell it. I wouldn't be able to help it. I'd listen to it. Hear it. Or read it. Watch it.
I'd get into it.
I'd like it.
Or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I wouldn't like it.
It would be OK. I could trade it in. I could sell it.
I had to know though. I had to find out about it. Or else I felt like I might never know. Know what?
I liked it when it was easy for me to like a thing. It would mean something. It would make me laugh. I would repeat lines from it. Or cry them out. Only Girls Can Smoke in Here? That would happen. Driving. It would make sense. It would seem to make sense. This is getting tedious.
It would be exactly what I'd be going through. Exactly, I'd think.
How did I miss this thing?
It was there all along. They were there all along.
Of course I'd want more. I would need more. I couldn't help it. So what would I do?
I'd get it. I'd have to. You had two?
One more thing at a time.
One more thing.
And it wouldn't have to be in chronological order. As a rule. Sometimes it would be better getting it out of order. Random.
Random. Or would it?
Or would it? It depends.
It all adds up the same in the end. That's what I'd think. When I had it all.
When I'd think I had it all.
Because there would always be something I'd be missing. There would always be something I never saw or heard of before. It would be out there.
And I wouldn't have it.
I wouldn't have it. What is the meaning of this?
There is no end. There is no end to this.
I'm an archivalist.
That's what it's called. That's what I call it. Archivalism.
Archivalism...
It's easy to miss some things. Some people.
Here's where I lose it. I feel like I've lost it already. I'll say.
I'm getting a little careless. I'll stay.
I pack the last CD into the box. And I flip up the flaps and close the top. I pick it up. Please.
Where am I going? You need money.
Hollywood. You need to eat.
Old Hollywood. Yo.
Down to Hollywood. It was Eminem, I believe, who said, "I don't eat."
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11. |
Any Questions? (Live)
00:25
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Mike Daily: Any questions?
jDub: Yeah, I gotta question...
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12. |
End of Reality (Live)
01:15
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The End of Reality. Any questions? I need to take a nap. This is getting ridiculous. I feel like I can't go on like this. On and on like this. I go to the bedroom doorway. I turn in. What happened? When I wake up, I don't know what time it is. I don't know what day it is. Then I remember what day it is. It's my day off. Thank you, we're O'GRADY. Next up, contributors to the anthology. Thank you for listening.
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Mike Daily Oregon
Mike Daily is an author, journalist, zinemaker, and co-founder of the Plywood Hoods Freestyle BMX Trick Team. Daily's new novel, Moon Babes of Bicycle City (4/3/20, "Second Printing Forever") is available now from Amazon.
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