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. Shirts I have don't work. 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. 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. I break down on the love seat. No coffee? I'm not sure how much time goes by. I see sunlight. I seem to see sunlight. I get up. I turn off the TV, pick a CD for the drive, and leave. Above, by Mad Season. Mad Season. The coats don't work. I need another coat. Too late. Mad Season.

A criminal investigation begins after a third person in Florida is exposed to anthrax. That's the time frame for this. The setting is San Fernando Valley, California. A suburb of Los Angeles. The narrator's new thing is not knowing what day it is. The drugs don't work. The pubs don't work. The moonlight drives don't work. The books don't work. The movies don't work. The records that used to work don't work. He doesn't work. 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?

GOD IS MY FRIEND. Here we go. Yo. GOD IS MY FRIEND. That's what it said. We like to believe all the things that we read on the streets. BIG NEW TASTE. WE FIX CARS. WORK FROM HOME. FOLLOW YOUR HEART. FREE HOT JAZZ. IMMEDIATE CASH. ADULT FILMS. FRIENDLY STAFF. Everything in life you don't need but can't live without. Everything in life you keep reading but can't figure out. Can't figure what out? Don't read. GOD IS MY FREUD. Maybe that's what it said. We like to believe all the things that we read on the streets. UPSCALE LOUNGE. BEST JOBS IN TOWN. CHARACTER COUNTS. 40 OUNCES. FEEL DEPRESSED? ST. JOHN'S WORT. LAMP REPAIR. MAKE LOVE NOT WAR. Everything in life you don't need but can't live without. Everything in life you keep reading but can't figure out. Can't figure what out? Don't read. GOD IS MY FRIEND. We like to believe. GOD IS MY FRIEND. That's what it said.

And the phone is ringing. Perfect timing. Almost too perfect. Hold on. It's not for me. 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). 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. 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. 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," she says. "Your friend from New York called. She said she'll call you tomorrow around three o'clock, Eastern Standard Time." She sets a bag on the table and takes off the sunglasses. "Great," she says. "I won't be here." "What?" "I won't be here." "Where will you be?" "I told you, O'Grady. I told you I'm going over to Dylan's to drop off flyers for the show and to practice." "That's right. Your guitar. You did tell me that. I forgot." She plays? "That's okay. I don't really want to talk to her anyway." I don't ask why. I know why. I think I know why. "How was your day?" I say. "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. Biological warfare. 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 to three hundred thousand people?" "No," I say. "I didn't." "No more brushing our teeth using tap water. From now on, we use this--" She takes a plastic jug from the bag. "Bottled water? To brush our teeth? Honey, do you know how expensive that could get?" She stops what she's doing. "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," I say. "What about the Brita water purifier I just got a few months ago? It's already saved me--" "We can't use it." "What?" "I'm sorry. Not for a few months. Not until we see what happens with this war." I look at the TV. I press mute and the sound comes back on. The news. War. Bravo. Ordinary concerns of life. The ordinary concerns of life. The ordinary concerns of life concern me. This is getting repetitive. I'm concerned with the ordinary concerns of life. You said that. The ordinary concerns of life concern me. I don't get it. Answer my question. Answer my question, Jocelynn. The one I can't seem to ask. Why? I don't say anything. Why? We seem to be spending a quiet morning together. In the same room? Our new thing is never getting to see each other. Except in passing. Or sleeping. She says she can't sleep. She says she keeps having bad dreams and waking up five times a night. Me, I can't sleep. I can't get to sleep. I can't get to bed.

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. On and on. 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. It's not like it's not a nice day though. It's not like it's not hot and smoggy. It's not like it's not another Sunny Day Real Estate song stuck in my crop. An old one, something from the pink album (Sub Pop). I can't remember the title. Yes I certainly can. The song is called "Waffle." It's called "Waffle." I need to get up. Get up. I get up. I hear the TV. I go to the living room. Jocelynn's watching something. Jocelynn's watching something... I need to check the mail. I check the mail only when certain it has arrived. I go outside. It has arrived. I flip through it. Nothing. I open the door. I wave the stack of mail. WHO I drop it on the coffee table. DO "Wash your hands," she says. YOU "Huh?" LOVE "The President said it. And the Postmaster General." WHO? "Said what?" "That you need to wash your hands after you handle your mail every day. They said to throw away any junk mail. And don't open anything that's not a bill or a letter from somebody you know because even letters from people we know could get mixed up with other stuff." ANYONE? I think about it. I keep thinking. I feel like I'm trying to tell a story or something before I actually, like, see what I'm gonna talk about. It's the latest thing. "I do subscribe to Jihad International," I say. "Uh-huh." "It's all just a big joke to me, isn't it?" She doesn't say anything. I put down the jug of water and wash my hands. No paper towels. I dry my hands on my pants. I'm wearing work pants. Of course I'm wearing work pants. All I have are work pants. Must stay clothed. I hear her say something about mountains. "What?" I say. "I said they bombed some mountains today because they want to invade by foot so they can go into the mountains and into the caves and stuff because they built all these army places in the caves. So they need to get to the caves. And they said if we attacked them, they would retaliate 100 percent." I'm looking at something in the kitchen. Can't tell what it is. "Sounds serious," I say. "You don't want to know. I tried to tell you this before but you wouldn't listen to me." "I heard you. Looks like I'm gonna have to go get us some more water. And food. Some solid food." "Go to the 99-Cent Store." "I am." "Be careful." "I will." I leave the apartment. Shite... Crikey! It's bright out. Oh for Fook's Sake! I walk through the courtyard. I open the front gate of the complex with some difficulty. It's a wrought iron gate. I go down the stairs. I'm on the street. It doesn't get any slower than this. There's a cob on the sidewalk. A cob? They sell it as treats from push-carts. Corn. Corn on the cob. Corn on a stick. Keep America Beautiful. They put butter and cinnamon-sugar on it. Or butter and parmesan cheese. Or butter and salt and pepper and tabasco sauce. I'm not making this up. I step over it. I keep walking. A woman with an umbrella is walking towards me. I act like I'm minding my own business. I look to my right and see a sawhorse in the middle of a fenced-in property. The woman sees to look what I look at. I round the corner. And I'm moving at a pretty good clip of speed already. I'm running.

I know we're low on canned goods. And frozen. And everything. They have freezer section items at the 99-Cent Store. They have everything. Everything in the store is 99 cents. Brilliant. Office supplies, cat litter, everything. My elbow grazes bricks. I know some of these bricks have been tagged recently. This wall. That's one thing the 99-Cent Store doesn't have: spray paint. Probably in any of these cities, they don't have it. They don't carry it. I got mine at the model airplane glue place on Plummer. You're not that crazy. I keep going. Seems to be picking up a little. It's like a video. It's like a Spike Jonze video. Only I'm not on fire. You're not that crazy. I practice something on the run: Balling went out in the '70s. Modeling went out in the '80s. Rawlings almost went out of business in the '90s. What do you mean? I slow to a jog. I'm approaching the main drag. The boulevard. Van Nuys Blvd. I'm not even breathing that hard. If you say so. I'm walking. I'm strolling. I'm on Van Nuys. Here we go. Everything in the store is 99 cents. I step on the mat. The automatic-opening door opens. I'm in. Like Flynn? I have a sad, sort of blue feeling. I get an abandoned cart. Is this all there is? It's empty. It sure is.

Follow Your Heart. I'm not making this up. I got a job at a family-owned natural foods restaurant and grocery store called Follow Your Heart. I like that: Follow Your Heart. You're losin' it. Follow Your Heart, Mick O'Grady. Mick O'Grady, Follow Your Heart. Mick O'Grady, seven dollars an hour. Seven dollars an hour, Mick O'Grady. Not including tips, Mick O'Grady. Mick O'Grady never worked in a restaurant or grocery store, Mick O'Grady. Enough with the O'Grady already. Now he (the narrator) is picking it up as he goes along, Mick O'Grady. Night of the Living Tongue! And it's the end of his shift. Where was I? Something about picking it up, Mick O'Grady. The head waitress is having a phone conversation with her boyfriend. Stay awake, she says. Go get some Up Time. Take my dad's truck. Just stay awake. She cups the receiver. She hangs up. I take out the garbage. The next bus boy has arrived. I say hi to him in passing. "Hi." "Guess how many tacos I ate at Jack in the Box yesterday?" he says. "Five." "Eight. And..." I go out back and toss the bags. I walk back in and notice a new notice on the bulletin board. I back up. I read it. "FOLLOW YOUR HEART would like to wish Happy Birthdays to its November employees: Robert Smythe on the 5th, Frank Garrido, Jr., on the 8th, Cat Meadows on the 16th and Mick O'Grady on the 18th! Health, Happiness and Many Smiles!" Cat Meadows. Scorpio Cat Meadows.

I take off my apron. I clock out. My new thing is getting off work and going straight to work. I park behind the coffee house. Coffee house? I work here two nights a week. At least two nights. 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. My boss has this thing where he says, "Cut to a commercial." That's when you know he's done talking. No one knows why he says it. No one asks. He seems to be shaving his head with a disposable razor and some cream. He has a towel draped about his neck. He sees me getting out of my car. "O'GRADY!" he calls out. "O'GRADY!" I get to my feet. "WE GOT A NEW COFFEE MACHINE! AND A NEW CD PLAYER! UNPLUG THE OLD ONES AND HOOK 'EM UP! PUT THE OLD ONES BACK IN THE OFFICE!" I wave. "Is there any water?" I say. "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!"

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 will be thrown out with which bath waters when the ‘90s were (are) over? ‘90s are over? ‘90s are over? Brautigan. 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. He didn’t (doesn’t) even know what the bath water was (is). 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,” I say. It’s on. “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,” I say. “Can I do that?” [OOH…] 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’m Mick O’Grady. Tonight I’ll be your host 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?” he says. “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. The moment has arrived. Ladies and gentlemen, the main event. Here’s where it gets a little complicated. In the far corner, over there by the fake fireplace, from San Fernando Valley, California, and weighing in at—“ “Two-thousand-one pounds and no ounces!” “—two-thousand-one pounds and zero ounces, soaking wet in a fooking trench coat with a brick in the pocket—“ “Yeah!” “—from San Fernando Valley, California, as I was saying, before I got interrupted—again and again I get interrupted by this guy—would you please welcome the one, the only—“ “O’GRADY!”

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?" 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?" In the last frame is another close-up of the second guy and he says, "In a hole in the wall." 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. I drive up to the window. 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. 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. I wish there was a radio station that just played drum machines. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Let's see here. There's something on TV. There's something on Jocelynn's TV. A guy is talking. Wait. "It's on the cutting edge," he says. "We're starting to hear more and more video game samples and video game sounds trickling into pop music. I think within the next three to five years, David, you're gonna hear most mainstream pop music sounding like video games." Cutting edge. Mainstream pop. Video games. Must be an infomercial for something. Software probably. Jocelynn is sleeping. She says she can't sleep but she's sleeping. Oh? I'm awake. Now I'm awake. Fookin' wide awake. Eyes slammed shut. Fook. Maybe I should eat something. Book. Read a book. How To Lose Your Mind With The Lights On? Here we go. Kevin Sampsell. I need to read some Kevin Sampsell. How To Lose Your Mind With The Lights On by Kevin Sampsell. Future Tense Publications, 1994. Kevin Sampsell. Who is Kevin Sampsell? a lot of people seem to wonder. You'd be surprised. Kevin Sampsell was born on Saint Patrick's Day 1967 in Kennewick, Washington. His middle name is Patrick. I am one of the world's most fastidious collectors of Kevin Sampselliana. That's what it's called. That's what I call it. What? Sampselliana. When I got into something, I got into it. I know I said that. I'd really get into it. I'd have to get all of it. You can't get enough. I felt like I had to. All I could. I felt like I needed to. I didn't want to miss anything. I couldn't afford to miss anything. That's a new one. I still can't afford to. But that happens. That always happens. I saw the book at Tower Records in 1995. What book? Oh. It's a black book. How To Lose Your Mind With The Lights On, Kevin Sampsell, Future Tense. I took it out and looked at it. What is the meaning of this? I had to get it. There was only one copy. Diary of a madman. I drove home to my Affordable Student Housing and started reading it. I kept reading. I read it. I couldn't help it. You madman. Poems? Cut and paste collage? Short stories? A story about a guy reading an excerpt from a novel titled "Excerpt from a Novel"? You lost me. I was losing my mind. Losing my mind. My mind with the lights on. [Kevin Sampsell: "This is an excerpt from a novel..."] Envelopes. I couldn't find my box of envelopes. I had a book of stamps. Who is this guy? I needed to write to this publisher. Mail order. Madman. I found them. They were on top of the fridge. I wrote a letter. It was very simple: "Future Tense, I would like to order all available titles by Kevin Sampsell. It's absolutely imperative for me. Thank you, Mick O'Grady" That started it. The O'Grady/Sampsell Letters: 1995-2001. Unpublished. Kevin Sampsell's first letter, dated 5-12-95--Jocelynn's talking in her sleep, the cats are awake and walking around, if you can believe it--says: "MICK - HEY - I WAS SURPRISED TO GET YOUR LETTER - IT WAS COSMIC! LET ME EXPLAIN - LAST MONTH I BOUGHT THE 'I CHECK THE MAIL...' BOOK AND SAW YR LETTERS (ODD, AGONIZING, YET BEAUTIFUL) AND I SAW STOVEPIPER AND THOUGHT - HEY THIS LOOKS TOO COOL - I WAS GONNA SEND YOU A SUBMISSION SOON WHEN - BAM! - YR LETTER COMES . . . I'M OUT OF '13 GIRLS' RIGHT NOW BUT WILL SEND SOON W/ MORE NEW WORK FOR SUBMISSION - ADDING TO THIS ENVELOPE THE BRAND NEW FUTURE TENSE COLLECTION (OF PORTLAND FOLKS) - I WOULD LOVE TO BE INVOLVED WITH STOVEPIPER - YOU COULD EVEN REPRINT STUFF FROM ANY OF MY BOOKS. I'LL CALL YOU SOON OR WRITE MORE . . . KEVIN S. P.S. SOME OF THESE CHAPS ARE IN MY BOOK - + SOME OTHER STUFF THAT ISN'T SO GREAT, BUT WE'RE YOUNG."

So here was another collection to start compiling. Mostly mail ordering. Bordering schizoid. The only problem with mail ordering things was that I could never forget I had mail ordered the things. Nice. Our correspondence was sporadic but he would send me whatever new books he had coming out. For free? New, new, new. They kept coming. And I kept writing. Here's the Beatles post card he must have sent me in November 1995. It says: "YOUR WORDS ARE ENDLESS IN MY HEART'S APPLE . . . THANK YOU. HERE'S ME LATELY: BUSY, TIRED, DAD, JUICED. THINKING ABOUT BUYING A NEW COMPUTER, WRITING AND RE-MIXING OTHER'S POEMS, ON ACID OPENING FOR JIM CARROLL IN FRONT OF 200 PEOPLE . . . 'CONNIE CHUNG! CONNIE CHUNG!!' FUCKIN' FREAKIN' AND PEAKIN' HAVIN' FUN JUGGLIN' MY WORDS W/ OTHER PEOPLE'S HEADS . . . I'VE SEEN LITTLE OF YOUR WORK - I'D LIKE TO SEE MORE - HOW'S SCHOOL. OR WORK. OR LIFE. DEATH? WHAT'S UP W/ STOVEPIPER?" STOVEPiPER was an anthology I published. It cost me four grand. Mostly poetry. Poetry cost me four grand. That's what interested me most about Kevin Sampsell: the poetry. The poetry of it. Even the short stories of Kevin Sampsell were poetry. I was interested. I was into it. So? LET'S START SOMETHING SPECIAL WORDS OF THE ETERNAL CON ARTIST HEAD 13 GIRLS ON FIRE ACID DENTAL WORK HAIKU YOU FAMILY VAL-U-PAK LITERARY SNOBS BEAUTIFUL TEEN-AGERS UNITE AWKWORD MAGICK TIMEBOMB All of the above is what I would call Kevin Sampsell American Poetry. All of the above is what I would call Kevin Sampsell American Poetry. All of the above is what I would call Kevin Sampsell American Poetry. Check! And all of it came out before 1995. Better check! Kevin Sampsell was new. It was new to me. He was new to me. I didn't know you could do what he did. And kept doing. Keep going! I didn't know you were allowed. Tell it! What was so interesting about the weird sex and the love. Weird sex? The love . . . I'm starting to feel the love! "YOU WANT BLOOD?" he wrote to me on 5-16-96. "AT WORK," he wrote under the date. He ran a coffee kiosk at the time. "YOU GOT IT..." He wrote this letter on the back of a solar yellow flyer listing titles that were then available from Future Tense Books. Fifteen titles were available. Looked like some weird shit that was available. Future Tense Books was also selling black and purple "Corporate Poetry Still Sucks" t-shirts for ten bucks. And Country Music Haiku posters--18 haiku by Kevin Sampsell, each named after a different country music singer. The posters were two bucks each or free with a book order. I got mine with a book order. Signed. The poster said he was a disk jockey on a country music radio station in Spokane, Washington, and his chapbook 13 Girls on Fire was banned in Eugene, Oregon, and all across Canada. His letter says: "YOU WANT BLOOD? YOU GOT IT. YOU WANT SEX? YOU GOT IT. YOU WANT FOOD? YOU GOT IT. YOU WANT A LARGE RUBBER SHIMMERING BLUE SLIGHTLY LEAKING... UH. EXCUSE ME... HELLO MIK(E) - I WAS JUST BRUSHING UP ON MY SHOCK POETRY THERAPY. WHEN I GOT YOUR POSTCARD LAST WEEK I DIDN'T KNOW WETHER (MOSTLY CLOUDY) TO LAUGH OR CRY - I ENDED UP DRIVING INTO A PET STORE FOR THE SHEER THRILL OF IT, JUST BECAUSE. I'M WRITING A DECENT AMOUNT AND JUST PUBLISHED THIS STRANGE RED THING - ALSO RUNNING A READING SERIES - GETTING READY TO PUBLISH LOADS OF PRODUCT - SEND YOU MY NEW CHAP IN A MONTH WHEN IT IS BORN. SOMEBODY TOLD ME THAT RICHARD SPECK WAS IN A DRUG-ENHANCED PORNO SHOT SOMEWHERE IN HIS PRISON - I HEAR HIS BREASTS ARE BIG LIKE AN OLD LADY. HORMONES. NOW I WANT TO GO TO PRISON! ANXIOUS TO HEAR WHAT YOU'VE BEEN DOING - WILL YOU CONTRIBUTE TO SOCIETY EVER AGAIN? PIPE STOVIN'? DRUNK VIGILANTE? POP SINGER MASK? COUNTRY SINGER FOOTBALL UNIFORM? I SPEND COUNTLESS MINUTES TALKING TO YOU IN MY HEAD - LT. CHIEF, KEVIN SAMPSELL" Cut to a commercial!

Mike Daily: I was serious about some things. You? You? You? I was serious about some things. You?

Abadeka: "I wish there was a radio station that would play just drum beats. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Eureka! Eureka! I think I've thought of something. Eureka! My underpants are way too tight right now."