Gods and Morons

11/05/2010

Today I come bearing the gifts of company and a true story of profound stupidity (one which involves no politicians whatsoever). The fool of our tale is young Adam; drama king; bad singer; proud owner of giant wings of potential held down by a mountain of scars; abused child turned uptight junkie; mystic weakened by unseen enemies. Adam sang with us when I was in the band IX, practicing in Mr Thin's damp, graffitti-covered basement.

One night we were working on a song and Thin's post-traumatic Veitnam vet father Larry came down in his camouflage jacket and sweat pants. He produced a coke-laced blunt from his army jacket and sparked it up with us. Grey mustache jerked on cigar paper. Wild old eyes shuffled after Charlie but only caught roaches creeping in the bricks. The drug passed around jerking like film with cut frames.

We went back to playing, and played fast. Adam was fucked up before Larry came in, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels and a head dancing with obese apes in bloody condoms. At the songs climax, Adam screamed into the microphone and reached up with his other hand, sticking a finger into the bare light-socket on the ceiling above. Energy came with balled fists. It traveled down the idiots arm, down the microphone wire, through the PA system, out the other wires, through our instruments, through the bodies of the non-dumbasses in the room, and to the floor.

Electrocution is a funny thing, your soul gets ripped out of your body. It's like spacing out on strong drugs or alcohol, but condensed into a single painful second. Souls have no memories inside them, when you get zapped with a group like that you can never be sure that you ended up in the same body and mind. In the same life.

Incredibly, the instruments and people involved survived without injury. I feel badly for Adam, but can still get angry with him for doing something so careless and pointless. To electrocute oneself in a basement is a terribly undignified way to die. To risk destroying a musical instrument while not onstage is even worse.



I spent yesterday evening listening to music while looking for music for listening to. Endless boxes of tapes gather around the computer desk, most are worn out and some are broken. Stacked cases of CDs line strategic locations in the sterile apartment. Compositions for oil rainbows on pavement, for strange jungle creatures, for perfume memories, for floors littered with razor blades and trash literature. Compositions to conjure up that magical intensity before a storm breaks and the lightning comes down shining like spittle dripping from the beard of a forgotten God.

Speaking of dieties, long ago I met God. At least, I met a man who was named God. He looked like Mario (of Super Mario Brothers fame), only a bit taller and plumper. He delivered pizzas and wanted to be a social worker. He gathered around our circle for a while during one of the drugs, booze, and studio music phases. He was angry with me for a long time because I dated a friend of his while fucking a lot of women. A stalwart nod at C's funeral said I was forgiven. He went to the trial of Tony, the man who murdered C. When Tony walked by God, he said "I'm sorry I killed your friend". It took seven men to keep God from coming over the barricade to stick a fist down Tony's throat. Today, God is probably still living in my home city, delivering pizzas and getting by day-to-day like everyone. I doubt we'll meet again, it's a big, enchanting, lonely world. More lonely than big. More enchanting than lonely.