Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Back Next Week

I will be back to give you stories, poems, art and such next week. I am moving this weekend, so my computer time will be sparse at best for the next week. Cheers!

Do go to this:


Monday, June 23, 2008

TOM WAITS

Yeah I didn't post today. I went to this:



















I promise to have a story by diesel tomorrow and a poem by yours truly. Tonight I saw Tom Waits, enough said...

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Saturday Stuffs

THIS:



AND THIS:


AND THIS:



Friday, June 20, 2008

Friday Stuffs

So, I've been a little out of touch the last week... because I started my awesome new job! I love Whole Foods. Just being there makes me happy, and now I get to be there all the time, so, well, you can do the math.

This is kinda cool. Pretty much every local artist I know made one of these boards:



Guapo Skateboards presents an evening of spectacular art, style, skateboarding, and cocktails benefiting Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children, St.Philips School & Community Center, & The Dallas Arts Community. Throughout the evening guests will bid on and purchase their favorite artists' skateboard & other auction items. Tickets are $25.00. Contact Bri Crum at 760.250.8518 or bricrum@mac.com.
7pm cocktails, 8pm Live Auction
Janette Kennedy Gallery, Artist Quarter

Some of the artists:

Levi Leddy
Tony Hawk
Tom Currie
Paul Watrous
Minji Watrous
Kevin Rivas
Larrey Carrey
Michael Hamm
Hatzeil Florez
Ray Albarez
Rafael Harris
Terry Baughman
Ross Von Rosenberg
Alison Welsh (That's me!)
Matt Orwig
Jo Skillz
Jena Rushings
Jason Ice
Jackie Daniels
Joe Hardy
John Hardy
R.C. Hardy
George Fowler
Nick Alemond
Cabe Booth
John Gonzalez
Justin Zajac
Joe Eckert
Le Savarese
Lisa Lindholm
Bucky Lasek
Cory Sheppard
Ken Downing
Sam Saladino
Rob Jr


The after party:

@
SPACE with Holy Diver.


And there will be some tunes at Kettle for ya:

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Marilyn Monroe Wasn't a Size Six



Marilyn Monroe Wasn't a Size Six

by Alison Welsh


The snakes are coming.
The snakes are charming.
Winding, wielding, whispering
Paths among the fruit tree
With promises of lily white,
With promises of dancing light.

Me she, we,
Partake of the finest
And more pure ecstasy,
While green monsters dive,
And park their unholy bodies
Upon our lovers thigh.

Picked up the costume,
Picked up the cloth,
Because breasts hypnotize,
And triangles are obscene.

The hunter
The gatherer
The skirt in the hole.
Hands fluffing yeast
Hip cradling child
A shadow of a soul.

Big "A" marker
When we've tried to ride the wind
Like a cow for the milking
With a subservient chin.

Straighten up
Suck it up
And keep that waist trim!
They've got mountains of silk,
Satin bliss
But only for those who keep thin.

And now Marilyn's crying,
She's up heaving sick,
For the voluptuous temptress
Wasn't a size six.


Going DEEP with the Senator and Police

Senator Royce West @ DEEP Crime Watch Meeting tonight @ Sons of Herman

west.jpg


Senator Royce West’s office (located in Deep Ellum) confirmed today that he would like to and will attend the next Deep Ellum Enrichment meeting.
Deep Ellum Enrichment Project Meeting/Crime Watch:
Sons of Hermann Hall
June 17th
9pm Meeting - Mixer begins at 8:30pm

All are Welcome - Open to the Public!

Check out a few (or a lot) of the Senator’s awards here.

sons-of-h-hall.jpg

Monday, June 16, 2008

The Hippie and The Deadline


The Hippie and The Deadline

by diesel



The pain killer was working its magic and my laptop was ready. I sit on the couch leaning over the coffee table while I write. It's a small square shaped table that doesn't hold much. Uncomfortable but I don't have a desk. I've found a way to fit an ashtray and a note pad next to my laptop. The ashtray usually sits on top of the note pad. I live in a one room loft, 500 square feet, and don't have many visitors. Only a lamp next to the couch lights the room after dark. That's how I like it.


It was after ten and most of the people in my building were asleep. That's when I do most of my writing. A local underground magazine called Alive needed this story I was writing the next day to meet the deadline. It was a short story about a recluse from South Dallas.


Leave me alone world, I thought. Leave me be for one night. I only ask for one night alone. If the phone rings I'll throw it out the window, I thought. I don't think my neighbor ever sleeps though. In fact, I think she waits for me to start writing before she comes knocking. Her name is Daisy. She's a hippie. She also works the day shift at a strip club. Apparently the day crowd at this joint like un-bathed hippie type women. I'll write fast, I thought. She'll be here to bug me as sure as the seasons change, I thought.


I began the story. The only sounds in my cave came from a buzz fan and the traffic noise from the highway a hundred yards away. And the clicking noises my fingers made on the computer. My dog was asleep in the corner. Every now and then I heard Daisy clanking shit around next door. I always move into lofts next door to loud single women. Odd.


Momentum was on my side for once. The sentences flowed nicely. I had a good rhythm going. The words went together well. This thing would be done in no time without any distractions.


Of course this spectacular moment in time came to a crashing end, living next to a needy neighbor. Sure as shit. A knock at the door rattled me off the couch. I hit a couple of wrong letters on the keyboard fucking up a word. GREAT, I thought, WHY?


I had two dead bolts locked as well as the chain lock. The doorknob lock was broken. I turned the dead bolt latches and the locks rumbled out of their chambers burrowed inside the door frame. The chain stayed on. Then I opened the door as wide as the chain lock would allow. "Yeah Daisy," I said, peeking through the chain.


She smiled, "Hey neighbor, you got any papers?"


"You knocked after ten at night for paper?"


"Yeah I ran out. I was cleaning up the kitchen and…"


"Wait a second. I'll be right back."


"Groovy dude!"


I shut the door and leaned my back against it. Then I let out an impatient sigh and walked over to the couch. I ripped some paper off of my note pad and returned opening the door and peeking back through the chain. "Here ya go," I said, shoving the papers through the crack.


"No silly, not paper… papers. You know, rollers?"


Now I was beginning to get upset. "I don't smoke weed Daisy. Why don't you just go to the gas station? You still have an hour before they close."


"Are you sure?"


I responded, "Am I sure about what?"


"About not having any papers."


"Rolling papers would do no good to a person who doesn't smoke weed Daisy. I bet you could use a night off anyway." I slammed the door on her face and sat back down on the couch sinking into it.


I closed my eyes re-capturing my pill buzz and picked up where I left off. Clickety-clack I regained my momentum. My dog, Max, was curious about what was going on at the door and paced the floor in front of the table. Then he sniffed at the bottom of the door. Then he paced more. Then he sniffed more. Then he paced more. Then he sat down on my left foot looking back at me. That was his way of telling me he'd shit on my foot if I didn't take him out. "Go Lay Down", I ordered. He stayed there. Then he farted on my foot.


Max is always a nice change of pace. I never get pissed when he interrupts me while I'm writing. He's actually given me lots of funny stories to write. I got up to take him out.


Getting past Daisy's door was tricky. I didn't want her coming out to talk to me so I very quietly unlocked the door, leashed the dog and slowly put my jingling keys in my pocket. Max ran in circles while tethered to my hand. I coached him, "Be quiet boy. Let's get out of here quietly. Shhh."


Then I opened the door and tippy-toed out like a ninja. I slowly closed the door and turned. Guess who was standing there? Daisy wore a long flowy dress with flowers all over it. She had a flower in her hair too, above her right ear. She was bare foot and smelled like an un-bathed farmer. She would fit right in if this were the sixties. She should wear a brazier. I bet her cunt smells like her armpits, I thought.


"Hey diesel, you going to the store?"


"No, my dog has to take a shit."


"Well if I give you some money will you get some papers for me?"


"Hell I guess so. Do I have a choice?"


"We all have choices. You don't have to."


"In this case, Daisy, I don't have a choice. You'll hound me all night till I do SOMETHING for you. Isn't that how it usually works?"


"Geeze! You need to relax. When you get back I'll give you a massage," She said batting her eyes.


"You'd have to bathe first and we both know that's not going to happen so just give me the money and I'll grab some papers for you while I'm out."


"Here's the money. And I DO bathe, I just don't use deodorant or shave my legs."


"Well you should."


I walked away toward the outer door of the building. Max ran in circles biting at his leash tugging my arm. He's one strong boxer. He'll knock me down sometimes if I'm not ready.

We were outside. The night air was nice. A slight summer breeze rolled over the bushes and tree-tops.


Nobody was out. I felt like I had the entire city to myself. We strolled along. Max pissed on a couple of bushes and a car tire. We got to his spot where he likes to shit. It's one of the few grassy areas in my neighborhood. It's his pretend back yard. I think the homeless shit there too. I let him off his leash and he trotted around sniffing. He sniffed for several minutes until finally deciding the specific spot he'd shit on. And he did, shit that is. His face was a satisfied one as he unloaded the loaf of bread he ate earlier. "Good boy," I said, "Let's go."


I hooked him back up to his leash and we proceeded on. As we got closer to the gas station people seemed to appear out of nowhere. Homeless men roamed aimlessly. A few homeless women too. They all looked like zombies. I always wondered how they ended up that way.


Where were their families? Where were their friends? Where were their jobs? This IS the land of plenty so why didn't they have anything? How do they eat? Were they insane? It seems cruel for a rich city to let people dwindle away. Maybe they chose to be that way. Maybe Daisy was right about choices, I thought.


I figured I'd walk faster to avoid the inevitable pan-handling. Two guys passed us pushing shopping carts overflowing with useless things like hubcaps, two-by-fours, dirty blankets, a fishing pole, ancient floor speakers and copper wiring. They didn't ask for anything. They saw Max and kept their sad looking eyes straight ahead. I thought to myself, they probably slam the two-by-fours into the ground then cover them with the blankets for shelter. Then they go fishing with the poles and cook the fish over a makeshift fire using the hubcap for a plate. The speakers? I had no idea what they'd use those for. And, of course, they'd sell the copper wiring to buy crack.


They didn't pay taxes. They had no ID. They chewed their own fingerprints off their fingers. They did whatever the fuck they wanted. They were the only free people alive. I mean really free. Free from it all. I slapped myself across the face and walked on down the sidewalk.

The closer we got the more people we saw. I thought about my story I wasn't writing. My face transformed into a scowl. That sometimes ran off pan-handlers if Max didn't bark at them. One zombie took a chance, "Say. Say homie. Say boss man."


"I'm in a hurry," I said.


"Man! That's a purty dog. Is dat a Pit Bull?" The poor guy asked.


"It's a Boxer. He'll eat you alive if you get too close. Just move on."


"I don't wont dat thing gettin on me."


"No, you don't," I said.

He moved on. Another black homeless man took his chance. "Alright home boy!" He had his hand extended out like he wanted to high-five me.


I asked, "Can't you see I have a vicious dog on the other end of this leash?"


"Dat ain't nuttin but a Boxer."


"Yeah, A FUCKING MEAN ONE!!" I pretended to hold Max back.


"Help me out so I can catch this bus right quick," the homeless man asked.


"Busses don't run this late."


"Man I'm hungry. Please help me out."


"Can't do it. All I have is my debit card. Plus my dog is getting pissed." I tell the homeless I have a debit card so they'll leave me alone.


"I should fuck you up white boy!" He threatened.


"TRY IT! I'll turn my dog loose and he'll tear your fucking throat out!"


"Man don't put your dog on me, I needs ta eat mang."


"So get a god damn job!! We all have choices!!"

Then I walked away. He still talked to me in the distance. I couldn't make out what he was saying and I didn't care.


We reached the parking lot of the gas station. FINALLY. Four or five black homeless men stood in front of the store with five-gallon buckets, news papers and squirt bottles with water in them. They asked every person who pulled up if they wanted their windows washed. No, was the response every time. Why do they even bother?


I walked by them all and they moved out of my way fearing my dog. They weren't as brave as the guy before. I took Max into the store with me.

The middle-eastern clerk said, "No dogs please."


"Do you want my dog in here or the walking dead?" I asked.


"Ok please hurry. You get me in trouble with dog."


"If you had a couple of dogs in here you'd never get robbed again."


"HA! Good idea my friend."


"Ok we're not friends, just give me some rolling papers."


He turned to show me the papers, "We have long, short, wide, thin, rice, blunt…"


"You decide." I said. He gave me the most expensive ones they had.


"9.99 please."


"Jesus Fucking Christ Almighty. How do you sleep at night?" I asked as I peeled out the money.


"You like get high, you pay."


"Give me my penny back you fucking thief." He tried to keep my change. I walked toward the door to leave.


He said, "Thank you come again."


Yeah I'll come again, I thought, to burn this god damned building down with him in it. Then I'd burn all those lazy no-job-having black zombies to hell too. Then I'd blow the gas pumps up and roast marshmallows in the blazing inferno, I thought. Someone would eventually do it for me. I'm too much of a coward to do something like that.


I was back on the sidewalk now and had to run the gauntlet back home. The people I said no to before didn't bother me. A crazy looking black lady tried to say something to me but ignored her. She had no teeth, no hair, no ability, no strength, no nothing. Her dignity had been washed away long ago like the faith in herself. I knew as long as I ventured into their turf I'd have to put up with these things. That's why I stay inside as much as possible. We walked on. I thought about my story.


Now we were back my territory. No bums. But they were close. They were always close. We walked through Max's pretend back yard, down a couple of side streets and up to the outside of our building. I opened the door to the building with my key and let Max run free. He made it to the top of the stairs in a flash and I followed. He trotted to our door and sat down outside of it. I heard loud music coming through Daisy's door. I pounded on it. Nothing. I pounded again. BAM BAM BAM. Then another neighbor peeked out and said, "Do you fucking mind?"


"You can hear me knocking but you don't hear this loud music?!"


"She's a girl."


"So fucking what!!! Get your ass back inside or I'll sick my dog on you. Bitch."


Her door slammed and Daisy opened up at the same time. "Oh you're back! Did you take the scenic route?"


"Funny. Do you have any idea what I just went through?"


"Come in and tell me all about it. I have some really good pot."


"Take your papers. I have a story to write. I really should get back to it."


"'K Neighbor. Happy writing."


I wish I could be so bubbly. Well, maybe not bubbly but nicer.


I shut the door behind me and sat back down on the couch. I looked around at my loft. Everything in there was exactly where I wanted it. I was happy. My dog was happy. I finished the story and took another pain killer. I leaned back shutting my eyes waiting for the effect. It came twenty minutes later. I'd make the deadline.


I went next door and got my massage.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Art Por Favor

Art for the weekend:


From Kettle Art Gallery:

Prepared Americans // June 14 (Flag Day) - July 12, 2008
Kettle Art presents, “Prepared Americans,” new paintings by Cathey Miller depict portraits of women clad in tactical gear, gas masks, ski masks and American flags inhabiting bunkers and rooms full of video screen. Miller uses bold colors and a painterly style to present a doomsday scenario that is tempered by the occasional orange bicycle, a sweetie smiling face, or a fluorescent jellyfish. Her inspiration for this new work are the constant stream of violent images on modern computer, television, movie, and gaming screens, are “Are You Ready? A Guide to Citizen Preparedness” issued by the Federal Emergency management Agency. Miller is a 1985 graduate of Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, CA. Opening Reception Saturday, June 14, 2008 7PM - 10PM.



Pluto Is Not A Planet at Hal Samples Gallery will feature some fine local talent, if I do say so myself... and I do!



From Road Agent:

Party at the Moontower // June 13 - August 30, 2008
Road Agent announces the opening of its summer group exhibition, Party at the Moontower, featuring new work by Celia Eberle, M, Margaret Meehan, Raychael Stine, Ludwig Schwarz, Kevin Todora, Vance Wingate, Sean Dower, and more. Visit them NOW and meet the artists at the reception. The show runs through the summer. Opening reception Friday, June 13 6PM - 8PM.

PS: Please note that the exhibitions at Road Agent and Barry Whistler Gallery are opening at the same time coming Friday.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Oh Lee

So, I'm looking at publishers for two books of poetry that I've completed. I still have to make the artwork for the illustrations, but I thought I'd give you a peek at some of the poems on Tuesdays. This one was written in honor of my greatest hero Lee Ranaldo from Sonic Youth. To me, he's right up there with Ginsburg and Kerouac; the last great beat poet of the 20th century. Lee's poetry has inspired me since I was, oh, like 14 years old.

Oh Lee (A Poem For Lee Ranaldo)
by Alison Welsh


Oh Lee,
How does this
Wind ride to
You
On a late night
Clawing onto
Morning
Like I claw
And clutch
To words and such
That I'm sure
You wrote
With my mind
In your mind
Even if it came more
Writer to reader
Than lover to lover
At Conception,
Maturity,
And Passing.

In a dim-lit art-house
I wonder over checkers
At your punctuation particulars
A beat late
Left-over
From a great
Generation with minds
"Starving, hysterical
Naked"
How you didn't starve
Eventhough you give us
Naked in strings
And strange noise-things
Whose poise a norm
For taking Granted?

Oh Lee,
See this strangle-mangle
And take it in full-fist form
As a punch from
A word-pool storm
Leaking out tears for all
Those who can't peel
Back a phrase
And soak in
Full Forum!

Two of the Last RBC Shows

I'm reposting this from The Great Tyrant. These are two really great shows, and since it's your last week to step into RBC, I recommend you go.


http://www.myspace.com/thegreattyrant
http://www. myspace. com/corima
http://www. myspace. com/swirvemusic

"On Saturday, go see our friends Akkolyte and Blood Ov... with Seattle's Skarp. Burn the Witness will unfortunately not be playing due to a death in the band. we extend our sympathies to the remaining members."



http://www. myspace. com/skarp
http://www. myspace. com/akkolyte
http://www. myspace. com/bloodov

Monday, June 9, 2008

Meetin With The Mayor


From SDE:

"Mayor Leppert will be coming to Deep Ellum June 27. He and other city officials will be coming to lay out their vision for Deep Ellum and answer your questions about the neighborhood."

Breakfast For Me

This story really reminds me of Charles Bukowski. A lot. I've always amazed my exes by my love for Bukowski's writing, being that I suppose I come off as a feminist (where, oh where would that idea come from?). Either way, I've always admired Bukowski's crass masogynistic style, and I admire diesel's crassness as well.


Breakfast For Me

by diesel



It was the smell of bacon that woke me up. That’s one sure way to get me out of bed. But no matter how good the bacon smelled Annette would always find a way to screw it up. She’s a good woman but she could fuck up a shit sandwich. I give her that one but how do you screw bacon up? You let it sizzle for a few minutes and throw it on a plate next to the eggs and toast.

She’d stand there in front of the stove looking at the frying pan splattering bacon grease all over the front of her silk nightgown. Her eyes bugged out of her head like she saw a ghost. Smoke billowing out from under the pan.


This morning she stood there over the greasy stove wielding her greasy spatula with that blank look. I groggily walked into the kitchen and said, “Smells good baby.” Then I realized the bacon was charred black and the smoke detector went off and I said, “What the fuck?”

I looked at the mess of a pan full of black bacon and smoke. And the damn smoke alarm was screaming in my ear. And hers too but she didn’t seem to hear it.

“Annette do you hear that?!”


“YES!”


“Do you see what you’ve done to the bacon?”


“YES!”


“Well don’t scream at me dammit! Fix it!”


“I never know how long to cook it.”


“Annette, if I hadn’t come in here it would STILL be burning. You’re not boiling water. You can’t let it sit there in the pan forever. You’ll burn the entire apartment complex down.”


“How am I gonna burn the complex down frying bacon?”


“THE GREASE!”


She said, “Oh fuck! Go back to bed.”

I popped a Lortab and made sure it went down with a beer. Then I went back to bed. I got one more shot in before I closed the bedroom door, “Turn the stove off, you bitch!”

I heard the button to the stove snap off. Now we were safe. I slept for another two hours and got up.

I haven’t been working too much lately and to be honest I need the break. I can pull a bartending shift here or there whenever I need to. For now I figure I’ll lie around and scratch my ass.


I clicked on the television set and tuned in to Fox News. They were talking about the same old things like the war in Iraq, the presidential race, the white race, the black race, the Border Patrol losing control of the fence line, another Amber Alert, some crazy bitch up north sawing her kids’ heads off and the weather. I turned the tv off and thought of what to do.

Annette finally got out of the shower and sat down next to me on the couch, still damp with a towel wrapped around her.


“What do you wanna do today,” I asked.


She pouted, “I don’t know, go somewhere and eat breakfast?”


“Ok baby. Get dressed. I’ll start the car.”


She came out ten minutes later, got in and we drove out of the apartment complex. We came up to Greenville Avenue and turned right. There’s a good breakfast spot on Greenville so that’s where we went.


We walked in and I said, “You see? That’s what bacon is supposed to smell like.”


She came back sarcastically, “Well you can come here and eat from now on then, asshole.”


“I’m just kidding dear. I like coming here with you.”


She smiled, “You’re sweet.”


We got a booth by the window near the kitchen. Her back was to the door and I was facing the door. I hate sitting in places with my back to the door. The place was crowded so it took a couple of minutes to get some service…


The waitress came over and put two glasses of water down in front of us and said hello. I looked at her and said hello back. Annette didn’t say anything. She always thought I was cheating so she always watched me when I’d talk to other women. She was like most women not trusting their men, and for good reason. I guess I deserved her suspicions because I have cheated on her. Several times. She only knows about four of them. I don’t think she could handle knowing about the dozen others. A dozen or more others.


The waitress walked away giving us time to look at the menu. She wore a short yellow button up mini-dress with a white apron. One of those little white aprons with ruffles around the edge. Cute. She had the top unbuttoned down to her brassiere. When she leaned over with the water she really leaned over showing both of us her large full breasts.


Annette was pissed, “Hello?”


“What. I said hello back. So what?”


“I saw you looking at her tits.”


The people in the next booth started to look.


I whispered, “Are you telling me I can’t say hello to people?”


She didn’t whisper, “Yes. Especially her. Mrs. BOOB JOB!”


“Shit! Every time. Every fucking time we go somewhere.”


“I know! Evey time we go somewhere you FUCK someone!”


Now we had the attention of the entire restaurant, the customers, the hostess, the cute waitress, the cooks and even the busboys. All eyes were on us. I felt like we were actors working in front of a live audience. We were the center of attention at center stage now. My anxiety started to grip my chest. Tighter and tighter…


“All right woman! You wanna give these mother fuckers a show?!”


She sat quiet but pierced my brain with her look. I was riled up.


“How ‘bout this?” I splashed her in the face with my glass of water.


“And what about this?” I splashed her in the face with her glass of water.

I stood up and screamed at her while pointing at the waitress, “I don’t even know her! It takes two to tango! Maybe she thinks I’m disgusting!”


Then I looked at the waitress and said, “You wanna fuck baby?!”


The waitress lifted one eyebrow and disappeared into the kitchen.


“You see Annette? I’m not doing anything. I don’t want her and she doesn’t want me. I’m sorry I cheated before. I love you bunny. Now let’s go home and make love?”


“Ok baby, let’s go.”

We walked out with everyone watching. They probably wanted the show to continue. I opened the passenger door for her and she got in. I walked around and got behind the wheel and cranked it up.


Annette screeched, “Wait baby!! I forgot something inside. I’ll be right back.”


“Hurry bunny, I got a hard-on the size of the Statue of Liberty!”


I watched her wiggle her ass as she tippy-toed back inside. I waited and waited and waited. What the fuck is she doing, I thought. Then she came out. She came out holding hands with the waitress! They both held hands and giggled as they ran to the car. Am I dreaming, I thought? Is some god playing a trick on me? This was going to be a great morning.


That’s what I call breakfast.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Fling Goes Green


From Rob Jr.:

"This is Rob Jr. with Studio Fling Art Gallery. Just wanted to inform all you local flingers of our go green show this Sat. from 7 to 11 pm. Come check out our new artists with great work. I also have some brand spanking new work hanging. The show is called Fling Goes Green, we will have Eco friendly venders, artwork, and live music. Attached is a flyer that will tell you all about it. So come on down and support your local artist and learn how to leave a lighter foot print on the earth. Oh...my birthday is also today, but I will wait to celebrate with you at the show!!!!!!!!"

RIP My Friend

I was so sad to see this. Really. I love April, Brad, Justin, and everyone who's been involved with RBC. The night I held the fundraiser was one of the most fun nights I've ever had. Ever.

In fact, I teared up when I saw that they thanked me in the following message.
Thank you RBC for hosting great shows. Thank you RBC for fighting the good fight.



"The Red Blood Club will be closing its doors for good on June 15, 2008. This completely breaks our hearts, but we have been trying to fight a battle that we cannot seem to win.

Since the new SUP Ordinance was put into place we have been struggling. This is mostly due to the very unfortunate stabbing that took place in November of last year, which really hurt us. The City told us if we wish to remain open that we must have 2 Certified Peace Officers at every live music event from 10 pm to 2 am.

Since then we have had to do shows early, having them over by 10 so that we did not have to pay 2 cops at $50 per hour each. We have had some shows go until 12 am and we had to pay $200 for cops on those nights. At several of those shows there were maybe 10 people that showed up and we still had to pay $200 to the cops and then pay our sound guy and door guy.

You can do the math and see that it does not work. Some people have complained about our door prices and some even complained about our drink prices. We were not trying to make a buck off anyone…we were simply trying to keep the doors open.

We would like to thank EVERYONE that came out to RBC and showed their support.

We would not have made it this long without you!

We would also like to give a very special thanks to a few people: Mike “Red Blood” Whittington for allowing us this opportunity, Justin Powers for ALL his hard work and commitment to booking, Alison w/ DEEP!!!, James Blood and Ashley for helping us get the place ready to open, Josh for just being awesome, Adam Carter for being there when we needed him, Milane for all that she has done, Amanda and Troy Destroy for ALWAYS being there, Vickiy for her generous donations, all our past bartenders, door people and sound guys, ALL the bands that have played here, Frank Campagna, Turner, and the other artists that donated their art and time to help us raise money, Reno’s for hosting the stabbing victims benefit, and all our close friends and family that supported us in this endeavor!

I would like to ask that you all keep us in your memories. There were SO MANY kick ass shows at RBC and even more good times. We made a lot of new friends and even a few enemies! It will all be missed greatly."

Good bye RBC.

You will be missed.

xoxo,
Alison

Thursday, June 5, 2008

R Day



And/Or Gallery's Show #17

I really like that And/Or Gallery labels their shows numerically, and Show # 17 is looking pretty hip:


Show #17:

Cory Arcangel + Olia Lialina and Dragan Espenschied

June 7th - July 19th
opening reception June 7th, 6pm-9pm
with all artists in attendance

walk-through with the artists at 7:30
performance by Tree Wave and Farah at 8:00

"Cory Arcangel is a computer artist, performer, and curator who lives and works in Brooklyn. His work centers on his love of personal computers and the internet. He is the co-founder for the Beige Programming Ensemble. Current interests include C.S.N.&Y., CSS, RSS, GCC, C++, HTML, XML, and TEX.

His work has shown in the Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, The Guggenheim Museum, New York, the Museum of Modern Art, New York, The Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago, Musee d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, Space 1026, Philly, the Migros Museum, Zurich, Team Gallery, New York, and Thaddaeus Ropac Gallery, Paris/Salzburg and on his homepage.

Based in Stuttgart, Germany, artists Olia Lialina and Dragan Espenschied are inspired by the messages, animation, and changing iconography of the internet. In their recent exhibition Online Newspapers in Madison Square Park, the artists displayed digital reproductions of online newspapers covered with now technologically out-dated web graphics and animation. The Internet is a vast network of both the symbolic and banal; Lialina and Dragan examine the language of the public domain, its evolution and aesthetics.

A pioneer of net art, Olia Lialina has lectured, curated and exhibited around the world, she currently teaches at Merz Akademie in Stuttgart. Dragan Espenschied is an artist, musician, and programmer who won the 2001 Media Award from Zentrum für Kunst und Medien in Karlsruhe.

Both artists have given lectures and exhibited their work at galleries and museums including, ABC Gallery, Moscow; Sonar, Barcelona; VertexList gallery, New York; RX gallery, San Francisco; SECESSION, Austria; and the New Museum, New York. "

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Art Conspiracy's SEED

I just saw this floating around. I LOVE Art Conspiracy.

"Journal Art and Live Music Mark Art Conspiracy’s SEED 2008 Event

DALLAS, TX – June 3, 2008 - Have you ever wanted to get a close-up look at what goes on inside the heads of creative people? On Saturday, June 21, at 8:00 p.m., at the Sons of Hermann Hall, you can get the chance to literally flip through the imagination of visual, literary and performing artists during Art Conspiracy’s 2nd Annual SEED fundraiser. The money raised will help fund the operating costs of Art Conspiracy’s large-scale December fundraiser and inevitably help Art Conspiracy donate more money to its 2008 beneficiary.


Since the end of May, 15 artists including Kim Cadmus Owens, Marcus Striplin, David Hopkins, Diane Sikes and Tina Medina have been filling up page after page of Moleskine Journals with drawings, paintings, photography, lyrics, observations and more. During the SEED event, the Moleskine Journals will be auctioned along with original work from additional Dallas artists.

“When someone sees an artists’ single piece of work, they are getting a look at a singular concept or idea,” says Erica Felicella, Art Conspiracy, Art Coordinator, “but with the journals, you are able to get a bird’s eye view into someone else’s creative process – it’s a much bigger picture and the results are intriguing.”

Live music will be provided by Matthew and The Arrogant Sea, Beauxregard, Spector 45 and Pet Hospital. The snarky, comedic antics of veteran Art Conspiracy auctioneers, Rob and Rob will be returning too. SEED will also serve as the venue for Art Conspiracy to unveil the beneficiary for its December 2008 fundraiser.

“Art Conspiracy is charting new territory,” says Andrea Roberts, Art Conspiracy, Site Coordinator. “This is the first year we have asked for beneficiary applications from local groups. Our goal is to use the money we raise to reinvest in the local arts economy. This gives us a chance to use the creative instincts of so many generous artists and musicians to support creative efforts being carried out throughout our city.”

Since 2005, Art Conspiracy has raised over $30,000 for groups including La Reunion, an artist residency located in Oak Cliff, and St. Anthony Community Center, a center that offers visual art, music and dance to more than 800 children in South Dallas. Art Conspiracy is a grassroots arts collective that seeks to bring the artistic and music communities together to support creativity community wide.


WHEN: 8:00 p.m., Saturday, June 21
WHERE: Sons of Hermann Hall, 3414 Elm Street, Dallas, TX
COST: $5 cover charge
BANDS: Matthew and the Arrogant Sea, Beauxregard, Spector 45, Pet Hospital

Please tell your friends, neighbors and that random guy who cut in front of you at 7-11 to come on down to The Sons on 6/21."

Existence Is Elsewhere Photos

Existence Is Elsewhere is, to date, possibly the best evening I've ever put together. It was simply pleasant. Here's a photo montage from that night that one of my homies (who wishes to remain nameless) put together:














Special thanks to Edward Ruiz @ Avenue Arts, Yells At Eels, SUBkommander, Nick Bradford, KUNST, Leta Kish, Jason Barnett, Loren V. Era, and Janelle Tohill for making such a wonderful evening possible.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Ships Sink and Then What?

From now on, every Monday I am going to feature a story by my friend diesel. I will make a tab on the left to help you navigate to these entries easily. Here's the first one:


Ships Sink and Then What?
by diesel


Throughout the 90’s Deep Ellum was hot! Deep Ellum is an area of town that skirts Downtown Dallas. Elm Street, Main Street , Commerce Street and Canton Street from Malcolm X Blvd to the border of Downtown. This neighborhood was flooded with bars, restaurants, clothing stores, rehearsal studios, lofts and art galleries. This was Dallas ’ historical arts district.


This was THE place to be if you were in a band. This was where you went one night and drank till the wee hours of the morning then bragged to your jealous friends the next day about what a good time you had.


Deep Ellum is where bartenders knew they had to be if they wanted to make Real Money. There were more bars than anything. When a rock band played Reunion Arena or Starplex they’d pile into the limo with twenty naked women and end up at the Elm Street Bar.

I had been bartending for a few years in another part of town during Deep Ellum’s feast, on Greenville Ave , and heard all the stories about Ellum. I started bartending in the early 90’s on Greenville at a place called The Pound.


The Pound was a severe shit hole complete with a makeshift bar and empty coke baggies on the bathroom floor. The guys liked to fight there and the girls liked to watch each others’ teeth rot out. We served whiskey and beer. That’s all.


When I walked in the bathroom at the end of the night I had to wade through the dirty coke baggies and rusted needles to get to the pisser. The pool tables and heavy metal cluttered jukebox invited people in through a huge roll up garage door. The bay door is what we called it. That was the front door. And the only exit. I think it actually used to be a garage. This wasn’t the place for me and I knew it.

I was putting in my time here and grazing for greener pastures at the same time. I was searching for the big bucks. A bar I could be proud to say I worked. Not a greasy crack house like The Pound.


Greenville Ave was coming into its own at the time. More and more bars were springing up at a fast pace. Nice places but still dives in their own right.

After a couple of years at The Pound, I ended up scoring a bar gig a few doors down at The Harder Bar. It had only been open for six months or so. This was the place for me. Cleaner. More professional, like I knew things should be. Not as much coke and a lot more pussy, a LOT MORE.


The jukebox could cater to anyone and was one of the things we were known for. The owner was very pro, Greg Valentine was his name. He wanted bartenders to get there on time and set the bar up as if we were THE elite bar on the street and we were. He wanted to put me through a re-training course.

He said, “OK diesel you got the job. No offense to the guys down the street but we’re going to do things much different here. Can you handle making six to eight hundred a week?”


“Hell yeah!”


“Tomorrow night you’re going to be my shadow.”


I replied, “Sure. What does that mean?”


“That means I see a diamond in the ruff. I’m going to turn you into a real bartender. You’re a good kid.” He went on and on like he usually did, “You see, I can take a soft mold of clay and turn it into something great. Or I can take a rock and work it till my fingers bleed and get nothing. YOU’RE the soft mold of clay, my personal challenge.”


“Sure boss, does that mean I’m bartending tomorrow night?”


“Do you have a pour-spout stuck in your ear? No, tomorrow night you’re my shadow.

I didn’t know any of the bar lingo at the time so he might as well have been speaking Spanish. Shadows and clay and shit. What did I know? I was used to playing dodge the coke dealer at The Pound.


I showed up the next evening fifteen minutes early.


Greg was there to greet me and the place reeked of pot, “Good, you’re the first one here. I knew you were a good kid. This is the schedule. You’re on it for the next four weekends, four o’clock every shift. When I say four o’clock that means three forty five . Not five after or even one after. Just like today, fifteen minutes early. That’s one of the things you’re going to learn here.”


I replied, “Oh yeah, and what would that be?”


“That would be learning to manage your time.”


“Got it boss.”


“Good.”

He offered me a bong hit and I declined. The only thing I wanted was to learn to out-do any other bartender on the block so I could get a job in Deep Ellum. That was my only goal in life at the time. GET TO DEEP ELLUM. Get to the money. Get to the pussy. Get to the glory. Bartenders in Deep Ellum were rock stars. I was on my way.


He told me to stick to his side and watch him as he set up the bar-top and the back-bar. The back-bar is what you see behind the bartender. The shelves of premium bottles, the cash registers, the credit card machines and other bar stuff.


“Ok diesel this is where the drink mats go and this is where the glasses go, pints here, high-balls here and shot glasses here. The ice machine is over there. The ice scoop is mounted next to the machine and the ice bucket is next to the machine. Don’t ever leave the ice scoop in the ice machine because it’ll get buried. If that happens you’ll end up in there with the scoop. Now fill the ice wells up and stock all of the beer. When you stock the beer make sure the labels are facing out. It looks better that way. When you’re done with that I want you to cut lemons and limes. Don’t start cutting till I’m ready for you. There’s a certain way I like it done.”


“Sure Greg, anything else?”


“Yeah. You sure you don’t want a bong hit?”


“I’m sure. I tend to ramble when I’m high.”


“HA! That’s a good one. Another thing…”


“Yeah?”


“Don’t be a fucking smart ass.”


“Sorry dude. I’ll get to work on this stuff.”

I did everything he asked and was then ready to cut fruit, “Greg I’m ready to cut lemons and limes now. You wanna show how you want it done?”


“Yeah. First thing, cut the ends off but not into the pulp. There should be two white circles on each end. Like this.” He was showing me, “Then cut straight down from one white circle to the other. Like this. Now you have two halves with a white line going down the center of both halves. Cut a slit through each white line. That will allow you to hang the lemon or lime on the side of the glass later. Now cut each half into four wedges with a white line on the edge of every wedge. Like this. Now cut a hundred limes and fifty lemons just like that. If I grab a piece of fruit later in the night and it’s not right I’ll squeeze it into your eyes in front of all the customers. Got it?”


“Got it.”


I finished cutting the fruit and looked down at my fingers. They were pale white prunes. The acidic fruit had eaten away any remnants of my finger prints. Cutting fruit was the job of the bar back. I guess this is what I’d have to do to prove myself. As long as I ended up in Ellum.

The other two bartenders were busy doing prep work too and it was time for the preshift meeting.


Greg cried out, “Twenty minutes till we open guys! Gather round for the meeting!”


We all sat in bar stools next to each other and Greg stood behind the bar.


“Ok," he started, "we have a new employee as you can see. His name is diesel. He’s a good kid so help him out whenever he needs it. He’ll be my shadow tonight so you guys won’t have to bother with him tonight. He thinks he’s going to be a bartender in Deep Ellum one day so I’m going to train him myself. This is his shadow shift so he won’t get tipped out tonight. But after tonight he’ll get a full cut.”


“Um, excuse me Greg, did you just say I wasn’t going to get tipped out tonight?”


“Yes I did. Are you hard of hearing? This is the second time I’ve had to repeat myself.”


“No I’m not hard of hearing. I like to get paid for the work I do though.”


“And you will. Just not tonight. It’s your first night here. OK?


“Sure, ok.”


The other bartenders were snickering and I could see them out of the corner of my eye.

I didn’t understand the whole forfeiture of the first nights tip thing and I still don’t. I think it’s just a clever way to steal from the new guy or girl.


So that was it. We opened and the customers filed in. I stood next to Greg as he popped beers open, mostly exotic beers I’d never heard of. I was impressed by this. He ran around back there like a crazy person. He jumped and spun and laughed at the top of his pot filled lungs. We were well into the night when his boot camp style training method reared its ugly head.


He screamed at me, right at me, “Absolut!!!”


“What?!” The music was terribly loud.


“Absolut!!! Gimme the fucking ABSOLUT!!!”


I flung the cooler door open where his exotic beer was and searched frantically for anything that had an Absolut label on it. My head was spinning. I was crouched down with my head buried in the cooler hoping I would disappear from it all. The next thing I knew he rammed his knee right into my back as I crouched.


“BEHIND YOU,” he yelled.


“What?!”


“That’s what you say when you’re behind someone. BEHIND YOU!!!”


“OH OK!”


“Where the fuck is my Absolut?!”


“I don’t know. You tell me, then we’ll both know!”


He pushed me aside and grabbed a premium liquor bottle off the back shelf. It was a clear fat bottle with blue lettering and a big blue word…ABSOLUT. It was Absolut Vodka he wanted. My dumb ass was looking inside the beer cooler.


“You gotta get on the ball diesel!! You’ll never be a bartender in Deep Ellum if you don’t learn your liquors!!”


He poured a drink with the Absolut and handed it back to me without looking. I wasn’t looking either. He jammed it into my chest and let go of it. I barely caught it with both hands.

One of the bartenders, Jason, said, “Good catch rookie!!”


I fired back, “FUCK YOU!”


“What, I couldn’t hear,” he said.


“I said THANK YOU!”


He smiled and ran off. The other bartender was a chick named Gina. She never said a word to me all night.


I watched and avoided Greg as he spun like a tornado behind the bar leaving a scorched and smoky path in his wake. He yelled more at me and smiled that winning smile he had at the girls and they loved it. He really had a way with women. They all wanted to suck his cock right there in the middle of the bar. His wife, Crissy, hated the fact that he had it like that. He could snap his fingers and take two girls to the office and do whatever he wanted to them.


The night finally ended and the last customers left drunk and happy. The jukebox was turned off and it was finally quiet in there. Quiet but completely destroyed. The bar top was full of empty bottles and used glassware. The tables were in the same condition. Not one more glass or bottle could fit on any table. Used bottles and glasses jumbled every possible spot in the place. The area behind the bar was full of wet napkins and bent bottle caps and smushed lime wedges. The tip jars sat on the back-bar like trophies packed full of money.


Greg sat us all down and handed each of us a beer. Even the door guys and bouncers.


“Great night everyone. Finish your beer diesel and clean this place up.”


They took the tills and tip jars to the office to begin the check-out procedure. The door guys left and I sat alone and quiet at the bar finishing my beer. I looked around at the carnage wondering how I could ever clean this shit by myself. I took my time finishing the beer. The weird tasting exotic beer.


I wondered what Craig, I mean Greg, would say if he came out of the office and found the place un-clean. So I cleaned the shit out of the joint. I grabbed a huge trash can and swiped the tables clear with one swoop of my arm into the large plastic can. Now the bar top and tables were clear so I got several bar towels and dried everything off and swept the floor. It didn’t take too long without distractions. Maybe an hour.


They were still in the office counting the loot. I decided to get another beer and sit and wait. And wait. And wait.


They all emerged with smiles on their faces and pockets full of money. Well the chick had a purse full the guys had pockets full. But they all had the same shit-eating grin.


Greg came over to me, “Hey diesel, who’s your favorite Dallas Cowboy?”


“I don’t like football.”


“Well if you had to choose who would it be?”


“I don’t know, um, Michael Irvin?”


“Ok, cool.”


Then he peeled 88 dollars out of his roll and handed it to me. I guess Irvin’s number was 88 and that was one of Greg’s little tip-out games he liked to play with the new people. I played along because I thought I was working for free that night.


I said, “Thanks man, I almost decided not to come back.”


“I’ll always take care of you if you do a good job for me. Don’t ever steal from me and be here on time. The rest will fall into place. You did awesome tonight. How’s your back from when I rammed you with my knee?”


“A little sore. Nothing major. I’ll live.”


“Want a bong hit?”


“Sure.”


I think one of his bonding rituals was bonging out with bartenders or he just didn’t like smoking out alone. We bonged and bonged till we were cross-eyed. We smogged out till the cows came home. Then he accidentally dropped the expensive looking glass bong on the ground and it shattered into a million pieces.

“Oh shit,” I exclaimed.


“No sweat, I have a couple of pipes in my desk drawer. If they break we’ll use a Red Bull can.”


“Dude I think I’m done anyway. I’m taking off. See ya tomorrow.”


“Don’t be late.”


That was my first night at a real bar. I had a great mentor on my side and I was going to learn everything I possibly could from this guy. Then I would take the knowledge wherever else I ended up in the near future.


I forgot all about Deep Ellum. I juggled girlfriends like a circus clown. I had a fling with the bartender, Gina, for a while. I smoked pot by the bushel with Greg. I made thousands of dollars a year. I also discovered cocaine. Coke disgusted me when I worked at The Pound. Seeing the way it changed people there disgusted me. Sliding around on empty baggies in the bathroom there disgusted me. It seemed like a dirty drug. It seemed like it attracted the dregs of society. It wasn’t so bad in the cleaner and prettier atmosphere of the Harder Bar.


Two years later.


The first time I tried coke I was drunk after work one night. I could barely count my money. Then Greg’s wife Crissy walked into the office and offered it to me.


“I have some blow diesel. You shouldn’t let Greg see you like this. You’re a mess.”


“That shit’s disgusting. Get the hell out of here I’m counting money.”


“It’s only disgusting in a disgusting setting. And by the way I own this place too so I can do whatever I want. Don’t try to kick me out of the office anymore. I can fire you.”


“OK. FUCK! Give me some coke and leave me be.”

She dug out a generous portion onto the key that started her BMW and held it under my nose.

“Now snort it diesel.”


“OK.”


I snorted it up and some of it fell down on the front of my black shirt. She scolded me for wasting it but realized it was my first bump ever and vowed to show me the ropes as time went along.


There is nothing worse than a crazy girlfriend or wife thinking they own shit just because of the dude that really owns the place. This was Crissy’s attitude. Sometimes she’d come in with five or six friends and order round after round for everyone. I’d account for every drink on her tab and present it to her at the end of the night. The look on her face was priceless, every time.


“How many times do I have to tell you I own this shit hole and I can order as many drinks as I want? I own this place too.”


“No you don’t own anything Crissy, except for a shit-ass attitude. Pay your tab or I’ll show Greg. And don’t forget the tip.”


“You think you’re hot shit now because you’ve been bartending for a couple of years don’t you?”


“NO. Greg told me to charge you. Every Time. He told me you’d try this power trip game and I’m not going to play it with you. Now please pay your god damned tab.”


She paid it. And tipped. She was a real bitch. She had all her friends believing she owned the place outright and could do whatever she wanted. Sometimes those same friends would come in without her and try to walk a tab. I’d ask for a credit card or cash and they’d just stare at me like I was insane. Her girlfriends were worse than her guy-friends. The girls would hiss and spit at me when I asked them to pay up. The guys would just grin and throw money down on the bar and tell me they’d let her know about it.


I was becoming a sharp-lipped asshole.


I’d say, “I don’t give a fuck who you let know. Greg is my boss and HE told me to charge everyone including his bitch wife, his exact words, and you’re no different.”


“Really.”

“Yeah motherfucker, REALLY!!”


Then a girl chimed in, “You’re an asshole. Crisy’s gonna fire you for this shit!!”


“Crissy has to work here above me before she can fire me. Just leave.”


His wife was a fucking leach. She still, to this day, tells people she used to own The Harder Bar. She is the most delusional woman I’ve ever met AND she turned me on to coke, The Bitch.


Anyway, I had established myself at The Harder Bar for a couple of years and became manager. Offers to work at other bars came my way every week but I turned them all down. Those decisions would eventually prove to be my downfall.


Two more hazy years later.


A couple of more years went by, well they flew by. What I didn’t realize about Greg was that he was a self centered manipulator. He knew he had me by the balls and started treating me like shit when sales fell a little. He had target sales numbers I had to meet and they just weren’t there anymore. The bar had pretty much been left in my hands because he didn’t want to bartend anymore. He stayed away a lot.


Now I was in my fifth year with this place and I had worked my fucking ass off every day. The outside offers had long stopped. Greg hardly ever showed up anymore. He was going through a divorce with Crissy. It didn’t stop her from trying to show her ass in the bar though. Greg made it perfectly clear she was NOT to even so much as walk in there. That was fine with me because I couldn’t stand her anyway.


One Sunday afternoon I called Greg to report the weekend’s numbers.


The phone rang ten times, “Hello?”


“Hey it’s me I’ve got the numbers for you.”


“Ok. Well are going to tell me or should I guess?”


“Keep your pants on they’re printing. All right eight grand and some change for Friday and Saturday combined.”


“That’s pitiful! What’s this ‘and some change’ shit? Give me the full numbers!!”


“Eight thousand and three dollars. That’s not that bad bro. Let’s set up some promotions or something to make it up.”


“Promotions?......” He hung up.


After that phone call I decided to look for another job. The only problem was that all of the offers I had before were filled now. I was stuck. I would have to do some manipulating of my own now, and some ass kissing. I’m not a kiss ass so it was hard for me. The other bartenders saw me kissing ass and were losing respect for me too. I knew they were talking shit behind my back and that made me even more of an asshole to them. These guys were pretty new to this place, maybe a year or so. I had been there five.


One guys name was Tom. I always thought he was gay. He had lots of ladies but he acted like a fag. He was selling coke in the bar and that pissed me off too. Greg didn’t seem to care about anything anymore so I had to go with it. I shot plenty of snide remarks his way about being a gay coke head and shit like that. I was trying to run him off.


Another guy's name was Brian. He was one of those know-it-all motherfuckers. He was also selling pot to Greg, so HE wasn’t going anywhere either. He professed his never ending knowledge of the bar biz every chance he got. He was ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. He was Tom’s most loyal customer too, the coke thing.


I got real nervous one night when the state comptroller came sniffing around asking questions. Apparently ol’ Greg wasn’t paying his taxes. When the comptroller asked for the manager the other two fuck-ups wasted no time pointing me out as the boss. That was the only time they acknowledged me as the boss.


That’s all I’ll say about those two.


OK, now I was beginning to understand why Greg was so uptight lately. The state was hot on his heels and he wasn’t doing anything with money he WAS making to pay them off. I had two decisions, get the fuck out now or go down with the ship.


I couldn’t very well quit my job unless I had another so I decided to hang in there and eventually the spark died and I went down with the ship. The state came in again the next weekend and took every dollar out of the registers. While they were doing that I was stuffing my pockets with the money in the tip jars. They were going to take the tip money next. I had it all stuffed in my pockets. Luckily I had changed in the singles for bigger bills just before they burst in.


They made us leave, everyone, and had their locksmith change the locks right there in front of us three bartenders. We went next door to another bar and ordered a beer. I don’t remember where the door guys went or when they went. I just knew they were gone.


Tom asked for some of the tip money, “We saw you take the cash.”


“What cash?”


“The cash in the tip jars. There must have been seven hundred dollars in there.”


Then Brian joined in, “Yeah, split it up with us.”


I played dumb, “Don’t know what you’re talking about. They took it.”


Tom said, “No you took it, now split it.”


“You know what? Fuck the both of you. You guys have been treating me like shit for a year. I hired both of you because of one sob story or another and you guys NEVER did anything I asked. And now you want some of the tip money from tonight. Brian, you hung out on the other side of the bar for two hours tonight. Tom, you leaned over the bar and talked to some ugly whore for two hours tonight. I did all the serving. I’M KEEPING THE MONEY!!!”


I left my beer sitting there and walked out. As I walked by The Harder Bar on my way to my car I flipped the comptroller off. I flipped the whole street off. I felt like the street had turned its back on me just like the two crappy bartenders I’d been working with.


I learned a valuable lesson that night. Don’t ever turn down a better offer. Get out at the first sign of trouble because if it comes down to you or them, they will fuck you right up your silly ass. Keep your feet moving and keep your eyes open.


Well I ended up in Deep Ellum all right. I ended up there at the tail end of the feast and the beginning of the famine. Deep Ellum was now where bartenders were going because they couldn’t get a better gig. My oh my how the tides change. I got my gig at The Elm St Bar but the rock stars were all gone now. The pussy was all gone now. The money was all gone now. I was just there, turning away the bums and selling dollar beer to punk rockers.