UNDR RPBLC MGZN #13 by UNDR RPBLC

What up Max!? Not too much. I’m at work right now, pretending to work. What’s really going on? All I can think about is the new hard drive I just bought—it’s empty, crying out for videos. How’s Santa Cruz? The climate and geography are beautiful! But it’s expensive and there are no jobs. Because of that, there are no young people older than college-aged around, so it can be a little stuffy. Let me just say that your body of work is ultraprolific. How exactly would you classify your work? Thank you! I’ve been trying to figure out what I do—I guess it’s kinda like old-school video art? But I hear they’re calling this sort of thing “digital art” or “new media.” That doesn’t always feel right though, because I’m often using analog equipment and old media, like VHS tapes. When did you get your start? I don’t really know how it all happened. I think it mostly started because I learned how to do audio

circuit bending and I wanted to try it out on video stuff. Have you had any professional training? Sort of... I studied photography in community college and then at University of California, Santa Cruz. But I was pretty disappointed by the university, so I usually don’t count that. What gets you going on your next piece? Usually I get some crazy idea, a new videotape or something new—all I really care about is what’s new and exciting at the moment. Could you give a quick run down of your

creative process? It’s all a bit of a blur to me—mostly I start with some source material and capture it somehow. I might dump the video/ stills from a NES emulator, or capture a VHS tape with an analog capture card. Then I usually manipulate everything frame by frame. I’ll take it apart and manipulate it. Sometimes I might run the batch through an image conversion program, to get the ZX or C64 aesthetic. Then it goes into an extremely old version of Photoshop to get manipulated frame by frame. I try to never

use filters, only image adjustment and color tools— I like to do things the hard way. How much of your time is actually spent working versus experimenting? Mostly I just want to spend all my time experimenting. But sometimes I get a project and any given project will easily take up dozens of hours in a given week. So I have to do anything I can while I’m at my day-job, or while I’m drinking at night. I’d definitely prefer to devote all my time to experimenting, but I do enjoy projects (mostly once I’ve finished them). Where do you get all of your materials used in production? I scrounge a lot of it! I have this bad habit where I stop and pick up every TV I see lying by the side of the road. I mostly get my VCRs at thrift stores and then the weird electronic devices I use are mostly from Hong Kong via eBay. I’ve been really lucky with tapes lately. People have just started giving me all their VHS tapes. It’s a huge advantage—because I get tapes I’d never have access to otherwise. How many movies have you seen at this point in

your life? Soo many. My brother and I are big movie nerds— he’s even worse than me. He’s actually written and published reviews for over a hundred and twenty zombie movies. I haven’t seen as many as he has, but it’s still a lot. …Video games have you played? I can’t even imagine how many. I’ve probably played all eight hundred+ NES games at some point or another. I haven’t played any recent games though. I want to play Fallout 3 still... Movies vs. games… Go! That’s tough… I’m really uninterested in the new movies coming out in theaters (especially for the price). I already saw Conan the Barbarian and Planet of the Apes and they were awesome. I don’t think I’ve even been in a theater since A Scanner Darkly came out. On the other hand, video games these days are too expensive. I definitely spend more time watching movies though, mostly because I can just put them on while I work. I think I’ve forgotten how to have fun. I noticed that you’ve been rocking visuals for

shows and parties, how’d that come about? There’s these great chip music guys from Pulsewave SF (http:// pulsewave.org/sf/) who contacted me and have recruited me up for that sort of thing. They’re super talented musicians and it’s really great to be involved with them. Do you have any more shows coming up soon? Not at the moment, but I should! I have massive social anxiety, so I never talk to anyone about it and I subconsciously avoid public events. Where can we find your printed work? There’s very little of my

stuff in print! I’ve been featured in a couple magazines and I’ve made a couple zines that sold out pretty quickly. I also have some places that do print-on-demand prints for me (http://maxcapacity.imagekind.com), which is great because I have no cash to have anything made. Plus I’m working on a little compilation type book of some of my pixel stuff, so I can have something that’s not limited, like the zines are. Are you still screenprinting your designs? I don’t actually screen print. I’d love to—I’ve even taken screen-printing classes. Space, time,

and money are huge stumbling blocks though. The website that makes my shirts actually cuts the material out and heat sets it to the fabric, like an applique. How can I get a tee? I have a couple shops for my shirts online. One is through Analog Medium, which is like my gang (http://analogmedium.spreadshirt.com/). And the other is my own shop, so I can make a million variants and just go wild without clogging up Analog Medium’s deal. What’s up with a Max Capacity solo art show? Wooooo! I want one so bad! I’m hoping maybe somebody will give me one some time, but I should probably do my part and submit to galleries. I hate that though. I’d really like to do a show in San Francisco, because it’s close and has a decent art scene. Who’s you biggest supporter? My beloved Tumblr followers! They actually even buy my shirts, its nuts. What are your thoughts on technology today? I love technology—always and forever. I’m waiting for the singularity. I can’t wait to download my

brain into a computer. That’s going to be my afterlife. Plus the rapid rate of technological advances insures that I’ll have tons of obsolete discarded electronics to do my thing with. What’s your main source of creative inspiration? I don’t know really, I’ve never thought about it much. I guess the 80s—I absorbed so much of the media I interfaced with as a kid. It spews out of my every orifice. The whole 90s cyberpunk thing was really big for me while I was growing up too. What has got to be—hands down—your personal favorite piece? This is a funny question, because my favorite stuff is usually my least popular, and my most popular stuff is usually my least favorite. I always go back to this YTMND I made with one of my gifs. I was making this gif of a zombie’s head exploding from the movie, Street Zombies (terrible) and I was watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and the chase music at the end, “March of the Swivel Heads” by The English Beat just fit so perfectly with the image. But I’ve posted it half a dozen times on my blog and no one likes it! The fact that no one likes it probably makes me like it more... http://chacha.ytmnd.com/ Where else can we find you on the net? I spend most of my time blogging on Tumblr, but I also am on Flickr constantly uploading. I’m on YouTube and Vimeo a lot, but mostly just uploading. I’m planning on getting Toxic Super Freakout streaming on Ustream again soon—that’ll be fun. I broadcast a pirate analog TV channel from home just to show my stuff and I stream it to Ustream simultaneously (http://www.ustream.tv/channel/toxic-super-freakout). What does happiness mean to you? Happiness is never having to work a “real” job ever again—it’s my dream. Are you doing what you love? Pretty much. I do what I likes and I likes what I do. I need to figure out how to make some money so I can quit my day job though. What’s next? I never really know! I wish I could say I have a plan or something resembling a plan. I pretty much just take the path of least resistance— which isn’t always the easy way. Any shout-outs? All my Tumblr friends, especially my brother, Mister Scradam (http:// scradam.tumblr.com/) and my good friend Rich (Prosthetic Knowledge http://prostheticknowledge.tumblr.com/) who is a real champion and shows me all sorts of new awesome tools that I end up using in my work.

What up Sean!? What up!! What’s really going on? Man… Just living life on life’s terms. How’s Los Angeles? LA is my jam—she always does me right. You’ll never hear me complain about LA. How long have you been taking pictures? I’ve been shooting since I was twelve. When did you decide to become a photographer? It was Mother’s Day, Y2K and I wanted to do something special for my mom, so I decided to take my go-ped up into the mountains with a disposable point-and-shoot. I’ve always loved nature and have been a National Geographic fanatic for as long as I can remember. My plan was to photograph some wild flowers to frame and give to mi madre, but halfway up the mountain I saw a massive buck (for those who don’t know, a buck is a male dear). He was standing in an open field of brush—I almost crashed when I saw him. Being the reckless adolescent that I was, I thought it would be a great idea to

get as close as possible for a good shot. I jumped off my scooter, dove into the brush and proceeded to crawl across the field on my stomach. I got about fifteen feet away from him and started shooting. It was the biggest adrenaline rush I’d ever had. This dude was ten times my size and could’ve killed me in an instant. After a few minutes I could see that he was becoming agitated. I started to back up. He charged. I curled into a ball and my life flashed before my eyes. I thought it was the end, but it was just the beginning. I never felt as close to God

as I did that very moment. He didn’t attack— he ran right past me. It was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. I went straight to the photo lab to get my film developed. Why? When I got my film back, I looked at my photos and knew I found my calling, I wanted to be a photojournalist for National Geographic. The combination of adrenaline, fear, excitement, energy and life had me going back into the mountains everyday—trying to capture images and memories that were as thrilling as my first experience.

Have you had any formal training with photography? My pops has always been a huge inspiration for me. He led by example with the accomplishments of his career in photography. When I was fifteen I started assisting an awesome wedding photographer named Michael Brannigan. He took me under his wing and taught me the basics. Wedding photography is a great way to improve your skills because it’s a combination of all types of photography. You have to shoot portraits, studio, action, still, candid, lifestyle and romantic, plus you have to capture all of those little unexpected memorable moments. Aside from working the field, I received some formal training back in high school. One of my teachers really helped me out by letting me assist in Photo-4 when I was still just in Photo-2. He wouldn’t accept me in his class the next year though, something about me being too reckless and energetic. [laughs] A lot of fire flicks on your site, what’s up with that? Back in ‘06, there was a fire in my pop’s

neighborhood. He lives on a lake in Thousand Oaks, CA. The fire was on the far side of the lake, secluded from the neighborhoods. I grabbed my camera, jumped on our boat and mobbed it to the flames. When I got there the firefighters told me I had to go back—I was wearing swim trunks with no shoes. I realized that the only way to get in was if I was rocking a fire suit. I booked it to my pad and put on my snowboarding suit—figured it was close enough. I went back to the fire and jumped off of the boat. I didn’t have a press pass, but the firefighters thought I was wearing a “fire suit”, so they let me trek up the fire line. I felt that rush come on again. It was like my first experience. I was dying from the heat in my suit, but it was well worth it. From that day on, I started shooting every fire that blazed. After a few adventures in my snowsuit, I used my portfolio to get a LAPD press pass. This meant all access behind any police lines. I was the youngest photographer to get one. I’ve continued chasing fires and putting my life on the line to get awe-inspiring, emotion evoking images ever since. My plan was to sell my photos to the news organizations, but I ended up

keeping them to myself. I’ve been sitting on them and building my library. All of my fire photos are one of a kind. I always get closer to the fire than any firefighter, so these images are incredibly special. I’m the only person who witnessed these moments. I’ve never had any another photographer on the front lines keep up with me. I really do push my luck to the limit. I’ve almost died at every fire I’ve documented. These beautiful disasters would have gone unseen if I didn’t get off on the rush of being inches away from death to capture

images that are not only one of a kind, but once in a lifetime. How many pictures do you take on any given day? It depends. I’m a photographer—I try to document everything. I know I capture at least one powerful image a day. What are you currently working on? At the moment I’m co-producing my solo exhibition with good friend and curator, Aban Sonia (Artisans Agency). The show will feature the fiery excitement from my blaze chasing. We’ve been developing the show for a couple months now

and it’s really exciting to see it manifest and finally come to life. I was recently brought on as the lead photographer for Machina Muerte and New World Color. Still shooting t-shirt graphics, lookbooks, etc. You know what they say about idle hands... So I’m staying busy and keeping the devil out of my playground. How’d you get involved with Freshjive? I started modeling for Jive back in ‘06 along with the homie Mestizo from Machina Muerte. I knew the owner, Rick Klotz, through some mutual friends. He hit me up to model for him and I ended up being one of the faces of Freshjive for a few years. In ‘09 Rick let Mestizo and I run Reserve, his store on Fairfax. I handled that for about a year and then told Rick I was ready to take on the job as in-house photographer. …Machina Muerte? Mestizo… His new album De Nir is about to drop and it’s fire—Machina Muerte is about to change the game. Now is that flick running on the Levi’s site of you, or did you take that pic?

That’s would be me. It’s the first global campaign in the history of Levi’s. I’m in a bunch of the photos. Does photography pay the bills? Yes. Can you recall a time where you didn’t have you camera but you wish you did? I try not to dwell on the past... Do you plan to take specific shots ahead of time or do you simply allow the shots to present themselves? It depends on what I’m shooting or shooting for. I always try to prepare for shoots with a shot list, but my favorite photos are usually unplanned. What camera(s) do you shoot with? I like to switch up my cameras depending on what I’m shooting, but for the most part I use my Canon 5D, Canon 7D, Contax TVII and Nikon F5. Photoshop and you... Go! CS5 can definitely save lives, but I do my best not to tamper with my photographs. I do most of my editing in Camera Raw. Do you recall the very first photo you took? That would be the buck. How do you feel about it? Pretty damn good. How often do you get a chance to travel with photography? I have been traveling a good amount in the last couple years, but I won’t be satisfied until I visit every continent. My dream is to travel and shoot in every country in the world. What do you really want to talk about? Talk’s cheap… Where would you like to see yourself go in the future through photography? Though I love being a photojournalist, my plan is to dominate commercial lifestyle photography. What does happiness mean to you? Truly appreciating life and all the gifts it brings (I know that was corny, but that shit’s the truth). Are you doing what you love? Without a doubt. What’s next? World domination. Any shout-outs? Much love to my boy Sam Monacchia and my beautiful mother Shannon Buckley!!! Your legends will live on forever.

What up Sum-In-1!? Microphone check 1-2 1-2... What’s really going on? Staying inventive, thinking outside the [ ] box and promoting my new album And Then Sum. How’s LA? Mad traffic! When did you get your start in hip-hop? I got my start as a b-boy at the age of thirteen when I first began going to underground shows. I began DJing with my friends at the age of fifteen and shortly after, I plugged in the microphone and started freestyle rapping, battling and writing down my rhymes. What’s changed since then? The progression and caliber of my music. How do you gather inspiration for making a new track? I look up at the night sky and all the stars and summon the alien in me. I also gather inspiration for making new music by being in the now and letting ideas flow to me—being appreciative for all that is. I challenge myself to always bring a new

approach to my music with every song that I make. Do personal politics play a significant part in your musical content? Politics play a huge role in our life today—I write what I feel. If something is relevant and I’m educated enough to speak on it, I will. What’s the greatest reward you’ve received through your music? Seeing people enjoy it. What can we expect from your newest album And Then Sum? Eleven diverse tracks, sum-thing for everyone, all original music fusing multiple genres, no

filler—every song is a hit! You had a ton of amazing features on your last album Anywhere, who do you got this time around? Papa Michigan (of Michigan & Smiley), DJ Dave (the man behind the “Whole Foods Parking Lot” phenomenon), Yellow Alex, Kev Da Khemist, Destruct, Summer Daniels, Hailin Saint, COR, Devin Dilmore (of Divine Elements), Noah Lowman, Marty Rod, Donnie Ca$h, Jeanine Strong, Lenny Pettinelli, Tony Kim, Joe Knox Juels, Anthony Kronfle, DJ Leviathan and many more.

Do you have any upcoming shows? October 14th, ‘11, I’m opening for Tyga of Young Money at On Broadway in San Diego, CA. Any other upcoming shows TBA. What’s the best and worst thing about playing clubs? Being in the club is always a party and I like when people can party and dance to my music. The worst thing about playing in clubs is when the promoters don’t know what the fuck they are doing and it’s unorganized. What makes you stand out as an artist? To sum it up, skills. Tell us about a day in the life of Sum-In-1… I live like there is no tomorrow. Where do you see all of your hard work going? I see my music reaching and being enjoyed by the masses. What’s your outlook on the record industry today? It’s in a state of change. Where else can we find you on the net? http://www.sum-in-1.com/ (that links to all of my

social media websites). What advice would you give to heads just getting their start in the music game? Pay your dues. How do you balance your music with the rest of your life? No matter where I am or what I’m doing, music is on my mind. What does happiness mean to you? Doing what I love and living life to the fullest. Are you doing what you love? All day, everyday. What’s next? Be on the lookout for the HUH album which is an acronym for Have U Heard. It’s an experimental project/group featuring Noah Lowman, Devin Dilmore (of Divine Elements) and myself. Any shout-outs? Big ups to my family, friends and fans!

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Sueworks! What up!? Chilling with UNDR RPBLC MGZN. What’s really going on? Just sketching, designing and setting up appointments for events and jobs—all art related. How’s New York? NYC is getting heavy right now, many artists hitting the streets. What do you write? My nom de plume is SUE (aka Sueworks). SUE is an acronym for Styles Under Evolution. What’s your first memory of graffiti? Sitting on the bench at the 168th street subway station watching painted trains pass by, all while waiting for the C Train to take me to school. This was in NYC circa 1980. I was nine years old. How did it make you feel? It made me feel like I needed to make my mark in society just to let the public know I am alive! Can you recall your first tag? Yeah, it was Sor. When was that? That was ’81. At the time, I had just started to

experiment with handstyle and letter structure. It wasn’t until ‘85 when I started writing SUE. Then I started to hit the streets heavily, going on a sixteen-year bombing run with Hec and Nose... UFC Crew!!! Has much changed since then? Wow! I think a lot has changed since then. Like there are street cameras now, cell phones, vandal squads and the introduction of the Internet in ‘95. All these things have slowed down the street scene a bit, but it has not defeated the graf movement. Graf writers will always

find a way to get up no matter what obstacles come our way. What crews do you write for? MTA, ATC, OGT, SC and UFC. How do you feel about the current graffiti game? I think the graf game is strong right now—you have a lot of the old school writers still active and there is a new generation that is also making their presence known. This is why graffiti has now made its way into the mainstream and has also been accepted as an art form by the media and galleries around the

world. How often do you paint? I am privileged to paint every day—I have made graffiti my full time job. Why graffiti? Graffiti is the biggest subculture movement in the world and I am proud to be one of the pioneers who are still helping the art form evolve to the next level. Do you pay for paint? No. I haven’t paid for paint since ‘09. I have a stock room with shelves full of boxes of paint. I have all different brands of paint that I use for work and play. When I was younger I used to boost paint all the time, but as I got older, boosting got harder and harder. Eventually I had to start paying for paint and it got very expensive. I ended up spending $2000 or more on paint every six months. Thank God those days are over! [laughs] Where do you see graffiti/street art going? Oh, I don’t know. Graffiti has gone mainstream—it’s everywhere. It’s in top galleries and museums. As I mentioned, it is considered an art form now. I guess

graf has reached its peak. Have you had any difficulty with the law over graf? Of course! I have been arrested, done community service, served five years on probation and paid many fines. All of these things come with the graf game, when you are a true graf writer. What doors has your graf background opened up for you design-wise? Graffiti led me to graphic design. Graf is an extension of the art form, since graphic design is about fonts, letter structure and color theory, among other things. I have designed for top companies like American Eagle, Syndicated, Red Bull, Nike, Pro-Keds, Red Line Films, NFL, ESPN, Hush Tours, Interactive One and many more. These days you have to be a jack-of-all-trades to stay in the game. Which of the two do you prefer? I love to do it all—that’s how you evolve in the game. I love to learn new things everyday and mix it into my art. Don’t be afraid to experiment and try new things. It’s cool to stand on your own and not copy a style from someone else. This is how

top writers stay on top and followers stay following… And I’m not talking about Twitter! [laughs] Does your design work pay the bills? Yes it does. I haven’t worked a 9 to 5 since ‘03. I had the balls to leave the blue-collar job sector and start my own business in graphic design and graffiti art. It’s been a long, hard road, but I’d rather break my back for myself than anyone else! And in the end, it feels good. Where do you see yourself going in the future? I see myself doing more commercial advertising work and living life to the

fullest. What is happiness to you? My Family!!! Any art shows coming up? I’ll be in Orlando, Florida, on October 8th for the Pintura Project. Also, I will be in Miami, Florida for Art Basel in December. Who are your biggest influences? Life itself is my biggest influence. I don’t follow any artists. I do my own thing. If you follow artists and study their style, then it will reflect on your own work. Other artists will notice that. This is why my work stands out from everybody else’s.

Are you doing what you love? Of course I’m doing what I love! Who wouldn’t love to go to work and do what they love everyday and get paid for it!? And for those haters who say “You’re not keeping it real.” I say F-U!!! I paint everyday for a living and I’m up worldwide. I just had the balls to do it while you go to work for the man everyday like a robot and have no time to do what you love. I’m keeping it real. What’s next? Anything and everything! I have no boundaries. Whatever comes my way, I’m doing it. Regardless if it’s art or not, you will see my name everywhere. Any shout-outs? Big shout-out to my family, crewmembers and to the whole graf world in general. Organized resistance!!!

Mixtaped and Lost

by Chad Ghiron

Track 1 Pt. 1 Bon Voyage – The Reverend Vincent Anderson and his Love Choir Well, the morning sun was almost up and the congregation was drunk They started drinking in the morning when they found him lying dead Between the fistfights and conceptions, the soliloquies and tears They waited for the sun to take him home The smell of stale piss and years of layered mold followed me as I made my way from the ticket counter, in the broken Port Authority, down the three floors of escalators and vacant hallways to Gate 27. The ticket woman at the Grey Hound window had told me in some thick, unknown accent I could barely understand, the bus for Athens, Georgia, wasn’t leaving ‘til 1:37 p.m., but would start loading at 1:07 p.m., so I should head to the gate to make sure I got a good seat. It was close to 11 a.m. at the time, so I’d paid, taken my ticket and turned back around to face the drunks and degenerates filling out the food courts and uncared-for magazine stands, like some sort of meeting place for lost souls; a whirlpool of broken dreams. Maybe it was the brown tiled floors or the grayish walls, but, aside from the people, there was a depressing haze hanging loosely overhead in the high ceilings; a feeling of being trapped and spending eternity in this beige maze in the guise of a bus terminal. You could read the feeling in every pair of passing eyes, darkened with the weight of their days, it was pointless to try to escape and even if you wanted to you

were better off staying inside. Through the sliding doors, on the pedestrian-traffic-heavy sidewalk, was a war-zone; a panhandler’s wet dream. Just to go for a breath of second-hand-smoke-filled-fresh-air you were no better than a piece-of-meat as passing hobos beg for 87cents expecting someone to be like, “Oh, hold on!” and pull out three quarters, a dime and two pennies with a big smile and hand it over, because when you responded with a light “No” they’d break into a fit of Tourette’s, screaming, “You lying piece of shit; cock grubbing asshole. Over privileged prick!” Between the profanity ridden vagrants and the clouds of carcinogenic-smoke, the wide-eyed families of pale and slightly overweight Eastern European tourists, confused at how they got to this part of town, hurried in straight lines through the crowds, like pigs to the slaughter, looking everyone up and down with suspicion. I felt bad for them, watching the racing fear in their eyes as they pushed through. I had never visited New York as a tourist, so I could only imagine what it must have felt like going to Times Square for a fun family outing and ending up in a dystopian nightmare. For the most part, Port Authority wasn’t a place you’d find reasonable locals hanging around. It was unspoken, at least to me, but common knowledge to stay away unless, for some reason, you were in dire need to catch a bus out of town, which I was. There was something about the whole scene you had to admire, though. Somehow a city and their elected officials had completely forgotten about a whole two blocks of their home, but had managed to station cops around the perimeter as to keep the insanity contained. It was as if the city had taken up arms against the Port Authority Derelict Army, lost, tried again, and finally given up ceding the terminal to its rightful owners.

Their paper-bag flag flew high that night as the victors celebrated, burning their garbage cans late into the morning. I remember the first time I had the honor of experiencing the Port Authority. I’d been living in New York for only a couple of months after moving from San Francisco and was with a friend, Sarah, on the way to a Flaming Lips concert – I’d gotten her tickets for her birthday because she was one of the only three friends I had on the East Coast and I wanted to keep her around – when we saw a recently dead hitand-run victim on 38th and 8th. If it hadn’t been for the cop standing on the corner asking if we’d seen anything, Sarah and I, being caught up in the excitement of getting to the concert, would have tripped headfirst over the body. Seeing what lied ahead, she’d screamed, grabbed my arm and pushed her head into my shoulder as I told the officer we hadn’t seen anything and walked across the street in the other direction. It hadn’t been my first time seeing a dead body. As a teenager, around 15 or 16, I’d been working in the E.R. at Community Hospital in Santa Rosa, California, for community service when a woman who was in critical condition after a head on collision was flown to the hospital by helicopter and died shortly after arriving from internal bleeding. For Sarah, though, this was a first and a bad introduction to the subject as the poor guy’s stomach had been slit and his gray-blue intestines lay in the crosswalk. It was a hard sight to let go of and naturally put a halting spin on the whole night. I snapped out of my daydream and started to adjust to the atmosphere in the Port Authority. With my bus ticket in hand I looked the length of the hall to figure out if I was hungry or not. Maybe a Jamba Juice or an Orange Julius? Or even some Chipotle? Deciding against wanting to feel sick, I threw my army green canvas pack over

my shoulder, looking like a Vietnam Vet taking the long slow walk home, I started away from the fast food. I was Rambo, well, minus the killer instinct and inability to form a comprehendible sentence. “Watch where the fuck you’re going!” A rough voice yelled up from the ground. Shocked, I looked down to find myself half atop a bearded homeless man who was bathed in off-brown clothes with one black and one white shoe, which were different sizes, and a deathly looking cat curled up next to him on a leash. He was laying under a single thin sheet of the New York Times from that morning, which was draped over his waist and read, U.S. Unemployment Rate Reaches 9.3 Percent. I couldn’t help but wonder what his take on the unemployment problem would be. “Sorry.” I said, thinking to myself, “When the hell did he get there?” “Goddamn demons!” He mumbled to himself as I took a step to the side and walked around him. It was hard to keep walking and not ask him to repeat what he’d said. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to egg-on a schizophrenic, but for some reason I love trying to reason with the unreasonable. I believe, given the right attitude and patience, anyone is capable of holding a conversation, but that’s been proven wrong many times in my life. I bit my tongue and moved on. It was confusing to me though, how, with all these cops around, did this homeless man get away with lying in the middle of the walkway? Maybe they weren’t supposed to maintain that sort of thing; maybe they were only there to harass the people who looked like the modern day “threats”. Yeah, that must be it!

Thank heaven for the Homeland Security Act. Arriving at the gate, after getting lost only three times, I set my stuff down and took a deep breath. It was calm; no one was there except for a few workers walking in one door and out another, aimlessly, as if to look busy for their boss. Well, maybe they really were busy, who am I to know? I looked at my ticket, seeing the time of departure again. Why is it all buses, trains and planes leave at such odd times: 11:46 p.m., 9:51 p.m., 6:46 p.m.? Was there some conspiracy behind the times? Did they all add up to the cosmic number 23 (I still don’t know what that means and the movie Jim Carrey was in, 23, made it even more confusing)? Screw it. I pulled out my phone and started adding up some of the numbers. 10 + 7 no, only 17. 1 + 0 + 7 ha, I can’t believe I used a calculator for that. Forget it! “You waiting for a bus?” “I’m sorry?” I said looking up from my phone. In front of me was a 50-year-old black man with slightly graying hair dressed in a maroon suit and a matching hat. Next to him was a woman around the same age; I guessed she must have been his wife, dressed in a flower print church-dress and white gloves. Perched atop her hair was a little white hat with a fake pearl. The hat looked as though it had been placed there and magically stayed in place. Her

outfit didn’t make sense for a bus terminal and even more for the middle of November in the North East. “Are you waiting for a bus?” He repeated. “Oh, yeah. To Athens.” “See, I told you we were in the right place.” The man said, turning to his wife. “There’s just no one here, Charles.” The women responded, as her husband smiled, said thanks, and turned to sit on the benches 20-feet away. As they sat down I tried listening in on what they were saying but my hearing wasn’t like it used to be. Maybe it was the shows I’d gone to over the years. I’d laugh if that were the case; my mom would’ve been right by saying, “Wear your earplugs.” Giving up on trying to eavesdrop I turned my attention away from the couple and to the bag in front of me on the cold floor. I unzipped it, threw it open and started rummaging through it. I’d packed in the middle of the night, only 10-or-so hours before, and had tossed everything I could think of in the bag, closed it and fell into bed for a few hours of sleep before having to head out the next morning, so I wasn’t really sure what I had. Luckily with the bag wide open I could see: Socks, GOOD, underwear, BETTER, pants, shirts, toothbrush, deodorant… I was on a roll! Reaching the bottom of the bag I’d gotten all the important stuff, but then looking back at me, like a dog ready to bite, was a line of photo booth pictures of Lily and myself from Coney Island. The photos showed us laughing, kissing, making faces and the last with me alone and looking awkward. My heart dropped.

The pictures must have been there from when I moved; I couldn’t believe I didn’t noticed them while packing… It’d been the last time we’d gone out to Coney Island together to celebrate her getting out of the hospital. She used to say it was her favorite place in New York during the winters; it looked the same as it always had, but it was deserted, not a single person on the pier, only the decaying rides and boarded up corndog stands were there to remind you of its summer persona. Lily had worn a light yellow 1950s style flower dress with a heavy pea coat and was cold the whole day. We looked so happy; it made me sick. I wanted to rip the pictures into little pieces and burn ‘em to the ground. “Why the fuck does life have to be so unfair?!?” I screamed in my mind as my eyes started to water and I threw the photos back into the bag. “Fuck this place! I needed my escape.” I thought grabbing my CD player and the mix I made the night before and zipped the bag back up. “I’ve got to get the fuck out of here!” Placing the CD player in front me I looked at my watch. It was only 12:17 p.m. An hour or so later the crowd around the gate was starting to build. The older couple had disappeared, but in their absence was a young mother, no more than 28, and her 7 or 8-year-old daughter. The mom sat rapidly texting while her daughter, trying to get her mom’s attention, bounced around playing with her ratty one-armed doll. The stiff hair on the doll was one big dreadlock as the girl spun it around in the air like a superhero. Between texts the mom would look around embarrassed and try to get her daughter to sit next to her instead of jumping off the bench while making a loud Whoosh noise as they fell

to the floor. Every time the girl’s mom would ask her to sit down she’d yell “NO” at the top of her lungs and her mom would look around again hoping no one was watching them. She was quick to give up, though, and would go back to texting shortly after. Next to them was an old man who strangely enough looked a lot like Colonel Mustard, the yellow suit, top hat and all. At this point it was shaping up to be a pretty fancy bus ride. Why didn’t anyone tell me there was going to be a dress code? The old man sat with a newspaper fanned out in his lap, dozing in and out of consciousness. It was a little game I started playing with myself. I’d watch him rock forward, close to the point where he might fall over, but then as if by some miracle he’d pop back up and then precede the same motion only this time backwards. “You’re in line, right?” A woman in a light-pink jumpsuit and hair pulled back tight asked walking up with three rolling suitcases. “Yeah?” I answered looking around confused. I wondered what went through her head before she asked that question. Did she think there might be another reason I was sitting positioned in front of the door of the gate the bus was leaving from? “Oh, I guess I’ll just be after you, then.” She said snippy. I laughed. She was irritated. My being at the front of the line had managed to piss this woman off. If this was all it took I could only imagine what it’d be like sitting next to her the whole 22-hour ride. At least I now knew to stay away, but some poor clueless soul would have to sit next to her, and who knows how she’d take it. She’s probably got four pillows, a quilt and two square meals ready to be laid out. That or she had the body of her recently murdered husband packed in her

suitcases. She seemed like the type. One of those housewife serial killers that no one suspected ‘til it was too late. “She seemed a little on edge sometimes, but she made the best apple pie and chocolate chip cookies!” The head of the P.T.A. would say. “Can you watch my bags?” She asked, but in the end it wasn’t really a question, because before I got a chance to answer she’d turned and left. “Yeah, okay…” I laughed watching her whip her ponytail at my answer. I felt like I was watching some cheesy high school movie and she was the bitch no one liked but everyone was “friends” with. You know, the one you kind of want to see get hit by a bus? It was 1:12 p.m. when I checked my watch again. The countdown had come and gone. I’d thought loading was to start at 1:07 p.m. Just as I looked up a large man, close to 300 pounds, with a four-day-old five-o’clock shadow swung the gate door open and announced they were ready to start boarding. “We’re ready to start boarding.” He said. Standing up, I grabbed my bag and pulled the ticket out of my pocket. The women in the pink jumpsuit hadn’t gotten back yet, but the line behind me wasn’t going to wait and I didn’t want my getting there early to be in vain, so I handed the man my ticket. “Have a good trip.” The man said tearing a small section of my ticket off and handing the rest back. As I passed him to cross the threshold I got my final fuck you from New York, the man smelt just as bad as he looked. It was blue cheese that had been sitting in the sun all day then

topped with a thick coating of pepper. Blowing the air out my nose as hard as I could, trying to get the smell away from me, I made my way to the open bus door. The winter air stung my face. Inside it had been warm enough that I’d forgotten it was well below 30 degrees outside. Before I could step on the bus a man grabbed my bag, slipped a tag around the handles and gave me the other end. “Keep this.” The man commanded. “You’ll need it if you want to get your bag back.” I said I would and I went to get on the bus, but stopped before getting on. “Hey, let me get something.” I said, as the guy got ready to throw my bag into the bus. “Where’s your ticket?” He asked. “What?” “Your ticket.” He repeated without a smile on his face. “You need your ticket to reclaim your bag.” “You’re kidding, I just gave you my bag two seconds ago!” I said trying to see if he was joking. “There’s a lot of people on this bus.” The man said. He wasn’t joking. I handed him my ticket.

“Okay.” The man said looking at the ticket and matching it to the only bag in front of him. “Here’s your bag.” “Thanks…” I snapped taking my bag. This is too much, I thought as I opened the bag and grabbed a couple things, zipped it back up and handed it back. “Keep your ticket, you’ll need it if you want to get your bag back.” The man said and threw my bag deep into the belly of the bus. “Yeah, got it!” I said turning around and stepping on the bus. Jesus, I hope this man isn’t the bus driver! A weight seemed to fall to the floor from my back as I took my first step into the bus. My stomach, for the first time in months, stopped hurting. The knots, that had been there, were starting to let up and allow me to take a full breath. It felt good. The bus was dark, except for a line of lights running down the two sides of the aisle, as the heater pushed out the vents next to the windows. I was the first one on the bus, so I had my pick of the litter and was ready to choose wisely. I’d never been a person that liked the front, nor the middle. If I had my choice, which I did, I’d take the third row from the back on the left hand side, next to the window. I can’t explain why, it’s just the seat that feels welcoming to me. Knowing the rest of the passengers were close behind I went to my golden seat and made myself at home placing the stuff I’d grabbed out of my bag on my lap. I had the CD, my CD player, an extra pair of socks and the photos of Lily and myself. Had I not realized what I had grabbed? I started to get up to put it back but stopped. I didn’t want to lose my seat, or have to deal with pushing through the crowd of

people trying to find their place. Even more than that I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to have to talk to the ticket man again, it was bad enough the first time. Shaking my head I pushed the photos deep into my pocket, put on my headphones and pressed play. Track one, I read on the back, was Bon Voyage, the old New Orleans Jazz funeral march, performed by Reverend Vince Anderson and His Love Choir. I felt sleepy with the raspy, Tom Waits style, singing and robust piano playing pushing out the mini speakers and the heater making me feel extra comfortable, my eyes started to fade and the outline of the bus melted into a stage with bright white light bulbs. The blurry passengers getting on the bus and finding their seats looked like a band preparing to start.

Track 1 Pt. 2 Bon Voyage – The Reverend Vincent Anderson and his Love Choir (take two) Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage Your love for life has put you in the grave And we lift a dirty glass to your filthy stinking life Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage I was standing in the middle of a dense crowd as the rip of horns and jazz piano rang through the dark hall. The Reverend Vincent Anderson stood with his band atop the boxy stage, framed by bright round light-blubs, on the business end of his keyboard growling out the words to This Little Light of Mine like some sort of vaudeville act in a speakeasy. To him it must have looked like we were rocking back and forth enjoying ourselves, but down here the drunk-crazed dancers parroting the words back at him were spilling their drinks all over me and knocking everyone around. The night had gotten to the point where the smell of cheap whiskey and beer infused in the wood flooring was wearing on me, but I took a deep breath and once again felt right at home. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” I thought. Well, maybe that’s a bad statement, I’ve never liked large groups, for one it’s always a bunch of sweaty nasty people you don’t know surrounding and pressing their bare skin up against you, but live music, no, scratch that, music, has been my last breath of sanity for as long as I can remember. I’d played the saxophone since I was eight-years-old, picked up the bass at 12, guitar soon after that, and had been in countless bands throughout both high school and

college. As a kid, when I wasn’t playing I’d be listening to the radio – when the radio was still something people listened to that is – to full albums for weeks on-end, and mix-CDs my friends and I made. Looking back, music could’ve been the one thing that kept me in school through my dyslexia and ADD; it’s really been the only thing in my life I was good at without having to try. As a kid I’d wake up early in the morning, the fog still laying soft against the moist lawn in front of my bedroom window, with music slamming out the boombox/alarm clock I got for Christmas when I was 10. In the evening, when my family and I were finally all home, music was on all the time. We’d throw on the Beatles the moment we walked in the door, the Rolling Stones as we sat down for dinner and dessert, and a light selection of David Bowie, Pink Floyd or the Talking Heads while my parents poured themselves a glass of red wine and my sister and I got ready for bed. After I’d fall asleep to music, mostly something like the Wallflowers’ second album, Bring Down the House, which I put on for a good two years straight as embarrassing as that might be to say, One Headlight is still a comforting lullaby to me, and will put me to sleep like a warm glass of milk. I look back at those days and remember them as perfect; I had no responsibilities, no cares and no personal money problems. I know the rose colored glasses are glued to my memory, but it was beautiful. I often wonder where those days went... As the Reverend Vincent Anderson and his band came to a halt I broke from my memory lane and the ringing in my ears took the place of their horns. I pulled my sweaty gray t-shirt away from my chest to get some air. As I let go I felt the moist shirt rubber band right back to where it had been on my body.

“This is gross.” I thought to myself. It didn’t matter what kind of show I went to, it could’ve been the Sykesville Orchestra’s rendition of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C major and I’d still walk out with a thin film of sweat covering me. This type of show, in a small venue crammed full of people dancing and drinking and sweating to the point where the humidity started to condense and drip from the ceiling, was always the worst. I’d end up soaked. It’d actually become quite a little pain-in-the-ass in the last year. Just this week alone I’d gone to five shows and destroyed 11 shirts. The reason for the mass amount of laundry was I went to shows for work. I’d managed to fight my way into a dying industry and pull together a modest living writing feature stories for print magazines. Outside of being in love with the process of writing and working in music, the unfortunate truth was I had somehow found myself pigeonholed into doing stories on overpaid-under-talented pop-stars and their fabulous lives, while I lived in a railroad apartment in a bedroom with no windows, constantly being threatened by Con-Ed to have my electricity turned off. Now don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I’d been on tour with an up-and-coming Hip Hop stars, been to album listening parties at record companies, did cover stories on R&B artists and Pop-Stars, and spent more time learning about these people than I thought could be humanly possible. But, what I really wanted to cover was Rock. There’s just something about the scratchy-reverb and faded out vocals played loud enough to blow the speakers that made me happy. I wanted to cover everything: the garage rock, the punk, the indie, the pop, the oldies, and the classics, even Coldplay. I was up for any style people could dream up! Want to start a psych-acid punk group? I don’t know what it is, but I’ll give it a listen!

I later learned, a couple years after getting my start, once you start in a genre it proves harder to make a move then I would have expected. “Happy Birthday, Baby.” A girl’s soft voice said as I watched the band mull-around on the stage. A faint, but comforting, scent of a sweet-lemon perfume crept up my chest to my nose as a pair of thin arms followed, wrapping around my waist. Before I knew what happened a shot of whiskey had been pushed to my lips. I grimaced and pulled my mouth away, but the small hand followed me. “Come on you big baby! Take the shot!” the girl said again with a laugh, playfully pushing me forward with her hips. I sighed, put the glass to my mouth and choked down the shot. “Goddamn, I can’t stand… Lily?” I said turning around then talking a step back. “But you’re… What are you doing here?” Looking directly into my eyes stood a curly blonde girl with milky caramel skin. I stood there for a minute in shock, her hair on fire from the stage light behind me, her piercing bright green eyes smiled as she looked at me. “I’ve missed you, so much.” I said under my breath. “Are you crazy? It’s your birthday. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t miss it.” Lily said smiling, grabbing me around the neck and kissing me. “Come on, everyone’s here.” Lily took me by the hand and pulled me through the crowd to the other end of the bar.

“What do you mean, everyone?” I asked, trying to keep up with her. She wasn’t but an inch shorter than I was, but her legs seemed twice as long as mine, and she walked faster than anyone I’d ever met. We’d had a race once and found she could walk ten blocks in the time it took me to walk four. Since then she’s called me slow. “How do you feel?” The Reverend Vincent asked the crowd of Monday night drinkers, who all drunkenly yelled back “GOOD!” as Lily and I made our path through them. The show was getting started again and people packed forward making it difficult for us to make our way. “Lily, who’s here?” I asked again, trying to stop her and keep her from going any further. “You’ll see.” She said with a smile. I hadn’t wanted much of anything to happen for my birthday this year. I was turning 30-years-young and the idea I was still barely able to pay the rent on my shitty apartment, the fact I had no savings or a way of knowing how these savings would come about, and my cat, Monster, had decided to commit suicide by jumping out the window after a bird, didn’t really seem like a good event to celebrate. Maybe a wake would have been better. “Lily, I told you I didn’t want to do anything.” I said. “We’re not.” Lies. Just as she finished we broke free of the crowd and standing in a big group was nearly everyone I knew.

“Surprise!” They yelled over the music, handing me a beer and saying happy birthday. “How the shit did I not see any of you?” I asked, looking around. There was Jenny, Steve, Juan, Matt, Brian, Meagan, Sarah, Tiffany and a bunch of other people I didn’t really know that well. “I keep telling you that you gotta pay more attention.” Lily said, half serious and half joking. “Shit.” I said grabbing Lily. “Thanks.” Lily laughed and pushed me away playfully. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” “What?” “You’ll see.” Lily said as we both were handed a shot and took it. “I didn’t really want to get drunk tonight…” I said. “Stop complaining.” She said, handing me another shot. I set the glass from the second shot down, which was actually my fifth drink of the night as the band slowed and the Reverend started into a pedantic speech. “A little bird told us there was a birthday in the house.” The Reverend said into the mic, looking around the dark room. Lily started to laugh as soon as The Reverend said this and stepped to the side to see my expression. I was horrified, my stomach sank; I knew this had to do with me. I

looked over at Lily who took a sip of her beer trying to hide her huge smile running across her face. Ever since I met her she’d loved putting me through things she knew would make me uncomfortable. It was either that or she just loved getting me to experience life and I always tried to think of it as the latter instead of her being malicious. One time she signed me up for the pillow fight world cup. I thought we were just going to watch, but when we showed up she threw my number on my back and told me good luck. Before I could say anything the event staff had grabbed me up and taken me to get ready. I made it through the first couple rounds, but in the third I got my ass kicked so hard I broke my nose and had to get stitches over my right eye. “Are you kidding?” I asked Lily, nervous about what was to come. I’d been to one of the Reverend Vincent Anderson’s shows before and knew what he’d done for others, but having to be on stage and the center of attention wasn’t really my idea of fun. The thought of all those eyes on me! I was starting to get sick. “If you don’t mind would you please come up here?” He continued, reaching his hands out into the crowd. Lily exploded into laughter and spit her beer all over the floor after trying to hold it in for 30-seconds. Excitedly she grabbed my shoulders, turned me in place, put her hands flat on my back to push me to the stage. “Come on, Come on.” The band played a quick, non-Disney sponsored, rendition of Happy Birthday as I was lead to the stage. It’s funny how when the spotlight is on you, everyone moves out of the way. Before we’d struggled to make our way to our friends, but now people stepped to the side making a row for me to walk through. If I had tried to get up front without this it would have most likely ended in a fight.

“Hold on there.” The Reverend said stopping the band. “We’ve heard you’ve always wanted to do this,” I was confused, “and, I don’t know, but I kinda feel like the Make-A-Wish Foundation, right now.” People laughed at his joke as I climbed up on the stage, turned around and stood next to the Reverend. “So, if you want to just stand here, we’d be honored if you’d sway along with us right now.” He said. “And in honor of your birthday we’d like to do a song we always do for birthdays. Is that alright with you?” “Yeah.” I nodded back looking out into the crowd. Lily was the only face that made it through the dark shadows as she beamed up at me her light curls shining. “Alright, are you ready?” He asked, and again I nodded. Well, the morning sun was almost up and the congregation was drunk They started drinking in the morning when they found him laying dead Between the fistfights and conceptions, the soliloquies and tears Well they waited for the sun to take him home To take him home “Go ahead” He said to the band as they broke into the meat of the song, a slow funeral waltz. So they built a raft made from her house Yeah, the shit hole she called home Filled with paper they’d doused with kerosene Light the whole damn thing on fire Let it burn real nice and slow Then they waited for the sun to take him home And they said!

Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage Your love for life has put you in the grave “And we lift a dirty glass!” The Reverend yelled out to give the audience a clue of what to sing. . . And we lift a dirty glass The crowd sang back. “To your filthy stinking life!” He yelled out again and the crowd followed again. . . Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage The crowd sang loud. Well, a priest had been arranged for “Play that lick” He said, between lines. From the stage it looked like everyone was singing. I’d seen it happen before for other’s birthdays, but I never thought I’d end up here. I mean first of all, I’d never have the nerve to tell anyone to have this done for me, because that would seem fake and forced, and I double never thought anyone would take it upon his or herself to do this for me. I could always count on Lily. To say the eulogy He called, he said, “I’m sorry to say, but something done come up” So they got the local idiot to mumble a few words

And above us yeah she shook her tired head And they said! No, literally THEY, the whole bar, said. Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage Your love for life has put you in the grave And we lift a dirty glass to your to filthy stinking life Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage Well, the fire burned and burned and then it burned some more Yeah this one burned longer than most do Everybody drank, then they drank a little more And watched his ashes fall to the floor Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage Your love for life has put you in the grave And we lift a dirty glass to your to filthy stinking life Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage I hadn’t felt this happy for as long back as I could remember. I never would’ve thought this would make me as happy as it did. I’d thought it would’ve been more terrifying than fun. This is why I loved Lily. It was like she knew me better than I knew myself – I know that’s cliché, but it felt true – she’d been able to open me up and show me parts of New York City I’d never seen, but had been around for years, and pushed me to experience it instead of just viewing it. I never really knew there was a difference between experiencing and viewing until I met Lily. As the lyrics of the song came to an end, The Reverend Vincent broke into an old-timey piano solo, kind of like something you’d hear in a Charley Chaplin film or any other silent film. I started to dance as a

joke, then got embarrassed, stopped and turned bright red. “Hold on, now.” The Reverend said as he stopped playing and walked away from the piano as the band continued playing the drunken melody. “I got a present for you for being such a good sport.” I forgot about the crowd and looked at the Reverend. I’d seen them do this birthday song before, but I’d never seen them give a present to anyone. “We got you some Papi LaBelle Hot Sauce.” “I love that stuff.” I tried to say, leaning over to the mic. “LaBelle Number Three.” He said pointing at the label. “But number one in our hearts. Come on, give it up.” I took the hot sauce he handed me, held it up to the audience like a proud new father, and gave him a hug. I looked over at Lily, who was still looking up at me, and gave her a questioning look to see if she’d bought the present for him to give it to me, but seeing my expression she shrugged and mouthed, “I don’t know?” Lily wasn’t a good liar and even worse at keeping secrets, so I knew she was telling the truth, I just didn’t know why the band was giving me a gift. “Alright, right now you’re gonna have the opportunity, both male and female, both Jew and Gentile, both gay and straight, to sing to the birthday boy.” The Reverend said. “So, I’m gonna ask for the ladies first.” And they sang… Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage

Your love for life has put you in the grave And we lift a dirty glass to your to filthy stinking life Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage As The Reverend started to talk to the men in the group, the back-up singer grabbed me by the arm and started to shake it. I turned around and as I did her face melted into the face of an overweight woman with curly brown hair. I stepped back almost tripping and pulled my arm from her. Shaking my head I turned back around Lily was still smiling at me. The back-up singer shook my arm again. “Excuse me, is anyone sitting in this seat?” An obese woman was standing over me looking at the seat next to me. I was back on the bus. The stiff fabric chairs and dark lighting had been enough to put me to sleep. I didn’t really know how to respond. I wanted to scream at her, “YOU FUCKING, BITCH! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST STOLE FROM ME? YOU KNOW YOU JUST WOKE ME UP FROM THE FIRST GOOD DREAM I’VE HAD IN THE PAST TWO MONTHS?” but instead I just shook my head no, gathered my stuff and sat up straight. How had I not noticed this woman while waiting for the bus? Maybe Lily had been right, I did need to start paying more attention to things, because, to put it lightly, she wasn’t really the type to be very good at hide-and-seek, if you know what I mean? She was around 300 pounds, roughly, had the face of a turtle and wore a forest green tracksuit, which strained around her waist, but hung loose around her arms and legs. Maybe she was a turtle with thick-caked on make-up and a strong

Britney Spears’ Curious Eau de Parfum Spray for Women Wal-Mart perfume. In a game of hide-and-seek if you didn’t smell her first, you would’ve found her trying to hide behind a small bush or thin railing. Right away I thought to myself, “Damn, I should have grabbed the Advil from my bag!” I’d never dealt well with pain and I’ve had a problem with getting headaches randomly from over powering smells. “Thanks.” She said with a sweet smile. “I’m such an asshole.” I thought to myself, putting my head in my hands, she seemed so sweet. At least I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. It used to be that when I’d think something it’d come out like verbal-diarrhea. I’ve lost so many bad jobs and would-be friends from my lack of censorship, but I can’t really blame myself fully, I think I was born without a voice inside my head. People say, “Think before you speak.” But I don’t think that’s possible. “Where you headed?” The women asked, setting her bag on her chair and opening it up. “Athens.” “Oh, how nice. I’m going down that way also. Down to Savannah.” She replied, lowering the tray-table in front of her seat and pulling out a whole rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, two ears of corn, four biscuits, a large side of gravy and a full two-liter Dr. Pepper. I hadn’t even brought a sandwich and she had come with a dinner big enough for a family of four. “I’m screwed.” I thought to myself. The bus hadn’t even left yet and

the smell from the food was already making me hungry. I sat up tall in my seat to scan the rest of the bus and thought to myself, “I wonder if there’s enough time for me to run and grab something?” “I’m sorry. Is the food gonna bother you?” She asked, having watched me look at the food and then scan the bus. “No, no. Just as long as you let me have some.” I joked, trying to judge her reaction. “Aw, I would love to, but, you see, I’m a diabetic and it’s really dangerous if I don’t eat.” She said as she cracked the top of the Dr. Pepper. “Take a breath!” I thought, as she got comfortable. Her sides laid clean over the armrest. If I hadn’t breathed right then, I would have blown up! It didn’t really bother me she wasn’t going to share, that actually seemed normal. She didn’t know me, and why would she? But, wasn’t it this type of eating that made her diabetic in the first place? And, don’t you think the two-liters of soda is just as bad for you as sharing a leg of chicken? “Oh, that’s too bad.” I said with a fake, half smile. The bus driver walked onto the bus and without a word closed the door, turned the key and started the engine. “I guess everyone better be on the bus,” I thought looking around the bus, then turned to look out the fogged window as a newspaper blew by like a tumbleweed in the dirty terminal under Manhattan. As the bus jolted and started to back up I put on my headphones and thought, “Bon voyage, you bastard, bon voyage. I won’t miss you one bit!”

Who are you? Big Herk. Where do you live? Detroit. What do you do? Recording artist/actor/CEO. When did you start? In the mid to late 80s. How was your first live performance? Nervous/exciting/energetic. What would you like to gain from your work? Recognition, respect and a nice amount of cash!!! What would you like your audience to gain from your work? Enjoyment, insight, knowledge and understanding. Who or what are your biggest influences? My grandparents, my kids and music. What keeps you up at night? I’m an insomniac—so I don’t sleep much anyway. What’s next? My new LP—Overdose. My artists Devious’ and Young Herk’s mixtapes—Da Cracktory and In My Blood. More movies—da whole nine—be checkin’ for us dis summer. Gotcha Back Ent.