In the mornings the sky is the color of James Bonds' ride- gunmetal or battleship gray. But I ride it anyway. Through the hangover. Through the haze. Over the bridge, eye on the speedometer the whole way. Until the ramp. Hug the curve, give the sports package all its ever been worth. Its just a curve. Take it. Sixty. Seventy. Half a second or less. Pure joy. Then back on the roads, just a regular, upstanding citizen, obeying the posted rules of the road. Just like everyone else.

My morning commute is ten minutes. My ride home is fifteen, if there's traffic. Some nights I sit there, in the stop-and-go, and forget myself. Lean on the horn. Curse the motherfucker out. For half a second. Then remember, you aren't other people. You aren't afraid to sit in ten minutes of traffic. Because life is too short to be upset about it, otherwise. Easier to turn up the stereo, the Steve Earle or the Gories, the Blacktop or the '68 Comeback, smoke another cigarette. Learn to forget, just like they said.

Work is just a place to hang you hat and pick up your paycheck. It isn't good, it isn't bad. But you walk through the door and be the company man for eight hours every day and at the end of the week, rent's no worry, and there's enough left over to pay for booze and still have pocket change. Is it even worth worrying over? Everyone hates their job. Who wants to be everyone else?

Weekends the city opens like a virgin to me. Every thing is mine to take, whatever I want. Just ride the currents and find the flow. There's drinks and friends and laughs and fights, all whatever you're looking for. Try not to go to far, its so easy, we're all so permissible. But it isn't worth it. Nothing is worth it. There's so much on the gun metal gray horizon. So much waiting for you like a thunderclap out in the distance. All you have to do is point the car and steer. Why risk that? On anything that's just a momentary harassment. Anything that isn't worth dying over?

And when that moment comes, well, you'll know its there anyway.

In the meantime, relax, and just take it for what it is. And for god's sake. Enjoy it. It's all we all have.

So much going on lately I can't think of where to start. Proper update soon, for the moment just enjoy a recent photograph of Chris Sick v. 7.2:

Old sigils protect us, over the Betsy Ross and into New Jersey by old roadways. The city spread out behind, New Jersey squatting ahead. Over the bridge and onto Rt. 130, exit: Union Ave. Delair. Past the CD plant Dustin and I spent the worst part of half-a-summer and early winter in. Buried two relationships on those grounds, at seven PM break, cigarettes with Dustin off the rear loading dock instead of the dinner break was intended for. We still point it out when we pass by- I do, at least- worked there seven months, best in my department, let go, late three times too many.

Here's my uncle's first house.

Here's where we buried him, Walt Whitman, too.

There's the park I took girls to when we were underage, for cigarettes and smooth talk.

My parents lived in that house, once, back before I can remember, they lived together.

Dustin says, stop telling her stories. He says, you're not helping your case any.

Driving down 10th- in The City- past Catherine St, looking for parking and I mention- this is where Dustin had that gun pulled on him. So much for the subtext after that. No one ever hears, it was just two assholes in a car, hitting on his girlfriend. They got it just to do that, just to act tough, they weren't real trouble. Which is easy for me to say, every gun ever pointed at me was by uniformed police.

Descending, down into the guts of 8th and Market, checking the pocket watch, and I say:

Hm, last time I took the train back to Jersey before last call I wound up in bracelets.

I don't need to mention getting thrown to the floor after I had my hands over my head and that the Transit Cop had his knee between my shoulder blades, his Smith & Wesson at the base of my neck. The knife was in my right pocket. I could've told him if only he asked.

And Dustin says, stop telling her stories. He says, you don't need to tell her about all our hi-jinks.

Like New Year's a few years back. Left one party where soon after the Doktor almost wound up laying a kid out. Suggested- politely- that they go outside, kid declines. Happened not long after I left but before I had arrived. Dustin and Chrysta go on to the apartment after we leave the bar, I duck into someone else's party. Upstairs is just chips-and-dip, a strictly Yuengling Lager affair, downstairs was the real party, the gay party. What a spread, fresh shrimp and little cocktail dogs, champaign in an iced bucket. I leave just as people start to notice that I don't know anyone there, anyway. My phone rings as my bootheels hit the sidewalk, Dustin's in a fight. Two yuppies, he took them both as well as one's boot to the head. The next morning I wake up early, borrow their keys after dusting myself off the couch. Its eleven AM on New Year's Day and none of the bars are open yet. I stalk The City in cigarette smoke clouds, looking for ONE goddamn bar to be OPEN.

About two hours later Dustin and I sit on the ouch and he examines his ring and asks, you think I fucked up that guy's teeth?

All in transit.

We turn onto Spring Garden St, left from 3rd, low numbers. We drive past the club and- across the street- the faux-dive bar I used to work.

There's the nightclub I got thrown out of on my birthday, the one I worked at.

There's the bar that never paid, except in beer and shots, and no one cared if you were too fucked up to do your job, the Roots' personal studio is in the same building.

There's our hotel, the one we always stay(ed) at.

There's the house I learned to shoot up.

There's Paul's bar, one night he wouldn't close, the bomb threat closed off both sides of his street, me and Dustin the only customers, the bartender dying to go home.

There's the shop that Dustin manages, where I got my first (pro)tattoo, and my most recent.

The skin tells the story, as much on the streets as my arms.

Dustin says, stop telling her stories, you don't help your case.

And now the sun rises in the East, the ocean, sixty miles away now instead of two. Different ocean. Different city. Different story.

I tell her every story. She loves me all the same. I do the best I can. She believes in me all the same.

Here's the bar where I first met Dunx in the for-real-for-real world. Here's where I told him to read Moby-Dick. Here's where he played Billy Bragg and I was shocked to learn we had yet another thing in common.

Here's the bar where the Founding Fathers' met and planned a revolution. Here's the Liberty Bell. Here's where the first government this country ever had met.

We're driving south on Broad St, she pulls out the point-and-shoot snaps some shoots of city hall. And I remember one of the reasons I love this city.

She says, it beautiful.

I keep one eye on traffic and say, it is, y'know, sometimes you forget. We don't build civic building like this anymore. We don't make anything this beautiful anymore.

William Penn sits where William Penn has always sat. Frozen in mid-stride.

I smile as the grey jeep cuts me off, despite myself, but not quite.

You forget sometimes.

If I could always see this City through her eyes, I would never hate it. If I hadn't moved to California I never would've loved it so.

My City. My streets. My stories. My girl. My friends. My family.

What more could a boy ask for?

So Long, Been Good to Know You, No. 2

For the second time in just over a year I'm headed across the country, this time to more familiar waters, but another uncertain future. I'm pretty much beginning to like the concept- the uncertain future. Has a nice ring to it as well as more appeal than, say, certain death from massive drug overdose or sudden and irreversible liver damage. No, we'll take The Uncertain Future and not dwell on these miserable thoughts any longer. Any day of the week, we'll take The Uncertain Future.

So, off to Philadelphia, for bona fide, gainful like employment, steady paychecks, and back into the arms of the city that somehow still loves me after all that awful stuff I've said about it over the years. And despite the peeing down dark alleys on far too many drunken evenings. Back into the waiting arms of family and friends closer than blood, bars that turn a blind-eye to the smoking ban and have good men with heavy hands on the opposite side of them, back to everything I left behind and I even get to bring the beautiful woman I came out here for in the first place back with me.

Which is by far more good luck than I deserve, and much more than I could just as easily chalk up to my shocking and awesome personal presence and incredible charisma and charm.

Just lucky, I suppose.

It would be easy enough to turn my back on California, set the bridge alight on my way out of town, and let the thick smoke from the gasoline fire blot it all out as the horizon vanishes into the distance. Too easy, but hardly fair. In many respects the last year of my life has been the most godawful, isolated, miserable, depressed, hard-up, fucked-up, drunken, drugged out, uncreative year of my life. Probably would've done myself in intentionally or accidentally if I didn't have the previously mentioned beautiful woman to wake up to every morning, the support, kindness and caring of a few good people out here and a great number of ones spread out around the country and world, some who don't even know how much the short bits of conversation and little human connections add up to actually Mean Something.

So, yeah, it would be easy to say fuck this place and everyone that looks like it. But it would ignore the good people who've taught me cool shit, hung in with me when I was going off the path, and generally been good friends at best and excellent company at worst. And it would be terribly unfair to The Place, because I just never gave it an honest-to-god chance. The logistics started coming off the rails before I even boarded the flight out of town and didn't stop for about nine months. Which would've been bad enough in and of itself, of course, but I let myself- and worse- the woman down, because I didn't dig in and fight hard enough. I just laid on the canvas and heard the count.

So I can't say fuck California, not just for the cool cats I have met out here, but because I let it down a fuck of a lot more than it let me down. Maybe in another year we'll be coming back out her to try it all over again, or San Fransisco, The NYC, Lisbon, London, fuck it. The Uncertain Future sounds so good sometimes you can just about taste it.

Because I've learned at least one thing in the last year, its that its never over. You just keep trying and the fall doesn't matter half as much as the getting back up. The scrapes heal over into scars and toughen you up, thicken up that skin and get you ready for the next round. Its never over, you just learn whatever you can when you fail and make sure you do your best not to do it Wrong all over again.

So, so long Long Beach, so long California. It's been nice to know you, and we'll soon meet again.

I'm thinking my next blog should be

This space for rent.

Or, better, coming soon.

As in I keep meaning to put something here other than just a deceleration of my return. Which, now that I've been back for all of two weeks I remember exactly while I left.

Soon I'll get down to this business. It has been over a year since we last talked, so tell me what I've been missing, SG. In your lives, in the world, whatever.

For now, the short version of where I've been. Met my future wife(she's on my friend's list, hah), uprooted my entire life to the Wrong Coast, good times, bad times, new tattoos, new life, new world. There's plenty of stories, and we have a few months to work back and catch you guys up. Maybe as a challenge I'll try and work back and post a story from my time out here every few days.

Meanwhile tell me about yourself and have a picture of me wearing stupid Elvis glasses. I apparently bought them just for this moment since I haven't worn them out of the house since I got them. So, self-portrait of a Chang'ed Chris Sick in his Long Beach Chandler-esque bathroom.



Say Hello to Chris Sick, tell him how you've been this past year.

Edit - and the picture doesn't fit. But I like it anyway.

Chris Sick is back

Start getting excited again.

So long, SG, it's been grand.

email
ChrisSick@gmail.com
aim
myrebelgrudge

This was going to be a screed. A full on rant. A frothing at the mouth bit of pure, dripping hatred about all the people I hate, the small-minds, the petty, the petulant, the pedantic, everyone and anyone that's gotten under my skin this week- and it's been a bad week for that.

But instead of typing it up, I cracked open another tall beer, took a shower, had a cigarette and dropped 'Who's Next' on the turntable. And I can honestly say, I just don't care.

There's only one thing worse than having to deal with people who fuck you about, waste your time and psychically scar you and anyone else they might cross paths with. It's lowering yourself to their level. I could type up pages, talking a lot a shit about a lot of different people, some of whom might even read it. All of them would probably be stupid and self-centered enough to assume it was only and solely them. And they would just do what they always do and I- meanwhile- would feel better the same way a stiff drink makes me feel better. So I'll just have the stiff drink and spare everyone(and myself) the LiveJournal/MySpace style drama.

In a few hours I will officially be one year older, but probably neither that much smarter or wiser. I can live with that. Time spent above ground- contrary to both popular belief and many of my own statements- is time well spent. It's easy to forget. To get lost in the day-to-day. In the shit and the ass-ticks. It's easy to lose sight of things. But every day breathing is a good day. If at the very least it's a chance to fight for more. It's a chance to make things better, to see something new, something strange, to do something interesting with your time, to enjoy something rare. I'm on the short side of the mid-twenties, going towards thirty and, I think, for the first time, maybe that's not so horrible. Maybe it just keep getting better. I've joked for years that I plan on becoming immortal, but the truth it's rooted in is that there's just too many books to read and albums to listen to, bands to see and women to fall for and places to go to and things to enjoy that I'd ever want it to end. You could live a century and not explore and enjoy everything this country has to offer, and there's a whole world outside of the borders.

And if I want to get the most out of it, I don't have time to worry about the stupid, insignificant fights. They're not worth it to me, and if they're worth it to you, ah, god bless and good luck. I just don't have that kind of time.

So, in that spirit, this will be my last journal entry(I still have enough hate in me to despise the word 'blog'). I'm going to cancel this account, my last day will be February 15th. Hopefully between now and then I'll get a few messages from the people I've met on here these last few years that I've liked, telling me where I can find them and how to keep in touch. If I don't hear from you(or vice versa) it's been fun. Take care of yourselves, kids.

Goodnight filthy children.

...
..
.

I have another birthday around the corner. It makes me feel like gloating. Sitting in the dark and smiling in smug self satisfaction. Despite the reckless and hedonistic lifestyle I indulge in, the stunning amounts of substance and other (self) abuse I've heaped on myself and living in a country and area surrounded by heavily armed morons and lunatics, I've still managed to survive.

Haha. Suckers.

If anyone knew how I would've turned out I would've been smothered in my crib by a crying nun. With no teeth.

But I wasn't, and here I am, celebrating another year above ground.

This year I'm gong to indulge in what I hope will be a birthday tradition for many years to come, the writing of my own obituary on my birthday. I think I stole the idea from Lester Bangs. Unless I get drunk first and it's incredibly morbid I might even post it online, to make up for any morbidity that isn't be inherit in the idea itself.

I could write about so many things. Last year on my birthday I got eighty-sixed at the bar I worked at and then broke into a car for laughs. This year I hope it'll be more sedate, more low-key. The same level of drinking, but no violent outbursts. In any event if there are any violent outbursts at the party(by me or anyone else) there will be enough otherwise violent outbursts in reaction to keep things even and balanced. Just the way I like it.

(...)

In other, unrelated news, I think- and this time I really mean it- that I might be done with SG. The site just ain't what it used to be. I'm not gonna go all teenage punk rock on anyone and lament the good old days, but frankly, I liked SG a lot better two years ago. Most of the people on my friends list have bailed long before me and I know a decent amount who are talking about bailing very soon anyway. There was a time when I wouldn't give this site up because- despite any and all failings- it was still the easiest way for me to keep track of the people I know on the internet that were worth keeping an eye on. Now it seems like I hardly check the site and neither does anyone else. The last seven friend requests I've got have been from fat girls just looking for a cheap meal and I am no one's dinner. There just isn't much in the way of action on the site these days and it seems like the powers-that-be have gone out of their way to de-emphasize the community aspects. And I'm pretty sure I can read the newswire without a paid account. Suckers.

I still have to figure out when my next re-bill is(I swear, the old subscription cost was so cheap I don't even remember paying for SG) and then remember to set it up not to re-bill me. And then remember to collect emails from people and shit like that so I don't lose track with the handful of people on this sprawling disaster that I actually like. So it might be a little bit. I'll give some fair warning(this was it) before I do anything.

(...)

Meanwhile, between the fact that I'm leaving this godawful place soon, and that I have a birthday coming up soon, if you love me, you should buy me things. I in fact demand you buy me things. Or I'll get drunk and break into your car. And steal your cell phone. And then you'll cry. Like that seventeen year old girl did at my last birthday party. Don't risk it. Buy me things now.

(...)

Seriously, though, what the fuck is up with Memphis, TN. If anyone takes my above threat seriously(haha, suckers) and wants to buy me things: get me every piece of rock and roll that's come out of Memphis, TN in the last ten years. Holy fuck. The American Death Ray, Reigning Sound, Jay Reatard? My god, where have all these weird demented little fuckers been hiding out for years? I spent all night tonight listening to Jay Reatard's solo stuff on MySpace, the little bit of stuff on there from The Final Solutions(another Reatard side-project) and the American Death Ray. Holy christ. Snarling, mean-spirited, dark, stomping, bluesy rock. It's brilliant. Why can't everyone in a rock n' roll band sound like this? And why can't everyone who doesn't get fucked to death by crooked police officers from Northern Alaska, the blistering warts on their penises doing terrible things to their innards? Jesus. That would be a birthday present.

Birthday proclamation the first: if your rock n' roll doesn't swagger you're not allowed to call it rock n' roll anymore.

Fuckers.

Update

Apparently my last day on SG will be February 15th. Mark it down in your calenders. And sacrifice many virgins in my passing.

The worst part about [wanting to be]/(being) a writer [apparently] is that so many [of the good ones]seem to go bald.

Terrible, simply terrible.