Sunday, October 30, 2011

Johnny Rumble: A Relative Unstable Stability

I'm as unstable as I'll ever be this year RIGHT NOW.  Sitting at the computer, drinking Lemon Youku herbal tea, tikking and typing on a wireless keyboard, listening to Hong Kong rap pop something or other and Crass in simul-cast from the left and right speakers on either side of glowing moniter.  SAMSUNG.

I'm leaving on a Jet Plane.  I'm gonna wear my purple sunglasses and pretend I'm the Queen of England.  Or Elton John... kind of the same thing really.

Particles of dust are floating around me, I can see them like I can see the bubbles in my eyeballs.  There, but mythical, mystical.

I'm sticker-bombing The Saturn, and you can't fucking stop me.

pbbbbt,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Surviving

I don't write like a used too.  I could almost say that I don't write at all.  Most of what I write anymore is little 'x's, VIN numbers, Licence Plates and whatever sorry excuse i can make up on the spot for why your car's camber is three degrees out of wack and can't be fixed.  I fall back on "It's a solid axle and needs shims.  We don't do that here." a lot.  That's because Toyota is still making solid beams.  So Toyota goes, so goes the rest of auto manu-fracture.

I'm still amazed at how good the FD RX-7 looks to this day.  Gave me a little chub in the biting cold morning air today.

My employer is finally forcing me to at least learn how to manuover a manual transmissioned car around the parking lot and into the bays.  I've only stalled out two so far.  A shit-box Ford Ranger and a BMW 330i.  The Beamer was on a wet day, and I didn't get enough speed to get up the alignment rack.  Stupid me.

Thoughts in my head arn't really complex questions anymore, not like they used to be.  I don't think I'm getting any dumber, just less... provoking.  I don't care about what's moral or amoral, politics, philosophy, or any of that bullshit that colleges try to teach thier students.  Not anymore.  I'm a working stiff, blue collar, boot wearing Skinhead, who just needs to bonus out everyweek to feed the family and pay the bills.  Knowing who Kant or Hume or Descartes is does not play into turning a wrench.

I believe is why I don't bother with the practice of writing much anymore.  It dosen't fill the need to survive.

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Heart of Darkness

My thought process has turned as dark as the water in the bottom of the bath after a hard day's work.  Not to say that I'm falling into a depression or anything, and fuck know's I'm either to stubborn to die by bleeding out, or too chicken shit to try, but the moods, the thoughts, the emotions, and the cravings have turned "dark."

I find solace from this state standing under the hot rain in the shower, a reflective time, to think about what is going on, the sounds of the H2O and dirt pounding on my skin and the plastic under my hot pink toenails and cracked calluses.  The isolation helps, my own version of the padded cell.  Sometimes I hear a sad piano playing softly.

I don't think much anymore when I'm in the "real" world.  It all looks 1940's Film Noir anyway, black and white, lots of shadows, even in the daylight.  That's where I've ben thriving, in the shadows, the ones under the cars, adjusting this or that, turning eccentric cams and making the red box turn to green.  I don't even have to look up at the undercarriage, the naked and exposed beauty of a well crafted frame, like a proper stripper doing her job really well.  The curves, the heft, the sensuality is gone.  It's all the same.  I'm Hollywood Goth again I guess, all dark and depressed, black clothes hung on pale skin. 

Self-medication, if possible, would probably entail Zolfot, Trileptal, Lithium and Codine.  This cocktail would probably end up killing me, but strangely, I seem rather okay with that, going out in a blaze of OD glory, the fields of white chrysanthemums billowing in the breeze, the clouds in thier white fluff, marshmellow paste in the sky, edible, if only they could be reached.  The lone jet fighter streaking across the blue, chased by long trails, a road for the cowboys and wranglers to follow.  The apple trees would be dancing, humming hymns, Amazing Grace, Swing Low, the notes and keys marching on the branches.  A ladybug crawls onto the green leaf, spreads it's wings, and I lay back and close my eyes, rocketing to the dusty plains of Mars,

Johnny Rumble

Thursday, September 01, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Hater Face

It's been an interesting week.  Between all the shit has happened, the amounts of liquids I've inhaled into my stomach, and the seemingly ever increasing tiffs that occur in my our house that have led up to this week of raging hormones and no-sex, my nerves have been, well, fucking shot.

I know this, because I kicked a guy out of my creeper chair today.

"Dude, get off my chair."

"Hang on, lemme finish..."

"Get th'", I don't know why, but I've been dropping letters out of my vocabulary when "The Hate" hits, "fuck outta ma chair, and lemme do thi' muttafuckin' alignment!"  Boot.

I was approached later by another co-worker.

"You got your Hater Face on."  We all have one, mine's just a stern, slightly pursed lips, eye brows lowered to my cheek bones and eyes wide for trouble kind of Hater Face.  I use this face to tell other faces to get the fuck out of mine.

"'Cause I'm fuckin' hatin' on all you motherfuckers, you irritating shit-stains, you..." I veered off into a rant that I don't remember most of what was said, but it was a five minute tiraid about how everybody could go drown in a pool of chlorine and ammoinia.

He looked at me with a bit of his Hater Face.  Sizing me up, I guess.  Didn't matter, I was squeezing the life from an already inanimate spanner.  "You cool?"

I drank in the soupy air, the non-chlorinated brake cleaner, the NOx, the hot dino-juice, and all the tension in my veins.  I softened and smiled.  "Yeah.  You cool?"  We pounded fists and went about our days, better for everybdy involved.

Lovin', and Hatin',

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Busted Bumper

Theres a Merc S600 Lorinser sitting in the shop right now, the bumper is broken, busted by us, the employees of The Company, broken on a piece of curbing, it was sitting to low when we backed it up.  Broke the lower valence, a some of the Slot A into Tab B connectors.  The paint got chipped, and it's Jet Merc Black.

We'd already broken a center cap, replacement cost: $180.

This is probably going to cost around $4000 to fix all told.  New front aero, new matched paint, install, all that shit.  I got thinking about it though, started to poke in and around, shining my new $150 flashlight into places and all the training I had in bodywork started to flood back.  I thought about the C-10, the Buick, the Power Wagon, the Cobra.  I remembered the motions of the sanding blocks, the smell of primer dust, the proportions of of hardener to glaze coat,  I remembered it all.

I looked at it, and figured the fix could be done in my garage for maybe $500 bucks.  Glue the crack and carefully fiberglass mat the back side for strength, sand, sand, sand, sand, prime, sand, sand, paint, clearcoat, sand, clearcoat, and call it good, because the orange peel on the rest of the body is pretty shit anyway.

I told my manager that it could probably fixed right here in The Company's shop, but not painted, he gave me this look "Do you really do bodywork?" and I wondered if anybody really reads the resumes people hand over at interviews,

Johnny Rumble

Johnny Rumble:
This Time, Nice Guys Finish First

I don't know if it's still the case in the Japanese industry, but I read a few years ago how employees usually don't switch jobs or careers very often, if at all, because of the way The Company will actually take fucking care of it's own.  Lay-offs and work stoppages are uncommon.  The Company won't enter into short term high profit contracts if the possibilty of the employees being hurt happens.  Hearing about this revelation in business occuring in a far-away land that isn't America jaded me to the whole fucking system here.

What the fuck does somebody do with $14.7 million a year before stock options anyway?  "Honey, the Royce has a bit of dirt in the carpet.  I'm going to buy a new one.  What color would you like for this one?"

For the record, Rolls-Royce has 14,000 different shades of paint.

I'm happy that I found another Company that really does give a shit about thier employees.  I'm well compenstated, over-time is an accepted reality for the accountants, and job-related self-improvment is rewarded with a pay-bump and bonus.  Some of the people I'm working with have been at the store for 10+ fucking years.  There are very few places where somebody can actually retire with twenty+ plus years anymore.  Military is one, Ministering the sheep is another.

This Company actually seems really happy for me to be there, I got promoted from relegation to mid-table with-in three months, given chances to show what I'm made of, burned, sweated, bled, and even let out a teardrop or two.  I've come to work happy, smiled through it all, complained little, and got rewarded. 

Now to just learn how to do my new job quickly and effectively,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, August 02, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Kal-e-forn-i-ka-shon

Traveling back to California in November.  Not happy about it, not angry about it, not sad about it, kinda... beige.  Just beige about the whole thing.  It'll be nice to see the wife's family again.  With all thier lunacy and very flexible rigidity and "Oh honey, you must be starving, here, eat this huge slice of grilled ham, onions, bell peppers, hash browns, gravy and biscuts and...".  Any weight I might have lost in the coming few months of DIETting (Dead If Eatting Trash, as in, she will kill me if I eat a donut.) will be put back on with the home cooking and white people soul food.

I've been sustaining myself with make-at-home Gatorade, grilled cheese sandwiches and Tomato and Red Bellpepper soup.  This mechanic's job in an open shop, in the dead of feckin' summer, is murder.  I nearly passed out today from heat exhaustion.  Or it could have been the "Chicken Bacon Ranch Tacos" the wife made.  I was hungry for two.  Should only eat one.  But the job is paying the bills quite nicely, and it's funding the trip back to the land of the living dead.  So, eh, beige.

The thoughts of cas keep creeping, around and around.  A Chevy Trailblazer chassis, four wheel drive, with a Model A pickup body on it.  Rusty, chopped, ratted, with all the reliablilty to get to work or whereever at the turn of a key.  Plus, if it can pull it off, a four-by-four lowered rat with big chunky off road tyres would be just plain sweet looking.  And the most unique car in the parking lot, anywhere.  Hard parking.

It's a rambler, this was known, but the need to get thoughts out trancended the need to have "real" posting with "real" thoughts, fleshed out in the usual Johnny style, which is constantly evolving and devolving and paradigm-shifting and getting lost in the woods.

Wishing cars still came with tape-decks, mixtapes sounding good,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
The State of Motoring

I would like to declare right now, on the internet, that the state of the Motorist is dying.  There aren't many of us around any more.  The ones that will enjoy a car in the raw, without the air conditioning, the non-leaking roof, traction control, anti-lock brakes, TPMS sensors, and all the things that the government has mandated to be on new cars and trucks that take the fun out of the powerslide or hitting a tree and charoming off the dashboard.  Instead, when we stab at the brakes of a new Nissan, we are left picking teeth out of the steering wheel because modulation is just impossible now.

People used to talk about how the oil smelled after it got hot, and how they fixed the screeching fan belt, or re-tapped the frame to hold the suspention in place because the bolt rusted and broke.  They used to be able to fix thier own damn cars.  Now we have mechanics to do that, 24-7 wrecker services to rescue us.

On that note, everybody needs to own a car that will kill them.  I don't mean owning it and getting rid of it, but keeping a deathtrap in their name all the time.  Cars that if they cook the brakes on a winding downhill mountain road will kill them, flywheels, that if over-revved will explode and cut through flesh.  Engines about ready to catch fire, wiring that exposed and bare, and rusty sharp metal that will give them tetanus.  Rat Rods are one way to go, and the way I probably will to, and then there's the sexier, classier way of Alfa Romeos.

My car may be broken, but I'll be laughing more than you,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
The Go-To Guy

We all have that one person in our lives, the one that can do, will do nearly everything to make your life easier, usually at some sort of expence to thiers.  I've always kind of been this way, service before self, so that others may live, others first, above all kind of shit.  I will take time out of my meal, my swallow of ice cold milk, to help you on your journey.

I got selfish for a while, hoarded my time and wasted it here, in front of the LCD screen, listening to music on Windows Media Player, and got little out of it.  Certainly not anything I could remotely call a "life."  I think that's part of the reason I'm a mechanic now, fixing people's cars, not worried about making the commission, living off the hourly wage, more concerned with getting the job done right, and have the customer leave with a happy smile.

I'm back in that regard, helping others, annoyed by them all the same, but helping them.  People outside of work ask me for advice, help with their brakes, or their ball-joints, or electrical systems, or fueling issues.  People will ask me for advice on what car to get.  This has led to my very opinionated rants and raves about certain cars and engines and engineers and the dumb shit they sometimes produce.

I'm a Go-To guy again for automobiles.  After seeing the servicing needs, the general state of aging, and watching what becomes a fine Single-Malt versus Kentucky mouthwash.  People are asking for my thoughts on the subject.

I'm steadfastadely unsure about my newly assumed old position in life,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Trav:
New Car, And School Is Done!

So quick update from Williamsburg visiting the grandparents on my day off work. School was done a month ago, and Dad offered to get me a new car, so I'm getting that after work Friday. Will post pictures later, as well as what the car is, guess away the twelve of you who appearently read this(YAY readers :) ). Regular updates should resume as well.

Trav

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Skinhead, no boots

The electric shears took my hair down to less than a sixteenth of an inch today.  All the dead skin, shampoo build up, and plain ol' dirt fell off in chunks I'd rather not describe.  After nearly three inchs of hair growth, I'm a Skinhead again.

But I have no boots.  The Wal-mart brand I bought as a stand-by have given up, worn through in six months.  I miss them, boots.  The smells of the leather and ranky foot odor, the Dr. Sholls inserts, laces fifteen miles long, a tedious but loving process to fit them snug and happy to the feet and ankles and calves.  A good eight inch boot, with a steel toe.  Black leather, Combat boots.

So I walk around in my Guinness brand flippy flop thongers, and Converse All-Stars knock-offs, black, with formerly white trim.  These have holes too.  I don't roll my legs like I used too.

I'm still a skinhead, like I'm still a punk, like I'm still a child.

I've just been distilled to a mental rebellion of apathy,

Johnny Rumble

Friday, June 24, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Wikipedia

We've all done it, and those that say they haven't are just lying through their god-damned teeth.

The rightclickopeninnewtab/window deathtrap of blue hyperlinkedness that is Wikipedia.  That is, unless you run a Mac. 

Fuck Macintosh.  But that's another story.

Don't get me wrong, I really, really like Wikipedia.  It's a very useful tool for me.  I can find nearly everything on Wikipedia now, from information about a particular music album to universal events on any given day, from 6000 years ago to eleventy-billion years in the future.  It is, i must adimt, rather sad that in just five years of really using Wikipedia, I believe that I have learned more relevent information for the here-and-now of my life than in the previous eighteen years of school and university.  I've learned about Lagrangian points and determined that it would pretty cool to have the mathmatical diagram tattooed into my skin, the Century series of American fighters, the original magazine-format of Top Gear, along with numerous other factoids about cars, astronomy, history, people, places and times.

I don't know if this is just the rapid advance of technology that has allowed my brain to become filled to the point of non-retainance, or just plain old information overload that we as the next-generation have been subjected to and have overcome with our own versions of the somewhat problem (a la Facebook, SMS messaging, and always-connecttedness.  Minty Andee got away from it all with a great degree of self-described success.).

I'm still unsure if I like this "problem."  Somedays I'm a complete Menonite with everything I own, and other days I just can't get away from the keyboard on either my computer or my phone.  I'm wondering if I need a country re-education with a Mud Swamper C10, tinny radio playing KXXY and a pyramid of cans on the tailgate.

Sounds fuckin' dandy,

Johnny Rumble

Friday, June 10, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Smile Worthy Things in Alphabet

Another person smiling will just lighten up my day, make it a
Brighter existance, just so that I have the
Chance to go buy that pair of
Dykes I've been
Eyeing at the welder's supply for a
Fortnight, so that I can finally, finally
Get to all the re-wiring I've been fix around the
Home, but
Instead, I'll continue working at my upscale
Jiffy Lube-type job at the local tyre shop, with all freedoms that good bosses bring, unlike at
Kwik-Kar, but I digress, I'm
Learning more there now, and I think am happier with this job, than to sit,
Morbidly and obese in some small
No nonsence
Office cubicle
Preparing TPS reports, intentionally forgeting the covers, hoping to rotated to
Qatar for some fun in the hot blazing sun,
Returning with a wonderful golden tan,
Slimmer, more condenced, concentrated, spicy and
Tangy, like those first few sips from slightly
Unfrozen Gatorade, that first little bit, extra blue, extra sugary,
Vectoring toward the horizon, flinging away the
Waywardness, the
Xerox copy of every teenagers angsty life, measuring everything I do to the
Yardstick that I set for myself, eventually, just maybe retiring on the island of
Zealand, in the outskirts of Copenhagen, to live, and die, an Expat.

Talking about unfocused poetry, fuck me...,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
From the Foot-Locker Etchings

She laughed, I laughed.  I don’t remember at what though.  Everything was a blur.  That kind of blur that occurs after I’ve been two fisting that Somerset wine.  Even in this state, I was still mix mastering drinks in the kitchen.  A little of this, a lot of that, and suddenly it was a Melon tasting concoction that had a mild spice to it.  Like a Serrano pepper or something.
My shirt had already slipped off my body by this point, the cotton just getting to itchy to stand any more.  I don’t how she managed to do it, but she had, ice cubes and all, ended spilled on top of me.  Maybe it was my forehead that had knocked the Collins when I went to rest my head in her lap.  Call it a bit forward.
Oh wastage, I stated, rolling to my feet.  Her eyes got a little mischievous, We can’t have that, her voice cut in, all soft and sexy, smoky even.  Like an underground Parisian bar during La Nouvelle Vague.  The hypercritic in the recesses of my skull thought that her line had a particular cheese to it, but the voice, the voice had done whatever magic I hoped it was supposed to.  The haze was still there no doubt.
She licked my skin.  Got on her knees, pulled my closer by the waist of my jeans, and licked my stomach, getting the booze and flavor that lay there.  She kept licking, kept at it.  I could feel an involuntary smile cross my face.  I haven’t seen that smile in while, she cooed out, Why not?  I didn’t, couldn’t have a proper answer that wouldn’t give everything away and lay me there, on the carpet, naked, exposed, and unsure.  Because, was the best I could get out.
Pulling me onto the couch, she straddled my legs, effectively pinning me, underneath her, and her tongue, her lips, her warm breath.  That tongue had made its way to my very erect nipples, getting them clean of the sweet and spicy drink I had made for her.  I had a hold my wine bottle until she took that from me, and pinned both my wrists under her knees, never stopping.
I had closed my eyes, relaxing, and enjoying the attention she was giving me, her tongue swirling on my chest, the quick little bites she gave my neck and shoulders.  Somewhere outside, I heard the party music switch to twang bluegrass, and her tongue stud traced up my carotid, sending shivers down my spine.  She nibbled on my ear lobe for few seconds, breathed gently into my ear, I need another drink, full of suggestion.
She had a devilish look about her when she left the room, leaving me, still in haze, clothed, hard-pricked, and teased.  I never did like that woman, taking another drop of wine.  She wasn’t coming back.
Love,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, May 02, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Flag Waving Ameri-won't

With the death of Osama Bin Laden in Pakistan on May 2nd 2011 local, and the subsequent annoncement by American President Barak Obama, CNN's White House camera turned toward the fence line of the front lawn to capture images of many people waving the American flag, shouting cries of jubilance, and generally celebratining the death of perhaps the world's greatest terrorist leader.  I was notifed of the news, in fact, buy the ecstatic-toned text message "Breaking news: Osama Bin Laden is dead.  We got him!" sent by one of my friends.  The subsequent partying and celebrations that occured (many can be found on YouTube) have left a cold feeling in the pit my stomach about how Americans have reacted to the news.

The War on Terror since 2001 has left a trail of destruction and death in it's wake, death tolls have varied widely, but official Department of Defence reports place the death number at six thousand as of May 2nd 2011.  War, any kind of war, is frankly and utterly state-sponsored murder (and if you believe Ramsay MacDonald, suicide), with malice-aforethought, and much planning on how to commit less "suicide" for the goodies and murder more baddies.  Six thousand men and women in uniform sent out to murder the murderers, with six-degrees of seperation many times, that "commited suicide" on the murderous fields of war

We mourn these six thousand, pray for the familys, and re-commit our resolve to get those responsible and murder them back.  But we don't stop, mourn or pray for those dead.  Forgetting the familys of those dead left behind, the children with out fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters.  Instead, the American people celebrate and cheer that other Americans murdered, rightly or wrongly, murderers.  And we celebrate the fact that the Americans practiced for seven months on the best way to murder.  Premeditated, with-malice,  murder.

Osama Bin Laden, along with hundreds of thousands more people, was murdered by Americans, and despite what President Obama may have said on national television, justice was not done, there was no trial, Bin Laden was instead shot in the head, murdered, and a nation rejoiced and partied and praised the offenders.

Love,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Summary of Life

Sometimes I prefer to sit back on “my” reclaimed MG car seats and watch the world pass by from the comfort of my garage. But this gets me into trouble. I lose track of time, forgetting that there are certain obligations I owe to people. Obviously, these people get upset, but I plow on, sitting there, occasionally peeling my thighs off the seat leather.


I spend much time bench-building cars, made for dirt roads and the occasional un-plowed field, and perfect workshops, complete with a home-welded wheeling machine. Yes, I’ve been bitten by automotive body repair and restoration. The work kept and continues to keep me sane at my (formerly) inane and perverse job of oil-change technician and home-maker. I never feel better than when I crawl around the car getting things fixed or changed or added. I’m a cheapskate when it comes to repairing the Saturn.

College has become a torture chamber, the lunacy of the professors and the administrative staff preventing those fabled “glory days” from happening. After nearly four long and annoying years, I think I finally figured out what degree I’m going to pursue and head down the path of geek-dom and work with computers for a living. Computer programming... It almost makes me sick to my stomach thinking about being stuck under the white fluorescent, staring an LCD screen while my eyes attempt to stay focused. I’ve done it before and I missed working under the sun. But I was good (and still am) at it.

Much to my father’s worry I think, I’ve re-discovered dirt roads and how much fun it can be to look in the rear-view and see the rusty red clouds billow behind you, feeling the car shake itself to near-extinction, inputs being delayed for fractions of a second, and the buttonless handbrake being a great friend when it comes time to make that ninety-degree corner to speed down another dirt lane. Historians always talk about how the automobile liberated the city-dwellers to explore the country, the cause of urban sprawl, and the creation of the suburb. I’m becoming an Okie again, trying to get away from all of that. I want the isolated house, out in the middle of the plains, dirt and prairie for miles, and a lifted Subaru wagon to get me into town quickly to get the groceries and back out again, for I have a woman to love, dogs to feed and a fender to wheel out in the shop.

Speaking of a woman to love…

She finally got though my thick and oft-cracked skull that I need to let out probably one of the biggest secrets that I’ve kept from the family. Although I’ve sure some people have figured it out by now, there is a circular band on both of our left ring fingers. I consider myself extremely lucky she said “yes” given the circumstances under which I asked her. So that’s it. I, Johnny Rumble, am engaged. Crazy thought. I guess that this could be that officially un-official engagement announcement. When are the wedding announcements coming? That’s an on-going argument, as only “married couples” have. Or so I’ve heard…

It only seems like last week I was running around underneath the trees on the school playground playing freeze tag and “bubble gum-in-a-dish.” “Tag, you’re it.” Time flies, and I’m sitting in the garage, bench-building, thinking, twirling and spinning my tungsten circlet wondering where it all went, and wondering what’s coming around the corner.

I am much too young to feel this damn old,

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Trav:
Birds Poem #12

Yo all, so I got my play done for class but am going to take the time to redo it and make sure it doesn't suck (as much). School is almost over, and I'm about to graduate. YAY happy days.

Birds Poem #12
Birds chirping as the fog lifts
Morning sunshine a welcome delight.
Squirrels run from tree to tree
As a gentle breeze blows steam
Steam arising from my cup
One generating warmth as my day dawns ahead of me.

Footnote:

Flailing around in my head:
Tried so hard to change
Now I find it didn't work.
Too much too young and hopelessly lost
Cos nostalgia's better.

Youthful memories fade away,
What'd I hear you say?
Today's certainly not your day.
"Career opportunities" and missing counsel
Finding myself asking most nights
If I've torn myself down-
Down enough so you'll notice-
That anger and broken promises
Have built a mighty fortress.
Upon these last vestiges,
of personality we try to abandon.

Cos now, your friends, well-
they're taken for granted.
Left you behind
reduced to a footnote.

Footnote:
Flailing around in my head:
Tried so hard to change
Now I find it didn't work.
Too much too young and hopelessly lost
Cos nostalgia's better.

Youthful memories fade away,
What'd I hear you say?
Today's certainly not your day.
"Career opportunities" and missing counsel
Finding myself asking most nights
If I've torn myself down-
Down enough so you'll notice-
That anger and broken promises
Have built a mighty fortress.
Upon these last vestiges,
of personality we try to abandon.

Cos now, your friends, well-
they've beeb taken for granted.
Left you behind
reduced to a footnote.

Thoughts and opinions?

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Red Bull Coma

It's like the worst hang over I ever had, amplified because of the caffine that has now left my system and ended up on the floor in front of my face.  I don't remember a damned thing.  I was at my desk and woke up on the kitchen floor covered in taurine laced vomit, crushed Red Bull in one hand, letters to the family in another.  On the plus side, it looks my house got fuckin' CLEAN.

Another six hours of my life disappeared into thin air,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
What Was

I should have started doing this years before, and I'm only wishing I had the means to still do it, if only for the photo-a-day thing showing a transformation over a set period of time.  Videos of stills years in the making.

People always say that we'll look back on our lives and remember what we did and who we were and laugh till we cry about how stupid, dumb and thoughtless we were.  That's why I like home-movies.  It's a voyeuristic kind of thing, a time-travel machine, able to see in the past, to look at how stupid, dumb and thoughtless we were.

Able to look back and see the children that was growing the adult that is.

Most people have thier first christmas, first steps, first whatever on video.  Instead, I have this...



Because it really, really, really sucks! Hello my name is,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Dori Dori


Three Sixteenths drill bit: begged and borrowed

Zip ties: One dollar for fifty pack

Adding some JDM style to your broke and ass-stock USDM car: Fuckin' Priceless,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, March 21, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
, The Broken Man

I keep thinking about my lack of employment and how it is affecting my family and home life, which is to say, not that much to significantly.  I'm able to keep the house clean, get all those damn projects that have been piling up in the corner done and over with, and have a meal ready for the "real" bread-winner of the house, my wife girlfriend wife fiance (it's an on going argument).  I am enjoying the home life, the quaintness of it, doing things on a schedule that's fairly relaxed and un-jarring.

But I feel like a fucking failure when I look in the mirror.

IT'S ME, THE MAN, WHO SHOULD BE BRINGING HOME THE PAY-CHECK.  ME, THE MAN, WHO SHOULD PAY THE BILLS, BALANCE THE CHECK BOOK.  ME, THE MAN, DOING MAN-LY THINGS, THINKING MAN-LY THOUGHTS, EATING MAN-LY STEAKS, RARE AND BLOODY.

Instead, it's me, the man, who cleans the kitchen, cooks dinner, does the laundry, feeds the cat, and vaccums the house.  It's me, the man, who eats a rosemary herbed chicken breast, corn-off-the-cob, and a salad with no croutons cause they have calories, and raspberry vinagrette dressing, because that's what Rachel Ray suggested.

I'm a broken man that doesn't deserve his penis.

At least, that is, until I crawl under the car,

Johnny Rumble

Friday, March 18, 2011

Trav: Another Poem:

Yo ok so I miscopied the second one, that is about a night of drinking and talking with a friend, the one about Poppa, is here:

COLD:

Biting cold and frozen ground

The windchill cuts

as it erases images from my head.

I'm left alone with my dreams

I wander amongst thoughts,

Imagining impossibilities.


Trav

Trav: Poems

Yo all what up? So poetry class is going well, got some output for you, here's the first batch, thoughts and opinions? The first is about my state of mind, I mean that I always seem to be paralyzed by fear, the fear of fucking up or that I'm not good enough somehow. The second was written when I'd heard my granddad had fallen outside for several hours and broke his ankle on the ice. thinking about how cold it must have been, well I don't know if I'd have not like frozen to death, or something worse.


Impossibilities:

I'm afraid of failing

to answer the question.

So I'll never move

Frozen in fear by my own reflection

These mistakes,

Hold me in place.

As the fog thickens

Across memories

Of what never was:

A faded map points

To the future

That's hidden away

A land far off, newly discovered

Plagued by doubt

And carrying the uncertainty

Of lies told in the mind's isolation

By a broken mirror.

We don't start for fear

Fear of losing our way

Trepidation grips

Grasping at minds amongst this cold

Shivering hands have lost the directions

Leaving us biting cold and frozen ground

Soundless the windchill cuts

And with malice it erases

Images from my head.

I'm left alone with my dreams

I wander amongst thoughts,

Imagining impossibilities.


Storm:

A calm before the storm.

Long talks over ales:

Free flowing opinions

The state of the union

The Recycled Air

Of the apathetic generation


Trav

Sunday, March 06, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Every Day Is Sunday

...when you're unemployed.  So what's the first thing I do the day after I leave my Oil Change job?  I clean my electronic paperweight of a PC and re-create partitions on my drives that I've been meaning to do for the past three years.  I gained one hundred-and-seventeen extra gigs of storage space on D:.  I cleaned the drives, blew out the dust, scrubbed the software, killed the crawlers and polished the blue glowing turd back to some sort of crippled life.  It's out of the ICU and into General.

I'm geeking out of my skull right now, remembering all the porgramming and editing I did to this machine.  Remembering the menus and menus and sub-menus of Windows XP, navigating around, reducing the Page File from four to one gigabite and shoving it kicking and screaming on to the new partition.

I slapped a go-fast sticker from AMS Oil on to the chassis, hoping for that fabled "sticker-horsepower" effect.

I've forgotten what it's like to maintain computers and tempremental servers.  Thier like small children, constantly screaming in the long metal tube known as the coach section of your favorite local airliner while it climbs from sea level to thirty-thousand feet.  And magically, they stop, for one small moment, life is good.

Then XP pisses all over your shoes,

Johnny Rumble

Friday, March 04, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Buying New (to you) Cars

The next time I anybody asks me what would be a good used or new car to get, I'm going to tell them this,
"With a James Bond accent say, "[Wife name] Darling, shall we take the [car name] tonight?"  Think about this.

For examples,
"Alicia darling, shall we take the Interceptor tonight?"
"Nikki darling, shall we take the Challenger tonight?"
"Tori darling, shall we take the Marauder tonight?"

What did happen to all the good names cars used to come with?  Interceptor, Zephyr, Galaxie.  Now it's all alphabet soup.  The MKX, SL500, TL.  None of these car evoke a sence of wonderment, of occasion, of legend.  They just plain don't sound good.

"Kathy darling, shall we take the S65 tonight?"

The woody that I was shaking in my hand thinking about an Interceptor just went away.  Alphanumerics simply arn't sexy.  Bring back real names, names and invoke something and say what the car is about.  And this is also why I'm recommending cars by thier name now, so that when people say what car they own...

"Hey Buck, what are you driving nowadays?"
"A Challenger."

...people stop and think for a moment.  It's not just a new Dodge.  It's a Challenger.  And that means something.

Love,

Johnny Rumble

Friday, February 11, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Okies Properly F*cked

I love snow...

I missed it so much living in California...


The way it dances in the wind...


I couldn't help becoming one with it,

Johnny Rumble


Sunday, January 30, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Self-Censorship

I hate censoring anything.  When I do that, I feel like I'm removing all the best little tasty bits, the stuff addhered to the bottom of the pan, the stuff to make the glaze that covers the ordinary chicken.  But I did censor myself.  I wrote about something that I...

1.) Had no business writing about any more
and
2.) Could have potentally caused uncontrollable damage to several peoples lives.

It's one of those few times that I thought about what I had written, and thought hard about it, and I didn't like it.  So I cut it out, removed it, and in the process, I think I humbled myself a little bit, shocked the writers bit in my brain into some unease about sitting at a keyboard, typing. 

Still feeling a little sick,

Johnny Rumble

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Old Videos

(Removed by author)
Pictures never really did you any justice,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Work and The Bar

I've been keeping myself distanced from co-workers.  They all know each other really well, hang out, get drunk, whatever, but not me.  Arm's length.  Not to say I'm not willing to help them out of a situation, but none of the have my phone number.  Or, at least I haven't given it to them.  That really used to be a problem after I left High School.

I listen to them talk, about thier pasts and what they do now, how they grew up, the instruments they play, the bands they were in.  I'm not one of them.  About 90 degrees off of thier path actually.  I try not to get wrapped up in thier storys and have mine interwine on some sort of personal level because I know pretty much for a fact that it never leads to anything good in the work place.  I have a lawsuit to prove that one.

So I keep work at a distance, going to and fro, earning my weekly paycheck the best way I know how, by putting up AND shutting up.

Still packed in a box in the garage,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Fat Bastard

I'm trying to stick to some sort of "diet plan."  No fast food, no sodas, less sweets, less fatty meals, more salads.  I've put on weight.  Too much of it in fact.  So much so that all three of my camo jackets are a touch too tight around the mid-section.  Granted, they always were snug, but I'm worried about blowing out the zipper on my Desert.

I feel like I've lost weight, my work pants are starting to fall around my ass, exposing my purple Fruit of the Loom to all the customers in the lobby when I duck under a hood.

I wonder how many other women have checked out my butt,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, January 17, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Okie from Muskogee

To be entirely honest, I wasn't sure how to spell Muskogee.  I thought it had two 'G's in it.

Being back in here, in what the Tourism Board calls 'Native America,' kinda makes one lose appeal for the low street car and gain a further appreation for the lifted and tall.  Not that I've completely lost my fucking mind.  Just only banged it under the hoods of too many Subarus.

Subaru Fever I call it.

Maybe it's the All Wheel Drive, the boxer growl, the whooshing turbos and the way the whole damn car flops to one side when it's cranked over.  I keep thinking about these things, and the K-5 Blazer my neighbor has across the street and how it's constantly filthy with mud.  I think about the zip ties I have in my garage, and how simple it would be to use them to 'bolt-on' the bumpers, so dirt and ice hills won't kill them.  I think about light-racks and roof top carriers.  I think about top-mount intercoolers, turbo-induced torque, and then I think about having kids and I stop dead cold.

Lexus's fill my mind, luxuroius and able to take the family to a fancy dinner at a fancy resturant with a valet, I think about a LS or GS or IS, finely polished wood dash trays and air-suspension.  Supple leather seats and rich sounds out of the speakers, the automatic tilt/telescope rack, big chrome wheels and a Hellaflush sticker on the back window...

I bang my head again on another Subaru hood.  I look at Bay #4 and see a fresh Lexus.  I look at Bay #2 and see a dirty Subaru.  I squint slightly, hold my head at the right angle and lift my left foot one inch off the ground and see it perfectly, The Combination.

Love,

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, January 01, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
SUPERBARU: Realization

Complete the sentence with the answer that best corresponds to Johnny Rumble.

If I spent less time sitting at the computer stroking myself to thought of owning a Subaru, I would have...

A.) A cleaner house.
B.) More money.
C.) Written pieces of literature.
D.) All of the above.

Love,

Johnny Rumble