12.28.2005

Today I have to clean the hard wood floor in our house. This is a job that I hate.

12.25.2005

I got this for Christmas. It is also my six month wedding anniversary.

12.24.2005

Merry Christmas,

From our family, to yours.

Jesse

also

I enjoy the new Wilco compact disk my wife got me.

12.22.2005

Okay, I want to rock again. Practice makes the rock a roll. I'm writing this in my car on a wifi fromsome unknown source while Robyn gets her hair cut. "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" is on, now "Long Tall Sally," now "Uncloudy Day." I would like to play music like Wilco, Willie Nelson, and Little Richard. The following bands are influences (meaning i ripped off things from them heavily) of the Longsound of the Longshoes: (the aformentioned three), Buddy Holly, Steve Goodman, the Band, 1970s Bob, Red Foley, Carter Family, Oasis, the White Stripes' latest, Patsy Cline, Rick Nelson, Supergrass, Creedence, both Elvis', Mutations...

Time to go.

12.20.2005

I think I might just quit as a musician. I played a show last night and it sucked, so I think I'm done. Maybe I'll do it like Harry Nilsson and do only in studio stuff. Playing live is horrible.

12.18.2005

I like Hee Seop better than Nomar. I also like the song I'm working on, Christmas, and Sten Kenton. I also like jogging around the lake, Robyn, and my band.

To Drewmanji:

Dear Andrew,

As you know, all the cool kids in Silverlake are conservative as opposed to you neoconhippierascistliberals in Ida-HO!

Enough of that. I can only check blogs from home (the school blocks them now), thus messing up my routine. Anyhow, I've got a band now. It's too bad you aren't around or you could probably join. I've just finished my first cup of coffee and it's quite dark, staining the inside of my cup.

I've had some trouble brewing a satisfyingly dark cup of Cajun Coffee as Poppo calls it. He also calls my coffee a WMD. Being poorish these days; however, I've been trying to save on coffee consumption by making lighter pots. Such is life, or "asi es la vide" as they say south of the border.

I've been into swanky, dirty, country rock these days. Stuff that has the smell of Dylan's mid-seventies Rolling Thunder Revue. I'm also finishing up "The Glory of Their Times" and it's beautiful. I'm not sure why I'd never read it. They took a lot of the quotes from it for Ken Burns' movie and it's all about the early part of the century, so it's the good stuff. I'm not sure what to read next, so I'll take your recommendation.

I've got a dog and she is adorable. Today, however, she has diarrhea. Doggie diarrhea isn't a cool thing. We're really looking forward to seeing you guys this winter. It should be a blast. Anyhow, let's keep this up.

Sincerely,

James

12.15.2005

The Longshoes are having their first practice today. Alan's getting his stomach removed and my dog has the skitters. "Lonesome Cowboy Bill" is rockin' and rollin' on my radio and I've got a strong pot of coffee and a guitar.

Christmas is almost upon us. I'm very excited. I'm as excited as a kid at Christmas. That's all.

12.10.2005

I'm watching a Norm McDonald show on comedy central. He's not that funny anymore. He used to be my favorite funny man, but his time in the sun is long past. Most comedians have a season of funny before they either move on to more serious fare, or comedy central.

I also watched three episodes of "Reno 911" this morning. It is still funny funny funny.

12.9.2005

Ricky Gervais has a podcast. I am looking forward to downloading it. Drew, I tried calling you back today, but your phone broke on me. I've been running around the lake and I like it. I might get my credential and I might not. "The Bear Necessities" came on random the other day and it inspired me to return to a life of chillin' out hard core. Then I went and spent too much money (see: got gipped) at the Red Lion and lost my check card. Now, Robyn is yelling at me to get dressed for din-din.

12.8.2005

I haven't posted on here in a while. I haven't really been checking blogs nor my email consistently really. The last couple weeks, I've been coming home, working on music or writing, making dinner, eating it with Robyn, working some more, and going to sleep between 8:00 and 9:30. Part of my early bed time is out of nursing a cold, part is out of boredom.

I hate subbing. I hate driving to Whittier everyday because I hate Whittier. When I work too much I get depressed because I think I'm neglecting my wife and friends. When I don't work enough I get depressed because I feel like a loser who is destined to substitute teach for the rest of my life.

I hate being cathartic on blogs.

12.1.2005

Las Vegas was fun. Robyn won sixty, I lost twenty, and seeing as we only ate out once, we came home even steven. I'm a roving sub today- three different classes. I've been writing and editing songs for a new EP this week. I like what I'm doing so far. Listening to a lot of Kinks, Red Foley, early Elvis Sun stuff, a little Carter Family, Rolling Thunder Revue/ "Desire" Dylan, and some "Mutations". I wish I knew a fiddle player.

My band is the Long Shoes, or the Longshoes. Not sure what looks better. Jesse Gloyd & the Longshoes, Jesse Gloyd & the Long Shoes, or the Long Shoes, or just Longshoes. Alan coined the term. Anyhow, time to go over a paragraph of corrections with the chilluns.

11.25.2005

I had prime rib at a Chinese Restaurant last night for turkey day. Tonight, pre concert, we will feast on turkey, cooked from our room in Vegas. Robyn and I lost seventeen dollars today, but I won at the game of life. People in the room are watching Home Improvement, I am not.

11.23.2005

I'm going to Las Vegas for Thanksgiving with my wife and the extended family. Happy turkey eating day folks.

11.22.2005

Link Wray has died. Buster goes to church with us. Sadie has round worm. I don't have work for four days and I'm going to Las Vegas.

11.18.2005

The Monkey Show is coming back to the airwaves! Details to follow.

I listened to some good music on the way to work. "20th Century Man" and "Carry Me Back to Old Virginia" were highlights. Someone told me Ray Davies used to attend Hollywood Presbyterian in the 1970s. I think it was Maust.

Listen to the break down in "Last of the Lipstick Vogue" and "I'm Not Your Steppin' Stone," and the openings to Little Richard's "You Keep a Knockin'" and the Zepp's "Rock and Roll." It's okay to steal from other people's songs. It's almost encouraged.

11.17.2005

Robyn got a creepy love letter in the mail yesterday from some guy named Rodrigo Venezuela. It was a little unsettling. If anyone knows who Rodrigo Venezuela is (it was postmarked from San Diego) we'd love to know.

11.16.2005

jolt spearmint 2
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

I got this tasty Jolt Gum for breakfast. It seems to be the new revolution in chewing satisfaction. Two pieces = 1 cup of delicious joe.

I am teaching science for the next two days at Grenada. I have a good class right now.

I listened to this thing on the radio about the Lincoln assasination being orchestrated by the Vatican. The guy was saying that the Vatican wanted to take over and make the US a religious state. It was pretty interesting, taken with many grains of salt, but interesting, very, very interesting.

For serious.

I'm going down to the Writer's Guild after work to read some scripts. I then may go to a free screening of "The Comedians of Comedy."

11.15.2005

Bill Monroe
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

The first song to come on my Ipod this fine morning was Bill Monroe singing "Walk In Jerusalem, Just Like John." Sometimes the most simple words sung perfect can have as profound an impact on my faith as anything.

11.14.2005

Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

Tonight, Robyn and myself went shopping at Gelson's, where we had some gift certificates. It was built on the site of the first Disney Studios. Camping was fun and laid back. Click on the link for old timey goodness.

20,000 Leagues of Their Own

11.10.2005 UPDATE!!

Now we're watching Dana Carvey's "Master of Disguise." There are children being left behind, though they were pretty far behind to begin with.

11.10.2005

I'm in class watching a Marv Albert blooper video.

11.9.2005

Got Jive If You Want It!
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

The concert last night was pretty cool. There was an article I'd read by some schmuck in the LA Times complaining that the Stones didn't play enough of their new album. Their setlists had been peppered with a generous dose of old hits and great album cuts, culminating with an amazing set on Sunday...

The set list

Jumping Jack Flash
It's Only Rock'n Roll
Live With Me
Tumbling Dice
Oh No Not You Again
Back Of My Hand
Dead Flowers
Midnight Rambler
All Down The Line
Night Time Is The Right Time
--- Introductions
Slipping Away (Keith)
Infamy (Keith)
You Got Me Rocking (front stage)
Wild Horses (front stage)
Get Off Of My Cloud (front stage)
Sympathy For The Devil
Honky Tonk Women
Start Me Up
Brown Sugar
You Can't Always Get What You Want (encore)
Satisfaction (encore)


The Sunday crowd was treated to some real gems... "Dead Flowers," "Midnight Rambler," "All Down The Line," "Wild Horses," "It's Only Rock and Roll," and "Live With Me."

Though the set was fantastic, we traded these songs for..."Shattered," "She's So Cold," "Rough Justice," "Rain Fall Down," "It Won't Take Long," "Bitch," "As Tears Go By," and "Paint It Black."

The last three were amazing, and "As Tears Go By" hadn't been played in a long time, but "Shattered" and "She's So Cold," staples as they may be, fit into the crappy dance pop late seventies early eighties cannon that I'm not that big a fan of. THey weren't bad, just not my choice. "Bitch" and "Paint It Black" were very cool, but "Dead Flowers" and "All Down The Line" would've warmed my belly more.

We had beer and cheese burgers at Carney's pre-show. A fun time was had by all.

LA Times Article!

11.8.2005

I will go see the Rolling Stones tonight. They will rock and roll. "Rocks Off" is on, sparking memories of many a pointless evening in Whittier enjoying being young and stupid. Cheers to more days ahead.

11.6.2005

Things that I will do this week.

1. Watch the Rolling Stones.

2. Camp

11.4.2005

I've got a show tonight. Everybody should buy "Luke the Drifter."

11.3.2005

This is what nice is...

Listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas album while 2nd graders write stories and draw pictures, thinking about being in love and married, reading about Satchel Paige, drinking coffee- hot all day from a Stanley, while researching facts about the Whaling industry- fascinating stuff.

Please let it be Theo...
Please.

11.1.2005

November is a Charlie Brown month. I'm listening to "Everybody Digs Bill Evans." It's a great album, it's probably one of my three most listened to albums, along with Bix and "Solo Monk." I wonder how Bridge School went? Time for tea and work.

8.30.2005

Thank you Mr. O'Brien for passing along your cough, or should I say Avian Flu? We'll find out in ten to fifteen days (or a couple, for you Mr. O'B). Man, I hope this post is still morbidly amusing in a few days and everyone is still alive. I've been paranoid about the "Avian Flu" all day, or as some speculate, the genetic embedding of disease by the Nephelim to wipe out a good portion of humanity.

Anyhow, I'm writing, the dog is playing, the Tea (with a smidge of whiskey and honey) is hot, and the wife is watching "Bridezilla." If I am to die in two weeks, I hope to spend my remaining days doing the same.

8.29.2005

What a good week I had. I'm now with my wife only, but the family minus Anne (Poppo and parents) came down for Oktoberfest at the Red Lion. We had good times with good people, sausage, schnitzle, beer, and topping it off with coffee and pie.

Last night I saw Richard Swift rock the Spaceland. Crap, he's good. Ryan and Jen P came along. Good country people, I do say. Now, I will watch A-DEV with the wife. The Dodgers piss me off. I'm sad for Paul Depodesta. He got a bum deal.

8.28.2005

Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

I saw Charlie Kaufman interviewed last night. He was a very laid back, nice, and interesting fellow. Some interesting things of note include him wanting to write the "Sponge Bob" movie, being bummed that Gondry and Pierre Bismuth got co-writing credits on "Eternal Sunshine," and he didn't really like Clooney.

The audience question time was horrible for the most part. I randomly ran into Vern Moen and another friend of mine, who made the great observation that he was expecting someone to suddenly explode, so they could die in the same room with Kaufman. It felt about as close as one could get to being at a Dylan press conference in the mid-1960s. Kaufman is, for better or worse, the most influencial screenwriter to come in a long time. Almost every question revolved around people asking about his "vision." He seemed very incomfortable, as would most.

8.27.2005

I saw John Cale play last night at Amoeba. He used to be a lot cooler I would imagine... "Vintage Violence," "Paris 1919," Velvet, discovering the Modern Lovers, producing early Stooges, Patti Smith, quite good stuff. People get old and decide that mixing in tribal beats will help their relevance. It was free and it was cool hearing his voice.

I'm listening to "Sketches of Spain" and drinking coffee. Sadie is sleeping and I'm getting ready for work. Gloyd out.

10.25.2005

My friends are coming over to watch the baseball game. Robyn is watching TV as I write. I wish I was a cool dude. John Cale is going to rock at the giant record store in Hollywood. He will probably play crappy music, most likely. I will be going to see Charlie Kaufman talk about writing movies on Thursday, maybe Universal Studios with my main man Mike, to Richard Swift and Jens L. with the Ryan and Jens, and Oktobrefest at the Red Lion with the Fam, too much goings ons.

Time to make movie on computer.

10.23.2005

Robyn met our famous neighbor a few minutes ago. He was nice. She was walking Sadie. I like short sentences. We are going to be making dinner. Today was a lazy day. We sat on the couch and walked the dog. Lance Berkman is batting. There are Halloween decorations all around our house. Lance Berkman just hit a double. I am going to make pasta. Robyn is going to finish cleaning the house from last night. I haven't read a book in a while and I think I should start one tonight.

10.22.2005

It's party day, the world series starts, I'm getting a dog, Orel Hershiser is interviewing for the Dodger job, I'm drinking coffee in my boxers at the kitchen table, Highway 61 just came on random shuffle, I'm about to eat a blue razz blow pop, and that is all for today.

fun links...

Baseball Gossip!

Sadie

10.21.2005

crispin
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

Halloween is in the air and I saw Crispin Glover in the 99 cents store buying about fifteen rolls of tp. We were getting stuff for the Great Pumpkin Party. I'm going to play poker and loose.

My heartburn is really bad today. It has been for a while. Robyn went to a fashion show last night.

10.20.2005

At 8:26 pm, I am sitting on my porch with a glass of vino. There are three carved pumpkins placed in various spooky positions around me. I think it's cool to have several different times of the year where you're aloud to be tacky. Not much. Worked late then went to Cat and the Fiddle with Darren and Matt B.

fun link is down today due to my laziness.

10.19.2005

cool duck
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

They're clearing mold out of the Athletic Club today, so no work. I went and saw the Cold War Kidz last night. They rocked the house hardcore. I was quite impressed with the jingle jangle and the noise. I also liked their cover of "Well,Well,Well."

I am in a Silver Lake coffee shop down the street from my house. "Loser" was playing. It made me laugh. How come I can't work from home? Tell me please. I want to be a home body, but I imagine I'll be a public school teacher. Making a difference would be cool, like this picture of Cool Duck. I googled "Cool" and this, I guess is what cool is. Take that Silver Lake. Beck isn't cool, Cool Duck's cool. So is Cool Papa Bell and DESTROYING THE WORLD!!

How to destroy the earth...

Cool Papa!

10.17.2005

Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

I saw "Broken Flowers" last night. The movie was good, but the theater wasn't. Six dollars doesn't get you what it used to.

Robyn is watching "Sixteen Candles." She's been barfing all the day long and was sent home from work.

On the way to work she saw a car burnt to a crisp. It took her an hour or so to go five miles. The sounds of weather kept us up last night. It was kind of cool.

Fun link of the day...

Got Heartburn?

10.16.2005

Bob Dylan - No Direction Home
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

I'm back from Ventura. Sunday morning is coming down. Listened to disk two of the new Dylan bootleg. Fantastic. "Visions of Johnana," "Desolation Row," and "Ballad of a Thin Man" were some highlights (like the magazine).

Things to do today: watch "Broken Flowers," write, walk, maybe carve things into pumpkins. Any ideas?


Fun site of the day.

animatronics.org

10.15.2005

I'm watching "Field of Dreams." It's one of my favorite movies. The girl in it has the same bed spread as Robyn did when she was young. Kevin Costner is pretty cool. People give him a hard time as an actor, but I lump him into the Bruce Willis, John Wayne, James Cagney, classic presence type.

"I want to build that field. Do you think I'm crazy?"

I'm writing a movie with Darren. Man, this is a good movie. "Lifetime average .356..." Just rambling. I'm not sure what I'm going to do for money in a couple weeks. Maybe I'll build a baseball field.

Jayson and Jen came to Ventura this weekend. We ate sushi and sat around a garage sale. I got sunburned, went to the pumpkin patch, and ate Mexican food. We were going to leave for home from the food place, but I left my computer back in Ventura, so we came back and became lazy.

link of fun...

Joe Jackson

10.13.2005

Darren and myself are about to start a movie about Satchel Paige. It should be fun and hopefully we won't get too distracted. I just got back from a jog around the lake that is silver. I like our neighborhood a lot and feel that all my friends should move in the general vicinity.

I missed the controversial call last night as I was at the Bethancourt's pad eating some tasty chile rellanoosne=b@#. It was quite, quite good and I'm craving it a bit, as I'm pretty hungry right now.

People who like country type music should buy Townes Van Zandt's "High, Low, and Inbetween." People should also take advantage of the free 50 songs from emusic.com. I downloaded the said album, a Chet Baker album, some old blues, and some random Sun Records stuff. Drew told me about it a while ago and I finally remembered to do it. 50 songs, no strings attached.

I also really dug this Jay Z song that played on my way home.

(new feature) Fun link of the day...

Bass Pro Shops

10.11.2005

I noticed I went back in time the last two days. For some reason, October and August have always confused me. Seriously. September has always been quick, summer's over, moving on, getting things going, only to hit October and realize that everything is laid back and there really is no rush.

Matt B is sitting here "working" on stuff just as I am. The people at the HAC are getting rid of mold or something. No work's nice, in theory only. Listening to "Billy the Kid." I'm going to write now. The coffee is cold now, time to make more. What are people up to?

8.10.2005

There's no work today. They're exercising the spirit of Rudolph Valentino or something in the building, and we were instructed not to come in. Robyn is sick as well, so it's been a nice morning. She's watching an episode of "Felicity" and I know Keith can agree with me that a milk shake made of motor oil and shaquille o'neal's rotting tendons would be more enjoyable.

Anyhow, I went to Downtown Disney this morning to replace my employee card, I'd lost it off the roof of my car a while ago. On my way there, I stopped at a McDonald's to "hit the head", as they speak. Upon entering the restaurant, I was hit with a very pleasing smell that reminded me of my childhood, of stale fries under car seats, and salt on fingers.

Jessie Conklin, friend to all, gave me some wise advice regarding McDonald's a while ago. She reminded me that "a McDonald's" isn't a hamburger, it's a "McDonald's." I ended up ordering one of these said McDonald's and quite enjoyed it. Now in the name of health and good sense, I wouldn't condone eating one every day, or every week for that matter, but people need to give McDonald's a break. It was really funny to me when the collective western hip world seemed to crap themselves over the revelation presented by a disingenuous docucommentary's thesis that eating a truckload of McDonald's everyday for a month will leave you in ill health. They employ the unemployable and make tasty and incredibly unhealthy food, if you don't like it, you don't have to eat it.

As for me, my children will grow up on the savory goodness of the sweet and sour dipped chicken mcnugget.

8.9.2005

I'm eating yogurt. I'm eating live cultures. My plant is dying.

10.8.2005

I'm going to the Gene Autry Museum today with Mike Sycz. I will report on it's coolness later. I plan on buying souveniers, maybe a t-shirt, and I hope it will make me want to move to Montana or spend the night in Gram Parson's death room in Joshua Tree.

...

I wrote the top part before I left, and now I'm back. I'm heating up a fajita and I might have some coffee. There was a very distinguished pannel on cinematography in Sergio Leone's films. Very cool, very informative.

I've Only Cried Twice

Honest. I've only cried twice while listening to music. Actually, I've cried three times. The first time, a friend of mine had just died. I was at a Neil Young show and he sang "Long May You Run." The second time was earlier this year, "San Antonio Rose" came on during a drive back to Whittier. Robyn and myself had just visited my Grandma who was dying.

The third came today while scrapping dried paint off a ceiling ten feet or so in the air. "Long May You Run" came on and I started thinking about the trips to Montana, Big Sur, long nights, driving slow, the window down, eating friend chicken in Utah, trips to Po' Folks, parked boats, good conversations, and bad imitation sheep skin...

In so many words...

maybe the beach boys
have got you now
with those waves, singing
caroline no.
rollin' down that empty ocean road
gettin' to the surf on time

...with your chrome heart shining, in the sun...

it's just a car, but when neil young's cracked falsetto pined for "trunks of memories still to come," I lost it.

10.5.2005

I got up early with Robyn this morning. She leaves before me and I am oft to keep sleeping. She doesn't mind, but it doesn't make me feel too hot. Anyhow, I'm up early and prepped for an early morning run. We'll see if this lasts.

10-3-2005

Hi people. Things I did today:

1. I waited for the airport to deliver my suitcase.
2. I broke my Trooper maybe for good.
3. I wrote on this blog.

Ponster Under Fire

Ponster Under Fire
Originally uploaded by jessegloyd.

This is a fun picture I found from that the great Matt Maust took. Look at his website to find out more about his cool rock band.

www.cwk.com

9.28.2005

Hi Folks. I'm off to Texas tomorrow, which I am looking forward to greatly. I'm mildly envious of the Andrew Hamilton trek for the ages, though I imagine he'll get pretty bored at some point, it still sounds pretty cool.

I'm listening to Chopin, as I have for the last few days and Robyn is watching Elen's talk show. Cheers to Mr. Goss and the future Missus Goss. Cheers to the folks who'll be out there. Cheers to the Bob Dylan documentary, Maker's Mark, Coffee, and my Ipod.

9.27.2005

I'm writing this while at work. I love spam. It makes me feel as if people are reading my blog. I figure, people spam my blog because it's getting so much traffic. Anything interesting today? No, not really. I should get back to work. Keep on spamming! lalaflalflfa do you doyou waqnt my lvoer

9.19.2005

I'm watching Tucker Carlson and using internet for the first day of the new place. I like him and his bow tie, though a lot of people think he's a dork. I just got done eating a bowl of ice cream with peanut butter filled pretzles. I haven't had it since I went to Catalina with Brent, Darren, and Gabe many years ago. It satisfies my stomach.

We're getting the final push on for our party this Friday. I'm looking forward to cleaning up the place only to trash it and have to clean it up again the next day.

I went to the DMV this morning and it sucked.

8.25.2005

So, I found a wifi hotspot about midway down my driveway. Robyn actually found it earlier in the day when I was scraping paint of an alleged important piece of roof art. I'm downloading the new Itunes, so I've got some time to blow.

It's really cool sitting in my beach chair in my driveway in the silence of the night. There really are great reasons to live in Ventura and commute to L.A., but I'm young and would miss my friends incredcibly if this were more than temporary. I'm still working on my movie that will garner me nothing more than self gratification. It's well worth it, though, and movie folk can cram it.

It's peaceful and quiet and the air smells clean up here. When I'm in the city, I crave dirty city things. When I'm not, I think I'm a cowboy or something. I want a horse. I'm looking forward to bachin' it up this weekend in celebration of andy and alan. It should be rock and roll.

8.21.2005

I'm sitting at Poppo's house on this sunny Sunday afternoon. We're watching baseball and eating grilled cheese. Poppo just got a digital voice recorder and is planning on doing a thing on his life and the war and whatnot. It should be interesting if he finishes it.

I saw the "Aristocrats" last night. Pretty funny, though I think it's pretty funny when comedians think they're acheiving some great acomplishment by swearing. I'm not negating the humor of weird sexual things and whatnot, I just think it doesn't really matter much. Funny movie though.

I look forward to taking the Metro to work tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to work. Working makes me realize how much I hate working. It's not that bad, though.

People should read "American Splendor."

8.16.2005

Listening to "Instinct Blues" on the glorious "Get Behind Me Satan," just finished listening to "Mule Variations." I am once again spending too much money on coffee while fretting over applications for crappy jobs. I need to leave in a jiff, probably by the end of this song, to go sign some insurance papers.

I hate living in Ventura. I believe I may never move back to this hole in the ground. It's pretty much the biggest drag in the world to spend your first couple months of your mainland marriage in the room you grew up in. The bed's squeaky, I've got a cold, there are no locks on the door, the volume on the TV is broken, "Blue Rondo A La Turk" just came on( a good thing), my dad gives me headaches, and Robyn wants us to save our wedding wine for Los Angeles living, and our rehearsal dinner beer for the movers.

What's a guy to do?

Move to Mars, I say! Move to that new planet they found!

There's some crappy art in this coffee shop. It's the pseudo surfer/ hippie/ Native American crapola that permeates the coastal plain. The only one I kind of enjoy is a painting of a Crow dressed as Nelson Mandela.

8.15.2005

It's my father's birthday today. He's fifty-eight. It's weird when your dad starts reaching ages your grandparents were when you were young. Anyhow, I'm listening to my Ipod (random) and "Electioneering" is about to end. Update to come on the next song.

I'm writing this in an internet cafe that is usually empty. I have avoided coming here ("It Must Have Been the Roses" just came on) seeing as I figure it will be out of business soon. My logic being, if I never patronize the place, I have no guilt if I choose a different establishment to check my internet. I'm also getting tired of spending about as much money on coffee in two days as I would on a big can of Foldger's.

This weekend, I talked to Andrew H., who seems to be having a good time, and hung out with Jayson and Jennifer B., in Santy B. I also helped Alan G. move to Passy D.

I fear I may have some type of flu on the horizon. Maybe if I drink enough coffee and watch enough movies I can push it into remission. On Wednesday I get round two of dental surgery. Round one blew, so I'm not expecting much for round two. Nothing cavity related I must note. I am meticulous with my teeth. They're capping a tooth that came out of my mouth in a whirlwind of a head over the handle bars ("Victory Train" Hoagy C.) fall in my youth. I was pretending that the Russians were coming after me as I peddled hard down the street. Jumping a curb, in an effort to throw the Reds off my tail, my Jansport strap ("Every Little Thing" B. tls) wedged itself between a spoke and fate, sending me on a date with the concrete (code word: DOOM).

out.

("California Boy")

8.9.2005

Hello fine people. I am sitting at the Casa de Simons down here in Long Beach. I'm drinking some High Life in the orange chair that sits in front of the puzzle ladled table of his living room. Anyhow, I'm stealing CDs from him for my Ipod and getting ready to head over to EJ's to send Dan Bush off into the world. We're going to see the Dodgers in Colorado in a few weeks.

Um. Nothing more.

8.8.2005

I'm writing this from Poppo's house. I had wanted to write something most every day, but my parents don't have internet and I'm not really doing a whole lot anyhow. For dinner tonight we had pot roast. We then sat in the communal hot tub. It was quite refreshing and aside from Robyn finding the plastic wrapping of a cigarette pack, quite clean as well.

We are going to leave soon so I'll make it short and sweet. Crumb was okay, Happiness was creepy, and Baryy Lyndon is quite excellent. Man, I'm full.

We also went to Best Buy this afternoon to look at refrigerators. I have no problem spending sixty bucks on a record player, but I get grouchy as hell when it comes to paying good money on responsible things. I did a lot of writing today and had a blast at Darren's birthday. It was nice seeing everyone and thinking of those absent. Anyhow... adios.

7-31-2005

I'm on break from working the Ted Nugent show at the illustrious Anaheim HOB, so I figured I'd come over to the Grand Californian and steal some internet. I'm living in Ventura for the time being, so the commute this morning was fantastic. I'm really looking forward to turning around and driving an hour and a half back up the coast at about 2:30 in the morning. I can't complain much, seeing as I just spent the last three and a half weeks in Hawaii, but it still sucks.

We had to set up a machine gun, cattle skulls with lights coming out of their eye sockets, camoflauge, and a giant ass American flag. The Nuge has a skull with an Native American headdress on a stake inside his dressing room. This is a very prifitable trip for me, seeing as I'll make about sixty bucks, after spending thirty on gas and five on a burrito. Oh well.

I had fun in Hawaii. I listened to fun music on my Ipod and did water things and read and such. Much chilling out. My mom's birthday is tomorrow. I think I'll get her something for her garden. Anyhow, time to get back to my movie that I'll never finish writing.

6-29-2005

I haven't written on this for a little while. Partly because it takes away from my own writing, and partly because I just got married. Anyhow, I'm on the first phase of my honeymoon, just chilling out hardcore in a little bed and breakfast. Thanks to everyone who helped/ came to the wedding- it was a gas.

Jesse

Part Seven

by Jesse Gloyd

Cody let the hot steam run over his back in the shower. He looked towards the door in shock as his father knocked. "We're burning Ozone, Cody." he said. "What in the hell is taking so long?"

"I'll be out in a sec," he said. A cool wave of embarrasment fell over his body.

"CODY," said a voice from afar.

Cody cowered in fear. "ANSWER ME!!"

"Y-y-yes it's me," he quivered. "DO NOT BE ASHAMED! IT IS THAT WHICH YOU DO NOT WANT TO DO THAT WILL BE THE KEY TO PEACE AND UNDERSTANDING AND FOR HEALING OF THE OZONE!!"

"Is this my special power?"

"IT IS, MY LAD, IT IS."

Part Six

Rick, Emmy, and Cody wore cloaks of camel hair to disguise themselves when they traveled by foot. When wearing the cloak, they would become their normal human selves. The cloaks were brought to them as they were flying and delivered by a winged lion named Casius. He told them that they only need utter the phrase "beasts of the earth bring power to my breast" to regain their animalistic strengths.

On the second day of their journey, they floated through the clouds and pine trees and gracefully landed in the parking lot of a Target in Lake Tahoe. "My wings are sore from the flight," said Emmy. "Maybe that's because you were soaring," said Cody. "Don't talk to me in that tone, son."

"Let us drape the cloaks around us and become normal," said Rick with authority. They walked through the parking lot. It was pitchblack, save for the stars in the sky. "We must be careful, for the agents of Maldrigon could be anywhere," said Emmy.

"Damn," said Emmy.

"What?" said Rick.

"Do you have any cigarettes?"

"No," he said. "But there's an AM/PM up the road." They walked in silence down the side of the street. The lights from the casinos glowed in the distance, the shine reflecting off the lake.

"I sense badness," said Emmy.

"I don't," said Cody.

"Just as your father was given the power to interpret the spirit of The One, I was given the power to sense danger."

"Do you feel any danger?"

She stopped. "CLOAKS OFF!"

They threw off their cloaks in a hurry and turned around to see a white cloud of smoke form behind them. The sound of an engine and the smell of exhaust blew out from the forming vortex. They shielded themselves from the hot white light that blew out at them like a supernatural tidal wave of energy. When the blast subsided, a non-descriptor grey van stood in the middle of the road. Opening the driverside door, a Hispanic man in a white v-neck undershirt and Dickies, stepped out and unsheathed a sword. The side door of the van then slid open and four other men, two of African descent, and two of Latin came out wearing red bandanas and brandishing guns, chains, and brass knuckles.

"Hey, Vato," said Cody. "Prepare to eat fire!"

"Cody, don't say that, I sense that they may be part of a gang," said Emmy.

"Damn right hooch!" said one of the black ones. "We're part of the Crips, acting as mercenaries hired by Madrligon, LORD OF THE STREETS!"

"Well, get read to meet your maker, crips, cuz this Dragon is gonna kick your butt!!!" said Cody. "BEASTS UNITE!"

--

Later that night, after they had killed the four crips, they walked to a Motel 6. The bed was stiff and the stale smell of cigarettes gave Emmy a headache. She left the room about fifteen minutes into the movie "Entrapment." She'd seen it a couple years earlier with a friend from work in the one screen theater in Ennis. Rick flipped between it and basketball hightlights as Cody fell asleep on his side on top of the covers.

Part Five

by Jesse Gloyd

Just as the rattler was about to elongate it's slender pulsating body into death strike pose, Emmy took off her shirt. The snake was mezmerised. It's head bobbed back and forth and Emmy began to sing and shake. "Everybody knows in a second life we all come back sooner or later, as anything, from a pussy cat, to a man eating alligator."

The snake began to harmonize with an evil slither,"now you all might think my story is more fiction than its fact." Rick was taking his clothes off as well. Cody, in fear, began to scream. His leg was turning leathery and his feet were morphing into claws. "But believe it or not my mother, dear, decided she'd come back," they sang. Cody's hair fell out and his eyes sucked into his skull. "As a car, she's her very own shining star..."

A voice from another dimension called to them as they stood naked in the middle of the floor. Cody had taken the form of a small dragon. Smoke filtered from his nostrils and sulfur bubbled up from his insides. "THE DUBOIS FAMILY," the voice said. Rick had taken on the lower body of a goat and Emmy now had prehistoric wings of what seemed like fish scales. "Yes," they answered in unison. "YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN POWER OF THE BEASTS, YOU MUST USE YOUR POWER TO DESTROY THE FORCES OF MALDRIGON!" And with the blessing from The One, the three forced united and flew through the roof and into the air.

Arms stretched, they made their way across the rolling golden hills. Below them, they watched a herd of elk gallop in formation. Emmy let the cool breeze run under her wings. "What is our mission?" she asked Rick. "Were you not listening?" he answered. "Listening to what, Dad?" asked Cody. "Don't use that tone with me son," he said. "I have been given power by The One to hear the longings of his heart, what he speaks with his spirit." "What has he told you?" asked Emmy. "That we need to do everything withing our damn power to STOP THE DESTRUCTION OF THE OZONE LAYER!!!" The boom of his voice could be heard as far off as Fargo, the power of his baritone killed the heard of elk below him, turning them into ash.

Sun in your Eye

by Jesse Gloyd

I really like the song "Scotch and Soda." I've got the Kingston Trio doing it in their soothing "folk-lite" sort of way. I got to play guitar with John Stewart (not the funnyman), one of the founding members a few years back. He wrote "Daydream Believer," which, if I had the balls, I would've asked him to play. There were three of us in the room playing guitars and singing. I had a version of him doing "Mamma You've Been On My Mind" I always loved his version and had heard it before Dylan's (which wasn't released until vol. 1-3 of his Bootleg deal). He played it for me and I sang along.

I'm getting married soon. This excites me. If I had my way, I'd decorate my house with dinosaur fossils and taxedermy. I hope someday to own a boat and would like to claim that I have sailed the seven seas. Anyhow, first period is about to end and I need to get to work on a script I'm working on. I would like to post here more, but you know how that goes.

Three and Four

Cody washed his hands with dish soap in the kitchen sink. Flakes of scale from the fish clung to his hand and had to be picked off. Outside on the porch his dad had built the summer before, Cody heard the rustle of a small animal dragging away a string of fish insides he had set in a cleaned out paint bucket fifteen minutes earlier. He turned off the water, wiped his hands on the back of his jeans, and kneeled on the back of their couch to look out the window. A large raccoon was hanging on the side of the bucket trying to pull it down to get at its contents. Cody’s father walked into the room.

“Raccoons?” he said.

“Just one.”

His dad’s hair was wet and his shirt was off. The warm steam from the shower filtered into the small living room and quickly cooled off. He had a brown button-up shirt in his hand that he put on and started buttoning up while looking over Cody’s shoulder at the raccoon.

“There’s another just down the steps,” he said.

“Where,” said Cody.

“Just coming up the steps. You can see the glow from its eyes,” his dad said as he tucked in his shirt.

“Yeah.”

His dad walked to the small kitchen table and picked up his keys. “There’s some fried chicken in the fridge,” he said.

“Okay,” he said.

He backed the car down the gravel drive and set off through the canyon. Cody stood on the porch and watched him drive off. When the bright red dots of the brake lights had disappeared past the bend, Cody walked outside and down to the bunkhouse where the wranglers would sit and smoke.

Several guests sat outside a fire pit drinking wine and beer. Most had fallen asleep early, tired from a ten mile horseback ride through the hills that afternoon. “Hey, Cody,” said one of them through the red and orange glow of the fire. Cody waved back, he’d gone on the ride that day and had gotten to know a few of the guests that were sitting around. “How long have you been ridin'?” asked another in his East Coast use of cowboy speak. Cody shrugged. “A few years, I guess,” he said.

He made his way to the bunkhouse. Clark, a young man in his early twenties was sitting and talking with Mitch. Cody stood a few yards away and threw rocks into a field. Clark took a cigarette out of a pack that was sitting on top of his case of Bud Light. Mitch followed suit.

“Are you getting up tomorrow with us,” said Mitch. Cody shrugged his shoulders. “You’d better get up,” said Clark. Cody grinned, picked up a rock, and threw it into the field.

Cody’s father, Will, held a plastic cup while he drove. He used it to spit out the murky brown tobacco juice he held between his gum and lower lip. He had moved to Montana when he was four. His mother had died during his first and only year of college, but his father was still alive and living in Butte. He’d take his family there every few months. They’d meet up with his dad at the minor league ballpark in the heart of the old mining town. They’d usually go to a diner that served potato cakes that had been a staple for over a hundred years.

The night was pitch black and the road quiet. It usually took about a half hour to get in to town. The road through the canyon hadn’t been paved over. The headlights bounced up and down with the car as it cruised over the ridges cut by the weather. He drove in silence, turning on a country music station only after leaving the canyon. A George Strait song came on and he hummed accordingly. He had seen George Strait three years earlier at the college in Bozeman. He played an afternoon show at the football stadium. It was crowded and warm, they sat on sheets taken off Cody’s bed, ate sandwiches, potato chips, and got drunk on whiskey his friend Barton brought in a water bottle.

Emmy stood behind the bar and smoked a cigarette. Two men played pool under the green glow of a Rolling Rock sign. They leaned on their cues and watched each other lazy, occasionally filling their glasses with a pitcher of Coors that sat on an Asteroids video game table.

“What've you have on tap?” said a man standing behind one of the stools at the bar. He was wearing a blue Levis' jacket, jeans, and boots. The leather strap of a holster peaked out of the right side of his jacket.

“Bud and Coors,” said Emmy.

“I’ll take a pitcher of Coors,” said the man.

She leaned her cigarette on the edge of a black plastic ashtray and turned to fill the pitcher. The man pulled out a money clip and tugged at a bill in anticipation.

“Five dollars,” said Emmy. He pulled out a ten and a five. “Thanks,” said Emmy taking the money. She opened the register and slid in the ten, putting the five in the red pouch around her waist.

The man sat on a stool with his back to the bar. He filled his glass, tipping it at an angle to keep the head from spilling over the side. Leaned back, he used the bar as a rest and took a long slow drink. Emmy sat on a stool behind the counter and picked up her cigarette, letting the ash that’d accumulated fall from the tip.

“Can I get a pack of Camel Lights?” said Cody’s father to the woman behind the counter. She turned to look in the rack. “Soft or hard pack?” “Soft,” he said. He walked outside the store, it’s fluorescent lights out shining the warm, soft glow of the street lamps that lined the street. He packed them as he walked towards the Sportsman, one of two bars that were still open.

“I’ve lived here for a while,” said Emmy, resting her arm on the counter, her cigarette hanging limp between her fingers.

“Yeah,” he said.

William stood outside a steak house that’d closed a couple hours earlier and talked with a young Mexican girl with shoulder length hair. She was wearing an apron and leaning against the back door of the restaurant, knotting up a leaking black trash bag. “How’s your dad,” he said.

“Good,” she said shy. He pulled out his cigarettes and took one out. “Do you want one?” he said holding the pack out to her. She looked back inside at the cook cleaning up. “Yeah.” He shook the pack and three cigarettes jumped to the top. She wiped her hands on a red rag and took one. He held the lighter up to her face and lit the end. For a moment her face was bright orange from the flame.

“Are you heading over to the Sportsman,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What time does Emmy get off?”

“Two.”

“You’re early.”

“I’ve got some time to kill.”

“I bet,” she said. She was the daughter of a guy he worked with some in the winter. They ran a part-time fix-it business. They didn’t get much work over the winter, but it was enough to pay for rent and groceries. The town shut down when the hunters left, usually around late October, early November.

“How’s school?” he said.

“Fine.”

“Are you applying to schools and stuff.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Are you going to stick around here?”

“I might,” she said.

They sat down on the bottom step of the concrete stairway that led to the back of the restaurant. Bill flicked his cigarette into the air. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I was going to walk,” she said.

“I can give you a ride.”

“Let me close up, then,” she said, rising to her feet.

Emmy brought the plate of Buffalo wings, dripping with red sauce, to the table with the group that had just come in. They were drinking and smoking. She watched from behind the counter as a girl named Carrie who she’d seen around town sat on the lap of Don, a guy in his early thirties who led backpacking trips with the Madison. The Madison was a fly-fishing store that was run by a cousin of Emmy’s. Don held his hand firm on the inside of Carrie’s thigh, her Wrangler jeans creasing tight where her leg met her waist.

“Thanks, Emmy,” said Don.

“What’ve you guys been up to tonight?” said Emmy.

“We’ve just been bullshitting around some,” said Don. “Have you met Carrie?” said Don.

“Not formally, no,” she said reaching her hand out to Carrie.

“Nice to meet you,” said Carrie. The crack of the cue ball on the six cut through the air as the
juke box went silent, mechanically extending it’s arm on the other side of the bar and latching on to a Willie Nelson album. “Are you visiting?”

“No,” said Carrie. “I live up in Virginia City.”

“Yeah?”

“She got a job working for her Uncle.”

“Who’s your Uncle?”

“Doug Shepard.”

“Oh, I know Doug,” she said. “Have you been to one of his shows?”

“That’s why I came out here actually,” she said.

“She’s going to be in his next show.”

“That’s great,” she said. “So you’re an actress.”

“I want to be,” she said.

“When does the play start?”

“Opening night’s this weekend,” he said. Emmy felt the slight rush of cool air as Will came inside the place. He pulled a cigarette out of his top front pocket and lit it while walking towards his wife. “Hey babe,” said Emmy, leaning with her right hand on the edge of Doug and Carrie’s table. “Hey,” he said kissing her. “Hey, Will.”

“Hey, Doug.”

--

Cody woke up the next morning when the sky was a soft blue and pink. He went downstairs and poured dry cereal into a Styrofoam bowl that was leftover from the last time they’d all gone camping. They’d gone the week before the fourth of July. His father had the time off seeing as the city would put him to work the weekend of the fourth getting the horses ready for the parade and the fair. They went to Yellowstone, but it was all booked up, so they stayed in a motel in town.

Cody, still in his pajamas, took the cereal back to his room and sat on a bean bag chair in front of a small black television/ VCR combo and put in a taped episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. His father came in wearing boxers with bags under his eyes to tell him to turn it down.

Will walked down the short hallway towards the kitchen. Emmy was lying in bed with the sheets half covering her white pajama bottoms. The sun from the outside was draping itself pale across her body, warming up slowly with each passing minute. He looked at her for a passing second and felt a hunger pang deepen in his stomach that led him to the refrigerator.
He took out an egg crate and set it on the counter. He was tired and hung over. The dull feeling of liquor and tobacco held like cotton molasses in the back of his throat. He usually would shower and at least brush his teeth before starting his day, but he’d drank shots the night before on a stomach of only two trout and he didn’t take the liquor well. He was hungry with a headache and he was supposed to lead a few hunters on a back trail to a spot where they could kill elk later that afternoon. It was the early morning and all he could think about was his bed that would greet him later that night. He ached behind his eyes, the smell of coffee his only sanctification as he cracked two eggs on the side of a black skillet.

“Dad!” Cody screamed, breaking the silence and dull reflection of the morning. Will let the eggs drop on the mustard yellow stove and ran through the hall. He bumped into Emmy and held her back in instinct with his right arm as she wrapped the tie of her soft purple robe around her waist.

The sun had risen higher and was shining hot into Cody’s room, illuminating his small body balled in a frightened lump in the corner of his unmade bed. He was holding a stiff arm, with three small puncture holes, and starring with a hypnotic glaze at the lightning quick twitching of the rattle.

“Stay on the bed, Cody,” said Will. “You’ll be okay.” Cody nodded his head. He was shaking. Emmy held her arm and stayed quiet. The room stayed quiet and still for several moments. Smoke, from the burning eggs had begun to filter through the hall, catching ominously in the morning sun. It created a dreamlike haze that was broken and tossed away when Will walked hurriedly through the hallway.

“What are you doing?” said Emmy in a hushed tone. Will ignored her, opened the hall closet, and pulled down a black box. He would sometimes shoot skeet on the back side of the ranch, but this meant something more.

“Go into the living room,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Go into the living room,” he said. “Now.”

“Christ,” she said in a hushed whisper as she walked into the kitchen. He held it in his right hand. “Be still, Cody.” None of it made much sense. The fog of his head, the click of the stove being turned off by Emmy in the kitchen, the still light haze of the black smoke curling around the room cloaked him in courage as he loaded the barrel with six bullets that shone dull with the light of the hallway.

Two

by Jesse Gloyd

“Dad,” said Cody. His father looked up stream; Cody was standing ankle deep in rubber waders, legs wobbling with the arched tug of the split bamboo shaft twitching with life. He made his way slowly towards his son, reeling in the line while walking over the river rock.
“Don’t jerk,” he said. “You’ll rip it out of his mouth.”

Cody let the trout hold for a moment to rest the tight burn of his forearm. Not a moment later, though, he began reeling with intermittent quick thrusts; water spraying off the line violently and landing atop the hairless skin of his wrist. A Ford pick-up drove down the road behind them, kicking up dust that filtered through the air and tickled inside of Cody’s nose with the faint sensation of an antique store. The moment passed and the truck disappeared on down the riverbank, taking with it the distorted tenor of Merle Haggard singing Big City.
The fish jumped and broke the water; twisting its singular muscle of a body into the air in quiet desperation, before falling on its side, rippling small circles in the flowing water.

“He’s getting tired,” said Cody’s dad.

“I know,” said Cody.

“Start walking toward him,” said his dad.

Cody moved cautious over the rocks. A hatch of flies buzzed around his thighs as the water grew slowly around his waist. The sun had begun to fade down the valley that lead to Virginia City, casting half shadows across the faces of the rolling hills. In the distance the crack of a rifle sounded, scaring a grouping of birds out from the brush and into the air. The fish was below him now. It swam around his legs passively, its body distorted by the moving warble and sunset reflection on the water.

One

by Jesse Gloyd

Before the sun would rise over the ridge that looked down on the trailer that rested up Hall Canyon, Cody Dubois would wake up, wipe the sleep from his eyes, and slip into his mud caked Levi boot cut blue jeans. The warm smell of his stepfather’s coffee would already be dripping slow into the glass pot, stained brown from leaving it on too long the day before. His stepfather’s name was Pat and he would give Cody the two or three minutes it would take to smoke his first cigarette before he had to be ready. It had been the same every morning for the two years since Cody’s mom, Emmy, had moved them to California from Ennis, Montana.
Cody was excited to come out to California. His mom thought it would be a good idea after the death of Cody’s real father. His father worked on a ranch that was called the Diamond J. He’d been working there for about fifteen years, well before Cody was born, when he was killed.

Cody and his father had been fly-fishing the Elk Horn. It was a beautiful late October day where the blue sky held over them as they stood thigh deep in the cool water that reflected and glowed with the sun as it leisurely took their flies through the deep pools and fallen trees.
Cody had caught two rainbow trout that day. They were attached to a chain through their gills and floated almost lifeless in the water, save for the occasional flip of a tail or body contortion. His father had caught a brown. They didn’t get much time to themselves seeing that he worked seven days a week on the ranch. Monday through Friday he would wake up at four and lead the other wranglers around the hills that looked over the ranch in rounding up the horses that would later take the paying guests on trips over the hills and through the valleys around the Diamond J.

During the summer, Cody’s father would let him ride along with them. He was good with a horse and had been riding since he was three. He’d often get in trouble for kicking his boots into the horse’s ass, sending it into a gallop that would spook the guests and their horses. He rode a Palomino he called Dutch. It had been given to him when he was six and he grew up with it.

Spring through fall, Cody lived on the ranch with his father and Emmy. They stayed in a small bunkhouse that sat nestled up the side of a hill that looked down on the dining hall. Emmy worked as a waitress at the Sportsman Lodge. The Sportsman Lodge had brown wooden walls, a pool table, and sawdust on the ground. It was about a half hour drive into town. Every night she’d come home with the stale smell of beer and cigarettes, brought on from the occasional over poured beer, where the foam would drip over the side of the cold glass and run over the back of her hand.

Night came early in Montana in fall. October brought on hunting season where hunters replaced families in the bunkhouses. With leaves making their steady way to the ground, floating, turning, bursting with orange and red, they brought with them their rifles and orange hats to follow the elk and moose as they made their way, easily detected through the skeleton pines all but dead to the winter.

The Day The Music Died

by Jesse Gloyd

There’s something warm about Avalon. I’ve only been there once; crossing the sea and landing in the bay of the Channel Islands’ only town. It was Easter weekend; we stayed for day and a night in a hotel that backed up to the water. We came in on a boat that set out from San Pedro and landed at a dock where calico bass and sheephead floated just below the warbled clear blue surface of the pilings and docked boats.

Benny Goodman discovered Lionel Hampton playing on the island. He had been working in a club or something of the sort. There was a song Benny’d play that was called Avalon and I imagine had something to do with their time spent there. I watched The Benny Goodman Story several times as a kid. Steve Allen, who starred as Goodman, personified the hip to be square mentality with his dark rimmed glasses and dry demeanor. He was also a pretty good jazz piano player and accompanied Jack Kerouac on some recordings.

I started playing clarinet in the sixth grade because of Benny Goodman. I was always hovering near last chair of the best band. I was never very good. I would go to a jazz player’s house every Tuesday and practice. My mom had him teach me to play Stranger On The Shore, a nice warm song written by British clarinetist, Acker Bilk. The man’s house was kept nice; with tasteful posters of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, DNC stickers, and thousands of records and CDs.

We went to watch him play in a tribute to Goodman at Pepperdine University. I sat in the balcony that night and looked down on the piano player and vowed to spend more time practicing. The band cooked; each solo the struggling studio musicians blew or pounded shot across the auditorium and bounced off the once modern art deco fixtures, filling the place with lines of sound and shockwaves of energy.

The piano player worked with the jazz band at my middle school. We’d practice every Monday and Wednesday after school. It was a time that I dreaded; skipping out occasionally to eat Charleston Chews and drink ginger beer in abandoned lot behind Mandell’s Liquor. I played piano with the band and the piano player usually filled in my parts, so there really wasn’t any need for me.

The last I heard of the piano player, he was living in Juno Alaska working for a jazz quartet. He would work during the summer on a fishing boat and play jazz in the evening to all the alcoholic Eskimos.


“Hey,” I said. “Come here.”

“What?” said Noah.

He walked over to me as I lifted up a board. Two small green frogs about the size of the nail of my pinky finger hopped out from under. Noah lived on five acres of land off a canyon back road between Ojai and Santa Barbara. His dad, a German who’d pack his lower lip with tobacco the second he’d step outside their house, had dug a pit that he’d later fill to make a pond. The pond was going to be used to irrigate the dozen or so greenhouses that held rows and rows of brilliant red Poinsettias. He’d started letting the small tree frogs loose on the property to eat bugs off the flowers.

Noah’s mom called us in for dinner. I’d stay the night out there every so often. His dad had bought a satellite dish and would have people over to watch Canadian Football. His neighbor, Alan Thicke, was a frequent visitor. We’d spend the night in the living room, many a morning waking up to watch Throw Mamma From The Train while wrapped in a pile of unzipped sleeping bags and pillows.

We got to go to Alan Thicke’s house one time. It was a barbecue. We walked down a road that was covered in overgrown ferns, over a bridge, and up a path; he lived that close. Noah and I hung out near the stables where the miniature horses were kept. I’m not sure how it happened, but Noah ended up running a rusty nail through the bottom of his shoe. It crushed through the sole and broke the skin about a quarter inch deep. The horses stood calm and held their own while a crowd formed and gawked. Alan Thicke was drunk and concerned. He kept asking Noah’s mom if he needed to call an ambulance and kept apologizing for “leaving junk all around.” Noah’s mom was cool and composed, holding Noah to her, while crouching up to him. I didn’t see him much after that and wondered if he ever had to get a tetanus shot in his stomach.


Poppo bought me a Benny Goodman cassette when I was twelve. I liked Sing, Sing, Sing a lot; I think it was in a cookie commercial at the time. Glenn Miller was interesting too. I was standing ankle deep in the ocean a few weeks ago and String of Pearls got caught in my head. Not the song, rather the song’s title; it ran through my mind like a cool breeze in a dark hot void, black except for pearls like rain drops falling down, bursting, smashing into each other and bursting again, creating more, doubling, blasting, exploding with hot white light. In a flash, it ends like a Super 8 home movie being burned up from the inside out.

The official word on Glenn, was that his plane went down over the English Channel during World War II. There’s another report that has him dying of a heart attack while sleeping with a French prostitute in a Paris brothel. He was a heavy drinker and probably didn’t take care of himself too well, so it’s plausible. The cover up, they say, was to keep the troops’ morale high. When you’ve wiped the blood and guts from your best friend’s head off of your face, the death of an alcoholic trombone player would seem pretty insignificant, I think. They also say he could’ve been a spy; though I assume he could’ve been a spy who died in a brothel.

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“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” said the bartender as he wiped the spot of condensation from the counter and threw away the bottle.

“Sure, I suppose,” said the man. He was about forty with dark horned rimmed glasses and dark hair held down with a thick dose of Vitalis. “How ‘bout another beer?”

“Sure thing,” said the bartender, reaching under the counter and popping off the cap. “What’s in the case, a tuba or somethin’?

“Or something,” said the man. He had his arm resting on the rounded top of a black trombone case. “You’re not Harry James or some guy like that, are you?” said the bartender wiping his hands on his pants.

“Nope.”

“Ted Williams stopped in about a month ago.”

“Is that right?” The man turned around on the barstool and leaned against the counter. “That guy can hit a baseball.”

“Sure can,” said the bartender. “It’d be a shame if he were to take a hit over here.”

“Yeah,” said the man, preoccupied with a woman with blonde hair that spun down her face like Veronica Lake before she cut it all off. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke blow straight from his nose. She brushed her hair back and cut him through with a glare that would burn up the heart of even the lousiest fascist son of a bitch.

He got up and walked towards her. “Hello,” he said. “Hello” she said with a smooth French accent. She cut into a piece of steak. Her fork pierced the flesh and let out the juices onto the plate.

“I haven’t seen a piece of meat that juicy since Kalamazoo?”

“It’s camel.”

“How’s it taste?”

“Warm and tender.” she said. “Want a bite?”




He held a cigarette between his lips and leaned up against the headboard. She nestled her head against his stomach and hummed Mood Indigo. He shifted his cigarette to his right hand and picked up a warm glass of scotch. Her hair smelled clean to him. It reminded him of a Cherokee girl he’d see whenever he was in Wichita.

“Do you have anymore cigarettes,” she asked.

“This is my last,” he said, sniffing his drink. He held it down to her and she took a drag.

“How long are you here?” she said.

“A few more nights.”

“Are you going to stay with me?”

“I assume,” he said. He took a sip and set the glass on the bedside table. She reached across him and rubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“What’s in the case?” she said, looking across the room.

“A trombone.”

“Can you get it out and play something for me?”

“Sure,” he said stoically, sliding out of the bed and walking naked across the room. He laid the instrument on its side and unlatched the metallic hinges.

“What would you like to hear?” he said crouching with his back to her. He reached into the hollow end and slowly pulled out a Lugar he’d taken off the rotting body of a Nazi officer he’d stumbled across in an alley in St. Lo.

“String of Pearls,” she said. He turned and fired two shots that hit above her head and sent plaster falling down on her. “I heard you were a better shot,” she said, sliding out of bed. The gun dropped from his hand and sweat began to run from his face.

“Before your tongue swells up and your heart explodes, I wanted to tell you that it brings me great pain to see you go.” She leaned over him and caressed his face as he shook violently, foaming from the mouth and turning a sickly pale white.

When he was still, she covered him with a sheet and went to his overcoat. Rifling through his pockets, she took his wallet and a half-pack of cigarettes. “He lied to me,” she thought. “He lied to me, but I killed him.” And with that, she pulled one out, lit it, and leaned out the window to smoke over the streets of Paris, with a relief and a sense of accomplishment.

Branson

by Jesse Gloyd
(as edited by Andrew J. Hamilton)

I went to Branson for the second time when I was twelve years old. It was the childhood home of my grandfather, who we called, Poppo. Aaron Hoholik, a friend who later graduated from UC Santa Cruz with a degree in film studies, came along. While at Santa Cruz he took a class that studied the work of Stanley Kubrick for half a semester and Robert Altman for the other half. During the Altman portion of the class, they were blessed with the opportunity to view an original print of Nashville. As the story goes, the morning after the screening, one of the students stripped naked, wrapped himself in an American flag, and hung himself dead from the rafters of the theater. Santa Cruz is a big school and I do not know if Aaron knew him.

We flew in to Kansas City. I can't recall if the airport is on the Kansas side of the city or the Missouri, but I do remember the sweet, thick smell of car exhaust and cigarette smoke that held stagnant in the humid summer air as we waited curbside for my dad to come back with the rental van.

From the airport, we drove to Prairie Village to stay with Poppo’s brother Bob. It was on the Kansas side of the city. Bob was Poppo's youngest brother. He had a stroke and passed away recently. He was a funny guy. We spent the first few nights eating cheese sandwiches and brisket and talking about the Royals. Wally Joyner had just signed for about $4 million and was supposed to be a lot better than he was. History says that he probably was, but it didn't matter much because the Royals were no good and would continue to be no good until 2003 gave way to luck and circumstance. Bob didn't get to see 2003. His wife Gene and his son Mike did though, and I would imagine it was fun for them. They had a dog who coughed and wheezed a lot. They think he had emphysema, and he probably did.

We stopped off at the Precious Moments factory about four hours down the road from Kansas City. I don't think we bought anything.

Poppo had a sister named Thelma who was born in 1906. She was still alive and living with her husband Carl in Republic, Missouri when we came down to visit. They had a large place on the corner. We bought a red truck from Carl a few years later. It was supposed to be my first car, but I took more to the my dad’s Trooper and the truck went to my mom. Thelma's granddaughter, who may have been older than my dad, lived in a house on the same property. The house smelled like Carmex and anytime spent outside the yellowed, wafer thin curtains was welcome.

In Republic, I caught fireflies but didn't know what to do with them. Two cousins of mine introduced me to bottle rockets, which were something of a revelation. Pure, powerful, dangerous; the crack, the quick whoosh they made when released. I started by lighting them on the ground but would perfect, later in the trip, the art of releasing them by hand.
Springfield is about thirty miles away from Republic and about an hour or so from Branson. We stopped in Springfield for a coffee, McDonald's, and a spin through the Bass Pro Shop. Those were my glory days of fishing. The Bass Pro Shop, though not purely dedicated to fly-fishing, was a vision to the twelve year old me. Hats, houseboats, lures, motor homes, rods, reels, restaurants, sunglasses, and a forty-pound bass named Bertha called it home. I bought a hat and a t-shirt and some wet flies that we'd heard would work in Lake Taneycomo.

We stayed at Allendale's Resort in Branson, right on the Lake of the Ozarks. Poppo had worked there a few years before World War II. We fished for croppy and dodged falling water moccasins in the inlets of the lake. Small huts, probably seventy or more years old, circled a pool. A billiards room came off the lobby. Poppo used to work in the restaurant. The last time we saw it, they were tearing it down.

Branson is a small town, no matter what people told you. You can walk from Allendale's to the downtown in about ten minutes, and drive from the downtown to the Shepard of the Hills outdoor theater in about another ten.

Fireworks were everywhere. A man in a boat would buzz up and down the lake shooting bottle rockets at us. He was dressed as a pirate and had some type of bottle rocket gun that slung the rockets at a blinding speed. It was a bit of a battle for the docks, I suppose.

For the most part, I managed to eat gravy three meals a day. Breakfast was biscuits and gravy, eggs and bacon; lunch included some form of either fried chicken, chicken fried chicken, or chicken friend steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and sweet iced tea from a fruit jar; and much of the same for supper, with the possibility of blackberry cobbler a la mode.

A lot happened in Branson. It was my This Boy's Life summer without the gay stuff, abuse, and single motherness. For better or worse, it was where I discovered both the Imax and Ray Stevens. I lean more towards better. Part of an Imax movie was being shot at my great-uncle's farm while we were there. His name is Everett, but for some reason we call him Uncle Fudge. He was a shriner (complete with wacky small car and fez) and had a wife named Becky who used to be a fantastic golfer, from what I hear.

The beginning stages of Alzheimer's were setting in for Becky on this trip. She would bring us drinks three and four times, sandwiches too. She's in a home now, barely able to breathe. We went out to eat one night and she yelled at the waiter for bringing out the food twice.

Everett was a storyteller and a great fiddle player. A lot of the session musicians from the shows would come over and play occasionally. He'd been mayor in the seventies and was really tied in to the history of the region, the vigilantes of the post-Civil War era, the backwoods life of hollers and Brier Rabbit and such. It was as foreign and new and fresh and real as if it happened yesterday, though most of the characters were long dead. The river that ran through town had been part of the Mason Dixon line. The ghosts of back then seemed to lurk clear and vivid in the morning mist of that water.

When Everett was a child, about thirteen or so, his mom came down with some form of nose cancer. A traveling medicine man came through town one day and she bought some lye soap from him. The stuff shriveled up her nose and turned it into a thin flap of black skin. One morning, when the pain became unbearable, she came to Everett with scissors and told him to cut it off. He was scared, I suppose, but he obeyed.

There are many stories floating around down there. I found a baseball program in an old shop in Joplin. I bought it for twelve dollars. There's a picture of Mickey Mantle in it that became mildly famous, an original. The shop was next to a restaurant that served the crispiest, juiciest chicken fried chicken I've ever had in my life. We went back to find the restaurant a few years ago, but it had become a Waffle House.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Baseball

by Jesse Gloyd

When I was ten years old, my grandparents moved from their house on Francis St. to a condo in mid-town Ventura. A large blue wraparound couch with a built-in recliner filled the living room. On the wall above the main section of the couch hung framed labels from orange crates; and to their left, an autographed picture of the Gashouse Gang. It’s not the complete 1934 Cardinal team; rather, single photos of Dizzy and Paul Dean, Frankie Frisch, Leo Durocher, Joe Medwick, and Pepper Martin with autographs gathered at various times and places scribbled on business card sized pieces of paper.

My Grandpa; we called him Poppo, grew up in Southern Missouri and played on some of the same fields as Mickey Mantle would a few years later. He wasn’t much of a baseball player; however, and wouldn’t follow it much in his life, aside from glancing at the occasional story in the paper or in phone conversations with his brother Bob. Whenever we’d visit their Prairie Village home in Kansas we’d sit on the back porch, sip Pepsi, eat potato chips, and talk through the damp summer air about the Royals. We’d try to one up each other with the baseball encyclopedia that was our collective memory; usually getting the facts wrong, however assured we were in what we were saying.

Later in the same year that my grandparents moved into the condo in mid-town, my Dad took me to a barbecue in Santa Maria. Santa Maria’s not of too much note, aside from it being the town that made tri-tip famous. Anyhow, the barbecue was a fundraiser put together by Tsuneo “Cappy” Harada, a Japanese baseball man, who’d managed in Japan, been a scout for the Giants, and eventually ended up as the athletic commissioner for Washington state. For several years in a row, he invited people like Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays, Durocher, Pete Rose and several other old players who smelled like cigarettes and cocktails to sign autographs for charity at the barbecue. The event was a relatively good deal, as twenty dollars or so, if I remember correct, would get a tri-tip dinner, with garlic bread, beans, salad, and an autograph from any of the mentioned Hall of Famers.

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“Jesse, I’d like you to meet someone,” said my Dad as he pulled me away from a group of kids who were trying to get the autograph of Santa Maria local, Robin Ventura.

“Okay,” I said. Walking to the far side of the room, I was stopped by an older man who was wearing a brown tweed sport coat and having a drink. “Where’d you get that hat?” he asked.

“For my Birthday,” I said.

“Can I see it?” I took it off and handed it too him. It was a late thirties Brooklyn Dodger hat; the white one with the blue stripes. “I didn’t know they still made these,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

“I don’t know, I got it for my Birthday.”

“You should have him sign it,” said my dad. I handed it to him with a black Sharpie. He signed it just below the “B.”

“Thanks,” said my dad as I put it back on my head.

We walked through the rows of tables and chairs as workers in stained white dress shirts cleared Styrofoam plates and plastic forks. “Who was that?” I asked. “Al Gionfriddo,” he said. “He made a famous catch off Joe DiMaggio in the World Series.” “Oh,” I said as we came up to an old man who, upon recollection, didn’t look too much different than Al Gionfriddo.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cobb?” asked my dad. “Yes,” said Mr. Cobb. “I wanted you to meet my son, Jesse.” He looked surprised and happy in the way that old people do. I shook his wrinkled and leathery hand. “Hello, Jesse. I’m Jim Cobb.” “Hi,” I said. “Do you know who my father was?” I nodded my head in assumption. He went on to spend the evening recounting stories of his father and baseball and the people he met. He smelled like cigarettes and alcohol and bore the blood of arguably the best and most vicious player from the first part of the century.

I don’t remember much of what he had to say, other than that I should do well in school. One story sticks out; though, that was later recounted in the Ken Burns documentary. Mr. Cobb told of a trip he took with his dad to a liquor store in South Carolina. The documentary gave a real dramatic vocal reenactment of the meeting between the two greats; though Jim recalled it as a simple introduction of Joe Jackson to himself by his dad, as “the greatest hitter that ever lived.” I guess it seemed like a nice thing to say; however much Cobb actually believed it, seeing as I’m hard pressed to believe Ty Cobb saw anyone as being better than himself.

The meeting between Jackson and Cobb seemed sad to me in a sense. Both were looked upon as two of the great hitters from the “Dead Ball Era;” both implicated in separate gambling scandals in 1919; Cobb is acquitted, Jackson banned from baseball for life; Cobb enters the Hall of Fame on his first try; Jackson publicly disgraced. I’m not really sure how much it all matters. I assume Joe Jackson didn’t kill anyone, which is something he has on Ty, but I’m only going on assumption. They’re both long gone; same as the players on the wall at Poppo’s house.

I sat and had a cup of coffee last Saturday morning with Poppo. His wife, my Grandma, had died the day earlier and he was having a hard time keeping it together. “Time keeps moving and it’s taking me with it and there’s nothing I can do about it,” he said to me. All I could do was nod my head.

Later that afternoon, I sat by the pool next to my fiancé, and read a book. It was a good book about the summer of a young man who’s just graduated from college. It takes place in Pittsburgh, a town I’m not too familiar with, but felt like moving to when I graduated from college. Pittsburgh seemed isolated and different at the time. I’ve never been there, so it seemed like a good place to start, a good place to rent a small apartment, and a good place to listen to Duke Ellington play Blue Skies on a big grand piano while lying on my back on scattered leaves and unmowed grass.

The season starts today for the Dodgers. After heated arguments with my dad last year regarding Dodger personnel moves, my mom invoked a rule around the house that we weren't aloud to talk baseball. It was like something of a canyon had grown between our respective ideologies. Some might say that baseball doesn't matter in the long run, that it's not something that should be taken so seriously. I guess it's true, but the memory of telling stories about the Royals in Prairie Village means a hell of a lot more to me than any political or philosophical discussion of the past year. Baseball digs deep into the fabric of this country. It is the thing that dulls the pain of winter for many of us. It softens the blow of reality in a way.

This last weekend, Poppo took down pictures of my Grandma that were around the condo. It's understandable that he would do such a thing. The picture of the Gashouse Gang is still up, though. It's been moved into the den and sits above his computer. In 1934 nobody had walked on the moon, Poppo was nine, Jimmie Rodgers was king of the radio, and Dizzy Dean, with thirty wins, was more popular than the President.