Tag: bottle
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Songs for Indiana

- by Typewriter Fox

I just couldn’t face the idea of Indiana. Not after what she asked me, when last I was in that nugget shaped state—I am still caught processing that request. So it was safer for me to remain temporarily behind inside an angry Mitten; my heart was in desperate need of a “lost weekend” to help get my head bent back right again. As often happens inside gaps of untethered time, I continued my feral run. Seeking shelter inside of bottles. And unsolicited bar room conversations. Ducking and covering inside of increasing ABVs. Eventually wandering the empty capitol streets with a leather collar turned up against the wind blowing in off the big lake again, when numb enough to finally ignore everything. Inside the fleeting gaps of …

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Probing Uranus

- by Typewriter Fox

I am not sure I will ever understand why things tend to get weird around this time of year.  Maybe it’s the turn in weather away from the arctic nothingness. That seasonal pivot towards the mushy in-between time. Maybe it’s the fact that the days are getting noticeably longer. Or perhaps it’s the lingering threat of springing into some as yet unknown direction. But something is triggering all this seasonal uncertainty. There are too many variables left lurking. Too many unanswered questions; too many chances to take another wrong turn. Too many tests still left to take. And too fucking many important things yet to be said.  So I have to be careful. It had been a typical mittened Monday night spent kicking uncooperative 517 metal …

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The Rockies

- by Typewriter Fox

She came at me strong. And unexpectedly.   Her notifications hit different on that 517 Saturday; I was already off the chain and running. Because it was another unsupervised night, bleeding inexcusably into another stupid Michigan Sunday. So I was surprised by a rare interference in the drunken tick-tock rhythm of my irresponsibility.  It seemed somehow significant. And influenced damaging intentions—I was alone at the bar. Again. Punishing myself for the inexcusable oversight of somehow being alive.   I saw the missed messages. The ones initially left unanswered, despite the fingered intimacy of a quick pull-down peek. Because I didn’t know how to respond.  I read a few of the words. An overdue tag-along link to a requested song provided a new sound. Reactionary emoticons decorated coloured boxes …

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Sushi Tastes Like Highschool

- by Typewriter Fox

The list of places I am no longer welcome continues to grow; the number of people willing to put up with my shit seems to be shrinking. Thankfully, it wasn’t an accidental cohabitation situation with a blonde disaster like the last time. Regrettably, it was a friend from high school who wanted to meet, “just to catch up.” After thirty some years of not actually seeing each other’s faces.  We somehow managed to stay in touch over the years. At least as far as the big life events were concerned–births, deaths, her too many affairs.   It was always the middle of the night when my phone would ring. Another transcontinental call. She knew I would be awake. And probably drunk enough to talk her back from …

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Coconut Rum Diaries

- by Typewriter Fox

Sunday drunk on coconut rum. Not a flavour native to Michigan. But it reminds me there are better places in the world. And that’s not nothing. So I cling to it, like a mother does her special needs child to keep him from running into the traffic barreling south on MLK. Tropical drinks downed against the backdrop of Midwestern blandness. It seems a reasonable response to the ridiculousness of it all. Because nothing here makes any fucking sense.   And I’m dying to get away.  Away from the stink of airplanes—yeah, I’m pretty fucking talented at kicking tin. I’ve set the early departure record multiple times. And someone up at corporate must have noticed that. Because they rolled back our scheduled departure. In doing so, I helped …

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The Fox

- by Typewriter Fox

I woke up in a panic. It wasn’t the usual, had the same fucking dream, kind of panic that I’m used to facing when eyes crack open.  But rather, it was the variety I only experience when I’m on the road.   I glanced at the bluffs overlooking the Ohio outside my balcony window to help ground me.  And for once, I can honestly say that I was thankful for the existence of Kentucky. After hastily getting dressed, I zombied down to the lower level after a detour to the parking lot.  I needed some smoke to help chase away the fog.  As I sat on the ledge overlooking the hilltop entrance, I couldn’t help but miss the convenience of immediate self-destruction. But I guess those days …

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94 East

- by Typewriter Fox

I am not going to write about that night.   In general, I have never been a fan of secrets. They far too often transform into a malignancy that burdens the better angels of genuine intent. But, every once in a while, it is okay to squirrel moments away for just yourself.   And that Saturday night hidden away in Porter County is something just for me.   I will confess that despite the lack of an audience, I did my best to make a joyful noise. Because it has never been about the attention. Or, the accolades. It is about putting the words on the fucking page. Although admittedly, the occasional ego boner is appreciated. In fact, my four favorite words in the entirety of …

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Blog Posts

Broken Angel

- by Typewriter Fox

Hell’s Kitchen lost its very best broken angel today.    Outside the window of a little blue Midwestern house, a gentle summer rain pattered.  It made it feel like the whole world was mourning for her tonight, too.  Suffering the blow collectively.  Taking the hit.  Because sometimes, the universe decides that it’s just going to keep fucking swinging.  And it doesn’t seem to matter just how far down you’ve already been kicked–more blows are coming.    So I poured myself a drink.    Then I broke an earlier promise to not sit stupidly in the rain.    And I put on her favorite song.     The song I used to endlessly tease her about.  Because on that impromptu Big Apple road trip, ill-fated and ridiculous, I …

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Living the American Nightmare

- by Typewriter Fox

It was in the between years when I functioned best.     Those chunks of sticky time that aren’t really story worthy.  Yet still somehow remain stubborn enough to fester in these later years.  They were an unstable foundation of mortgaged mediocrity that I knew was poisoning me.  Killing me slowly in measured servings of bland suburban nothingness.  Because the American dream only really works if you are sleeping.  And everyone surrounding me was dutifully tucked in, on the clock, and snuggled deep in their 401(k)s.    But I almost never sleep.  So I saw it all.  Like a map inside my head.  The pitfalls and overlapping social implications.  The selling out when certain lines intersected.  The consequences of betting bad on desperate odds– it was worth …

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Cliff Notes

- by Typewriter Fox

She’s not anything at all like the others.    I endured sleepless nights walking the face of this city trying to figure her out.  But all I discovered was vacant streets.  Empty bottles under bridges over a river that isn’t the Kankakee. Blinking WALK signs meant for other, more mindful pedestrians.  And a worn out pair of boots that squeaked from all the rain.    My first instinct was to run after those walks.  Because that is what previous circumstances taught me to do.  History dictates that complications frequently get ugly.  Emotions get roguishly invested.  Words are written—or said—that can never be taken back.  And then it all breaks down when exposed.   I learned to always have an exit strategy after tasting the first swindle …

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