City Like A Cemetery

"Hi, we're Los Coyotes and we've been a band for about three hours."

Those 13 words kicked off what would become an evening full of acoustic improvs, free-form drumming, ridiculous white-boy rap battles, cute coffeehouse girls and a complementary pot of green tea. It was just the kind of random weekend shindig I'd been searching for.

It's been so long since I've been a part of any local scene that I had completely forgotten what it felt like to be surrounded by that kind of kindness, support, unity and love - it's what my heart has been yearning for all along. I spent three years off in my own little world, hating everyone and everything for my own stupid reasons; it feels so good to once again be amongst the company of old friends, and new strangers as well.

* * *

I ran into Tyler's older brother last week while I was at work. I don't know if he recognized me, but I told him to give Ty a shout for me. Last night he came in again. We didn't speak to each other, but as he left he called out: "By the way, I told Tyler you said hi."

It didn't mean much maybe, but it made me smile.

Ironically, Tyler and his girlfriend popped in later that evening. He recognized me right away, which I found surprising since we hadn't seen each other since . . . what, 8th grade? Jesus, has it really been that long?

We had a nice short chat about work and the future - you know, typical "catch-up" stuff. He told me he would stop by more often now to chat.

Such nice kids . . . it seems I was the only one who changed.

* * *

After the Los Coyotes show, we all moved into the parking lot outside Jack in the Box. We packed the van, begged for rides home and talked about future shows.

"Dude, you totally made the show with us," Zach said afterwards. "We'll be back next Saturday. You should join us."

I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be out of town this upcoming weekend, but we swapped phone numbers anyway. As souvenirs, I got Zach's drumsticks (from when he threw them into the crowd) and a small candle from the main stage.

I have become such a concert whore lately, tee hee. My current inventory includes drumsticks, broken guitar picks, spare change, ripped posters, empty bottles. Now I can add more drumsticks and a candle. I should build a shrine, maybe. Then take a picture and use it as an album cover, just like Social Distortion and Jane's Addiction and X used to do.

Before everyone left, we all placed our hands into a circle.

"What should we toast to?" someone asked.

"Los Coyotes!" I said.

"Los Coyotes!" everyone yelled, and then we threw our hands into the sky and howled at the moon, laughing our heads off. Every person in that parking lot walked away with a smile on their face, myself included.

And for the briefest of moments, it didn't matter where we came from, or why everything was falling apart. It still doesn't, we are all better than the circumstance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the world is ours. Happiness . . . it feels just as good as I had imagined it would."

Remember the time you found those two dead girls lying face down in a ditch by the side of the road?

Remember that polaroid you took of their bodies, just before the police officers and paramedics arrived?

Those girls found out where you live, and your phone has been ringing off the hook ever since.

For days now.

Angela (Yellow Dress & Locked Knees)

Angela, I hate being the one to tell you this . . . your mother has cancer. I was standing in the aisle screaming when she approached me with the news. I had a loaded .45 in one hand, and a melting polaroid of a guilty heart in the other. She approached with a brochure discussing cancer treatment options.

Such a sympathetic lover - do you really think I wanted your mother to pity me? For fuck's sake, she is the one who is dying here, not me.


Stephen: "The difference between finding what you love - and loving what you've found - is killing us right now."

Angela: "Then it will always be true - living as one beats dying as two. We both know this can't go on."


I have never told this to anyone, but my life story is split into two parts: before you, and after you. That is how royally fucked up this little situation of ours has become. It is quite amazing, you know, how one person can completely and utterly fuck you up for the rest of your life.

Now all of this history between us is beginning to make sense . . . such a profound and disgusting clarity. About how every relationship since ours has devolved into a state of self-destruction and communication breakdown: It's a desperate attempt at self-fucking-preservation. "My flesh is forming teeth, and I was so fucking close to finally getting things right."

I guess what I am trying to say is this: I know you and me don't have the best history, Angela, and now it seems you are going to hate me even more for what I am about to tell you . . .


Stephen: "The bad news is, I can't hate you any more than I do right now. The good news is you have nothing left to lose."

Angela: "Trust me, I intended to annihilate you in the nicest possible sense of the word."


Your mother made me promise not to tell you - and this is just some bullshit excuse that I am trying to sell you. Eventually you will find out about your mother, and someone will confide in you the simple fact that I knew all along and never said a word. Because as much as I may (have) love(d) you, there is a part of me that wants nothing more than to see the look on your face when you find out the truth. And I can't help but laugh a little to myself at the thought.

In my defense, I was not always the person that I am today. I lay blame on this false heart, and on the words of theives: "The love you withhold will forever be the pain that you carry," they told me.

Liars. I will never fucking speak again.

And yet, even with all of this said, the occasion feels strangely appropriate, given it was a year ago today that . . . well, you know. God and life? No, waitress: It was me there, writhing in someone elses blood and choking on the fingerprints of God.

Goodnight my lady, and a forever farewell. I only hope you never read this.

First And Delilah

This is reality, as desperate as it gets: Rows of houses on a cold summer night. Fogged glass as the city lights blur. Getting lost down the sidestreets of foreign neighbourhoods. Two pairs of eyes, wide-eyed and gleaming, peering through curtains of darkness.

Sitting outside of my apartment, making fun of the neighbours: "See that crinkly? That's Kevin - rusty as fuck, and I don't mean in a good way. The kinda guy you never wanna grow up to be. And that, that's Old Lady Axl, a.k.a. 'The Bitch Next Door.' A real chopsy, the fuckin' dingbat. She has about a millions cats, and her flat smells like a bloody vivisection lab. And on and on . . . "

This is about the hours we spent just talking, too excited and too enamored with the circumstances to take each other's clothes off. This is about trying to find you a pair of pajamas and a toothbruth at 2:30 in the morning. Sitting in the car on a cold summer night, because watching the world go by is so much better than sleeping.

"The city looks so different at night, in the shadow of invisible monsters, the slim and dark phantoms crawling out of our skin."

This is clarity, as passionate as it gets: Listening to bad radio, singing bad songs, writing bad poetry, our laughter fogging the windows even more.

I waited all night, you waited all night, but you left before sunrise, and I just wanted to tell you . . . the sunrise was beautiful. You and me, love, we grew up the same: in the shadows of parking lots, bookstores, and late-night coffee chains. Dancing to bad music, driving bad cars, watching bad T.V.

And for the briefest of moments, it didn't matter where we were from, or why everything was falling apart. It still doesn't, we are all better than the circumstance.

The Little Deaths

Nana's kitchen.
Jackie, Adam, Julia and Stephen.

The cookies on the stove were on fire.
Toxic smoke filling the kitchen.

The Mighty Mighty Bosstones were seeping from my father's old headphones. I was singing along to an old Rise Against song.

(I'm pretty sure the house was on fire at this point.)

I turned my head and Jackie leaned in and kissed me.
I wasn't expecting it and it felt awkward standing there.

"Um, what was that for?"
"No reason."

There was so much I didn't know about you then and I couldn't think of anything else to say. You ended the conversation with a playful shove, a lingering and inviting stare.

I should have considered the implications but the smoke had grown so thick. There was just so much turmoil - we were young, violent and numb, all at once.

And none of it ever amounted up to anything at all.

We were all late for the concert so we quickly collected our things. Nana and Stephen were already standing in the hallway by the door.

Me and Jackie watched silently as they sifted through the ashes, searching for their keys and petticoats. With skin burned thin, eyes charred black, skeletons lay exposed.

"Hello?"
"Hey there pretty boy."
"Who is this?"
"Tegan."
"I was just thinking about you . . . "

And then I woke up.

Hey Donna, I'd love to stay and chat, but all of my worst fears have now come true.

You: "My life is like the worst fucking movie I've ever seen."

I knew you in the way that I knew not to speak, but eventually I felt the need to break the silence.

Me: "Maybe the director's turned on us . . . "

I should really go home and wash my face now, it's completely covered in blood.