I was once your age, Mark. I have felt the pain you speak of.

Sweet Neon

I keep having dreams about this girl named Rebecca. She wears dark-rimmed glasses and has short brown hair worn in a bob. She has a smile that makes you feel like the only person in the room. She loves reading obscure underground novels and writing first-person narrtives in her spare time. She also has a nasty habit of whoring herself in unmentionable ways for college money. One day she winds up a wee bit preggers and everyone she hangs out with abandons her. This sudden abandonment causes Rebecca to slit her wrists, killing them both.

Throughout the dream I find myself falling in love with Rebecca, despite the fact that we've never met anywhere outside of this dream. Even after watching her do the things she does, I can't help myself. I'm sorry that I can't go into too much depth here - the details of the events that took place are simply too disgusting to share.

In addition, there is an unmarked notebook that gets passed from person to person throughout the duration of my dream. It holds everyone's most interpersonal thoughts, fears and dreams. Each entry is typed, making the notebook legible for everyone to read.

Rebecca's last entry: "Tonight the stars are less bright. Death is coming, so let me go. You can't love a ghost."

Throughout the dream Rebecca and I find random quotes written on scraps of paper scattered everywhere we go. Neither of us have any idea who they are written by, but after comparing handwriting conclude that the quotes are all written by the same person, possibly a time traveller. One quote that sticks out in my mind was found by Rebecca, crumpled-up and left on the basketball courts after school.

"Life is a series of losses. They build up over time and make us who we are. Just make sure you pick the right losses."

When I awoke I wanted so badly to add to the notebook, but seeing as this notebook does not exist outside of my unconsciousness, I grabbed the biggest marker I could find and wrote my sentiment on the nearest bare wall. When I came home I dyed my hair the darkest colour I could find. A darkness that would put the night sky to shame and suffocate the brightest halo.

"Angela . . . the bridge burns itself."

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.