P.H. Madore's Blog

This was taken in Baltimore, before I left for Maine.

I don’t remember how long ago I left. I haven’t been keeping track of things; things have also been losing track of me. I’m excessively distracted, increasingly so, but this feels good — the writing will come when it feels good, not when it feels bad. This keyboard is horrible, despicable really. I just tried to find out if there is another one in the house. There doesn’t appear to be, which is surprising. I’ve sent so many electronics and such things to this house over the years, I really expect there to be everything, and when there’s not, I’m a bit disappointed, though never sure in whom.

It’s hard for me to maintain focus. Probably it’s all the drugs and drinking over the past few months, but more likely it’s the pressing weight of the future in my face. I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m doing with myself. Perhaps I’ll go to school. Perhaps I’ll get a job. Perhaps both, plus some other money making ventures. For instance, I’d like to find a guitarist and busk on the road. It seems plausible enough. I make lots of money just singing without a guitar. If I had a guitarist and I sang my songs, I really believe we’d make a lot of money. I should really try hard to find a guitarist who wants to travel and busk with me. It’d be a grand and glorious affair.

Where to begin? The beginning, as always, but I’ve lost so much to the ether. I will not be surprised if things happened two weeks apart but in my memory appear side by side, for my mind is addled by far too much. Too much of this and far too much of that; I tripped for days in Florida, and days after. Things were nuts, even unto Baltimore, where I secured some mushrooms for Jake and ate a cap myself, which was grand. But long before any of that, when the snow was still on the ground, I was in Maine, biding my time, trying to figure out what to do next, now that I had totally ditched Baltimore and all that went with it.

The goal was to get to California and build a new life. I accomplished the first part, arriving in LA late at night. I. was at a party with some Occupy LA kids, or so he’d made it sound, and he also made it sound as if there was weed. When I got there, there was no weed. There were two kids, the British girl and her beau, and they’re good people. I tried to enjoy myself. That might define the whole time I spent out there in Cali this last time around: I tried to enjoy myself. Money has too much influence over my level of happiness, I’ve found. I’m only truly miserable when I’m without it, but then I’m only truly happy when I’m without it. In either case, life would be better were it never to have existed. The money and the system which defines and produces it.

Within a few days, I. and I had spent all of my money. There’d be another week before any more money came. He was late to work within the first few days, lost his job, and we decided to trek on out of there. There was a squabble in his house about money, a paltry sum, and there had been a person living there without a job or income for several months. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to me.

First we headed north, bound for Portland and Seattle, stopping in Oakland to see a truly annoying character. This kid couldn’t even enjoy a beer at Jack London’s pub because the tender said he had an affinity for cops. Now, to be fair, I also hate cops. But other people can say and feel how they want about them. Even and especially if they’re wrong. That’s the nature of loving liberty: you especially love when others exercise theirs. Or something along those lines. Regardless, the kid was pestering and annoying. I. said before we went there that he loved that kid; after we left that he hated him. My opinion once far too much influenced I.

Onward to Portland. Again we ran out of money, but I. manifested a bunch from friends and family, having to pay it all back eventually. Onward to Seattle, where I met Amber Nelson for the first time. I was enamored and I spent the night with her. Overly enamored, probably. Well, I don’t really want to talk much more about that.

Me & Amber

From Seattle we crossed down into Denver. In Butte, Montana, we discovered a place that sold us medical marijuana using I’s California medical card. That was cool: a quarter of Blue Dream for only $40. We pushed south through Utah. There was so much scenery that I. missed, glued as he was to my cell phone and Facebook and everything going on outside of the car, outside of our trip. I think he regrets those things, but there were so many other times that we butted heads. Ah, so I forgot about Portland.

Long story but there was almost a fight. I lost my head when I heard I’s sister Nora’s boyfriend talking about beating up I. with a couple of his friends. I grappled the kid from behind. I said, “That’s not my friend you’re talking about, is it?” They denied it all and I thought the thing was squashed. Then one of the guy’s tall buddies tried to intimidate me, and things exploded, with I. landing on the wrong side of the argument. No matter how many times I explained to him what had happened, he felt like he was taking his sister’s side by taking the side of her boyfriend. His sister fucked up my emergency break when she insisted on driving. The whole thing was a mess. We left the next day, a trail of tears behind us. Rather than admit that he was a bad friend at the moment I was being the best friend I could be (literally keeping him out of harm’s way), I. focused on my actions and reactions. I realized he is fundamentally incapable of thinking under pressure, among other fundamental things that lowered my judgement of him overall.

Ran out of money again in Colorado. Decided to stay with the Occupy kids, and at her first-ever anti-police march I met a woman called H. I didn’t mean to meet her. I took over sign-holding for I. when I saw he wasn’t talking to her, plus he wanted to go do something. We got to talking and a few things led to a drink which led to the weekend at her apartment. She was beautiful, 41, a devoted mother of one. And I actually haven’t been with anyone since, which is probably why I think about her so much.

Onward to North Carolina, and this is where the trip really changed. We picked up a couple of kids trying to go to Boston, promising money at the end of the run. On the way they told me about what they were doing with their life, following the Grateful Dead (the remaining members call themselves Further). The first show was in Boston. I decided to stay and try it. My car was impounded. Many things happened. Their names were Hy. and R..  We had our moments, anyway. They split up before the tour started, and five of us made it out to the Wallingford, Connecticut show, with my car still in impound. The five of us were Jake, Amy, Zane, myself, and Hy.. Hy. split off the night of the show, and wound up in Holland, MA with my car keys in his pocket. I had to go back to Portland, ME to pick up a new one. This was the first time Hy. completely fucked me over.

In Cambridge, after the car was impounded.

(I’m in Maine at present, listening to the Grateful Dead, high as a kite on good green. It’s been since yesterday that I wrote on this.)

From Cambridge, where me, Jake, and Amy stayed a night with this girl I’m floored by Van for $50, we left in my car, which cost me a couple bones to get out of impound, headed for Florida by way of Rhode Island, where we ate some seafood (picture of me by the coast below) Virginia and Tennessee. Long before we ever reached Tenn., where Jake and Amy jumped out on me, I figured they were going to — but I wasn’t concerned about it, as I had already talked to a couple of kids from Alabama, Huntsville in fact, which was just over the border from where Jake and Amy ended up, and these kids from Huntsville wanted to go to Wanee Fest in Florida, which was where I was headed in the first place. As we had headed down the coast, Jake and Amy and I picked up a couple of other travelers somewhere in Maryland or Delaware or Connecticut or something. Before that, in Wallingford, CT, Jake and Amy and I had had quite a feast with about 9 other kids — the cops even showed up, ID’d us all, and let us stay the night no questions asked.

The Coast of Rhode Island at Newport

Anyway, somewhere in Tenn., me and Jake both got quite drunk. Amy bought some grass, and apparently understood that I was going to throw in. At the moment, I had no cash, and we got into an argument about it when her brother got in my car. That’s when Jake and Amy got out, and it was probably my fault, I’ll admit.

From there, drunk and high, I pressed onto Huntsville, not quite making it all the way. I stopped off the highway in someone’s driveway and slept for the night, then pushed on, and flew a sign for a minute and made a couple bucks, and then heard from those kids. I kept the money in my sock, and never did spend it until after Wanee — but that’s beside the point.

These kids from Huntsville were alright. Don’t remember their names, except for Rainbow, who ended up jacking my gas can at the end of the festival. Evil bitch. The other girl, she was up on some kind of feddy case, and I wasn’t interested in fucking with her once I found myself in possession of some federal grade drugs. Anyway, I ran into Hy. and R.. First thing, I got my keys back from Hy..

The next day, I was hanging out with this kid Johnny when we both got sat down by security. They said we were fucked because we had no wrist bands, which was true enough, but they didn’t have to be dicks like they were being. The thing of it was, my car had a parking sticker that the girl had gotten who had the feddy case. She was the only one of us who originally paid, because she was on probation and whatever, she didn’t really want to dick around, which was probably smart.

Anyway, then walks by this guy who looks vaguely like a Bostonian mobster and he stops to ask what’s wrong with us. We tell him we’re pretty well fucked. He whips out a wad of cash and kicks down $300 for us to both get a day pass, which security was saying was good enough. They tell us to sit still nonetheless. The cops arrive and say we have to buy weekend passes because they’re sure we’re camping and staying for Further and what not. (Another funny thing about Further — when the cops in Connecticut, Wallingford to be exact, where I got picked up and taken to the hospital later — when those cops visited us at what we now call The Wall, our campsite, where we were cooking and what not, they were like, “Hey guys, Further’s gone, don’t you think it’s time you get on, too?”) Anyway, me and Johnny get escorted out. The cops tell us that if we wanna come back, we have to buy weekend passes. I put my miracle finger and my money in the air, and after 20 or so minutes, an RV comes along. Now, I thought I had $140, because Johnny said he would go break the other $20, but it turned out that I actually only had $120, and the guy wanted the $150, but he ended up taking the $120 — for a weekend pass! So I got in, no problem, and had a blast from there on out.

To pay the guy back, I was supposed to sell LSD for him, but the L turned out to be bunk, so I never paid him none of the $175 I did take in.

Which is why I had to bust out of there, and Hy. and R. wanted to come along. Hy. was going back in to get R. and the bags, and then he found these two girls from Rhode Island that were looking for a paid ride to the airport. He said we could take them, and we went that way after R. got back to the car and what not, but then we all decided to go to the beach, and then these girls decided it’d be good enough if we took them to Rhode Island since we were going that way anyway, and we’d teach them to gas jug and what not. It’d be a blast. Here’s a picture of me on the day of that beach party, taken by R.:

In Florida

Well, these two girls invited these two guys from New Jersey to the party, and then things began to change with them. We ended up in a hotel and these girls were suddenly ignorant towards us, we didn’t like them anymore, and the next day they said they’d rather fly back to Rhode Island — with which we were okay. We got in the car and headed north, winding up in Georgia that day. I guess we got some money while we were gas spanging, and R. needed stuff, and then before long I got a check, and we moved on. I remember we told a Waffle House waitress that we’d pick her up on the way to the next tour.

We pressed on, deciding to head first to Asheville, North Carolina. Hy.’s friend wanted to fuck me, she was cute, but it didn’t happen. I bought some good bud there, and the next day we trucked northward to Ohio, where we had decided to go to a Rainbow Gathering. Hy. had picked up his food stamps, so we bought a shit-ton of food plus some dining tools and went out the day after we reached Ironton, Ohio. They were good people at there, but it ended up I was running around trying to round up money most of the time we were out there. There was one freight train hopping kid who was really good at flying; watched him make like $75 in forty-five minutes or so, which was pretty damn good, all things considered. We picked up a hippie at this place who was heading to Lexington, where we were supposed to pick up all the drugs we were going to take back to the gathering. None of this worked out. The weed-getting kid ditched us where we stood, but me and another guy got some grass off these skater kids at a park in Lexington. That was all, really, that happened — in the end we wound up with $50 less, and the kid who had originally taken us to Lexington only kicked down $5 which we put right in the gas tank. The upside was that the freight train hopping kid was really good at gas jugging, which is the process of asking people to give you gasoline in a gas jug when you have no gas or money. Most people will give you gas, some people will give you money, but the vast majority of people give you a shy look and say they can’t afford it. Which is okay; that’s the name of the game. As we say, karma’s free, gas ain’t, and most people get their karma right with or without their own input. Point is, first night we made it back to the gathering, though it was wicked late in the morning and I ended up sleeping in the car because it was raining. Next day we went out again, and this time I made a couple bucks too. We got some drugs, though not much, and then went back. The following day, me and Hy. and R. decided to leave camp and go to DC to make some money, after which point we would pick up some stuff in Baltimore and flip it over. We also picked up a fourth kid at the camp, an army vet who drank a little too much of the military Kool-Aid while he was in, I thought and told him anyway, but anyway he was really good at crack-spanging, the act of begging for money face to face, and he carried his own weight, most definitely, though we ended up deciding to part ways with him in DC — the other thing about him was that he could not drive worth a fuck, swerving all through the lanes and being ignorant like that as he was.

Anyway, after we dropped him, I convinced Hy. and R. to do the May Day march on the White House with me. That was a fucking blast. I got interviewed by Adam Kokesh of Adam vs. The Man, at the front of the march, where I was defying anarchist stereotypes of recent decades and openly lambasting the communists among us — those intellectual-looking, non-warrior types that just get underneath your skin and certainly, above all things, hold no appeal for the masses. Those motherfuckers were in full force, maybe 75 strong, and the one guy, the one who appeared to be their leader, became red in the face screaming as the march reached a fork in the road and there was confusion at the front about which way to go. He was fully determined to tell the march which way to go, though there were I’d say 20 or so of us die-hard idiot anarchists at the front (half of us vets, I’d surmise, and therefore probably enough on our own to handle the doting police menace the whole march was saturated with) — anyway at this point, Hy. at my side fist fully extended into the air, I ripped this bastard a new one and told the marchers that the new world would lack ill-intentioned dictatorial bastards like him or else it would never be born!

Now, prior to the march, at the beginning of the day, Hy. and myself and R. were all flying signs at a median in DC, making a decent amount of cash, though I didn’t make much of it because I was busy organizing for my money to come in from Maine, but I made enough to buy the things I wanted, and between us we had a decent amount. Eventually I. showed up and was like, “Where the fuck have you been, have you seen your phone, etc?” And I couldn’t tolerate it, and earlier I had told R. to make him as uncomfortable as she could, and so I left to go charge my phone and she dealt with him while I was gone. At the Starbucks where I charged the phone and bought a small coffee, there was a pretty blonde girl I thought of talking to, but I felt so low after a night spent on the sidewalk, that I never did. Oh, and before any of this, when I had gotten my first coffee of the day on R.’s dime, we got R. — well, I got R. it, since it was my idea — a new hairbrush from a salon. They wanted $8 — she had been bitching about a hairbrush for days — but they said since we were trying to get it for less, since we didn’t have much money, and since they understood, they’d sell it to us for $5. We bought it. They told us to come back for coffee. Now, R.’s a pretty girl and she looks right at home in a hair salon, so I think they were thinking to take care of her hair for her, but of course her and Hy. had no interest in going back there after we went and flew signs for a moment. We got kicked out of places quickly, and that’s how we ended up finding the place we flew successfully. Late at night, at that median, there is a home bum who is so dedicated and probably makes a decent living just that way.

Moving on, after I got back from charging my phone, we went to the Occupy camp. They were mounting up for a protest, but me and one of the anarchists who was later at the front of the May Day march had time to play a game of hackey sack. Then there was discussion and argument about the action about to go down. We didn’t take much part in this, and then the march took off sort of abruptly. It turned out the bank we were going to occupy was quite near, and we took them by total surprise — we were holding UBS responsible for their crimes against the people of Appalachia, whom they’ve robbed blind and whose homes they’ve freely destroyed with investments in coal, destructive coal which chops off the tops of mountaintops, that kind of coal, and so we dropped coal on their floor. I came alive. One of the speakers used the word “unconscionable” and I said to one of the security guards, “Do you know what that is? Unconscionable? That’s what you are!” And so on. I danced in the coal. And on the way out of the bank — we hadn’t really succeeded in getting up the elevator to address the executives of the bank, which had been our true intention from the beginning — I gave a hell of a speech that probably grabbed people’s attention, so much so that the chanting stopped and people tuned in. I remember definitely saying “and you will learn and suffer.” When fired up, especially in groups of likeminded folks, I am good at making the kind of inspirational speeches which get bricks thrown through windows. It’s something I pride myself on.

Later, we went down the street to Malcolm X park, or so it’s called, for the May Day march. I show up prominently in some photos of the event, beard all wild and unkempt as it was, but for the most part, I think the police were photographing me. I. was livid with some of the organizers for not being up to his level, or something along those lines, and really he was intolerable, so I told him so on the way to photocopy some leaflets about the anarchist origins of May Day, and I clearly remember saying, “I., have you become some kind of fucking leftist?” “Oh my fucking god, you piece of shit,” he said. “I’ve just been called a leftist by Paul Madore. Fuck this, fuck you, I’m leaving.” And so he did. Earlier in the day, as he told me about how he was getting rid of all his addictions, including Facebook and marijuana, he said he was thinking about giving up radical politics as well. I responded by asking him if he was going back to school, too, but I don’t think he caught my meaning. We parted ways on the way back to the square, and I did not see him on the march. I’m pretty sure that was his last attempt at protest, an for someone like him, so privileged as it really turns out he really is, I guess it’s better that way.

The rest of us, however, and plus some kid called Irish who said he was from Boston but was really from Maine and who gets more important later in the story, we smoked a blunt. We made our signs, and we prepared to declare a class war on the president. I mean, what else really is there when you’ve  reached the point we have, the point of no return? Half of us are undesirable even in the best of times, as far as the workforce goes, and the rest of us couldn’t give a fuck less to begin with. Anarchists are, if nothing else, the truly dispossessed — and there are far more people living as anarchists, yes, acting as anarchists in their daily lives than there are those claiming to be anarchists and following the allegedly anarchist, allegedly modern milieu of boring will-be liberals who seek more to control the actions of others — viewing sanction as a suitable replacement for law, as if the will to live were somehow ever in question. There are those who vilify those who purely live as anarchists, who enact the chaos magic of the daily living, who manifest their desires, as being a blight on the “movement.” As if any true anarchist ever gave creedance to something calling itself a “movement.” I made a sign that said “Smash the State. (Please?)”

Hy. and R. were delighted by the events of that day, the moments wherein it felt as if the new world might be just around the corner. I admit I know the feeling one has the first time you really challenge the established order and cast your lot with the street-born demonstrators. I know how exhilarating, however bathed in deviance such exhilaration might actually be, that first time can be. Hy. standing beside me on the front lines did a lot of things for him in mind, mostly raising him in my respect.

The next day, we trekked on out of there with my money to Baltimore, where I helped them feed their habits in quick fashion. I also picked up some extra for friends up north, which turned out badly in Connecticut. That Irish kid met us up there in Baltimore, and he turned out to be a problem later, but that’s coming up. First someone tried to burn my friend’s house down while Hy. and me were across town, picking up my clothes from the corner I. had left them on. H., yes that H., called me randomly as I was crossing town, and this prompted me to stop in and check up on that boyfriend of hers, if he even was anymore, a fact I had no knowledge of either way.

So I stopped in there for a minute, then we drove back across town, at this point having no knowledge of what happened back at the house. It turned out my stressful nature on the way to get the clothes had been dead on, as R. was freaked the motherfuck out when we got back. I didn’t quite know what to say to her, so I didn’t say anything, and we all got our dinner and our showers and our clean clothes and then we pressed onto Boston with Irish in tow. Irish drove a little, turned out to be a shitty driver, so we didn’t let him drive anymore, and then Hy. got us pulled the fuck over in North Haven. This was a terrible occurrence. I told everyone to remain calm and silent. I spoke of the code of silence, simply a reminder, but nonetheless Irish sang like a bird — he gave them their probable cause to search the car. No matter what, if they searched the car, I knew they’d find the weed pipes and traces of weed and probably the weed the Irish kid copped to having. I was already letting them search the trunk of the car, but him telling them that gave them probable cause enough to search the rest of the car. They asked if they might find anything, I told them a prostitute in Baltimore — that is, a friend of mine I had given a ride — had left a red pack of cigarettes in there that I was worrisome about. They took it out and found hard drugs in it, and took me to jail. I saw Hy. and R. sing like birds to the cops as I was driving away. I came back twenty minutes later and all three of them were gone, plus my tobacco and cell phone. R. had left a few things of hers, including her journal, so I figured in the end that her and I would be able to trade back. It later turned out that she had sold my fucking phone to a smack dealer for $30 that she owed him. What a bitch, fuck that bitch, to hell with that bitch, I should get someone to kick that stupid bitch’s ass. It’s rude of her to do something like that, don’t you fucking think? I’m just saying, here.

Now anyway, I spent a few minutes there in North Haven cleaning up my car, then I went on the highway, and then I gasjugged a bit until I got to Cambridge, where I shacked up at Van’s for a minute until my check came in, at which point I went right back to Baltimore and did what I had to do, turned right around and went to Maine. It turned out what I got wasn’t so great.

But that’s how I got here, to this point.

Now I’ve got to go off to California and rescue E. so she can go to court in Denver, Colorado. I know that sounds crazy, but this time I’ve got a camera. I’m going to fly every Wal*Mart along the way, hoping to make about $100 a day so I can have some money when I get to Cali. That’s the plan, anyway.

Things don’t always go according to plan, it’s important to remember at all times. Sometimes the plan is the folly itself. But if I can make enough money in the coming months to support myself, one way or another, then things will probably work out. Even if I end up going uptown for a bit, which is a possibility, I’ll work my way through it knowing I have a nest egg waiting on me when I get out — plus I’m looking into buying a house.

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Since we last spoke, my love, a lot of things have happened. I write these words from the second locked mental ward I've been in this quarter. The last one was at Union Memorial Hospital, in July, I think, or August, but it doesn't matter — I also spent time in jail. The mayor's office on the television is now issuing a cease and desist letter to my enemies at the Occupy Baltimore movement. The Occupy movement turned out to be bullshit. This man called Cullen Stalin, a man I've never had a conversation with, started a shit-talk campaign against me.

Anyway, I've reached a new conclusion, as an anarchist and as a man. I've found a new and simpler way to say it. After having all my possessions stolen by the authorities TWICE this year, I have this to ask: if we in the "bad" neighbhorhoods (I now live on the west side again, and I must say I cannot complain) actually thought that more police and more guns were the solution, why wouldn't we come up with these things ourselves? Don't we have solutions for all the other problems the system doesn't solve for us (don't we always find a way to grocery shop despite being miles from the grocery stores with no wheels?)

It's hard for me to focus. I know that this ward is another tool of the authorities. This isn't to say that I don't need medication; I've been clear on that since my ejection from the army. It wasn't until my last hospital stay, at Union Memorial (during which a cop named Romeo and two of his cronies from the northern district of the BCPD stole $14K cash from me — I was trying to buy H's father's house at 3733 Keswick at the time). After I was released from the hospital, though, I had a confrontation with my then-landlord, Dan Ewald, and he managed to have me arrested (bailed out 30 hours later), evicted (totally without grounds or legality), completely robbed (he made off with my wallet — later trying to use my PayPal debit card, if anyone wants some proof — and my MacBook [my new MacBook Pro was stolen in this last incident, I suspect] and my camera and all my valuabless). Long story, but the good thing about this all was that I have a witness for everything. Even if her and I are no longer going to be living together, she has no reason to lie to or about me, and she'd gladly confirm all this. She happens to be a literary agent.

Anyway, a lot's happened. I must say I am more against hierarchy than I have ever been. I look forward to the coming storm. These hospitals are used like jails now. If you don't believe me, get yourself locked up in a mental ward, and then go to jail. Look for the similiarities. This one isn't so bad. I was here several years ago. I am the reason we are allowed to use computers. I bet I could find the e-mail in my gmail account to prove that. The reason was that I didn't have phones or the abilitiy to regularly use phones back then.

The sad thing is that these are the same computers we had back then.

I think I'm in love with a girl in my neighborhood and I think I want to marry her and raise her daughter with her. Actually she lives in my building, not just my neighborhood. I now live on the corner of North and Appleton. I'm satisfied there. I'm hoping today is the day the doctors decide to release me. You see the trouble is that even when you are "voluntary," and even when you follow the letter of the law in these places, it still all comes down to what another person, who gets to go home each night and has nothing on the line outside (of course I'm going to have to struggle to stay in school now), says about my life. Her name is Doctor Knight at the University of Maryland Medical Center.

I think my friend Isaac probably got arrested out in Oakland California.

I just want to get back to my life.

That's all.

My stomach is empty. My pockets are emptier, for the first time in some time, and of course I feel better about life for it. Because I'm back in my comfort zone: having nothing but the struggle. Which I'm really not. I'll never be in the struggle again. Two life-time incomes from the government. Fuck.

But it is weird to be completely broke.

I spent my last few hundred thousand pennies on advertising and it only brought back a couple thousand. I wasn't in the business long enough to learn the seasons, but I do have a client list that will be more leisurely about things.

Although, you know me. I applied for a job or thirteen today. After I spent 26.5 hours working on the new design for Girls with Insurance. That is the flagship. That is the one that will cross over. Tireless dedication, but you've got to know when to stop.

The new design, I started from scratch. First time I've ever done that with this particular software (it was called Joomla! in these days; I was 14 years old when I first encountered it, enamored by it really — it was about 2001 and I don't think WordPress was even in the development stages. WordPress, by the way, descendent, was an extremely popular way of delivering text, video, audio, and other forms of media over what we call the internet. Who knows if you guys even need a name for it by now? My major hope is that they've stopped charging you for it.

Anyway, I started from scratch. This is a hurdle I had been avoiding since I (re) started the magazine a little over two years ago. I just realized that I had completely forgotten that the 4th of July had already passed. I don't remember what the fuck I was doing this past 4th of July. I was so drunk for the entire month of June and the better part of this month, so drunk and so high. Oh it was glorious. No, it really fucking wasn't. If you can help it and you're reading this young enough, seriously, don't taste a drop until you've done everything you want to do with your life. Don't ever celebrate with it. Users lose. It's a fact, dude. Look at all the fucking money I spent this year. I was chewing myself out about that in the mirror earlier.

Anyway, so I busted ass on that. The new design, because the old one is so dysfunctionally incompetent and psychotic. This one's going to be as wide-open for future development as I can make it. There's a magazine called elimae, online, which hasn't had to change its design since 1996 or so.  I came to realize that trusting other people to do this for me, designing the template, from the beginning was the mistake.

In 2001, when I switched from XOOPS to "Mambo" (which grew up to be Joomla!), I should have dissected every bit of it then. I should have been using all that time to fully develop the skills I'm only just now perfecting. Around that same time, on that same machine, I was the man behind the scenes of Crimethinc.TK, which you can still see on Archive.org — if that's still around, which I assume it will be, in some form or another, through the Library of Congress or something like that. Anyway, the purpose of that site was to do nothing at all. I brought nothing at all new to the world of anarchists (small a, of course, friends — ). I was learning HTML. And I got very good at it. I remember how successful I felt, sitting in front of my 17" CRT Dell monitor, which was attached to my 333 MHz computer which my first mentor gave me the parts to build, as I watched the HTML 4.0 and CSS 1.0 debugging approval from the W3C. Then I probably had to disconnect from the dial-up internet (internet via telephone line, no more than 56.6 kilobytes per minute — I used to use my father or my aunt's account while they were sleeping, all you needed was a login, via KyND internet services out of Dover-Foxcroft, ME.)

For brief, intermittent periods, we managed to have internet. One time we signed up for Netscape's version of AOL, paid one month at around $34.99, and it stayed on for another six months after I sent back the second bill as "deceased." Then for awhile, after I got my savings bonds from my grandparents, I got my own phone line and internet account. I think that lasted for about a month and a half, along with the brand-new computer my parents bought me. I was involved with the website RaiseTheFist.net and when they were taken down, I took the liberty of e-mailing my father about it, and he was unhappy, so they seized the computer and all the equipment, which probably took me another five years to forgive.

Anyway, what was I saying? Joomla. With an exclamation point, for whatever reason. I got a really good start on that template. Then I got a hankering for figuring out what was wrong with the old one, kept trying, and broke the whole thing. So I had to revert to something that makes it look like we live in 1999. Until November 1st, when I'll release the one that will go until my last days.

Because Girls with Insurance (GwI from here on out) is the magazine, I think, which has the most appeal, out of all the ideas that I've had. "A confluence of too many good things to fail." We don't homogenize. We don't over-publish, despite having more staff than the vast majority of publications. Once I turn it into a profit-bearing enterprise, also, we'll of course start paying writers (again).

Well, I'm too hungry to eat and too tired to sleep. All I want is more cigarettes. More coffee. More weed. More beer. More writing. More work. More. I wouldn't settle for being one of those type B's, though. I think, perhaps, the months you spend on the other side of productive joy are worth it. It's during those times that you have the recurring thoughts that define the next period of work, after all. And there's always the medication when it gets to be too much.

4:45AM | Hampden, Baltimore

I'd like to be asleep but there's really no purpose. It's not as if I've got anything to be resting for. The reason I'm not resting is that I haven't got any drugs or alcohol in me, or anyway not enough.

I've come to realize that I don't really like feeling drunk. I did for awhile, I probably will again, but recently I haven't. Yesterday morning I got up and started drinking some of those Jeremiah Weed Lightning Lemonade things. I had thought they were more potent than they were. Anyway, I drank them all, all five that were in the fridge. I was trying to get hold of my weed dealer all day. Finally he texted me to let me know he was dry.

I've created this retarded cycle of smoking weed, cigarettes, and eating. I have the utmost unhealthy lifestyle possible. I'm cutting years off my life by the day. Often when I wake up I feel as if something's about to pop in my head. There are many consequences to the joyous life.

Six days from now will be when all the school stuff will be officiated. University of Baltimore. Okay.

I had more to say but I've lost it.

She was the toughest Irish bird you'd ever seen. There was a story about her knocking Scott Lufkin through a stack of canned goods. She drank for 40 years, had a ladylike    burp, and put the bottle down. She owned more Christmas decorations than Mrs. Claus. She played the scratch tickets daily and, over the course of her life, might even have broken even. If you consider that most of the tickets were bought by my grandfather, then she was definitely in the black. She also kept her tickets into the Megabucks because she "didn't want to miss [her] chance." She was the most generous person you'll ever meet and the most doting, spoiling grandmother a boy could have wished for. You want to talk about eyes lighting up at Christmas time.

4 children, 13 grandchildren, 2 great grandchildren, 2 fortunes, 1 husband, several thousand pairs of shoes, several hundred bottles of LTD, several million in taxable income, many thousands of scratch tickets, and more than seven million road miles later, she has left us.

The last thing she said was something we'd all heard her say a million times before: "Johnny!" That's her husband, my grandfather, J. K. Lyford, the one-time trucking magnate. She would say it when she thought there was something going on outside, when she was angry at him, when she had a phone message or phone call for him, when suppah was on the table, when my cousin Jacey was acting out, or, really, when anything happened. It was her first word for help, for love, for anything, because here are two people who fell in love and stayed that way through a truly American life.

In 1960, at age 17, J. K. started out in the business. Whether or not he worked for his father then or just got his own operation from the outset, I don't know, but that's when she and he were married, that June, because my Uncle John (Duke) was due in December. From 1960 to 1995 or thereabouts, my grandfather saw a cyclic but steady increase in his wealth and capabilities. At one point, he employed some 30 or more men, owned more than a dozen rigs (which even then cost some $200-300K), not to mention all the other equipment. All told, his operation was worth several million dollars. To all of this, when the facts are laid out, he is a man who will simply say, with teary eyes because you just don't get it, "Yeah, I made some money."

The woman who stuck with him throughout his rise and fall (in 1995 the bad taste of NAFTA began to set into the collective tastebuds of the Maine logging industry and we went from having roughly 200 mills to now, today, having just 2 to speak of) is here remembered. She played the role of secretary, cook, maid, wife, driver, bartender, defender, and partner. She'd have gone to prison for him, I believe.

Nanny, I'm glad I got home to see you one last time. I'm glad you liked the slippers I brought you. I never told you, but I brought them because they looked like Dorothy's and I always kind of thought you used to look like Dorothy, but nobody would agree so I never brought it up.

1:16PM | Hampden

I got tired of working early and I proceeded to get drunk and think sentimentally about the army until I was too drunk to do that anymore. We interviewed someone for Girls with Insurance, Zach and me, and then Zach and I talked about love and life. He's a funny dude.

Anyway, after a couple hours of being bored, got on Craigslist casual encounters. Both of the girls I wrote to turned out to be robots, as usual, so then I just hit the street with vigor. Went to Frazier's. Called Adam R. He couldn't come out, he had an engagement, he was thinking about coming out anyway, he never turned up. Got tired of Frazier's not long later, went to the other half of it, chatted up a train conductor girl and her gorgeous musician's-girlfriend friend. They were just there for dinner.

Eventually decided to try Rocket to Venus because why not? It was everything it's notorious for, but the prices weren't so bad as people had made it sound. Tried talking to a small group of disaffected youthful girls. Felt like an ass and left after two beers.

Back at Frazier's, they had switched to plastic glasses. What? Plastic cups. A girl popped up on the bar next to me. She was paying for her last drink and I didn't let her leave without getting her number and story. She lives on 37th. She seemed sweet. Freckled redhead. She intentionally saved her number in my phone with her last name as "Frazier's." I told her I would call her this afternoon, but I don't think I'm going to, well I might, but I just don't feel like going out and I'm sure she wants to do that.

Anyway, I spilled two of those plastic beers on the counter and they asked me to leave. Couldn't help myself. I was shitty. I wouldn't have done that if they were glass. No big, so I moved on down the street.

Saw this lady I knew from before outside of Zissimo's. I spoke to her for a minute, then she asked if I wanted to spend the night with her. I kind of did but anyway she took me inside where she had a pitcher of shitty Coor's. She fed me a couple beers, I bought some shots, but this is where the night got interesting.

There was a young lady there talking to some old guy, or being talked at, anyway she was sweet. Super sweet. Well, not at first. At first she was angry because I kept failing to remember her name. The lady I came in with was becoming short-tempered with me. I decided it was time for a smoke break. The girl, A., joined me outside. The lady had to go to her house to do something but she was coming back. I knew I didn't have much time; I kissed A. She was into it. I said we should just ditch the lady and go to my place. She was up for that then changed her mind.

We went to her place on Chestnut instead. A spacious apartment she has, or so I think, half a rowhouse basically. She has a dog and two cats. Along the way I insisted that we didn't have to fuck. We didn't have to because I really just don't like to be alone. Things went differently than that, but it was well worth the effort.

I had strange dreams sleeping next to her, about stealing cars. She's a very soft girl. I told her that her body is "French inspired." I felt very clever. We talked most of the night. I said we were having our dinner talk as pillow talk.

I like her a lot, A. I'm going to see her again on Monday, I think. We got breakfast at David's this morning. I ate scrapple and she thought it was funny that I like scrapple. She's 28, pretty, and very nice. What else can I say? I'm definitely not looking for anything too serious but I would like to be part of her life, I think, especially after the S. fiasco of last week. Really don't want to see S. anymore.

Glad to be a free man.

Good times.

Hampden, Baltimore – 6:25AM

Well. So I got back to Hampden. I wrote some more on that last monster entry. I bought some beer, some food, and hunted the neighborhood for a bath towel. Couldn't find one so I just used one of my sweaters. Then, as noted in the entry, I decided to go see if H. was at the bar. That was a trip. $20 across town. Fuck. What the fuck? Wasn't worth it, because she wasn't there. This Dale guy she called me crying about last year was there. He looked very uncomfortable. Probably because of the Facebook message I sent him. He made it sound like I was threatening him. I was just telling him to have a bit more respect. She'd said he hit her. I explained to him the difference between hitting and restraining. H. likes to hit people when she's wicked drunk; this is a fact. Sarah was there, all blasted and rude. Anyway, I didn't have any words with Dale, which I think pissed everyone off. He's still wondering what I'm going to do; all I know is that while I'm in town he's not going to hit her or go anywhere near her. And that's good enough. For now. If she wanted me to do something to or about him, I would. I don't care about a year in jail or whatever. They have to catch you, too, and stuff.

The bar is different now. You can't drink outside anymore. They lost the tables. The other bar down the street is now gone as well. Anyway I had a couple Guinesses. I told Sarah about my business. She seemed either jealous or just bitter that I was doing okay. She kept trying to bait me into saying that I was crazy last year. Was I crazy last year? Yeah. So was fucking H., though, and so I want her and others to own it like that. Don't fucking pin it all on me. I told her very clearly I needed this, I needed that: I needed rest. Why couldn't you just give me some rest?

I'll never understand H. I know I'll be hearing from her eventually, when she's ready, and I'll answer the phone. Unlike her I have nothing against answering the phone for anyone. If I don't like what I hear, I'll hang up. I put everything on the line for her and she didn't want it. So this time she's got to come to me. Plain and simple.

Also met that Army guy she was talking about. Sarah was being such a bitch, seriously. A nice bitch but a bitch nonetheless. Instead of just saying whatever was on her mind, she said other things. Whatever, I don't care. It's going to be alright.

So after a couple beers I dipped out of there and headed back towards downtown. Went to the Power Plant. Felt on fire. It was a great place, seemed like one. I switched to a whiskey sour. The mood struck me. There were a lot of girls there from a couple bachelor parties. That's how I knew which bar to go to; I saw a troop of them walking up the stairs. I followed. Got my whiskey sour. Then I went back outside to the balcony.

A bigger girl said hello. She was among one of the parties. She asked me for a light. I gave her a light. Two of her friends appeared. Actually, one was her sister. Her sister had mean words for me; she was very angry at me for some reason. All I was doing was engaging her sister in conversation. Anyway, soon their mom — no, honestly, their old mom! — said it's time to go. They didn't actually leave, though. I looked over after a couple minutes and saw that they were still there. I thought that was funny as shit and went inside to look at the girls or something.

Went back outside. They were gone. I saw a group of women. One of them, the best looking one, was rocking back and forth on her feet. I went over to them. I said, Are you guys alright? No, seriously, you look a little drunk. Her friends moved away, but she stayed. She was all over me! Her name was Hilary. It was amazing how many people tried to not let this joy of ours happen. Oh well. Hilary stayed at the Hilton. It was a pretty nice room. She lived in London for five years. She confirmed that I would do better in Europe. She told me about her business in Remington or something VA. It was a good time. She's probably the 540 number that sent me a text or two yesterday. Sorry, doll. No but she was gorgeous. And I have no regrets, ever, and maintain that I have no need of them.

I need to get a routine going. Just a daily routine. Took me too long to get started yesterday. I need a bunch of things. This room is still filled with boxes and stuff. Hoping today to get caught up enough in work that I won't have to worry about being working at 9PM tonight, so I can browse the dating sites and stuff.

I don't think I'm looking for a relationship right now, though I'll try not to sleep with any of her friends — shouldn't be a problem since most of her friends are straight guys anyway. She could slay me yet, though. She knows this. But I'm not going to be some kind of stalker weirdo. If she wants to talk, she'll call. She even knows where I live. And I'll leave it at that. I really doubt it will be that long. She sent me a text late that night, accusing me of showing up "unannounced" to her old bar. I need a fucking permission slip to go to a bar? What is this shit? I responded that Paul owns Paul; I do what I want. Hilary thought this was a hilarious response. She was barely awake in the morning when I left. She's a bit older and a lot richer. It might be worth it, but then you never know.

7:10PM – Fort Hood, TX

Is it possible to love someone if you don't love anyone in their life? I mean, can you take the gem and leave the dirt? Does it work that way? I'm not sure it does. I'm not sure it matters. Maybe we were better as friends. I just don't want everything to turn into some kind of watered-down rendition of nothing at all. I just want to be clear-headed and happy long enough to say something that counts, to society at large, in the form of a book, and have the masses fall in love with me.

That's a lie, of course, because everybody knows that nobody loves anybody else, everyone loves themselves, which is a lie in itself, as is everything.

I've become fond of saying "nothing matters" or "few things matter" or numerous variations on that theme. This is something that happens a lot when I've been smoking weed.

I managed to get not one iota of work done this weekend. The plan is to do it all tonight and then finally clear out of this fucking Texas wasteland tomorrow. I've officially been on leave from the Army for a few days now but haven't been able to leave due to various paper fuck-ups, only one of which even involved me at all.

I want to drink coffee with people of consequence.

I won't say that ever again.

I don't say very much these days. I say things that don't matter, I say things don't matter, I say I'll never run away from any of this but I always find myself on the move. In my dreams, I am forever at that bus depot, watching you watch me go.

Admittedly, there is nothing strange about anything I do anymore. Earlier I reached the conclusion, quite adeptly, that the creative spirit is trapped by various constraints which don't conform to it. For instance, you don't hear many creative people talking about regular bed-times or good/bad times to do various things like drugs and alcohol. No, we just do what the fuck we want, when we want, and create in between. Or something. I'm not romanticizing the drugs and alcohol part. But I mean, there are normal people who might find it weird to start seriously drinking at noon. They might be the same kind of people who can drink "casually."

In AA, they say it's not healthy to ever have more than three drinks in a single day. They say your liver cannot withstand more than that. They say a lot of things in that motherfucker.

Not that it matters. And there I go again.

So yeah, I've been smoking a bunch of weed. Weed is very cheap in Texas. If I were some kind of entrepreneur, I'd drive back down here in a few months, buy up a huge satchel, and take it back to Maryland. I'd make thousands of dollars in cash. I'd take that cash and set it under my bed and just say, "Well, there." Maybe without the comma. Maybe more statement-like. More affirmative. Just there. Well, there.

Then I'd take the cash and buy weed with it.

But probably not.

I've been writing in this journal to stave on a loneliness that's been growing inside me the past few days. I don't know where it's born from. The same melancholia that periodically drives me inside my own head, I suppose, or the same one that brings me to wake up angry.

Anyway, now I'll proceed to actually get all this work done. That will make me feel better and more secure. I don't know if it's all about feeling. I don't know many things. I admit to not knowing things. And fuck College Park. Don't fuck Maryland, just that one school. I like the state of Maryland and fully intend to take up residence there.

Oh yeah. The other day J. called. Or I called her. Either way, she was like, "Well, if College Park's not going to take you, you should come to New York." Clearly we never knew each other. She should know better than to think about me ever living in that vile place.

The only thing about New York that's ever appealed to me is the idea that there are more women than men. That's a pretty good deal as far as cities go. You have to be doing something wrong to not get laid.

In a fashion coat, I float down my city.

Fort Hood, TX – 1:32AM

I am this close to securing my residence in Baltimore. It's in Hampden, which is a hip neighborhood with ample coffeeshops, bookstores, vinyl record shops, bike repair places, and vintage clothing shops. Perfect for me, really.

It's also about three streets from H, who "can now talk to me again." Apparently she was seeing someone for awhile. We're always doing that. She re-appeared on my Facebook, in a weird flurry, and called me out of the blue. I answered the call. It's my own fault. She'll never believe that the landlord actually contacted me.

I've been losing weight by nature of working my ass off, not exercising, forgetting to eat. Today I composed my 3,000 word shipsinking article. I submitted it to a blog with lots and lots and lots of traffic. It's a great article. I think they'll publish it. And I think normal people — that is to say, people who don't read/comment with the sole intent of ingratiating themselves with people they think can do them a favor or whatever — will enjoy the story. It's a twisted love story. Such are the narratives of our lives.

My big concern is that I'll have to foot the bill for getting to Baltimore, because my residence is still Maine. Oh yeah, the Maine thing fell through. My aunt, with all her support the troops neo-con nonsensicality, decided to give my job to someone else. And so it goes. I'll work it out. I mean, the rent is low enough that my disability checks will actually cover it. So I'll be fine. I've got more money coming in from the business. I blew my wad on that trip to LA and this new computer. The new computer was basically a necessity. Or so I like to convince myself.

I'm so super-fucking-stoked about going back to Baltimore, about returning to life outside these gates. I feel much older than I am. Wiser.

I have to work on this fundamental denial I have, though. Things will go wrong. Things can go wrong. If things can go wrong, things will go wrong.

I've been catching up with the KEXP Songs of the Day for a few days. There are like 21 hours remaining. Made some discoveries. We Were Promised Jetpacks. Years late to the party. The thing about great music is that it's great long after everyone else likes it.

Can't wait to smoke some weed, relax, and find a job. Some kind of easy job. Cash. Maybe I could wait tables. I don't know. I definitely want to get over to Brooklyn, NYC and hang out with AM sometime this summer. Seems pertinent. I could stay at that 3B place. Be very unassuming. Not introduce myself to Catherine Lacey or anything. Maybe pay in cash and use a fake name. Grow a beard. See what kinds of things happen around there.

J. will be there by then, anyway. She'll be living in Greenbush, if I remember. Or not Greenbush. Who knows. All these little neighborhoods. Whatever the one that's known for being overtly Polish. She'll be living there. So I might just crash with her, but I might not like that, she might not like that, it might not be okay. She might not be happy with how good things are going for me. She's still pissed at Atlanta, I bet. But anyway, it wouldn't be so bad.

Well, all of that. And then some. Got to remain positive and try not to wonder what the weeks will bring. If all else fails, I can always just work the labor pool and drink forties with the down and outs. It worked when I was a teenager.

Hi. Yesterday the second episode of Madore's Corner (lit/cult chat for a generation in bloom) went live.