Late For My Own Funeral

Who the f--- is Ricky, you ask? Ricky is an old man that lives in New Orleans, LA, fights for Charity Hospital after it’s demise, not due to Katrina but to the shallow pockets and greedy appetite of Louisiana State University. After Katrina hit New Orleans, it gave the government and powers-that-be, an excuse to shut down institutions they could have only dreamed of scraping from the picture.

Charity Hospital was one of few hospitals that took care of people without health insurance. The gamut between haves and have-nots, in New Orleans, is far enough to fill several charity hospitals, and to shut down the one that catered to an impoverished city, set a fire under Ricky’s ass. Veteran activist, protested the Vietnam war, lead the Socialist Worker’s Activist Union in New Orleans, dropped out of college to write for the Militant in NYC, didn’t get his driver’s license until thirty-something, ladies and gentlemen… I give you Ricky.

Aside from all the civil rights fighting, freedom fighting, and public speaking, the special thing about Ricky is…he’s my dad. We totally don’t get along, the fire under his ass is an eternal flame, if you Wikipedia “curmudgeon” (def: a bad tempered, difficult, cantankerous person) his picture pops up, nuff said. Ask either of us to speak ill of the other and we could go on for days, but at the end of every phone conversation we wrap with “Love you”. Crazy and off-the-wall as it sounds, we get along through the thick of it. We have to. For as many times as I’ve walked away, he’s walked away, we’ve written each other off, the fact is…I’m his son, and he’s my father and ain’t shit gonna change it.

When it comes down to it between any two people, there is the potential for love, given both parties have to chip in. Scratch that, sometimes to love you have to have faith, and I can’t count how many times I’d sit and pray in church, as an 8yr old, and pray for my dad’s health and safety. No clue who or what God was at that point… still don’t, but I’d kneel and pray for the man. Scary as he was, loud as he’d yell, much as he could be a prick, I’d pray for him. This. For me, became the roots and practice of unconditional love. Shit’s hard, but somebody’s gotta do it, and it’s the same regards I’d like him to hold me to.

Anyways, getting to my point, Jake and I finished a song a few days ago in regards to Ricky. I played it for my mom, Jane. She liked it. Volume’s gotta come down on the vocals a lil bit, but aside from that it might suffice as the front runner for the mixtape. We perform it next week Friday, Nov. 19^th at the Varsity Theater, a show I put together with Prof as the headliner. Got the idea for the song from a story Abigail had given me, The Return by Roberto Bolano (squiggly line over the “n” of “Bolano”. Never really figured out how to do that. Result: numerous points docked in Spanish classes). Roberto Bolano wrote The Return as a hypothetical as to how he died, what it’s like on the other side, and everything he experienced. Loved it, had to try it myself. We’re all goin’ at some point, might as well start writing thanks.

Yesterday morning, after hearing the song a few more times, my mother, in tears, poor woman, weeps, “Are you thinking of killing yourself?” “No mom. Roberto Bolano wrote it, why can’t I, it’s just a song”. “Who’s Roberto?”. Christ, the communication has come down to this. Yea yea, the song is dark, I get it, but not enough to pass the impression “I’m gonna end this thing today”. C’maaaaaaaaan. Check it for yourself here. If links aren’t your thing, you can jump to www.facebook.com/ToussaintMorrisonMusic and click on “Late For My Own Funeral”.

Here’s the lyrics:

Ya see that thing up there, it’s called the sky

And I’m gonna give it to you someday, but only when it’s right

You see my time here isn’t long, matter fact I’m already gone.

They buried me yesterday with my backpack and a song

Well first things first, tell Carol she was my earth

I enjoyed the long talks over Szechuan after church,

The long prayers through it all, the long stares at the wall

Makin’ waits to hear your fate from doctors at the hospitals.

And we made it, well at least you did, so tell Jane

She’s the ink for those “World’s Greatest Mom” t-shirt templates

We fought like deadlines, set-backs, age and time

And worked out like deadliner, set-backs, and age and time

Rock on Janer, you last minute lane changer

Combattin’ cancer on the daily all love and no anger.

Tell your daughter, Annie, to take it easy on herself

She’s come farther than her father could ever help.

Yea, I dig that guy, but he’s a sketchy profile,

And I’ll be damned if I’m not the one to walk you down the aisle

I have a few words for Ricky, but we’ll save that for the end

So for now, sister, know your brother loves you after death

And I’m still lookin’ for Chase, Jerren Schaden and Doc

Maria Croix, Barb Jones, and Joe Sodd

It’s crazy up here, I’ve been in line since I landed

Fillin’ out paper work to make sure I am who I say I am, but

What I miss most is your voice

My memory’s still the same even though my life has change

Cos’ what gets me by are the simple joys.

I was late for my own funeral so I could spend the day as a ghost on your shoulder.

Anyways, over here the roads are pristine

I only wish I could’ve brought my Honda with me.

That things gonna out live your kid’s kids

So don’t forget, every 60,000 give the transmission fluid the business.

Drive it back to New Orleans, have a hand grenade for me

And kill the hangover with PJ’s in the mornin’

I wanna hear you laughter in the hereafter

Unconditional, no matter where luck steers the dagger

Smile, it may not feel like a lot,

But trust in the end, it’s the only thing you’ve got

I don’t mind that you don’t care, I don’t mind

And I’ll be late for yours too, so I guess it’s only fair

It’s clear you pick the moments you choose to be a father

And I’m guilty of lettin’ my mood determine what I call ya

Derek, Mr. Morrison, Dad whatever it is today

I’m your son, and even in the next that won’t change

But what I miss most is your voice

My memory’s still the same even though my life has changed

What gets me by are the simple joys

I was late for my own funeral so I could spend the day as a ghost on your shoulder.

Interracial Night Out

Four weeks ago, I had come across a dope-ass font named "Mexcellent". Two weeks later, in Cancun, I stepped into an elevator along with the rest of Mexico's Women's National Soccer Team. Yesterday, saw one of the gals from the elevator on ESPN jumping in the air after handing the USA Women's Team their first loss to Mexico in a damn long time. All events that have nothing to do with the following story...

So a Mexican, two Brazilians, and a racially ambiguous guy walk into a bar… meh, less a bar, more like a giant club fitting for a Michael Mann shoot out (ref: Collateral), but nonetheless we’ll call it a bar for the sake of simplicity.

More shades of brown than Photoshop CS10 Jesus Edition 3000, if the four of us were in New York we’d look like we knew each other, in L.A. we’d look like an out-of-work camera crew, in Minnesota we’d look like a drug cartel... and we’d totally get away with it, but for now we’re two Brazilians, an American, and a local (damn good running title for Michael Mann’s next film, as long as they hire Javier Bardem as the Mexican, I’ll sell the rights for less than 10g).

$50 wrist band and “free” shuttle ride later, this place wreaks of a Justin Timberlake music video. Ceiling high as a national bank, and lighting that’d make The Varsity look like a sideshow; all of which is a good thing, however that cold feeling happens to my gut on the minute every minute, translating this could be fun, or I could wind up in a suitcase just outside the Cancun City Dump.

Can’t make out a single word this guy is saying to me. “De donde eres?”, I ask. “Brasil”, he says, and that explains it. Nice, I could use a quick brush-up on my Portugese while I’m here. Perhaps he mistook me for someone who’s native to something closer to Brazil than plain ol’ U.S.A. Narp, not even. We hold what I wouldn’t even call a conversation… let’s go with neanderthalic sign language. We stick with the gutturals, short-Spanish, and hand gestures. Back in a theater tech class, professor Lance held an entire class on communication between director and lead set design. He said the best communication is guttural. Short gestures and grunts can go farther than a paragraph… and they do. Christ, we talked about Giselle, Jiu-Jitsu, the caliber of Brazilian women of which he couldn’t stop speaking about, how long we’re in town- ERRRRK! Dance circle twelve o’clock!

Quick note, when a dance circle breaks out, one of two things must happen: 1. Draw to it like a fly to neon lighting, white people to poll booths, cops to the north side of Minneapolis, etc… or 2. Jump in.

Even quicker note: never jump into a dance circle to show-off. You kamikaze that biotch to make a complete fool of yourself, and hopefully light a fire under someone elses arse who’s dream it’s always been to jump in a dance circle and break it down like freakonomics.

Love these things. Dove in hands first to eek out the two –and-a-half break moves I know. I’m no good, but put out just enough and you’ll draw out the real b-boys. Flashback: 15 yr. old Toussaint use to stand and watch dancers b-boy for so long at the Sunday danceteria at 1^st Ave. that each breaker could’ve easily filed a restraining order on me. I’d just stand there, between “too afraid to jump off the diving board” and “enthralled enough to watch it all go down”. A few lessons, bruised elbows, and 3 of my top 10 most embarrassing moments later, I can do it like they’re the only moves I know… because they are. Half-break, half-gymnastics, it’s enough to draw this kid out lookin’ like Pharell’s younger brother. He takes the bait, shoulders me out, spins like a dreidel on his hands and heals. Folks gasp at his sneaks in the air, the crowd ooh’s at his simple defiance of gravity-Bam, I’m back in on the hands, absolutely no rhythm, but nonetheless feet don’t touch the ground, and it continues like that ‘til I can negotiate a shoulder to the ground and spin to a pose… enough to look like I meant it. He puts on another clinic, finishes almost on his face, and calls it. Thanks, I’m out of moves anyways. Shiiiiit, and if this were to haul on any longer we would have to resort to dancing on our feet. We clasp hands and greet. He says he’s from New York, the others with him are from Canada, my drug cartel introduces themselves from South America, a group of gals drop in to introduce themselves from London… and here we are, dancing like we’ve known each other since the California Achievement Test in grade school, border-line buzzed, and above all: smiling.

The alcohol sweats through your pours so quick, you’d think you’d been drinking Diet Coke the whole night. Trust, it’ll hit you at some moment though. These wristbands = license to binge. Too much is always an easy direction to start, although no one ever finishes. The fact we’re in Mexico, the authorities could make sure your picture doesn’t even make it to the back of a milk carton… I’m coo.

In a blink… it’s 4am. Buenos dias, I step out to snag a taxi. It’s raining like the storm to put the coast under for good is eminent to hit. If it does, at least we went down dancing.

This Is Fran Camden, This Is Sparta

(Read the previous entry here to actually understand what the f’s going on. However, quick brush-up: Fran Camden, ex from a year ago. Last we saw each other, the national guard was put on alert. Murk, Fran’s sister.

Bar-close upon us, The Nomad was more cryphy than Get Cryphy. People jumpin’ off the stage, dancing on, off, in, and around it, tables pushed all directions to clear the floor. The night’s dubbed “Soul Friday, the only dance party for and by queer women of color and friends”. Not a bad claim, and got damn do they get down. Twas off the cliff.

Murk showed me her new extension, ever so proudly. I made a joke, which is mandatory whenever anyone shows you their extensions, we went on to converse. Her bday’s next week, can’t make it to the show, etc. Enter the Dragon…Fran. She’s shorter than I remember. Touches my newly dawned beard. “What’s this…why are we growing a beard all of a sudden? What’s going on here?”. She’s not as good at condescension as the master, Ms. Shin, but she gives it a college try. “Growing it out for a music vid”, I say. Which as of now, is gone. Couldn’t stand the damn beard. Itched, itched and itched. Blonde, red, and gray hairs were sproutin’ out the thing. No clue what was goin’ on in there. Had to go.

She continues. Stares at me like it’s my turn to give her shit…but I’m all out. Game’s over, I’d rather talk about Tom Emmer’s day schedule than spar with the woman. I grin and look to Murk to continue our conversation. “Uhh, I hate that. I can’t stand it when you do that”, she says. And I just look back, smile, and continue the conversation with Murk. So she stands there and stares at me for the rest of the ten minutes I was around. Obviously drunk, she kept repeating "This is awkward. Isn't this awkward?" wanting myself and everyone else to agree with her and partake in the same feeling... but it wasn't. It was absolutely fine, with nothing awkward about it. 


Doting on a few more gestures I gave, as she persisted with the "awkward" accusations, I thought, "Why? Why even tell me that your uncomfortable right now? The best you have to contribute to the conversation is the overbearing obvious, then why even step here. You know absolutely everyone in this bar, you use to work in this bar, everyone would love to hear about your discomfort...in this bar, so why step to me, hold the smile, and play Queen Obvious. Tell me what your excited about for the future, where you're going next, do you think of Sex & The City 2 is anywhere near the 1st, somethin' more than thin discussion about the discussion." Yes, I'd rather talk about Carrie Bradshaw than hear more of the same from the same...but, it's cute, and although she wants me to agree with her, I can't... I don't feel awkward. This "Dance party for and by queer women" is too outrageously awesome to feel awkward. Shiiiiiit, I might just have to jump in.

After a few tries, she gave it a civil pursuit. She didn’t make the cut for GAP in San Francisco, asked about Jeb’s wedding in Cali… and I honestly couldn’t tell you the rest of what we spoke about. They say 90% of communication is done without words. I believe it. Fran and I quite possibly carried on an entire dialogue, just without words. What’s strange is the fact that I could be dead silent, and I’d still somehow piss her off. Had to have been several times throughout the conversation that she road blocked to say, “Uhh, I can’t stand it when you do that”. Do what? I’m taken back, here. It seemed that simple gestures, laughs, and details just lit a fire under her arse. And for what? No clue.

With Fran Camden, these little things use to set off Battle Royale Galacticas. Back when we were together, there was a definitive moment when she snapped on a moment’s sliver, gave me this look like a supervisor gives a late employee. This entitlement, sense of ownership, bravado was going to have to check itself, or find a different man to take the wrap. Wasn’t me. I plugged my fair share of mishaps and wrongs into the equation, but again, relationships are about problem solving (ref: Mallory). Twas the final snap, and it was either high time to deal or fold. When it came time, more than enough factors reared their ugly mugs and the entire situation folded. Ehhh, “folded” is an understatement. Let’s go with “mushroom clouded”.

However you cut the butter, seeing Fran again was refreshing. It’s not everyday you can put down the guns and gloves, and share a smile with someone that threatened to dial 911 last they saw you. Truly a special thing (half sarcastic, half sarcastic). I kid, I kid. What was nice about it was the little gestures that use to provoke the crazy in her weren’t half as devastating. At least not to me. Murk hovered in the background the entire time, making expressions at Fran’s expense, mocking, bunny ears, the works… I’d laugh, Fran’d turn to her and give her shit.

Finished my Abita beer, “Was good seeing you”, made my way to the exit. Not bad for a Friday. Just when I thought it was the end of a night that’d never end, in rolls a text from Mike Lipset. After Party... oh sure why not. 

And There She Was...

The coolest sister she has calls her sissafran, so for short we’ll call her Fran. Far from the family, but always aspiring to be, her immediate lineage resembles somewhat the surface of the Camdens (ref: 7^th Heaven). With that said, this woman is Fran Camden. True grit, crazy like a fox, smarter than everything above-average, and has a glare that could give a non-smoker cardiac arrest. Let’s leave her alone for now, and get back to it later.

The night is somewhat young, and you can hear his voice is a lil’ bit younger. Not the fact that it’s young age-wise or high pitch, but in the vein of enthusiasm. This kid has the f----kin fire. He’s waited this moment for years, perhaps his life even. Sweat, dreams, cash: all spent in the name of an art form that suits an outlet for his mental livelihood and day-to-day miscues. When you look Mike Lipset in the eyes, he looks like he will cut you. His eyes have the frow of a bull dog, truly not giving a f--- and the one who will finish the fight rather than start it. I’ve seen this before and it strikes no fear in any fiber of me, but what sends chills down my spine is the history in his pupils. I don’t know Mike’s background, but aside from his stare staking action, the stare also parlays he has cut someone before. People that aren’t afraid to do shit… are nothing to be afraid of. It’s the m-----f-----ers that’ve done it before and have absolutely no problem taking to you with fist, blade, or bullet at any moments notice.

Getting to know Mike, you’d quickly conclude he’s not the type. His stare however communicates different. The dichotomy is still beleaguering, but I do my best to stay on the same page with him, and this is it. His night has come. The 18+ crowd of escapists, impulse, and live fast instinct raises their hands in sync with his call and response. The Minnesota girls either gyrate to the beat as if Burning Man had just been kicked off, or stand and give him the same killer stare back. It’s moving. Mike’s moving. The moment is moving, and he’s brought us along for the ride. You gotta be thankful for gritty-ass artists like Mike. His ambition is just getting started and you can’t help but respect the fire he has to offer. Mike Lipset’s Levelheads Mixtape release party at Hell’s Kitchen… yeah, I was there.

Quickly had to bounce to 1^st ave for Get Cryphy. Anu’s always spoken about it, but I never took her word for it. Met up with Ryan K, Riley, and a few other national caliber poets outside the joint. Tried to get in, couldn’t. Door man says they’re at capacity. C’moooooon, I have money, don’t you want it.

Na. 1^st Ave’rs could give a shit less if you had the cure for cancer at the door. The building shuts it down like Fort Knox. Years ago, I use to be a bouncer at 1^st Ave. You take a code of the samurai for that place. Soul before cash. Defend the establishment at all costs… even if that cost is you. Jea, if any door men were to take a bullet for their club, they’d be the door men I’m staring down right now. Quick, he’s not looking. I raise my wrist as if I already have a wristband, and pass by like a ghost.

Boom, I’m in. Bodies clashing, bass blowing through the wet air, ganja blowing through the wet air, and there she was… at the bar. Arch-nemesis, the devil herself, “Ms. Shin” we’ll call her for now. Backstory: Ms. Shin and myself collided like a bitter old loveless marriage in high school. Never took the time to get to know each other, just hated each other. Senior year we tried to make a treuce, she asked me to Sadies. It was on, but later we called it off. Possibly we could look each other in the eye and mean it when we say "even if you were the last person on earth...". Or not. Last we spoke, we were out for coffee, walking with her 3 year old daughter around Medal Park. Again, somehow the hatred lives on. “Don’t you have a bar and a kid to tend to?”. She quickly cuts back, “Don’t you have a show to do in Wisconsin?”. Wasn’t a dig, but the way Ms. Shin says it… you can just tell she’s going for the throat everytime. The way she said it would make any musician feel ashamed for ever setting foot near Wisconsin. I don’t know how she does it, but she does. She could spite volunteer work in Africa, and make people feel guilty for even thinking about joining the Peace Core. Mutant power, cold queen… or both. We’ll never know, but when she aims, hot damn she always hits. I grin. She grins. I ghost away to the entrance to catch Ryan K and co. still outside not trying to find the cure for cancer. Get Cryphy, more than my scene, and I’d stay for the party, but not tonight. Promised a friend I’d meet her somewhere, sometime in the city. Meh, can’t quite call it “friend”, more a friendly acquaintance.

The text is in, she’s at The Nomad… and I know where this is going. Coolest sister Fran has, we called her La Mark. I always liked LaMurk better, so we’ll go with Murk on this one. Murk texts she’s at The Nomad. Seeing she’s never in Minneapolis, I book it down to the West Bank. Step out the taxi with my bright orange Michael Kors sweatshirt I bought in Brooklyn for $20, and a tie that’d make me gay in Mpls, but fresh to death in Brooklyn. Meh, I’d rather dress Brooklyn in Mpls, than dress Mpls in Brooklyn, right? Door man/Bartender Shad greets me at the door. “You’re in for it tonight”, he cryptically murmurs. “I know”, I think back to him. Shad, quite possibly the bartender with the most swag in Minneapolis… partially ‘cos he’s from New Orleans. (Sidenote: If you’re ever at The Nomad, ask Shad to make you a Hurricane. Only cat in Mpls that can do it like New Orleans. Hot fire.)

“Meh, her sister told me to meet her here.” Shad opens the door, I step in. Dark as the bat cave, Dracula dark, organized noise sweeping through the room, couldn’t be a better way to end the night… why? We’ve already said it once before, but collectively let’s say it again all together now “And there she was”. Back turned at the bar, facing the side door, her head swiveled to the right to glance over her shoulder… Fran. Similar to the snake woman in The Golden Child, starring Eddie Murphy, her head swiveled over that shoulder like a damn serpent. Christ, the woman’s got Spider-Sense all of a sudden. Maybe she’s seen this coming as well. Did Murk tell her I was droppin’ by? Is that a question you idiot, they’re sisters? Wish I cared enough to listen to the questions fire off in my brain like Wolf Blitzer in The Situation Room, for this I could careless.

Mind you, Fran is as important to me as I am to her. Nil. However, what is important is the last time Fran and I were face-to-face, volume raised past high and into the realms of “somebody better call the po’s, a domestic’s about to go down like the bonus round”. Last time Fran and I were face-to-face she looked the sight of unrecognizable, a familiar face gone more ways than straight, eyes empty, anger full as a dirty sink , and holding on to the final tangible piece you could record from our discorded past. Call it heated, trespassing, crazy, or me just trying to get my shit back, but the last time Fran and I were face-to-face, Clash of the Titans didn’t have shit on us, the beginning fight scene between Justice and Afro’s father of Afro Samurai was fluorescent pale in comparison, and clearly everything prologued to the moment, strangely, made it an appropriate explosion. Meh, but I didn’t come here to see her, came here to see Murk. And Murk totally knew we'd run into each other. Christ, when was the last time Murk wanted to hang out without Fran involved? Maybe Murk's as entertained with our interactions as any blood lusting UFC audience... can't blame her.

Always had an idea of how this’d go down… but was never in the cards ‘til tonight. If anything, it’ll be entertaining just to see if she breaks a glass and lunges at me right then and there, or acts stand off-ish and plays it safe. Fran and I could be apathetic, engaged, or absolutely unaware of each others presence in the same room, and we’d somehow still wind up at each others throats, be it attraction or spite. For more than a year, love’s been long gone, and I’m too apathetic at this point to give the woman spite… however, the last time we spoke is about to become microscopic compared to the next moments we spend in the same building together… (to be continued... when I have more energy tomorrow to type again.)

Arkham Cafe

The back of her neck reads…

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

There's a fourth line, but I couldn't make it out on a suddenly slowed brisk walk to the Spyhouse. She sat at a table outside the coffeeshop studying, Fifth Element in the background, beautiful October day upon us, and "...way the world ends" in plain sight. The barista's looking at me like she's just seen a ghost. Staring me down patiently on my trek toward the register, as if she'd been waiting all day, knowing this moment would happen, like Bill Murray trapped in the ever-looping Groundhog's Day, or a samurai who always knew this moment would come. Her sword replaced by cash register, my backpack in place of any shogun weapon I should've brought to the showdown. Her face absolutely motionless. I don't even know how she got the words out her mouth without it moving, as if she telepathed the english to my brain and we simply made the transaction through thoughts.

I want to take a moment to look at the word "odd". When I type odd, I don't mean Hogwart's odd, that'd be an understatement, I mean odd like American McGee's Alice in Wonderland odd. Call me schizophrenic, but everytime I walk into the Spyhouse on Hennepin Ave. I get this sudden awe of displacement, as if there's a portal at the door, where you're immediately not in Minneapolis anymore, and have somehow entered into the realm of a who-dun-it mystery. Everyone seems suspect.

I drop into my seat, where the gentlemen next to me is watching something on his laptop that appears to simply be a screen saver. Ok. Yeah. Sure. I guess those things are entertaining nowadays. Sometimes we get hypnotized by the moving color-burst in step with music streaming through our laptops, but perhaps screen savers are the new hypnotic... yeah. I break my bag out, notebooks, pens, parking tickets- kick my feet up in the chair across from me, and begin to write. The barista, not the same one that served me, phantoms from behind the cash register. When I say "phantom", I mean she quietly stealthed from there to here ( Really trying to kill the urge to say "teleported", but we'll go with "stealth"). Call me the one that flew over the coocoo's nest, but this chick straight phantomed/Quantum Leaped to my table. She put out her hand as if she were going to break the news to me that the hospital called and said my mother isn't going to make it. However, without effort she delivers... "Could you please take your feet off the chair."

We look at each other for what felt like a millenium, soon broke by her turning away to work on whatever crime they're trying to cover up behind the counter. I get it, these chairs cost cash, and perhaps manners should be in order before someone has to tell me, but it was her delivery that got me... The way she said it with her eyes more than her voice, almost as if to intimidate if I didn’t take my feet off the chair, some method of witchcraft would be conducted to turn me into a pastry they’d throw into the day-old discount bin for tomorrow.

So, as I’m skeptically looking at the newly purchased day-old donut on my table, I remember the days of slaving at a coffeeshop, the ungrateful professors that would tip quarters to your efforts, the women that treated you like a peon from the nearest ghetto, the people that’d take a day and then some to decide what they wanted from the menu, the schizophrenics… Christ, the schizophrenics. One guy asked me to take a copy of his version of the bible and read it right in front of him. 48 pages of what seemed to be a finals paper written by Glenn Beck, I kindly declined the offer.

It’s situations like this that make me question what the f--- I’m doing spending 4+ hours a day writing in a coffeeshop, and if I’m headed to footnoting biblical text to a stack of 40+ pages, The answers never added up to a pat on the back or hand shake from the people that should matter most, but usually results in a random encounter of “Hey, are you that guy from that ____ (insert “Band”, “Commercial”, “Play”, or “Video” here). Wow, keep at it dude. You’re gonna make it someday.”

“Someday”, I assure you, will never come. And as cheez whip as it sounds, its due to the irrefutable fact that that “someday” is “today”. Staring across the street at Fifth Element, there’s flowers and cards in memorial and remembrance of the late great Micheal Larsen, and on my hard drive is a freshly uploaded video in memorial and remembrance of the late great Joe Sodd III. The point I’m getting at is, just perhaps I’m going absolutely insane, and the umpteenth day of writing songs and uploading content is beginning to make me feel like the baristas at this coffeehouse are conspiring to cloud the city with black magic. Don’t think anyone who’s written, performed, or created anything has ever conceived their labor of love with a smile on their face the whole way through. I’ll simply blank out sometimes and stare at the computer for what seems to be a few seconds- next thing I know, an hour’s passed. Maybe I and the guy sitting intently eyeing down the screen saver have more in common that I thought. 

Joe and Michael left behind a legacy of performance, moving works of art, and a life of commitment to the craft and their people. As artists, we’re all at the mercy of our work and somehow constantly creating the diorama for our memorial service. Tell me what’s the end you have in mind for the next move you make with that pen? What do you want to leave behind?

I couldn’t tell you the answer right now, but I’m going crazy for it at the moment. If life is worth dying for... it's also worth losing every bit of sanity in the process. 

Bon Voyage Iver

Usually we say "let the beat drop", but for this particular arrangement of music it's only fair to replace "beat" with "eerie-monk vocals". Voices ghost in like a Gregorian chant, one by one, then on to the dozens, it sounds like. Don't know if you remember the finale of 6 Feet Under, but it's like that- where the chick is driving cross the country chopped with a montage of each character's death. Whether it be old age, murder, health reasons, or just circumstance, this drive is broken up into scenes of each passing. Then the kick drum pulses. No snare, just a soft kick assisting the voices and acoustic guitar, slightly strumming offbeat. Record label Jagjaguwar would've re-recorded the whole thing, but they told the guy that it sounded so organic that they might as well keep it that way (say "bullshit" here). The record label clearly wanted to hold onto the recording cash to pool it for distribution. And somehow, throughout my in-and-out phases of Lauryn Hill, Talib Kweli, and Aerosmith, this quandry of music fell in my lap.

You have to listen to it while your driving, otherwise it won't work. Yeah, kinda like a spell you cast on yourself. Call it the incantation of denial or a disappearing act, but Bon Iver pulled off something magical while recording Lump Sum in his retreated cabin after being dumped by an ex-gal from North Carolina.

I can forget. Easily, we can forget if we'd like to, but it takes effort. It's not so simple as the maneuver of escaping an arm-bar or turning the other cheek, but you have to impress it with effort. And I'm not talking about the Christ-when-the-Twins-lost-like-a-bunch-of-losing-losers-to-the-Yankees forgetting... we call that denial... or the hard truth, but I'm talking about forgetting for the moment, cleaning the slate of your mind and confronting the fight for what it is. I accept this rock band is dead, and whatever happens after this will ultimately be my own doing. I wouldn't have it any other way: The Blend digging its own grave to stardom & infamy, Lazlo Supreme vying for buzz band success, and me... piecing together a mixtape like memories to a brain injury. Even in the death of this rock band, the rejuvenation is what I get butterflies for. Never have I stood on stage and felt so uncomfortable. The 200 demos of promo didn't show up to the venue, guitarist can't remember the dopest song we have, and I can't wait for the night to end because tomorrow promises better than this... as long as I keep my end of the bargain as well.

Those damn cathedral-echoing voices dawn on the HBO Montage in your head. You can see it so clearly, I'd swear it was the windshield in front of me if I fell anymore delusional. The future. The future somehow pacts with the present and everything is a clear path of action & consequence. You see everything prologued to now. Not a single word of Bon Iver have I ever made out from this song, except for "all at once" and "so the story goes". That's it. Nothing else. I'm tempted to look up the lyrics online, but I'd rather rewrite them in my head everytime I listen.

Less a delusion, more an acceptance as the song goes on. Guitarist and Bassist must go. Reconstruction has to start. This side project with Reid needs to be taken as serious as my coffee addiction, as serious as I take the mixtape. Music is somewhat my lie detector for myself. I can tell when I'm absolutely being untrue to myself while on stage or recording. You can take that ethereal step back from your body, look at your image in motion, and think "Seriously. Toussaint, seriously. Negroe please. You're not fooling anyone with this emcee, frontman, bullshit bravado act. Think about what you're saying, and stop going through the motions." The show got better... way better that night, before this whole ride home thru the night while listening to emotional charges via Bon Iver started. You wouldn't've been able to tell the show got better, but for me, confronting that truth of everything that needs be after the concert, I could remember the exact coffeeshop, dates, reasons, and moments I wrote everything I was speaking. It'll disconnect and connect in a circle like that until the day I croak, I believe. As long as I step away from the lights, mic cords, and elevated piece of floor with the confrontation, then I'm fine. This damn music, ringing, like halo'd angels. It solidifies the truth for me. It's a damn annoying/ thankful reminder. The alarm that wakes you for the audition of your dreams, but wakes you from your dreams. Horrible analogy, I know, but think about it and maybe it works. My sense of humor isn't for immediate gratification, moreso the laugh-now-cry-later gratification... if there's anything gratifying to be taken from it.

I swear I can see Chase sitting in the car with me, along with my dad, and everything else amalgamed to a lucid dream of something subconsciously trying to speak to me. It goes from hard reminder to easy recollection. The hardest part now, is putting it all in motion once I land to Minneapolis. It takes a bit of submission to conceive all that needs be done. I love coming to terms of what needs, and must be done. Something very compelling about it, something not for words and simply for action. Matter fact, I should get to work.

Melissamatic (3/3)

Ange was nothing but vowels and uncontainable weeps on the other end of the phone. Couldn't make out a damn thing she was saying. She kept murmuring something on the other line... soon got to the point.

"Toussaint, Chase was hit by a drunk driver last night."

That faint fiber of hope warms your arteries for a moment that thank God he's not dead, only injured, hospitalized, gonna be alright, he'll make it, he'll make it, for sure he'll make it- Shit! I should go to L.A. to visit him bedside right now!

And then the inevitable continues as she says...

"He died."

... Which let me note that there actually are no words for the moment after being told your best friend has passed away. To try and apply diction and definition to the elimination of someone's life is an impossibility that we attempt anyways. For as many times as I've tried to informally document the space in time I was informed Chase passed away, the emotion has never become more consolable... just a bit more maluable to the category of "one of those things you deal with". Either way, the best I can give it right now is you become numb to the ground beneath you, the globe ceases to revolve, bridges collapse into the Mississippi, flames burst around you, but you don't flinch. Your debt, your woe, your worry, all meaningless to the gaping void growing in the left side of your chest. Staring at the floor never became such a productive activity. Your mind races like a schizophrenic film reel, bits and pieces of moments flash in an instant as it sometimes stops to scroll in slow motion, however there's never a moment that you can remember that goes by at the normalcy you recall it to be.

Ange goes on to give a few gruesome details I could've gone without, but I don't flinch. I thank her, hang up the phone. What I remember next is the absolute collapse, weeping while pressing my forehead against a wall. Pressing my hands against the cracked paint, pressing to move the foundation of the building to splinters so I can take a picture as to what it feels like on the inside. The pressing turned to punching, turned to weeping, turned to punching, turned to submission. I lean against the wall, wallowing in an emotional give-in, tapping out to God, or whatever higher power existing above the whole reality of it all, simply subservient to the moment.

His face, his laugh, all the tangibles, never again... Only memories... Brief memories... I hurry to recall each and every last one of them like pages blowing in the wind on the front steps of a court house, scurrying to get my case together before the final drop of the gavel, scurrying to remake this good friend in my mind before it all fades to black, before I forget. Wall punching commences, don't ask me why, these moments are heresay to what we truly mean to each other, to the fragility of the human connection, that if one of us were to perish from the face of the earth, someone else's universe would implode on notice. Hence we say "you mean the world to me". Chase meant the solar system, and before I could rupture any more of a hole in this poor wall that hasn't done anything to anyone, but keep a roof above everyone, Melissa quickly grabs me...

She doesn't need to know, she didn't have to know, she just embraces me, because in these moments, words are irrelevant. We don't speak... comfort comes in no volume or tone of sounds, she lets her arms do the talking as to say "I'm here for you. Your universe has stopped, your pulse derailed, your heart paused, your everything taken away. I'm here for you". Yeah, something like that. I don't remember how I explained it to her in words what had happened after that, but I remember falling asleep as she still kept her arms wrapped tightly around me. Anyone in a relationship can attest to trying to fall asleep with your arms around your significant other is damn near impossible. You both lay there for several minutes, what seemed like a cuddly idea, turns into a sweaty nuisance. You both break the comforting hold turned to "ok I'm going to actually have to sleep at some moment here" death clinch, and let go. Somehow, this wasn't the same. We somehow sustained the embrace til the morning. I pressed my hands against the wall while I lay, again. Something with these things I wish I could push over to a pile of dust and broken wood... I'll get back to this notion later.

The next day Melissa took me out to sushi. A first encounter with what would become my favorite meal, a restaurant decorated with lavish colors, an up-close view of the chefs chopping away, and lighting that probably cost more than the joint's monthly rent. What of it, it was all gray. I couldn't smell, I don't remember the taste, nothing entertained the senses enough for me to shake the fact that Chase was gone. Again, I was numb until the food was served, and Melissa broke the streak of silence with, "I'm sorry- I don't know how to deal with these things- I just". A smile caught my face, as I glanced down to my plate and then back to Melissa. Here I was being so selfish to my own emotions that I couldn't see the woman sitting across from me was making an attempt to catch me in this slow motion fall. In response to tragedy, we sometimes go blind to others outside of us attempting to console our state.

Melissa and I were in a what you'd call a relationshit. The attraction was high... as was the volatility. We'd fight simply to engage in public display, she'd test my limitations to see how far manipulation could be taken, and I'd kick the limitations to the floor to let her know manipulation could be tried with the next guy... not this one. She once asked me to hang out for the day, which consisted of ridicule, being told I'm inadequate, and ignoring me where ever we went. This went on to the point I called it, and said I'm not putting up with this bullshit and left. She texted later that night that we were done, to which I responded "Nice. I'll be taking all my s--- out of your place. Clearly, if you don't respect me, you don't respect anything I've loaned you". Problem is, several of those loans, were couches. I mustered the adrenaline filled strength to launch 3 couches out of an apartment. Laid them on the front lawn, and said "I'll pick these up in the morning. They're not yours anymore". Again, I'd like you to recall the phrase "lesson learned" while reading. No, this is not how you operate a healthy relationship, let alone a shitty one. However, we were both relatively young to the idea of a working relationship and imploded when it came time to put down the pride. We were futile, Ken & Ryu, China & Japan, Iowa State & University of Iowa. BUT, when Chase had passed... none of it mattered.

The beef, the pride, the rivalry... never mattered less than it did that night. In lieu of death, all things considered, love matters most. Even the most ridiculous/tumultuous relationship can't sustain a grudge during loss of life. Why? Because simply when one of your peoples passes away, titles & semantics simply don't exist. And it's not even as if the shit had disappeared, because to say "our tension and stress disappeared" would mean to say that it actually had to exist at some point. For something to disappear means it had to have appeared and obtained existence. Funny part is, the realization came that the beef, pride, rivalry, the malicious bullshit actually never existed between Melissa and I. In relationshits such as those, you get so wrapped in righteousness that you can convince yourself all these bad things exist.

Chase's passing deconstructed a lot of illusions, and had paved a path absolution. However, with this came the previous notion I spoke of while pressing my hands against the wall. Something about the world that made me want to set it to flames, smile at the wreckage and walk away with my hoodie up. Never had I wanted to drink harder, test the boundaries of mortality, ruin promise, and sabotage my future, more than the next year of my life after news of Chase.

The next 365+ days were dark. Dark in the sense of taking delight in biking against traffic, defining what I'll be for the rest of my life, and taking on the ghosts of all things past; my father, Doc, music. I gained this ability to stare anything and everything in the face while standing on the edge of a dime and grin like a mad man. In some cases, this was detrimental, and in others it was proactive. Never had the approach to music and theatre been more fearless. That ability threw me off in terms of self-destructive habits, but at some point had to be honed to an advantage rather than a set back. Doting on Doc, there was so much to his demise that could've been taken as a negative, but so much that could be learned from it. All the addicts in my family have persevered to succeed in life from all angles. Sitting observant to the entirety of Chase, right now, I can't see anything but the good in his life, smile, humor, all of it. There's so much shit that we can pull out of death, and I don't want to sound Disney flowery, but unless you get control of what you learn from adversity, you will be that guy throwing couches out of his ungrateful girlfriend's house... not a way to be.

Never thought I would, but I definitely take steps back and wonder "What would Chase do?", "What would Chase say if he saw me now?". At a concert round a year ago, we were performing the song "Chase", wrote it after everything had subsided and I was actually able to take a pen to paper and confront it, and it felt different. We had played that song over a dozen times, but for some reason it felt different. Perhaps it was the neurons in my brain firing off in a pattern I'd never experienced before, or it was my ego surging to my front lobe... but I felt something. Joel, Chase's brother, had opened the show that night and was in the crowd while we performed the song. Hours after the end of the concert, Joel had texted me as I was driving home. When I checked the text, it had said something to the effect of "I really felt Chase was present tonight while you guys played your song." Hot damn, Joel. I was thinking the same thing. I was thinking the exact same thing.

In a round-about way, that explains the title of this blog. Chase was a big fan of Joseph Campbell, the author who coined the term "Follow your bliss". Meh, to hell with following, Chase that thing down.