Who is Paulie Sabol?

I’ve been hearing alot about Paulie Sabol lately, but I confess I’m not all that familiar with him.

I was hoping to catch interview with Ben Mack last night, but my wife and I had something more important (sorry guys, but you understand) to do–our first childbirth class.

Do you know if there will be public access to the Paulie Sabol/Ben Mack interview? I’m curious about learning more about this guy. What he’s all about. etc…

New Blog is Ready

Still making minor changes and major additions, but for the most part it is ready to go.

Thanks for sticking around!

www.gotashotofinnerfuel.com

FEED:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/gotashotofinnerfuel

Episode 2 now at Youtube

Please check out the new video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vm52QFsr8aI

+5.3+ Innocence Flushed

Strangely enough, after holding my breath until my lungs nearly burst (forced,finally, **!oh Desiree my tragic love! I loved you even
as you held me under** to inhale despite feeling my life cut short), a throat full of water? No, my friends.

Instead–a mouthful of gnats and pine needles. And something bitter and rough, like tree bark, scraping my chest. That’s because I was bear hugging a tree.

Confused, I unwrapped my legs from around the trunk, got my bearings. I was on a mountain slope, among a stand of Douglas Firs. The thick branches made it difficult, but once I found the right spot I found I had a good look at the reservoir laid out before me. The temporary loss of oxygen to my brain was a blessing and a curse. Instead of dwelling on Desiree’s unpardonable act, I wondered how many thousands of acres must have been flooded in the reservoir’s construction. What was hidden beneath the millions of gallons of water? Were there dead animals in there? Acres of rotted tree stumps? Rusted Pintos and Ford Thunderbirds? Indian burial grounds? A town? Who knows?

For a minute I was tempted to go home and turn on everyone’s showers and washing machines and sprinklers and dishwashers, flush all of the city’s toilets to find out.

+5.2+ Pulled Underwater

One second I felt like I was a plastic toy boat caught at the mercy of a mean-spirited toddler god in a whirlpool in a kiddie pool, and the next second all around us the reservoir was as flat and as cold as a hockey rink. I had to tread more quickly to stay warm. I didn’t know where to start with Desiree. I mean it wasn’t like she was fooling around. Desiree’s laughter was strange somehow, like it had been digitally altered, and I couldn’t see her face as well as I should either. Garbled, as though I was watching a bad video feed.

She disappeared underwater, reappearing only inches away so that I got a spray of water in my face from her mouth when she released the air trapped in her lungs. “Hold out your hands. I want to give you something,” she said with a grin, winking at me. Despite serious reservations, I did what she asked. She grabbed onto my wrists and pulled me underwater.

+5.1+ Using Your City’s Power Supply as a Bed, a Bath and…

After hydroplaning another hundred yards or so (in fully human form), stiffening my arms and legs I pressed down on the brakes. And skid to a stop.

Treading water, I spun myself around and around, looking around.

On shore, the only clearing up the mountain the steepest slope, oversized needles, powerlines pinned to the earth thread up, over and westward, towards Portland. Under my feet I sensed an enormous liquid space, a void my legs were bicycling through.

I felt like a freak on a unicycle and enjoyed it. If only I could juggle.

To learn to relax into the void took some time, but once I did I leaned my head back, Portland’s water and electric supply serving as my
pillow. Thankfully, my toes weren’t filled with lead.

My eyes, nose and mouth I wanted open to the sky. Ears underwater.

Eyelids softly gazing at stars I haven’t been able to see since college in Colorado, I concentrated on my breathing: deep, from the pit of my stomach. Steady breaths slowing the heart rate.

The heartbeat rises up, hovers overhead for a second or so before rippling out in a wave across the reservoir surface.

I took an astronomy class in college, but I failed to retain any information that would have helped. I was grateful to see these stars again though, even if I couldn’t identify them to save my life. The surface of the lake, which in my dream I guessed actually represented my heartbeat, rippled over my face.

Water washed into my nose and down my throat and stung my eyes. This was followed by what I can only describe as a sudden shift in the earth’s axis.

My head suddenly was submerged in a large wave appearing out of nowhere. I coughed and spit up something bitter as soon as I was above water again, a dark liquid I struggled to push away. Whenever I thought I was clear another wave would come and push the liquid towards me until it finally surrounded my neck. It smelled awful, sour, as though it had come from the pit of a stomach. It had
the consistency of oil, and was as black. My arms frantically stroked through the water to get away. After a lot of effort I finally put some distance myself and the oil stain. It continued to drift nearby, eventually however, it floated away.

For a second, I was afraid I might actually be in a giant bathtub and someone had pulled the drain on me.

(* Note: I haven’t been updating as often since my return, I know. I’m spending the time I use to write new episodes to build a proper blog instead. I have not lost passion. Quite the opposite)

+5.0+ Wrist Watches and Water Beetles

Important:

Caper from NZ has discovered Jacob Lawder’s email address.

jacob.lawder@hushmail.com

password still unknown…

Blogging is BETAful

For the next week or so, my wife and I will be getting a little bit of culture, and alot of fresh air.

Here are a few things most people I know don’t get, just like I’m sure some of you won’t get, and some of you will get. Coltrane and Sun Ra always bring joy to my heart, sometimes cause me to weep, always reset the heart vibrating with Interplanetary Wholenicity–>

[ala this truly Cosmic Statement: " I mean, I like to look across the table and see some delectability looking back at me. And I'm in complete understandment that there is more to a person than their physicalness. I am in total agreeance that looks and attractivity are not going to maintain a relationship. But I am also a woman who is highly appreciatable of a man who is working with a package in it's wholenicity. So why is it that when I'm out and about, I do NOT see the fine men that I KNOW are in existment??? Where are they hiding???? If you have any idea, let a sista know - I'm dying to engage in some flirtative activity."]

John Coltrane w/ Wynton Kelly Trio VERY RARE

Miles Davis & John Coltrane- SO WHAT

Sun Ra “Tiny Pyramids”

Sun Ra – Brother from another Planet Pt.2

Sun Ra – Brother from another Planet Pt.3

see you when I get back and Don’t Be Bored! and check out chartreuse’s post on the importance of the Nigerian movie industry.

+4.4+ Remember: You Are What You Cache; or Social Trust 2.0

“Do you have an envelope?”

“Yes, but–”

“Listen, I’ll pay for it. Here.” I took out my wallet, and before he could object gave him a dollar bill. “Don’t worry about the change.”

While I waited for the clerk’s return, I flipped through the bills stuffed in my wallet. All of the money was accounted for, minus the dollar. As soon as Yuri returned with an envelope, I put the remaining $247 inside, licked and sealed it.

“May I borrow a pen?”

I noticed the clerk was keeping close tabs on me. It struck me. I could trust this guy. Afterall, I knew one or two things about his peculiar tastes.

It was easy and kind of fun for me to entertain the notion that I knew something about him that, more than likely, he wished to keep hidden from let’s say, his boss.

The truth of the matter is, whether or not there was trust between us, when it came down to it, didn’t matter. Using my body and the lobby desk, I obstructed his line of vision. I put my money in the envelope totally out of view. I wrote my name, address, e-mail, home and cell phone numbers and room number in large print on the front.

“Would you hold on to this for me until I pick it up?”

“Well, I guess so, I suppose I can do that, sure,” he said, scratching his ear.

“Look at it this way, I have your lighter and you have my envelope.” I smiled.

Yuri smiled too, agreeing that it was a fair enough deal. Then for some reason, out of sheer inspiration I guess, I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Now I’m trusting you to keep the envelope in a safe place,” I said, giving his shoulder a firm pat. “Do you have a safe, perhaps, to keep it in?”

The smile extended across his face, whether forced or natural, reversed direction. He looked at his shoulder then scanned the lobby. My eyes followed, noting that there was just the two of us. He looked out the front window to the parking lot, then back at my hand, and then at me. Again, my eyes followed. I noted nothing out of the ordinary taking place in the parking lot. He began rubbing his slacks in a circular motion, around his injured hip. His eyes were moistening. I couldn’t tell if he had a gun in his pants and I wasn’t eager to find out. I lifted my hand off of him and slowly backed away. I should not have asked.

“I’ll be back for it later,” I said, as I trotted out of the lobby door before he could get a shot off.

+4.3+ How Jacob Got the Lighter

“Yuri?” bing.bing.bing. “Yuri!”

I reached over the front desk, grabbed a couple of pens and started playing the drums.

But then suddenly the office door swung open, and out limped Yuri, holding an orange lighter. I reached out my hand expectantly, but he hesitated.

“You have to swear to return it when you are through.”  His lips went through various adjustments before settling on what was still a poor imitation of a smile, revealing in full glory a set of perfectly white teeth.

This put me off, as I found his smile to be not the least bit friendly, and his teeth unnatural. In fact, a tad suspicious. What was this cat up to?

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll bring it back when I check out.” I raised my eyebrows to convey, “If that’s okay with you?”

Without relaxing his face, he stiffly shook his head yes, at which point he held out to me a closed fist. I hesitated, but then grabbed the lighter, waved goodbye, thanked him and headed for the door as fast as I could without running. I paused, however, at the exit and turned around.

+4.2+ Jacob Meets the Motel Clerk

“Yes, I was wondering if you have a book of matches?”

The man grimaced in discomfort as he leaned forward, shaking his head in disbelief, fingers scratching his chin. A faint whistle of disapproval escaped from between his teeth, as if I were an idiot for asking such a question.

Sinking into his chair again he said, “Sir, all of our rooms are nonsmoking as of November 15th in compliance with City Ordinance P-152.42, section 23.”

He pointed to a large non-smoking sign hanging on the wall directly in my line of sight. I had somehow missed it, though I knew the regulation.

“Sorry, I am not going to smoke in the room. I am going to smoke outside.”

The clerk, finally, got out of his chair, albeit with a heavy sigh. I noticed he favored his right side and made his way out of the office akwardly, due to a limp. He proceeded to go through the drawers hidden behind the front desk with tired, stiff movements belonging to someone who has worked for too many years at the same repetitive job. I couldn’t tell if this was due to a lack of exercise on his part, an actual injury or if his aim was to make me feel guilty for bothering him. We were about the same age I figured, 30, but I didn’t feel sorry for him.

He evidently felt put upon.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he’s an angry blogger chronicling the drudgery of his American life, and how much better his sad existence would be under a different administration, or form of government, or under some other unifying force like religion x, or, for that matter, if all faiths were marginalized, done away with completely, along with his mom and dad. And fifth grade teacher. It would explain his attitude, I think. Opening and closing one last drawer, the desk clerk pointed at his office and off he went, slamming the door behind him.

+4.1+ Get Rid of [problem: Your Feeling of Isolation] Once and For All

bing.bing.bing.

I leaned over the counter to get a peek inside the office just off to my left. Inside, basking in the glow of a computer monitor was the same man who had checked us in. The man’s skin was pale and sickly from, I had reason to suspect, too much Internet porn and real-world masturbation. A deadly combination, doubly isolating. Give it another twenty to twenty-five years. Things like this can’t go on without someone sooner or later getting sick and suing.I was about to ring the bell again when the man closed his web-browser and rolled in his chair to the doorway.

“Can I help you, sir?”

From the sound of his voice it was obvious he knew he’d just been caught, slackjawed and drooling. According to the pin on his shirt his name was Yuri.

thanks goes to copyblogger for the inspiration behind this sure-fire headline.

the plot? thickens

all this will become clear later on.

(vid link for those reading rss)

+4.0+ Desiree’s emphatic no

made it clear to me there was still time to kill. I was getting tired of hanging outside of the motel room anyway, so I descended the staircase to the ground level where I leapt over water-filled potholes, from dry pavement to dry pavement, making my way to the lobby. When I opened the lobby door, I nearly leveled a senior citizen holding a cup of coffee and a pastry in hands trembling like two hairless chihuahuas. The elderly man cursed, gestured at an old spill stain on his shirt, and told me I was lucky.

I did a quick scan of the lobby and noted where the continental breakfast was being served. After replacing the elderly man’s dropped cinnamon roll with a fresh one and a heartfelt apology, I walked up to the front desk and rang the bell.

impermanence @ chinese general hospital

This scene from the flick, Waking Life, is what Jacob had hoped for in his meeting with Desiree.

Also, when he was 17, his newborn daughter’s soul exited the world the moment her body entered into it.

Away for a few days…will return Thurs. Thanks all for sticking around. and thanks, coolmel, for the pic.

Jacob and the kid @ the bus stop

do yourself a favorite and pay my friend a visit!

Bus stop pic numero uno

+3.3+ Daylight, When the Stars Become Kids Again

I must have struck a nerve when I asked the boy if he was Kenny’s son, because his eyes narrowed, darting self-consciously to his cell phone.

“He’s my brother.”

Oh. “Uh huh.”

I’m sure my jaw dropped to the curb. In my mind I could still see this boy, Kenny’s little brother, a toddler, wailing, clenching upside down in his tiny hands a can of Campbell’s soup, while somehow managing to tug at my pant legs.

Poor boy’s stomach ripping with hunger, his mother lay passed out in bed while Kenny jacked off in the shower.

Who knows where the poor boy’s father was.

I saw the bastard just once. I was over at their house one morning, when I heard two men in the backyard arguing. I looked out the kitchen window and saw Kenny’s father and the next-door neighbor, nose to nose, with only the chain-link fence separating them. What the argument had been about I don’t know. He was wiry and unkempt; even I could kick his ass, and I was (am) skinny, too. I mainly remember the neighbor unleashing his dog, the dog charging the chain-link fence, and me laughing as Ken’s dad tripped over the cardboard box their own dog slept in as he tried to get away. Not much else. I fed this boy vegetable soup while Kenny slept in the bathtub, and his mom stole painkillers from the hospital. I had completely forgotten about all of this.

“How is Kenny? Is he still in town?”

The boy had been too young then to recognize me now. He kept staring at me though, searching my face with such angry little eyes. I felt sorry for him and smiled. His fierce, tiny fists flexed rapidly, like the pulse of a hummingbird.

“Hey, listen,” I said, thinking I’d better do something to diffuse the tension. “Does Kenny still, uh…”

The boy’s purple veins bulged through the pink skin on his wrists, recalling Dungeness crab in a pot of boiling water ready to explode. How do I approach this?

“You want something?” the boy asked, as the orange lights quit flashing. The bus driver honked the horn and pointed to her watch, floating behind the steering wheel like a chubby female Buddha snacking on corn chips, only not as cuddly looking.

I waved. Daylight was breaking. Now I could see the boy clearly.

“Let’s talk on the bus,” I said.

+3.2+ “Are you hopped up on drugs?…

“…Is that why you keep staring at me? Huh? Answer me you little prick. You want to rob me? Is that it?”

As I rambled on in his face, the buss pulled up. Its flashing orange lights cast an eerie contrast between glow and shadow across the boy’s giant forehead.

With his face illuminated, the boy had the appearance of an old man–an elderly punk gangsta, a young Eminem turned aged and toothless at 74; while in the dark he once again looked his age. This drastic change in appearance startled me to say the least. Not only did I have the accusing eyes of a child staring at me, but also what appeared to be a flesh and blood, bleary eyed, old man as well, sharing the same hostile eyes.

I had a tough time deciding if I was just now seeing the boy for the first time, or if all it was was a deranged projection of an overexcited mind.

I thought I’d ask him.

“Are you Kenny Hopkin’s son?”

Kenny had been a friend of mine when I was in high school–he was about four years my senior. After our shift, and often during, at Little Caesars Pizza we would get high together. Motavation had recently made its way down the valley to our Emerald City from British Columbia and it blew our minds. It blew everyone’s mind. Everyone started selling and smoking it even though the stuff was twice as expensive. A homeless 18 year old was our connection, crossing the US/Canadian border on foot with a backpack overflowing with his merchandise.

When high, our conversations used to consist of such illuminating topics as Buddhism, Jung, Nietszche, Huxley, Jim, Jimmie, quantum physics and the non-locality of the mind, and the possibility of a bodily resurrection. But with the introduction of this stuff, our talks degenerated into a comparison of the two Columbias. Time after time, we reached the same conclusion: we liked the British one better, as we preferred bud to cocaine, old growth to banana plantations, peace to violence (although we supported the revolution–we assumed there was a revolution).

Maybe Kenny had gotten a girl pregnant shortly after we’d gone our separate ways, or before and he’d simply kept quiet about it. We weren’t really that close.