kev_bot

I understand noises
knuckles in dirt
the way sobbing sounds
when someone is hurt
fistfulls of plaster
can't you hear it at all
there's somebody trapped there
inside the wall
there's somebody trapped there
screams are alive
Like maggots in nostrils
That have learned to survive
plywood has teeth
splinter jaws bite and tear
inside the wall
I know someone's trapped there
yanking hair out and chuckling
incomprehensible tongue
gasping in terror
fetid air in the lungs
I understand scraping
and the low tortured moans
someone's trapped in the wall
In the dark, all alone
splinter and bone
and unknowable thirst
Bloody fingertips, please
As my sanity bursts
I've never stopped shrieking
and there's no longer doubt
it's me trapped in this wall
oh dear God, let me out

I'm up against the railing. I've heard about the railing. This is where the elitist fans go to prove that they're the best. I'm not here to prove anything, except my unbridled desire to see this band live. I've been into the Drive-By Truckers for seven months. I listen to them daily. I have a tattoo celebrating the band. I flew to Atlanta to see them perform the final show on their tour. (Among other things; I'm also here to see my buddy Joe, and to go to Six Flags Over Georgia to see if the Great American Scream Machine is as fantastic as it has been in my dreams.) It's rare when I fall in love with a band this fast and this hard. I'm pumped. I'm ready. And when they take the stage, I'm blown away.( Deeper in... )

Well your wife sure is a caution
I've said it more than twice
I've seen her meaner ten times more
than I've ever seen her nice

first you turned to drinking
then you turned to me
you crossed state lines to find some kindness
out here in Tennessee

well she'll ruin you before you know it
it's time to choose so don't you blow it
or she'll end up trying to ruin you
time and time again
the choice is simple, it's plain to see
you can choose happiness or misery
your wife sure is a caution
so throw caution to the wind

I heard that she's been cheatin
I hear she likes to party down
with the type of man you find in bars
on the other side of town
and she accused you of doing what she done
said she found lipstick on your shirt
I'll bet you anything she put it there
I bet the truth would really hurt

she gaslights you because she can
taking advantage of a kindhearted man
making you believe her lies
hers is a nasty kind of sin
wouldn't you rather be in Tennessee
laughin and screwin because it's free
your wife's a goddamn caution
so throw caution to the wind

now I ain't sayin my way is the way to a better life
maybe I'm just your first stepping stone away from your psycho wife
she caught you and she's trapped you, that kind of life sure leaves its marks
you deserve better than her tiny dreams and that Kentucky trailer park

you don't have to drink but you're allowed
she broke your spirit, you can break your vows
you're a good man at the limit
before life ends, it should begin
I'll never tell you what to do
but get rid of that bitch before she destroys you
your wife's a fucking caution
so throw caution to the wind

This may be a first draft.

***

I came a long long way to be here
my heart pounding in my throat
I hope to God I remember all the words
To all the songs you wrote
But when you take the stage I know
It’s not just the words, it’s how they’re sung
the way your eyes blaze in the darkness
that thing you’re doing with your tongue

Every dark thought I’ve ever had
every dream at night, whether good or bad
you set to rhyme and loud guitars
blasting out my hopes and fears
and the sight of you on your knees
screaming rock and roll loud as you please
is worth the price of my exhaustion
And the ringing in my ears

It’s standing room only at the rock show
The crush of crowds pushing me tight
Against the stage and I could touch you
the way you’re touching me tonight
there’s sex in every move you make
even when you’re singing misery
your nasty Southern smile does wonders
for a Yankee boy like me

There’s history in the words you scream
anger goes deeper than it first seems
it’s universal and it’s personal
it’s the thing that brought me here
there’s a sense of hope down deep inside
where the good things buried never died
I go frantic for your Southern pride
and the ringing in my ears

we said we’d have a good time
down in the motel by the sea
you were raring to go and I couldn’t
keep your hands offa me

mirror by the bed and I watched us in it
smiling as I stuck you good for awhile
washed our stink off with that blood orange soap
and it was still so easy to smile

there was a sound inside me that just wouldn’t stop
clanging music and bells and that feeling in me
I’ve never been declawed and I’ve never been unleashed
so I had no way of knowing my capabilities

I ripped your clothes off and threw you on the bed
caught a look at myself by the bedside mirror
and I forced my way in smelling that blood orange smell
and I strayed off the path I can always see clearer

I don’t know what put this demon in me
I know I hurt you when I went back for more
were you crying when I just kept going
when did I shoot for agony when I would’ve settled for sore?

I know you know that my safeword has always been “stop”
I know you know I’m a rational man
so I slammed you and I begged that you wouldn’t stay stop
so I didn’t have to change the man I am

you collapsed in a heap when I was finished
was it just something that happened or was it closer to sin
I’m damaged, I guess, I want to spread it around
smelling that blood orange smell on your skin

Okay, look, I KNOW I have a final Disney Leap Day entry to write. I've been busy. I have five jobs! I have a new book assignment! I've got a novel to finish! And sometimes I take trips to New Jersey! ( Check it, yo! )

When it comes your time to start
you take your swig of beer
there’s no place in this city
that I’d rather be than here

then the drummer counts it off
and the singer starts his screams
and you pound on your guitar
I know exactly what it means

three minutes of a banshee wail
three minutes sonic banging hell
I barely understand a word
under the howl of your guitar

just the look of you up in those lights
your shaggy hair, your jeans so tight
and the nosebleed that I got
from you rocking me so hard

Well there’s nothing in this music
that makes sense to my proportions
but your fingers never stop
your headbanging contortions

you’re drunk and loud and messed up
and when you howl I howl back
there’s something so erotic
in full frontal sound attack

I don’t have to get the lyrics
to make sense of what you’re saying
to make sense of your intentions
to know that the words all hurt

you don’t have to be the Pixies
to explode this goddamn town
or to give me this erection
and this nosebleed on my shirt

in the morning I’ll regret it all
can’t hear a thing, can’t talk at all
it’s the price a grown man pays
for punk rock on Tuesday night

but I scream along with every minute
your guitar’s on fire, I’m burning in it
my souvenir’s this fucking nosebleed
but that’s okay I feel all right

Eight days ago, I launched my Kickstarter project, intended to fund the tools and time needed to finish my novel I'm On Fire. As most of you know, we blasted past my goal of $950 in less than ten hours, thanks to the support and generosity of my friends and readers, and the faith they have in both my writing and my tenacity.

The book is going well. To bring you guys up to speed: I first wrote I'm On Fire in 1999. It's one of four of my novels which share the title of a Springsteen song (Spare Parts, Open All Night, and I'll Work For Your Love are the others, with honorable mention going to Roses In the Rain, which is a line from "Thunder Road." Fun fact: most of my books are named for song titles. Carry That Weight comes from The Beatles; Find the River is REM; Tangerine is Led Zeppelin; American Storm is Bob Seger, and Maybe You're Right is Barenaked Ladies.) The heroes are more complicated, the villains are more believable and sympathetic. When I first wrote the book, bad guys were bad guys and good guys were good guys and there was a very clear demarcation between white hats and black hats. My writing has evolved since then, and I think that applying the techniques and tools I've learned over the last decade are helping this book. I hope so.

I also don't like all those lingering questions, stuff that feels like it only exists because the book needed it to. Why doesn't Jessie have friends of her own? Or Scott? What's Scott's home life like? Kate should kind of have a boyfriend, shouldn't she? Is Heather really dumb or does she just seem it? And was making Laurie and Jessie's Dad a non-character in the latter half of the novel a wise move?

Lots of questions. I'm finding those answers every day. I'm also putting in some homages to my other stuff, too - I've invented some singers, writers, and characters that cameo in multiple books. If someone's going to get obsessed with horror writer Lauren Kincaid in high school in Welcome to Bloomsbury, it's neat to see how far she's taken that obsession in Maybe You're Right. Plus, there's emotional homages. Remember when Gordon beat the shit out of ... well, someone in Roller Disco Saturday Night? I thought that scene would work really well in I'm On Fire, too. The weakest character of the book giving into rage and physical violence: a Kevin Quigley trademark.

There's been a lot of other creative stuff going on, too. I'm co-producing an all-new, all-rad sketch night at ImprovBoston. I'm also working on a new show (and acting in it, what?) with some of the best sketch people we've got. And I'm trying my hand at directing a show. The second brainstorm session is tonight and then shit gets real. In writing: I just got offered a plum new assignment from my publisher and we're negotiating the specifics now. It's a new nonfiction chapbook that will require lots of intense research, and we all know how much I hate research. I've still got one more Disney trip report to put out, and I've knocked out two reviews for FEARnet.com: Battleground and Throttle #2.

And still I'm On Fire is consuming my soul. The book is on track to be finished by July, and I'll be so glad that I'll have a definitive, complicated, exciting new version of this story I've been living with for a third of my life.

We've got roughly 24 hours left before my Kickstarter project closes. While my goal has been met and surpassed, some have asked if they can still back the project. The simple answer is yes. The longer answer is that when a writer isn't a blockbuster, out-of-the-gate success, he or she needs all the help they can get. While the ostensible goal of my Kickstarter experiment has been to help me parcel out time and get new hardware and software to make I'm On Fire a reality ... well, there are always more stories, always more writing, and always more need to keep that part of my world afloat. So if you want to help back me and my creative pursuits, you've got another 24 hours to make it happen. Click here to do that.

Thanks again, everyone. It's been a hell of a ride.

Whonk-whonk-whonk.

This is my phone alarm. It’s like a clarion. It’s about 2:00 PM in the afternoon and I stir, groggily shaking my fist at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. I look over at the other bed. Joe hasn’t heard my alarm. I’m pretty sure at this point, Joe wouldn’t have heard the Hindenberg right outside the window. We’d gotten back to the hotel room just before 7:00 and simply collapsed. My body still thinks we’re doing that. My brain has other ideas.

I glance at my phone. Tom and Doug are readying for the pool, because apparently sleep is not necessary for Britons or relocated Rhode Islanders. I could skip the pool if I really wanted to; dinner isn’t until 5:30 at the Studios, and I could potentially nap for like another hour or so. Ah, but that would just mean I wouldn’t sleep tonight, and then I wouldn’t be my fresh and bubbly self for Epcot park opening tomorrow. I’m nothing without my freshness and bubbliness.


This picture becomes super relevant later, I swear.


“Hi,” I murmur outside my door, clad in bright orange swim trunks and Mickey Crocs. I could have purchased a shirt that says Oh BTW I’m A Tourist, but it would probably be unnecessary at this point.

“Hi,” Doug murmurs, looking exactly as hard-worn as I feel.

“Hi!” Tom shouts. “Who’s ready to swim!?” Touché, Tom. You beat me at my own game. ( Read on! )