Short Story: Portishead: Third

People don't understand why I do this work. It's certainly not the money and there's no real glamor in being a private investigator. Most folks just think I'm a flunked out cop, one of those guys who couldn't cut the mustard on the force so I settled for second best. I always let them think that, they underestimate me and it gives me an edge. I started out as an insurance investigator, hunting down fraud and trying to protect good people from bad things. That's what I thought anyway. Like most jobs the finish wore thin after a few years and I realized more and more that I was protecting the bottom line more than our customers. The underside of every job looks the same, it's covered in blood and gold.

My first freelance case came while I was still working for the company. A good friend of mine had been working in film for a while and something had come up that he needed help with. Why John thought of me, I'll never know. There were a thousand more qualified men out there, ex-spooks, military men. But the letter landed in my hand that afternoon, certified post from London with his name on the top. I read the letter immediately, curious why it would arrive like this. I couldn't remember the last time a paper letter crossed my hands. The letter was straight to the point.

Henry;
I know you've got some experience with these matters. I need your help. Some asshole is trying to blackmail me and I can't get from underneath it. Please, help me find out who this is and get them off of my back. I'm sorry I haven't called but I know they're listening in on my cell and reading my e-mails. I included some money to get you over here in a hurry. Meet me here in the lobby at 4 whenever you get in, I'll be looking for you.

Thanks buddy, I know you'll get me out of this

-John-

Inside I find a cashiers check for $7000 and a card for a hotel in London, Sanctuary House Hotel. What the hell John? Why would I drop everything to help you out? Right, why wouldn't I? This man had pulled me out of some nasty situations when we were younger and he even took a beating that was rightfully mine one night. Some quick arrangements with my boss pushed my vacation up a few weeks and some quickInternet wrangling got me my ticket to Heathrow. I ordered in some food and spent the night looking up things to do in London.

Airports are the same. I don't care what dress you put on them, they all do the same dance. Bored people looking thin and pasted over a fluorescing backdrop. I spent my flight time writing down everything I knew about John and his various "problems". As good of a friend as he was to me, he was kind of a dick. I could see how someone could get a handle on one of his skeletons and give him a good shaking. The shit he'd done, fighting a clown at his nephews birthday, sleeping with his brothers wife, drinking a 30 year old bottle of scotch that his roommate had been saving. You know, that last one doesn't seem that bad, except that it ended up on his roommate. You begin to see my point.

The plane skidded to a halt on a strangely sunny day in London. I checked my GPS to make sure I had landed in the right city. I guess the sun does shine here on occasion. After a half on hour of fighting baggage claim I made my way to the tube station to get to the hotel. I had about an hour and a half to kill before John would meet me in the lobby so I checked into my room and relaxed for a while, pondering the mystery of finding myself in London.

What weirdness. My cell beeped it's alarm and I made my way down to the lobby and waited, looking to the doorway. People came and went on their way, tourists, business types and staff. The time shift started to crawl up my spine and slipped into the aether land of international sleep deprivation. A tap on my shoulder snapped me back into the lobby.

"Mr. Withers? Henry Withers? My name is Rachel Warrington, we'd better have a talk. John has been killed."

Next time: Japan seems to bleed neon.

Soel: Memento

The constant vibration of the road had jarred my soul awake and sent my ass to sleep by the time the skyline of the city finally revealed itself. I felt like someone had shot me with a tranquilizer dart about 50 miles ago and it had really sunk in deep. Motorcycles are sexy in theory and even then only for short rides. The blessings of a parking lot were just off to the right of the highway exit so I pulled in and put my feet on ground for the first time in 300 years. Sweaty is the natural condition of riding gear, I think it comes pre-loaded with some abnormal funk that grows progressively nastier with every mile. The helmet came off with an audible slorching sound and all I could think of was escaping the tyranny of the Flame Lord so evident outside.



Sweet air conditioned salvation lay only feet away from me and I fell through the front door of the bar into the crisp cool air. Or at least I thought. My brain tricked me for a moment, imagined fresh air wafting over my sore and sweat soaked body. In reality the muggy air was hotter in the bar than it was outside. My skin quickly realized what my brain refused to believe and sent the "resume sweating" signal rushing through my nerves. The look of incredulity on my face must have triggered some deep running sympathy in the bartender as she smiled and told me "Sorry, A/C's busted honey!" What cruel fate had led me to Hell?



Seeing no sense in trying to find another place to sit and rest this far out in the country, I pulled up a seat at the bar and ordered a beer and whatever shitty bar food was available. To my surprise the food was better than most bar chow, plenty of vegetables and fresh food on the menu. Fuck it, I ordered a hummus platter. Who knew thatbumfuck Virginia had vegan game? Delicious hummus platter filled every sense I had and the fan cooled what it could off of my head and shoulders. As I sat back and pondered the ceiling I could hear the door opening and closing behind me, noises of people coming in and ordering drinks. Typical bar chatter, I thought, I delved back into the book I'd brought along for times like this. About three chapters and two beers later I looked down at my wrist and cursed loudly. 8 o'clock at night! Shit, I'd gotten there at six and I still had three hours on the road to get home. I reached back to grab my wallet and pay up when the room came back to me all at once.



This place was packed to the rafters, past the rooftop and reaching towards the rising moon. Everywhere I looked there were people dancing, bodies flowing into one another and becoming a blur of limbs and sweat. At first I thought there was no order but as I watched and listened I could barely hear the slinky beat riding behind this mass of grooving flesh and salt water. Something down by my stomach clicked on and my feet started tapping out the rhythm. Senses started melding together, I was feeling bass lines across my flesh, watching pheromones dance in front of my eyes. The gravity well of bodies pulled me forward into the teeming, humid mass of humanity and that's really where the story ends.



Or begins, if you ask me. I don't really recall anything after that until I woke up. A stray dog licked my face as the grainy film vision of hangover revealed me to be laying stark naked in the middle of a field behind the bar, my clothes lain out as bed and pillow. Whatever had happened after the black hole of bodies sucked me in I had been laid mightily.Every muscle in my body felt like it had been through it's own personal triathlon of Kama Sutra techniques and I don't think their was a part of me that didn't reek of sex. A brief survey of my possessions found everything in order so I started the trip back to the parking lot, trying to simultaneously smoke a cigarette and pull my pants on at the same time. I stood next to my bike, stubbing out the last of my smoke and staring up at the sun. If I could remember what the fuck they were playing last night I'd have the most dangerous sexual weapon ever conceived. As I turned to walk back to the bar and find out I stopped dead.



The place was full of cobwebs, door hanging on for life and gently swaying back and forth in the early morning breeze. It looked like no one had been here in at least 20 years. I have seen too much weird shit in this life to start questioning good fortune and if demons stole my soul last night, the dance had been worth it all. I walked back towards the bike and slid my helmet back into place. The familiar heat overtook every pore and that's when I knew I was still alive, still in this reality. No imagination, no dream, no layer of Dante's hell can properly simulate a Southern summer and no devil would ever be so cruel as to subject someone to it. I knew it to be as real as the rumble under my bones as the road stretched out in front of me. That, and the fact that my ass was still as numb as roadkill.


Good for: Losing your mind and your pants. You didn't need them any way.

Get the sexy at Amazon.com

Hope Sandoval & The Warm Inventions: Bavarian Fruit Bread

The blinds are shut against the setting sun and the dust floating around the room is dancing it's seductive dance against your eyes. Every curl of smoke drifting up from the bed is a testament to flesh, a poem written in the air. Angels sing the song of lovers and beg you to stay here, stay in this perfect crystallized Sunday moment. Each breath you take is a photograph of seduction, passion and the empty bottle of wine rolling softly across the wooden floor. Why should you leave?

Hope Sandoval is telling you not to. This record transcends sexiness into something closer to divinity, the perfected art of early morning lovemaking, a gentle caress of an album that doesn't want you to leave for work.

It is the whispered word at the end of a long night out with friends, a more comfortable place to relax and be alone together, a chance to peer deep into the mysteries of sunrise from the other side of night. This is a world full of warm guitar tones, gentle harmonica trails and the light touch of drums and organ all coming together to get through your pants and into your heart.

There is a leather bound book I keep in my room full of loves lost and found, of dreams and hopes that never came to be and the yellowing notes from lovers past. I keep this album there with Keren Ann, Jose Gonzalez, Mazzy Star and Damien Rice.

Good for: Playing songs on the skin of your lover, treating every touch like a chord.

Leonard Cohen: Death Of A Ladies' Man

There is this heavy air in the hotel lobby. All of the dreams of afternoon lovers are pooling here at the entrance and threatening to choke off your air. Lost in a haze of emotion and unsure of each footstep you stumble further through the red and gold wallpapered pathways of midnight hell towards the record player casting shadows out of a doorway.

There are memories tied to every note, remorse on every staff line of this ode to the moment you're in. Vision blurred, stumbling towards the song floating into the room you fall into the bed in slow motion. Leonard Cohen can seduce you in ways you never thought were possible. He has forgotten more about being spiritually and physically naked than most of us have ever known.

This is definitely not music for listening to at work, in the car or any time you're not able to grab a bottle of wine and take off your clothes. If you have someone to share this album with, you're in the place he wants you to be. Leonard Cohen is a poet of the highest order, sparing with his words and generous with emotion. But don't listen to me, listen to him. I lock this album up in my liquor cabinet with Nick Drake, Ani Difranco and Joe Henry.



Good for: Melting the clothes off of your lover with poetry.

Thanks Randall, I've been through this with my film scores

From xkcd

If you think this is bad, have the theme from "Conan the Barbarian" play during cuddle time.

News: Helping the baby making population, one song at a time

So I've decided to try and conquer the world through the power of sexy. There are many types of music in the world and I've listened to most of them but the one that gets me the most is down tempo electronica and trip hop. Portishead did something permanent to my brain. It might have been the time and place, but I've never found anything to replace my copy of Dummy. Well, Sigur Ros () comes real close and Tidal from Fiona Apple is some damn fine work, but Dummy rules the world of sexy in my book. I spent some time looking at how the album was made and it's a damn brilliant production technique. They recorded themselves on the shittiest analog equipment they could find and then sampled it digitally to produce the album. *snatch* If musicians and producers didn't steal from each other I imagine a lot of great ideas would go to waste. Anyway.
Ian and I have been trying to get a music project together for a few years now and we're finally in the right place to start this thing rolling. We've gotten down a bit of material and how the finished product will sound has started to coalesce in my mind. A coworker who's never heard anything like it asked me to describe what we're looking for. It took me about two weeks to figure it out. Imagine Al Green produced by the RZA and Trent Reznor with A Silver Mt. Zion providing the textures. I don't believe in shooting low. I want to make a damn fine album this time.
I guess it all really started a few years back. I was at a party playing guitar (yes, I am on occasion that guy) and I realized that I in fact do not rock. There are many things the Eriq is capable of. I can groove, I can swing I can even on occasion get the fuck down, but no rocking. It took me many years and a lot of bands and attempts at bands to come to this realization. I got home and I started looking at my most played iTunes list and came up with Emmylou Harris, Mazzy Star and Miles Davis. Not a surprise now but quite shocking at the time. Well you know I grew up in the era of grunge and metal and it took me a long time to find my way out of the suburban radio rock BS that surrounds our culture like a vulture even now. Besides I think it takes a lot to step outside what you know and what's acceptable to your society and at 17 years old, I just didn't have the balls to do it. Ahh the teenage years, we'll leave those alone for now and come back when we have several days to waste. Nevertheless, suburban white kids have a choice of several prepackaged identities to choose from and that's the one I got. Neato. On with the rebellion and the rocking we go. It never quite took and I think at this point in my life I'm ready to let it go. Don't get me wrong if someone is feeling the rock, there's no BS about it (J-Diggy, here's looking at you kid) but when you wear it like a mask there's a serious problem.

So now I'm curling up in a warm sexy Aphex Twin album and I'm not coming out for a while. While I'm here I'm going to craft the sexiest things I know how and see what happens. Maybe one day the Gods of Rock will bless me with the urge to shred riffs and wear black all the time, but for now The Sex shall reign supreme. The Nicotine Persuasion begins.