supercentral

tom, how does one get ahold of you these days? ---ben (ben@beast.tv) / 512.674.5205 -tom

"dude i seriously never thought i would see FUCKTARDS at the MoMA followed by a sick NO AGE show! patrick odell is seriously a fucking genius!!"

the blaize blouin of street

damn, seneca, i want this to be a real book so bad... - tom

"Seneca?" It was a woman's voice, one he didn't know. Snuff Queen time, if he knew anything about women and country music. He had been surprised the Opry didn't attract more of them until he had found out that Opry management, ever conscious of the family-oriented audience, had it's guards chase off the painted woman element. He wouldn't mind temporary blotto with some pussy, would welcome it, in fact. It had been a while........

"Yeah, darlin'?" He spoke in his experienced-but-kind-and-reassuring Seneca voice. He had layers of instinct that were astonishing. Sometimes even he was surprised by the way he would react in a situation- he had at least twice in honky-tonk fights disabled mean-drunk attackers who outweighed him by fifty pounds or more. He was not always right but he was fast, and that was more important. He also listened more than he talked and he had long ago learned how valuable that was. He waited for the woman to approach him in the alley. She was young, she looked so young in the alley's dim light that he was afraid she was illegal quail, was jailbait.

"Old enough to wanna fuck me, old enough to fuck me." he murmured to himself. This night, he didn't care how young she was. "Seneca?" she said softly. "I really, really like your music and I write songs and I got some songs I would like to show you-",- the only instrument with her -her short bangs. She had obviously rehearsed a little speech and Seneca was impatient. He put his arm around her waist and started out in search of a taxicab and a bottle and his hotel room, in that order. He should call Kristy;she was home with the baby, with his little son. He was too tired to talk, though. He could call Kristy tomorrow. Tonight was tonight. He found a taxi on Broadway and when he and the girl got into the back seat he began to feel a little more awake. He had reason to celibrate, didn't he? The Opry crowd had loved him. Nobody could stop him now. He leaned forward and whispered to the taxi driver the first thing he ought to do if he wanted a three hundred dollar tip was to drive to the bootlegger's-any self respecting taxicab driver would know where to get some sour mash after hours-and get a bottle of bourbon. And the second thing he should do after that was follow directions and not pay too much attention to what was going on in the back seat. Seneca was in a sweat: he wanted to bury himself in a bottle or in a woman or both, it didn't matter which. He just wanted to be canceled out for a while. He was tired of holding up his corner of the world and wanted to let somebody else take over for him.

She was gone when he woke up. That was good. Seneca hated small talk when he was drunk; sober it was all he could do to get enough words out to order breakfast. He felt no guilt about last night.Women were one of the few benefits of being on the road. They were there and they offered themselves and you took them. That was that. No one gave it a second thought. A man's wife closed her eyes when it came to that. When you were on the road, the normal rules of life were suspended. Normal hours meant nothing. Laws that applied to regular citizens were stretched as far as they could be. Regular citizens were quick to help stretch them. They loved being in the aura of an entertainer. Policemen tore up speeding tickets and could steer a man to a willing woman and could get a gun for him. Hotel clerks could get women and liquor and just about anything a man wanted. And the women- it had once shocked Seneca when he realized that otherwise decent women, men's wives and sisters and daughters, would rip their clothes off in abandon and do just about anything to get into that orbit and aura of a music star, even a minor one. Who was Seneca to question such a fact of life? He had far more serious things to worry about, like how could you play Atlanta one night and drive straight through to St. Louis and be in decent enough shape to do a good show the next night? Or, where was the next song coming from? Which promoters were not out-and-out thieves? The Questions were plenty.

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                                                                                   TOM 
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http://vimeo.com/6868081