Monuments

Fire in the Radio

Monuments

(Wednesday Records)

When I was a young teen working my first job, I saved up all of my money in order to buy a big ole Hi-Fi component stereo system with tower speakers.  It was my pride and joy.  Late at night, I would sit in the dark on a canvas chair in front of the system with my headphones on.  I would stare into console, as I marveled at the power boost a strong FM signal would give to music – an added buzz and increased separation of sound.  I would lose myself in the music and the lights that illuminated the otherwise dark components of the stereo creating a warm glow.  It looked like little city grid in there, or like a little fire burning inside.  My family constantly made fun of me for staring at the stereo with such intent, which could happen at any time and for hours at a stretch.  “Enjoying the view?” my Mom might quip as she passed by my room.  Though some of those components have broken down or petered out over the last 35 years, I still have the same basic system.  It is still an alter acting as a nightlight in my darkened bedroom, and the music it plays keeps me alive.

What does all of this have to do with the new album, Monuments, from Philadelphia band Fire in the Radio?  Other than the fact that their name brought those memories to the fore, the music does make me feel like a kid again.  This is the first I’ve heard of this band, though it is their third LP, and it is filled with punk inspired guitar anthems.  This is the type of thing that used to mystify me.  Like, why isn’t this hugely popular?  These guys rock!  There are chiming power chords, propulsive throbbing basslines, relentlessly upbeat drumming, and sing along choruses everywhere.  The lyrics are thoughtful and can draw out all kinds of personal emotional connections.  Plus the production is big and bright and radio ready.  Yet, here we are.  I found the album via Bandcamp just like most of the other criminally underappreciated artists on there fighting for an audience.

I do not know anything about Fire in the Radio and there is no information about them on the record sleeve.  To me, it sounds like there are two lead vocalists, which is always a strength if you ask me, because it creates a nice unforced variety.  The album opens with an instant favorite “Let’s Get to the Start,” a song about needing to reset after a crippling disagreement.  It reminds me a ton of early Idlewild’s incredible 100 Broken Windows album, as does the excellent “Tulare” and the more Remote Part-ish “This is My Document.”  On the other hand, you’ve got the more difficult (not as straight-ahead), heavier songs such as “Gravity” and “Breaking,” which hint at Bivouac -era Jawbreaker as played by a mid-90s Washington DC band, are still infused with ear appealing choruses.  Speaking of Washington DC, the cranking “Ex-SF” reminds me of Fugazi.  Another highlight for me is the wistful “I Said,” which cruises along like a Chris McCaughan led Lawrence Arms heartbreaker.  I am a sucker for sparse lyrics about quiet moments in time that feel emotionally monumental.  Which brings me to the closing song “Save Me.”  This is exactly the kind of song I was referring to earlier.  This universally understandable song should be massive!  It is so damn catchy, it rocks, it’s easy to sing along with (and to get stuck in one’s head), and it is tragically sad in a desperate identifiable way (“Save me now / save me from the demons I once brought home / I don’t want to be left alone”).

It has been too long since I’ve had this kind of punk rock band come into my life, and there is always room.  It's energizing and exciting.  There's a certain cathartic enjoyment I get out of loud, emotionally charged upbeat songs that are also tender and, at times, heartbreaking.  It doesn’t hurt when the bulk of the songs stick with you and repeat over and over in your head – in a good way.  “Wake me up / It’s time.”

(https://fireintheradio.bandcamp.com/)

Fire in the Radio "Tulare"

California

California

California

(Blackball)

Where to begin?  As I’ve mentioned many times on this site, Jawbreaker was a huge band for me during my twenties. I have tried to track down releases from all three band members over the years since their disappearance, and drummer Adam Pfahler has always impressed, especially with the 2006 Whysall Lane album (still waiting impatiently for album #2), and I think I have an old 7” by a band named The Moons.  I was also a big fan of Green Day, especially the Lookout! Records-era records, as well as the similarly fun and energetic Billie Joe Armstrong side project Pinhead Gunpowder, also featuring guitarist Jason White. Learning that these two were part of this new project, the Google-proof California was a clincher for me to purchase without a previous sound introduction.  This trio, rounded out by bassist Dustin Clark (of The Insides and Soophie Nun Squad – unknown to me), seemed to promise a revival of the exciting East Bay punk scene from the late-80s and early 90s, where one could buy like five albums, ten 45s and a couple of T-shirts for like $30 dollars via Blacklist Mailorder.  Ah, the good ole days of getting exhausted and frustrated from reading the endless dogma in the pages of Maximum Rock-N-Roll, but all the while voraciously ordering records advertised in the very pages that constantly railed against commercialism.

The album opens with the upbeat “Hate the Pilot” that recalls those Green Day/Pinhead Gunpodwer olden days, with lyrics that call out those who dislike everything for the sake of disliking, while “Same Boat” brings to mind Unfun-era Jawbreaker with Pfahler’s ever-inventive drumming, Clark’s gliding low end and White’s chiming post-punk guitar line.  The next couple of songs also hint at the sounds that I had kind of expected, except not as reliant on power chords and volume, and resoundingly more adult.  Then the record transitions into something much different.  The songs stretch out and side one closes with “Winners” - a positive outlook on how just getting through the daily grind and surviving can be something to celebrate.  Meanwhile, side two opens with the acoustic-led duet with Rachel Haden from the also much missed That Dog.  It’s a song filled with a real life melancholy as it describes the final moments of a relationship that has run its course.  There is no last second drama, just a simple bummer ending (“There was only a last knowing glance / A smile and a wave / Goodbye and I flew way”).  Then comes along the Hammond organ adorned standout “See Your Friends” – a downtempo reminder to keep our friends close and not let the drag of depression isolate oneself.  By this point, we start to realize that this album is really a simple, but incredibly performed and tastefully recorded timeless rock-n-roll album – not a pop punk record. 

Now that I’m old and have heard what seems like everything, I find that new music often takes several listens before it starts to show its strengths or weaknesses.  I can honestly say that California gets better with each listen. 

( https://www.facebook.com/bandcalledcalifornia/)

The Greatest Story Ever Told

“I was frustrated and angry”

Sometimes a band and/or an album come along at the perfect time. When I was spending three years strapped into a dialysis chair for three days a week for four to five hours at a time there wasn’t a lot to look forward to each day outside of trying to make it through a work day and surviving. One might think with all that downtime at dialysis, I could at least get in a lot of reading, listen to a ton of music and maybe even write. One might think that, but for the most part those years are blank. I pretty much lost my fanatical taste and exuberance for music, I did read my way through many sleepless, restless nights, but couldn’t focus while going through those awful sessions. There are a few exceptions. Every once in a while an album or a song would come along to breathe new life into my waning soul. It was at a 2002 summer time Dillinger Four show (a rough and tumble Minneapolis punk band, who I discovered in the late 90s through another Allied Records punk compilation Invasion of the Indie Snatchers in my constant search for a new punk rock band to replace Husker Du, then Jawbreaker and J Church, then V Card, etc. in my weird little lexicon – see the prior two posts Ache and Letter to Hope), when opening act the Lawrence Arms cranked out the soaring and heartfelt “Nebraska” and blew my friend Jeff and I away. Initially, during their set, we exchanged accepting glances, because we were surprised to find an opening act we’d never heard of, earning our jaded attention. It was when we heard memorable lines from “Nebraska” like “your sarcasm radiates unhappiness / so withdrawn and rooted deep inside” over a dry repetitive guitar pluck, before exploding into an earnest desire to help a depressed friend (“your bitterness doesn’t surprise me / as these pointless days go screaming by / rejected sour eyes / can’t imagine blue skies / I wish you could find something to live for / besides the agony of bleeding towards this last breath”) that completely won us over. It was those understanding words that I needed to hear during a time when I felt sick and weak all of the time and wasn’t sure if I would ever get an opportunity for a kidney transplant. It was hearing those words coming from a self deprecating loose punk band that made it seem somehow more poignant.

Nebraska live 2009

The Lawrence Arms are (or were) a punk rock trio from Chicago, who have released five albums along with a couple of split albums, singles and a ton of punk compilation tracks (so far between 1999 and 2009). I love every single one of them. However, it was their 2003 fourth album, The Greatest Story Ever Told, which stands as their high point both creatively and for me personally. It is also their most overlooked. It’s one of those album albums. Most of the songs connect together and reference each other creating a big picture theme. In other words, it’s not the type of album where it’s easy to pull out a song or two for mixes to share, nor is it easy to listen to just one song. It is an experience. It isn’t a bloated double or triple album mess. It is concise at just over 30 minutes and stays true to their roots – roots that land firmly in the long standing sensibilities of Midwestern punk rock. Their hard partying tales of ineptitude and debauchery provide a picture perfect postcard into the life of the disaffected and downtrodden in an insightful and an alternately blunt and poetic way. This album is brilliant at mixing odd pop cultural references with literary masterpieces into a cohesive message of frustration and anger (there are mentions of Juggalos and Hot Shots Part Deux slipped in between references of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and the Margarita, painter Elhajiman Young, writers J.D. Salinger, Tobias Jeg and Gustav Meyrink among others – and yes, there are actually footnotes for the lyrics!). It is that message of frustration and anger and feelings of helplessness that I not only identified with during those dialysis sickness years, but fed off of. Their music and this album inspired me and filled me with an energy that I had forgotten I was capable of. It was the 2003 holy trinity of albums spewing social and political outrage TSOL’s Divided We Stand, Killing Joke’s second self-titled masterpiece along with this, The Greatest Story Ever Told, that helped me find my outrage and verve and passion for music and life again. It became impossible for me to listen to a song like “Alert the Audience” and ever feel sorry for myself, while reclining in the pleather dialysis chair, hearing bassist Brendan Kelly’s raspy voice shouting at me in my headphones during the shredding climax of the song:

“I’m a clown and I’m choking on blood, teeth and tongue

Fuck the spectators. Fuck the ‘he was so young’

Fuck forced sympathy through lifeless glass eyes

Povichian voyeurs drinking my cries

Fuck faced trilobites waiting to die

I can’t stand the humor, and I can’t stand the lies”

Instead I became instilled with a desire to take back control of my failing health and fight to overcome or at least fail trying my hardest to make a difference, while scratching to survive.

“I’m a clown, we’re only here to entertain” is the thematic link that spreads throughout this album, starting with the ‘Hobo Clown Chorus’ that acts as the introduction amongst a hacking cough and the sound of a beer can opening. Could it be a statement of dissatisfaction and disaffection from the faceless masses (the 99%) who help earn fortunes and glory for the few and are left with little recognition and reward? I think so (“Tear us up and stuff us down the drain” is the Hobo Clown Chorus’ concluding outro). Fittingly, the incredibly detailed and impressive sleeve art is loaded with old fashioned circus imagery to go with the repeated circus references in the lyrics. From that opening introduction, the album unwinds as guitarist Chris McCaughan and Brendan Kelly alternate the lead on each song. This is an important distinction, because they are two very different sounding vocalists and have very difference styles - Kelly’s more profane lyrics and chaotic bursts of noise pair perfectly with McCaughan’s more refined punk balladry (whatever that is). I can honestly say that I have no favorite song from this astounding collection that sweeps by too fast to fathom – begging for repeated listening.  I absolutely love this album from beginning to end.

Come to think of it, listening to this album now reminds me that I need to heed the lessons I learned ten years ago. It’s time to stop the slide into lethargy and regain some fire. Isn’t that what rock-n-roll has always been about?

The Disaster March 2003

Letter to Hope

I have referenced it several times over these many posts over the years, either via journal style entries or through short stories, but the early 90s was a terrible time for me. Besides dealing with my own fairly serious health crises, I lost my mom to cancer, lost two friends to suicide, and frittered away what may have been my best shot at love. It didn’t help that this all went down during the emotionally charged age of the early twenties, when pretty much everything that happens in life seems way more epic and significant than it really is due to a lack of experience crossed with heavy doses of uncertainty while trying to find a direction with life. These are things that we all experience.


The main way I have always chosen to deal with personal crisis is to turn to music. It has always been my sanctuary. I rise with it when I am on a high, maintain with it when things are running along routinely, and wallow with it when times turn rough. Writing about Jawbreaker with the previous post (Ache), a lot of those powerful and dark memories that coincided with that band’s existence have returned to the forefront of my thoughts. So too has much of the music that I discovered during my efforts to track down every single song that Jawbreaker released. Not only did that great band release four amazing albums, but they routinely put some of their best songs onto different punk compilations from around the country, so I had to track those down too. It was through these that I ran into the frighteningly prolific and always thought provoking J Church (from the legendary 17 Reasons Mission District 7” boxed set), the tumultuous buzz saw shred of Radon, the politically fueled Strawman, among many others. However, it was hearing the early Husker Du - like magic of Spoke’s “Descant,” (from the 1993 Allied Records’ amazing compilation: Music for the Proletariat) that inspired me to check out more from them and would lead me to find great solace, comfort, and joy in their words and sounds (little did I know then, that I already had this song on a spilt 7” that came sleeved in a comic book from a year or so prior).

It’s always a little discouraging when you get all excited to listen to a new CD from a newly discovered band and the credits in the little booklet state this about the band: “Spoke was Chuck Horne, Scot Hagel, and Jonathan Resh.” Sadly, by the time Spoke’s first CD Done, a 1994 collection of their three 7” singles and a couple of compilation offerings, the band had split. This is a massive shame, because these early recordings from this Florida trio show a huge amount of promise. All three members sing and write songs and this versatility is what seems to drive my love of punk rock trios (which would be a list way too long to bother to provide). Done, as a whole is, not surprisingly, a little scattershot, considering that it’s a compilation of their earliest songs. The metal tinged opener “Anithistamine,” which makes using an inhaler for an asthma attack sound like breathing in napalm on a battlefield (“clenched fists grind down abraded eyes”) before relief finally comes (“I cannot prove how my misery’s removed”). Similarly, “Harsher Winds Fall” and “Crushed” come along later in the proceedings with a striking metallic influence, which isn’t really my thing, but they are decent songs. “Harsher Winds Fall” addresses the sad fact that racism continues to be an issue in these times over some tight riffage, while “Crushed” is a short burner with abstract words that effectively convey the feeling of being trampled by someone you hold dear. Other than these small examples of a metal side, Spoke seem to have brought to the table more of a punk rock aesthetic. Their heartfelt and sometimes roughly played songs remind me of the early Lemonheads as fronted by Ben Deily (Spoke was also recorded by Tom Hamilton, who recorded those first three Lemonheads releases) and when Jonathan Resh takes over the lead, he has a gruff, yet spot on vocal style that reminds of Bob Mould during his Husker Du years (check out the chorus of “Prey” or the aforementioned “Descant”). What really made these guys always stand out for me amongst the rolling drums fills, buzzing guitars and mid range exploratory bass lines they provide are their powerful lyrics. Having said that, there are two instrumentals, “Mareado” and “You & Joy” that are downright harrowing and exhilarating. They tackle politics (“Descant”), racism (“Harsher Winds Fall”), religion (“Prey”), prostitution (“Dark City Sister”), and of course many matters of the heart. Just try to get the repeated refrain from the wistful love song “Just a Thought” out of your head (“she’s a rose in a pond of water”).

Luckily, Spoke left us with an actual debut album All We Need of Hell (the title fittingly taken from the Emily Dickinson poem “Parting”) that was also released posthumously in 1994. The liner notes provide that two of the songs included were written in memory of two different people lost and that loss is reflected all over this massive 19 song album. It is those two heart wrenching songs that provided the understanding comfort I needed to help with my losses. “Letter to Hope” instantly became one of the most powerful songs in my collection with its poetic imagery, swiftly shuffling music, and Resh’s mournful, angry and lost vocals. Just hearing the song now makes tears well up in my eyes (“and though I still stand unresolved / and though her world came to an end / and though she can’t be seen again / the ink bleeds forth from the pen of what once was / I’ll soon send my letter to hope”). Likewise, “Lil,” the other tribute, uses sparse lyrics to create a powerful scene of uncomfortable uncertainty (“close the light / but I don’t want to go to sleep / pace in circles / talk to myself”) over nervous and naked guitars before exploding in a cascade of frustrated noise after the narrator decides to self medicate to ease the pain (“behold the scythe / it tears a patched quilt of life / let’s spill the medicine and drink down good night”). The musically similar “80 Percent” (a song that provides an imaginary soundtrack opening for a short story I wrote: Kim the Waitress) powerfully addresses regret over a failed relationship with some serious self realization (“but I know an assurance of perpetual love was quite impossible / when only 80 percent of what she wants can I fulfill”). I’m not sure what it is, but I seem to be drawn to emotionally devastating songs, but their impact on me often is increased in a punk rock framework. Maybe it helps to swallow the rough message when it’s combined with some sense of release. The busy “My Eyes” arches and races through it’s tempo, but still smacks you across the face with a scene of inner turmoil for the narrator as he encounters someone who has used him, but he still yearns for their love (“my soul’s been yours to lose / my feelings fall to you / so what will you do? / I want to see you all the time”), while the wistful and dreamy “Crazy” finds joy with the early stages of a relationship (“I have lost all control of my heart of which you stole”). The powerful short story inside of the “Celebrated Summer”-like “Porch” seems to introduce us to some lifelong friends who are ready to embark on their life’s travels (“and the world spins on axis with little assurance for us all / but the steps between our home and the cold world bridge each day in time”), while the hard charging “Ruptured Seam” allows some real catharsis within its ranting toward breakdown in two minutes. This album is not all deadly serious. The opening instrumental “Sculpture” eases us into the odd “Gordon Johnson.” I’m not sure who he is, but according to the song “he blows.” Also, “Inga” opens with hysterical psychotic sounding laughter before merging into an atmospheric instrumental roll with haunting vocals expressing a longing for an inflatable doll. There are also two fine covers of two influential bands: Wire’s comeback song “Ahead” (1987) and a drastic reworking of Minor Threat’s “Salad Days” (1985). I could go on and on, but I will take a breath and relent. This is an amazing album that has been virtually unnoticed from its time of release and especially since, which is a tragedy. I am not doing it much justice here, but I urge you to give this short-lived band a try via their one time label No Idea Records. You can track down Done here and All We Need of Hell here.

Spoke "Letter to Hope"

Ache

Last year, I had planned on doing a continuing series of pieces about old favorite albums or forgotten albums and simply overlooked albums (started as seen here on Lacquer by Swedish band Popsicle). It was to be a chance to reflect on the times when those records impacted my life and how they did and continue to do so. I spend so much time focusing on what’s coming up next that it’s nice to stop and realize that I have a pretty cool collection of music sitting all around me that I can get lost in and maybe never return from. I had also hoped to get others involved and hear thoughts and anecdotes involving their own lost favorites, etc. or from those affected as I have been by music in order to break up the monotony of my terrible collection of adjectives and anecdotes. Unsurprisingly, this never really took off. However, after the complete mind dump that has been the annual end of year Top 40 list that I have continued to do for no apparent reason, I’ve decided to try and give this whole expressing a love for music thing another go. But it will not start with this one. Instead, I have decided to restart by writing about a band that has eluded me in many ways over the years: Jawbreaker. This Bay Area band was a huge one for me – probably my favorite from about 1990 till 1995. They came along with their heartfelt proletariat songs of love and drunkenness during the time I was leaving home and High School and bound for college and an attempt at independence, so their music and words captured and romanticized the life I was kind of living.

I first encountered Jawbreaker in 1989 when I picked up Volume 2 of Shredder Records’ Worlds in Shreds series of singles from the much missed Blacklist Mail Order (where one could buy punk influenced records at incredibly cheap rates) and the love affair continued until they eventually split after four powerful, yet completely different albums. Why were they always so elusive to me? I’m not sure. It was partly due to the inspiration of their music that I was driven to start writing about music and starting a ‘zine (the short lived This Wreckage described here: This is Our Emergency – hell, even the first two entries on this site are pieces named after Jawbreaker songs: Accident Prone and Jinx Removing). In fact, after their epic second album Bivouac dominated my world during the entirety of 1993 (it was the first album I bought in January of that year to guide me through another surgery recovery), I found myself on the ninth handwritten page of a review of it as my #1 pick for that year. While writing a long description of a reoccurring dream I used to have about being buried alive and somehow relating that to their song “Face Down,” I stood up, wadded the entire thing up and tossed it in the trash. I didn’t write about music or anything at all again for another four or five years. It was simply too much. For some reason, whenever I try to write about Jawbreaker’s music, my mind collapses in on itself. I get tangled up and cannot fathom a way to express the deeply personal tie I have with so many of their songs, which is confusing considering the relatable and immaculately poetic lyrics of vocalist/guitarist Blake Schwarzenbach. I have never been able to quite put into words how much a song like “Ache” (from 1994’s 24 Hour Revenge Therapy) helped carry me through a long dark period of pining for a lost love (“lean your head on mine like you used to / I don’t mind if you’re faking it”), or how the rough hewn downtown asphalt soundscape of songs like “Kiss the Bottle,” “Chesterfield King,” and “Sea Foam Green” bring alive the wistful and dramatic times of finding ones’ foothold in life. None of the words I write about the band feel like they’re worth the time wasted putting them down, and then I expand that to everything else I’ve ever written and then it leads to a complete shut down. It has always been incredibly frustrating to feel inspired to write when hearing their music, but losing the meager ability that I have to do so. And this is where I’ve found myself lately, which reminds me of that fateful day or two where I attempted to write the definitive synopsis of Bivouac back in December of 1993.

My first thought, when I decided to make a stab at writing about Jawbreaker again brought me to 1992’s Chesterfield King EP, which I bought while living in Seattle. I’ll never forget the day I bought it. The day prior I had collected a paycheck for one day’s worth of work at a terrible mall record store, before deciding that I’d rather starve than to work in such an environment (a pattern that repeated itself frequently during my short stint in that city), so I had a few dollars in my wallet. I was woken up by the monthly visit from the pest control people as they had stormed uninvited into my studio to spray unknown chemicals into the corners of my room, before wordlessly exiting. Since I was awake, and the sun was out, I decided to throw on some clothes and take advantage of that money and walk up the street to the old Crocodile Records just off of Mercer near the Seattle Center. That day I found the debut self-titled Swans EP from 1982 and the brand new Jawbreaker EP both on vinyl. It was such a surprise and I had just enough cash. “Chesterfield King” was everything I could’ve ever hoped for after wearing their debut Unfun out and having to buy the then newly released version on CD. The band had retained their loose and gritty punk inflected music, but now had introduced a much stronger personal edge to the lyrics. But it is “Tour Song,” the second track, a catchy slice of life on the road, which reminds me of the other reason they have always frustrated me. While the opening lines of the song provide all one needs to know about driving across country in a van with no money to promote their music (“Seven hundred miles to play to fifteen angry men / I need some sleep”), I cannot help but stop and smile thinking about all of the times that Jawbreaker cancelled shows on me and my friends. Every time I was aware of them playing locally (and by “locally,” I mean within a couple hundred miles) and tried to go, we would be presented with a closed venue and news that the show had been cancelled. It wasn’t until 1995 when they played at Portland State University, of all places, that we all actually managed to see them perform and that show was cut short (literally cut short, as the plug was pulled on them mid song mid set) due to an enforcement of a noise ordinance. “Every little thing must go wrong” indeed.

So, that is it. That is my way of side stepping actually writing with any detail about Jawbreaker’s music, while recommending their music. They have been like an old friend who has seen me through my worst and celebrated with me through a few triumphs, and like the boat from their song "The Boat Dreams from the Hill," I hope to "begin again" one day and maybe find the writing voice or inspiration that I once believed would come to me.

I highly recommend all of their albums. They are all fairly easily attainable nowadays (unlike then). Former drummer, Adam Pfahler, has thankfully been reissuing their albums on his own Blackball Records over the last few years with great care. Please seek them out and experience them for yourself, if you haven’t already done so.

Jinx Removing

A chilling breeze from the open window made him shiver. He was sitting on the loveseat squinting at the white sky intensifying outside. The window had been left open overnight, clearing the atmosphere of the heat and intensity from the previous night. He scratched at his head and rubbed the creases on his reddened right cheek, while snapping his arm trying to loosen his stiff shoulder. He glanced about the room, grimacing from the heavy must of the stale cigarette smoke rotting amongst the countless beer cans and bottles stacked and strewn about the room. He had no clue what time it was, but the low rumble of the distant freeways helped him decide that it was quite early. The sound was peaceful like the ocean. He had woken because of an intense need to piss, but it was the sour taste in his mouth that kept him up. His teeth felt soft.

He stared at the crooked frame dangling on the wall by the front door. A piece of glass pointing up from the bottom side of the frame like a shark tooth was the only thing holding the photograph inside. They were his friends. She was smiling as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind, posing so that their faces were side by side. When he snapped this picture of them in this forced pose months earlier he had predetermined its title as "Wallet Sample."

He stood up and stretched his arms outwards and arched his back up through his shoulders as if trying to break free from his own skin. After realizing that this wouldn't happen, he grabbed the damp crumpled towel sitting on the counter next to the kitchen sink and kneeled down to soak up the beer puddle sitting next to an overturned bottle. The fresh liquid diffused the red stain already set in the towel. He smeared the remaining wet spot around and picked up the bottle with the towel and carefully placed it into the sink, trying not to make any noise. He didn't want to wake up his friend.

Standing in the room, unsure about his next move, he was driven by the urge to sneak out the door and get home. He looked down at the box knife sitting on the floor amongst the remainder of glass from the picture frame hanging above. He decided that it was not a good time to leave. All he could hope for was an improvement. He had never wished for success as much as he did for his efforts just a few hours earlier. Restless and needing a distraction from his recent memories, he retrieved a lighter lying beneath the coffee table and ignited the brand new Lucky 13 candle on top of the table. Maybe the candle would burn her stench from the apartment. He returned to the loveseat, sat down and rubbed his head, wondering what he could have done to prevent this and wondering what he would have to do next.