Everyday is Sunday

by trevor keaton pogue

[keatonpogue]

NEW WORK

Check out my new writing and photography project, over at https://medium.com/@TrevorKeatonPogue

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Old Volvos Last Forever, So This Guy’s Making Them Electric

In response to environmental and customer demands, Seattle's X-Ray Auto has begun to experiment with electric conversions on the 50-year-old cars.

My newest piece is featured on Vice’s Motherboard. 

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Pick a Side: Diaz vs. McGregor

Tonight, newly crowned 145-pound UFC champion, Connor McGregor and number 5-ranked lightweight, Nate Diaz will step into the UFC octagon for a scheduled 5 rounds at 170 pounds. Coming off of a 13-second knockout over former pound-for-pound fighter, Jose Aldo, McGregor is slated as nearly a 1 to 3 Vegas favorite. If Diaz’s recent antics during press week are any indicator of his current temperament, this isn’t going to keep him from bringing a dogfight to the door of the UFC superstar.

It’s no hyperbole to say the UFC has never seen a fighter like Connor McGregor. To watch the Dublin-born Irishman inside the cage is to watch the ‘Art’ in ‘Martial Arts’ at its highest execution. Utilizing an arsenal of unorthodox striking techniques once regarded by the mixed martial arts community as worthy of only the silver screen, McGregor is redefining MMA as we know it. But novelty doesn’t win fights.

Fights are won through the holy trinity of technique, preparation and luck. Ask any fighter who has met the metallic taste of defeat inside that cage, and they will tell you that at the end of the day, a fight is a fight. As such, it can go either way.

Enter the Stockton-born Nate Diaz. Diaz is a fighter’s fighter. Raised on a strict regimen of Brazilian jujitsu, ghetto boxing, and verbal intimidation, he represents the original incarnation of a mixed martial artist. Coming to fame during Season 5 of The Ultimate Fighter reality show, which he won via TKO, Diaz has had his fair share of wars in the octagon. From his recent unanimous decision against Michael Johnson to his infamous double-fisted middle finger submission win against Kurt Pellegrino, Diaz, now 30, is every bit a veteran as fighters 10 years his senior.

McGregor himself is in no shortage of highlights. Since signing with the UFC back in 2012, he’s fought a magnificent seven times, securing the win in all but one. Looking to McGregor, UFC fans around the world see not only the future of the sport, but also it’s first real superstar.

Fighting isn’t about records and celebrity though. Unless you’re counting pay-per-view buys, in which case, look out boxing, there’s a new kid in town. Fighting, at least for the spectator, is about allegiances.

In one corner of the cage, we have the showman himself: a tattooed, loud-mouthed Irishman with the technique of an action star and the suit collection to back it up. In the other, the comeback kid from the wrong side of the tracks. With the enigmatic malaise of a stoner and self-motivation of a triathlete, Diaz has made his name in the MMA as one of the most polarizing figured in fighting history. Unlike McGregor though, for Diaz there is no show. In Diaz’s world fighting is simple.

“At the end of the day,” Diaz said. “It’s kill or be killed in there.”

Come Saturday night, fans all around the world are going to find out just what one it is.

*This was a test-run for sport writing. The quotes aren’t word for word, and some facts may very. 

[keatonpogue]

This morning I interviewed for a job at the local child factory. There was a baseball court in the kitchen and ex-hippies mixing the potato salad. I got a donut at the gas station on the corner and walked on up the road.

At the chocolate café, the boy behind the counter looked like an angel. He had blonde curls and eyes that said yes. I ordered a small cup and took it to go. The bus was running late, so I kept on walking.

On the front page of this week's paper was an article on abortion that I wished I had written. Instead I just gave it a glance.

As usual, the blue bel air was parked on the side of the road with its mexican blanket draped over backseat. Living in cars was easier when cars had character. No one wants to spend the night in a jeep grand cherokee. A ‘56 chevy is a different story.

There’ s a story Al Camino likes to talk about where he was taking amphetamine and sleeping in the back of his chevy with a friend. They did that for a year or so. Or at least until the winter came. He’s told it to me a dozen times and still I can’t remember it. Al’s is the only person, besides my mother, who’s never doubted me. It doesn’t take a lot of faith to believe in god when humans have let you down so many times.

I am writing this from the couch of a stranger. I met her while covering a story on motorcycles in Seattle. She was looking to rent a room in her place and I was just about to be as close to homeless as I’ve become. I had been bopping from place to place all summer long and I didn’t have any real money and about a week out from having that reality catch up to me. Paco, an old friend from my film festival days, introduced the two of us. It’s always a joy to see someone turn into a good person before your eyes. It’s even better when you don’t have to be there for the bad parts and can come in at the last minute and claim to have known it all along. That’s what it’s kind of like with Paco, except he gives me free drinks sometimes.

My gut tells me I should be going to the doctor. Especially while I’m still covered under my dad’s insurance. Only one-year left, then I’m fit to die in the eyes of the law.

I was eating a breakfast burrito this morning and thinking about suicide. But not really.

I can’t wait for the holidays. They are going be love. Though we’re set to bury my grandmother’s ashes in mid-November, the season will be anything but solemn. Yes, it was sad to let her go. And yes, there are times my girl smells so much like her that I’m certain she’s just around the corner. As for heaven, I’m not placing any bets, but that doesn’t keep me from knowing it smells like ravioli.

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The streets are roaring. At a corner near 17th Avenue Northwest and Leary Way in Ballard, bikes are rolling in—1970s Hondas, chrome-plated Harleys, Italian imports,

Check out my most recent piece in this week’s Seattle Weekly. 

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Summertime Summertime

I’ve been bopping for months—five places in three months. I’ve sat over dogs, cats and beet gardens. So far, the most I’ve paid for a place to stay is $100 and a half bottle of vodka. And that was for a couch near the university. I think it was home to spiders.

“I’m on the road in my own city,” I say. “I’m a writer,” I say. “I write the type of stories that can be done from anywhere." "They’re main focus is me and me alone." "All my characters are my mother.”

The summer has been a good one for me. I’ve gotten laid more times than I can count. Beds, cars, kitchen floors, rooftops, I’ve fucked on all of them. And good fucks too—fucks that teach you about yourself and god herself—fucks that make you wish you could just find someone to love so you could share this knowledge with them and make them feel as good as you feel right now.

I’m sitting a café in Capitol Hill. Lightnin Hopkins’ ‘Mojo Hand’ just came on the stereo. It’s a rumble of a song that boogies through the groove and circles back on itself like some lost demolition derby. If you listen closely, you can sometimes hear Lightnin’s fingers scrape the copper clear from his six string.

There is a girl in the café. She is wearing in a floral print dress. Pink and dark blue. She is staring at her computer like it holds the answers. If I could work up the will to speak, I would tell her it does, but not in the way she’s hoping for.

I’ve been working on a piece for the weekly the last few weeks. It’s on motorcycles. The story is a homage and a middle finger to my father. In many ways I am no older than 12. Yesterday was my father’s 59th birthday. When I called him in the morning it went directly to voicemail. He never called me back. Hopefully someone made him a cake. My father deserves a good cake.

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I call Al Camino while I am crossing the street. It goes to voicemail. By the time I hit the crest of the second curb, he has called me back twice and texted me once more. I pick up on his third try.

“Well, how the hell are you?” he asks. “Slow and steady.” I say. “You working?” “I quit.” “We always do,” he says.

I pass the Walgreens. Out front, there is a man in a silver bicycle helmet with a sign asking for money. He looks past my sunglasses. I walk faster.

This street is a jungle that I’ve walked through a thousand times. There are tribes in every niche. Dogs roam free. Once, I laid with my back to the asphalt in the middle of this street—a whole gaggle of us actually.

We had been drinking. The road was shut down due to some sort of food fair, so the bartender at one of the local restaurants, and the rest of us, wobbled our way out to the intersection to gaze at the moon. I remember this night like I remember every girl I’ve every loved. It is both distant and immediate. My stomach holds it in place as my mind moves onto other more pressing things. If love is the closest we come to god, than lying in the street that night felt like the holding cells of limbo. Anything was possible.

Al Camino tells me to keep my head up. He tells me to stop being so hard on myself, and that if I keep it up he’s going to fly up here and kick my ass himself. I know this isn’t true, but the offer makes me feel better anyways.

The sun is perfect today. The breeze is perfect today. Everything is in its right place.

This morning I moved from the R's basement to K's couch. I have two weeks on that couch. After, it's a flurry of housesitting and soul searching till mid-august. Come September, I’m out of moves. Maybe I’ll go to Sicily.

[keatonpogue]

Night Out

Everyday at crosswalks around the world millions of pedestrians are asked the same question, “Do you want to live?”

I stand on the corner by The Paramount. I’m trying to find something to do for the night. It‘s too early to go home and even if I wanted to, the busses are gonna be so crowded for the next three hours that I wouldn’t make it to my door till sundown. In place of imagination, I take the phone from my pocket. The screen is scratched and I’m starting to think this new smart phone business isn’t doing too well for my attention span. I scroll through the names in my phone book.

Nope. Nope. Sure.

“Hello,” he says. “K?” I ask. “Yes sir.” “Where are you right now?” “I’m staring out the window of a corner office in the middle of downtown?” “You want to meet me for a drink?” “Where are you thinking?” “Somewhere with a patio.”

We decide on the most popular bar in Seattle. It’s the same one where apparently Kurt Cobain was last seen alive. I tell him I’m going to head over to get a little writing done and he tells me he’ll meet me there in a bit. I put the phone back into my pocket and begin the slow ascent to the bar.

I walk along the shady side of the street. By my feet there is a line of young people sitting crosslegged. They are dingy in the trying type of way. While their hair says struggle, their fingernails say instagram.

The line, I find out, is for the upcoming Neutral Milk Hotel concert. For me, Neutral Milk has always sounded a bit like what your kid brother would’ve if he just kept trying to win that girl back after the 8th grade dance debacle. Dedicated, but stunted.

These kids all look the same. Every one of them has the same haircut and all their pants come from the same three retailers. As I continue to walk, I wonder if this is just a projection of my own want to be original. And if my want for originality is somehow just an excuse to refrain from confronting that which I actually want, love. I’ve recently become convinced that love is the motivator behind all human action. Not sex or conflict or greed, but love. The kicker is, that the love to which I refer, is not love from another, but love for self. This self-love is the same fuel behind bank robberies and philanthropy missions. I’m not going to write any further on this theory because as I type, I’m beginning to see the many holes in it. That’s a problem I’ve always had: consistency of thought. I talk a good game, but when it comes to following the thread all the way to the end of the haystack, I more often then not just find myself stuck with no place to go.

Maybe it comes with age?

Probably not.

I walk the remainder of the hill with the tinge of self-hate in my blood. It’s hot in Seattle, but not yet really hot. This summer is sure to be a bitch. I’m thinking about taking swim lessons to avoid a complete heatstroke. I always wanted to know how the professionals so effectively moved through the water?

Consistency, I bet.

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I ask my dentist how he is doing and he tells me about the high number of dentist suicides. I tell him I don’t want any numbing and he asks me why? ”My days are a bit slow lately,” I say, “and I think the pain might draw me back into the present.” He says to open wide. A black woman behind a mask laughs at me and mocks my machismo. I smile at her, but the dentist grabs my cheek and pulls it up over my gum line. “If the pain becomes too much, just raise your left hand.” I nod as he pulls a prod from the operating table. He pokes my teeth one at a time. He then takes a rotating drill and I smell my molar turn into chalk. “We, dentists, used to be the highest career suicides in the world. Not anymore, though,” he says. “Psychiatrist are now at the top.” I say yes, but my freedom of speech is now in his hands. The woman sucks my spit until my mouth feels like a water bottle in the Mojave. After the two fillings are completed, I walk to the front of reception and ask for a toothbrush. The woman behind the counter hands me a blue one. Ten minutes later, I eat an ice-cream sandwich and imagine what a conversation between a suicidal dentist and his psychiatrist might sound like.

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I woke up jealous of the moon. My phone was on the nightstand. It was 9am, but the clouds kept the sun under wraps. I turned on some music and went to the bathroom. There are bugs growing in my pipes-little flying splinters. They float as dust and only get in the way when it comes time for lunch. It’s a Friday in Long Beach. It’s been three months since I flew in. My money is shrinking and what I thought would be an easy hustle has turned into a drawn out battle. I’m trying to become a plumber. I’m trying to become a cop. I’m trying to get all of my foot to touch the mat during downward dog. My posture is stiff and I’m pretty sure one shoulder sits higher than the other. I take classes at the college to stay active. I see the students sitting in circles and I want to yell to them, “YOU’RE WASTING TIME!” They laugh with one another. They walk through campus wearing frowns as heavy as textbooks. When I get to the locker room, I undress in steps. First, I take off my glasses and place my wallet in my breast pocket. Then go the shirt and pants. Everything is folded just so. My obsession with symmetry is the closest I get to a disorder. I then walk barefoot through the halls of the kinesiology building. The yoga room is a dance studio. It has mirrors lining the outer edge and the center is a sea of wood. I take a mat from the box and unroll it in the center of the room. For the next hour, I push and pull my body in all the cardinal directions. After that, I shower, comb my hair and walk back to my car. This is all I do. It gets a bit boring.

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There are birds in the airport terminal and my grandmother is dead. The TSA doesn’t know there is a safety razor in my cary-on. She took her last breath on a Wednesday. Dean Martin was her soundtrack. Marvin Gaye is mine. There are only three things for certain: taxes, death, and trouble. I have met all this week.

Standing over my grandmother’s body, I mentioned to my mother how easy turbo tax makes filing. My sister told me to show some respect. I shut up and went for a walk around the block.

The sky is a deep orange. Smoke stacks exhale into the endless ceiling. Pollution never looked so good. I feel the light rain on my face and look to the east. A rainbow rolls across the sky. Grandma would have liked this day, i think to myself. She always did talk about the weather.

The plane is boarding now. I am saying goodbye to California for the third time this year. One day, i will run out of people who believe me. On this day, i hope there is rain.

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I work in a Greek bakery. The ceiling is low. In the space between the rafters and the floor my head knocks on wood. Good luck, I tell myself. An oven is in the corner. Next to that is a large sink. Flour residue coats the handles of the spoons The bakers hands feel like straw. Upstairs there is a computer that doesn’t power up and a calculator that loves the sun. At the Greek bakery, the grape leaves are rolled by a Mexican, and the spanakopita is made by a Chinese girl, and the floor is washed by me. We are America. Sometimes we skip lunch.

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At the Bus Stop: My mouth tastes like red wine and peanut butter cups. There is a girl on my head with hair the color of honey. Grocery life is killing me. I stock milk until my hands become numb. I stock bananas till the cows come home. The sky has a single star in it. Or maybe it's just a headlight? When i can't sleep, i count hours. Sometimes I count paycheck too little to count. I want a paycheck that makes it all seem to count. As my money gets tight my face gets fat. There are lines under my eyes that look like my father. My neck is the size of a fat man's bolo. Soon i will get going. The bus will arrive and the ticket will be sold. Home is where the door unlocks.

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There is a man singing gospel on the corner. His hands are the color of dark cream. I am reading a newspaper and  waiting. It seems i spend so much time waiting. The man is singing about trains. The man is singing about jesus. The man keeps singing. Last night i got a ride from an African. It was three in the morning and he told me he wanted to go home. Why don't you? I asked. Because my president won't leave office. It's been 23 years and he just won't leave. So long as he is there, I will remain here. I ask him how his night is going and he tells me he works all night long. From 7-7. And when I am not working here, i work at the 76 station. Why? I ask. My children, he says. I have four and i must do what i must do. I understand, i say, though we both know i am lying.

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My Job at the Funeral Home Was Picking Up Dead Bodies

What It's Like Working for a Funeral Home - My Job Was to Pick Up the Bodies - Feature stories on Seattle News, Politics, Arts and Culture. The Stranger covers Seattle and National News with a voice you can't find anywhere else.

[keatonpogue]

The Good Times Are Killing Me

Before leaving New York my glasses broke in two on a subway platform. Noe that this is being written from inside a cloud.

Boston is a baked bean full of whiteys. I spend most of my time with my Uncle Mitchell and his husband Dwayne. They aren’t really my uncles. They’re more like second cousins. I’ve never had much use for proper family tree verbiage though, so I’m going with Uncle. I spend my time in their house. Watching Jurassic park. Last night, we all drank rum like it was milkshake. Similar to a velociraptor, Mai Tai’s will sneak up on you. 

Thanksgiving was strange and foreign. While these people and I share drops of blood; they are not my family. My family is spread about the west coast. My family is up in the air. My family is ____.

I am spending too much time on dating sites. Sometimes I cant keep the asshole under wraps. One woman has given me her number in the last three days. All her pictures show her with lips the color of blood. I wonder if she's thought of kissing me with those lips.

It's been a month since I last saw a dead body. Somehow this feels like a deficit in my life.

Today, while in the north end of Boston, I spent a good three hours contemplating what it took to be lawyer. As the clock stuck noon, I decided I'd rather own a meatball sandwich shop and went to look for a good place to put up the sign.

My grandma only talks about the weather and the past.

The good times are killing me.

[keatonpogue]

Double Down

I've been out of a home for 2 months now. The weather has caught up to me. The cold is a breeze and I left my borrowed coat back in Chicago. I am writing from under a lamp in New York. Its been dark for hours and it’s only 5pm. The sun, like me, has no place here. He bobs from one side of the city over to the other. You’ll only catch him if you happen to look up at just the right time.

Unlike Oakland, the subways don’t cost an arm and a leg in New York. They will take yours off though, if you aren't careful. Just ask Jose Jello.

Last night, I went to a bar and played shuffleboard in the dark against a pair of Arians. The bar was filled with journalists and I couldn't help but feel like a fraud without my degree stapled to my chest. My confidence is waining and Im unsure of where to place my love.

Met an old friend for breakfast yesterday, told her how I felt like I couldn't move to Chicago cause no one there found me funny. If this is my metric for choosing a city, I said, then Mexico is soon to be my next home.

Whom I kidding though? I couldn't make it in that great Mexican city. I’m as american as an Egyptian tank and my Spanish isn't much more than a bad game of charades..

Going to go get some noodles in Union Station in a quick minute. That's new yorks’ union station, or square, as i like to call it when asking for directions from pretty strangers. Until then, I guess ill just smoke from this cob pipe and listen to tom waits a bit more.

"Well the earth died screaming, while i lay dreaming..."