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Least of My Concerns

by Freeway Park

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1.
Four hours later and they've caught the bomber and they've shot another and all the east coasters can finally go outside. In West Texas, they explode without reason. It's a workplace hazard. In the five hours without wiring I stared at the pulled shades of an airplane as sudden altitude drops sent fingers to armrests and flight attendant's spread on smiles clicked into place. I swear the lights went out at least once. Three days earlier, eating a style-of-pizza in it's city-of-origin, and watching Boston explode on the news. And all the east coasters, they were marathon runners, worried about their families, yeah, they were feeling blue. At some point in all of this, I failed myself and AMERICA by relying soley on print media. But I was on vacation-- whatcha gonna do? Everything I do's a new danger activity-- everyehwere I go they're building No Go Zones. Six days earlier, packing in Seattle I'd been more worried about what this trip would do what Hot Dougs T-shirts what new souvenirs what sweet lessons was I gonna learn? I'd been more worried about losing my girlfriend in the loop of buildings, more worried about catching a stray bullet, more worried about being frozen in place by a sudden blast of snow. I'll tell ya, man, RUNNING had been the least of my concerns.
2.
I used to have this rubber shark with a hollow body and red lined teeth I played with in the bathtub. No rubber ducky could survive it's underwater attack, bendy fin slicing through bubbles when I was supposed to be washing my hair. Once I started taking showers, it swam off, now it's eating some kid in California's rubber duck. My friends and I would go to the same beach from the ages of 18 -22 to eat hot dogs and throw rocks into the retreating tide. No one else ever found it, so we didn't have deal with parking lots full of fake tans and whining children. Year by year, though, it just wasn't the same. One of my friends was sucked into the undertow while looking for rare coins and we never saw him again. The next year a giant squid came up on land, grabbed two of them and dove back into the ocean. When we described the way their limbs thrashed in the surf, the cops looked at us like we were high. Our parents said "well that's what you get. . . for going to beaches." When my best friend decided to join the squid in it's undersea lair, I was just like "fuck this. I cannot swim fast enough." These days, I appreciate rain. Don't have much in the way of toys or friends and never take baths. Sometimes I watch documentaries about Great Whites, their rows of teeth zooming towards the camera until the screen goes blank.
3.
They had lutefisk under dim lights. They had beers from Alaska. They discussed the films of Terry Gilliam. All those Captains they knew in the rows of houses on the hill. Neither had meant to make a friend tonight. But now they were. "This is where I will live some day." They had lutefisk under dim lights. They ordered another round of beers from Alaska. They way these houseboats sink in spring. "they're cutting off your benefits." "I don't know how I'll make it back." Must have been like that scene in Brazil, he said. He was wary of comparing his life to the movies. Hadn't meant to. But now he was. They're tearing down all the mansions, they're burning all the wood. They're popping all our tires, they're closing all the roads. "I don't know how I'll make it back."
4.
271 miles to Spokane, Washington, from Seattle. Filthy Jerry didn’t mind the distance, seat-springs or the way that the sun curled it’s flaming fingers around his ears and face halfway there and started talking filthy in a huge, encompassing whisper. What he minded was the unsanitary methods of the lone diner he stopped at in Quincy, Washington, whose primary export is despair. As the sun spread his dirty fire over cement and scrub-brush alike, it wasn’t inside, under draining halogen that eggs were cooked. It was the pavement. No butter, even. Right there, parking spaces 4-7. You could only get the eggs scrambled, and bacon burnt. Grown farmers wept openly at the sight of chicken progeny, charred and crusty on their plate. Filthy Jerry had known hopelessness-- in janitor closets and hostels wherein he got his nickname—but never had cement felt so much like glue, had the existence of sky seemed to mock everyone. The horizon means nothing with it’s ubuiquity. His love was waiting somewhere inland, at a diner with stoves and fans ane people who wouldn’t dream of shedding tears. She would either propose to him right there, or he’d find her with a man who’d never been to Quincy.
5.
Keep your magnificent streetlight shadows in check--- we have enough rain here! "You're a tall drink of water," he said, the day she hung one arm on the doorframe, the other on her hip-- he took the case. And the way they tell this story tomorrow will be different than in all the papers. Living in a city of greyscale rolling down the hill with all the drunks lifting their rugby pitch voices like an abandoned church choir. Keep your booming masculine voices to yourself! There are no multi-person songs here. "You're no glass half empty yourself," she said, and the game was on. And no one told them that with love you get colorized-- keep your colorization to yourself, there are no multi-person hues here. A block past the streetlight. . . a paying position. . . in this burnt out factory town, well this is where they bring you to die. In this shelled out house. And the last thing you see is a man in a smart looking cap and a woman more curvaceous than trustworthy holding shiny black pistols. Just like the movies, they'll make it all better.
6.
The morning you leave drinking game. Mind Spiders. Trotskyism in the third degree for folks just learning to read. Cold coffee/hot toddies, in anticipation of illness. You anticipate illness like crazy, like being crazy. A history of labor that you bear up on these shoulders you fly with-- wings?! Now consider the book case-- how much reading will you do on this trip? Aren't you leaving because it's supposed to be more interesting? But what if you have nothing to observe to co-workers about inclement social conditions? This won't be a water cooler conversation; you filled it with gin. You can leave the goat rental application at home, this is not that kind of city, a morning of packing has left you tipsy, and goats must be operated sober. So don't forget your passport. Don't forget your tuning forget. Don't forget your highly complex and LITERATE YA novel you've been hoping to export and scalpels for emergency surgery! People in Seattle LOVE it when you travel, especially if THEY'VE traveled-- so pick out an authentic folklore and flask your ass to the airport. Socks. Socks. Underwear. Shots! Shots! For Charlie! and scalpels for emergency surgery.
7.
But wait! There's more! Jerk eyes open Verizon wireless theme song in digital slap base operations across from the Zeke's pizza billboard, running on borrowed Internet. A sarlac pit of envelopes. A deletery of e-mails. And all the seagulls dive bomb the pizza box across from the construction site. I live at a construction sight. but that is not all! Past the white windowless van with the electrician's name on it-- Past the backwards baseball caps leaning over the freight trains-- Past the giant clock by the lamp store, and past the testicles green and chanting, and all the ghosts of all the brewers, coming back with hooks for hands-- there's another smoking hole in the wall, caused by cigarettes or asteroids. 1904, the tunnel says, when it all began or ended. As if there were no logs skidding down the row before that. No broken treaties before that. No peoples pushed into a river before that, when all you needed was a sawmill to run things. . . baby wants a saw mill. And that could be ALL! But towerless Searses forbid it. Evil fuckin' mermaids forbid it. Giant glass domes of giant class drones forbid it. But wait! There's more! A quick mop up before leaving work, a death threat bus ride on the seven, running on borrowed fares. I'm down here, and up there, a death star with it's light's on. (there's another smoking hole in the wall.) But wait----

about

Debut seven song tape from Freeway Park, out on Noise Noise Ouch Stop Records.

credits

released December 18, 2016

Vocals-- Graham Isaac
Guitars-- Adam Grunke
Bass-- John Jernigan
Drums-- Pat Gill

recorded by Reed Griffin, Marshall Fanciullo.
mixed by Marshall Fanciullo.
mastered by Eric Padget.

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about

Freeway Park Seattle, Washington

Much like the city park it is named after, Freeway Park the band aimed at being a structured, brutalist space with flashes of grace and beauty, but more often than not ends up dirty, slightly dangerous, and full of drunk people.

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