Tag Archives: tales from the tomb

Pulling Everything Together


So there I was. With a week to impress a very disappointed landlord. I had almost no resources and I reached out to my group of friends who had experienced the HoG on the same level I had. Immediately, I had responses. An overflow of them, actually. Paint, tools, cleaning parties, I had everything I needed. Diablo spent the last of his budget on some paint that would cover stains (particularly sharpie) and I got to work. We cleared out the living room and started cleaning up the beer cans.

My dear friend Liza came over with her camera and photographed a few things before we totally started fixing it up. Liza is a photographer, videographer, model, poet, and a whole bunch of other things, too. She is one of the most lovely human beings that I know and I’m sure there will be a blog post dedicated to her at some point.

Four hours of cleaning and scrubbing later, all of the furniture was either in the kitchen or on the lawn and I had begun painting over the words and images that had helped define all of us over the course of two months.It was arduous – and heartbreaking. It was the first real symbol of us having to move on from the house. Of course, part of me had been waiting for this for weeks, and the other part of me was scared and never wanted it to end.

We managed to get enough paint to re-vamp the entire house, and I started, well, re-vamping. I planned a cleaning party and had a decent turn-out. With the help of twenty people, we got the first coat of actual white paint on the living room walls. We got the lawn mowed and the beehives on the roof taken care of and the old mattress and couches burned.

The next day, Docken (the other room mate) and our mutual friend Khiara did some hardcore cleaning. I turned the trash room into a porch. The lawn was fixed, the trash room was gone, and I had painted some nice color on the living room, effectively finishing that project. In a week, we took down the entire downstairs and outside.

Weeds trimmed, flowerbeds weeded, trash hauled away, and a fresh coat of paint on all of the walls except for the bathroom, which would get taken care of later. The gutters were spotless, and so I guess we weren’t quite ‘gutter punks’ anymore, unless you count the person who actually climbed around on the roof like a drunken monkey getting all of the punk out of the gutter.

We even scouted the neighborhood and discovered a beautiful sofa, recliner, and desk that were in almost perfect condition to move into the freshly painted house. We carried these items a few blocks and successfully moved them in that night. The living room looked like something out of a country living magazine – as long as you disregarded the still-tarnished floor.

The landlord arrived the next Tuesday. Despite the fact that there was still large amounts of work to do on the house, we got the reaction we were looking for. Her eyes lit up the second she stepped out of her car. Of course, it wasn’t perfect. It will take a couple of years for the lawn to totally regrow and the integrity of the roof after supporting so many bodies will never be quite the same.

She entered the living room and almost gasped. Her joy at the changes showed clearly on her face as she toured the lower half of the house. No more trash room. No more stink of beer and adolescence. A well thought-out color scheme. Semi-gloss paint instead of matte in the kitchen for easier cleaning and less gruesome grease stains. Turning the corner to head upstairs, I had to stop her. I informed her that a week is a very small amount of time to get anything done, and the only fixing that had been done on the upstairs was a quick cleanup job. The walls leading up the stairs had a fresh coat of light green paint and we were busy getting the right parts to re-install the banisters (definitely a story to tell later).

It was coming along, but there’s only so much you can do. She nodded and expressed her approval of what had been done, giving us more time to keep fixing the house. The end of July was coming up, though, and I had received news from my girlfriend that she and her faithful troupe of road dogs were heading north from Iowa. Soon, it would be time for me to leave.

Funny how, in theory, packing a bag and walking out a door is easier than fixing an entire house.

The Story of How Diablo Got a Little Too Involved


Midway through July, I got the news that my girlfriend would be back by the fifth, my birthday. Imagine the excitement that burst from my womb like a laughing, blood-covered baby when I heard that my girlfriend would be in St Paul for my birthday. Also imagine the sadness as I finally realized that the House of God would be coming to an end in short order. I promptly logged onto my Facebook page and began furiously typing.

Twenty minutes later, I had composed the very last event invite for the very last rager at HoG. It would be a birthday slash going-away party, and it was time to confront Diablo about the entire situation.

Having lost his job and started considering a career traveling with the Renaissance Faire, I was hesitating to tell Diablo that he had literally no future in the Renaissance because he had literally no applicable skills. I had to sit him down and talk to him about a very important matter.

A little background about Diablo before we begin. I met him through my best friend, who ended up dating him. My very first conversation with him happened while I was still living in small town Wisconsin and it happened in a very strange, marijuana-induced phone call. Alice, who had met Diablo at an Anime Convention (I think) had been strangely attracted to someone who was only described to me as ‘a small, very excitable, Mexican boy’.

I introduced myself as God. The next five or six conversations I had with him were also over the phone, and I was always God. It was, to this day, one of the least funny running jokes I have ever had with anyone in my entire life. It wasn’t until the summer after our first phone call that I was introduced to the boy (and he WAS a boy).

Diablo, Diablo, Diablo. The shortest boy over the age of eighteen I had ever met. The bounciest, fiercest little man anyone could imagine, the…naked drunk?

The very first time I met Diablo, it was late August and I was at the first Anime Convention I had ever attended. It was getting pretty late on the second night of the Con and everyone (except for me, apparently) had already started to make their fair share of regrettable decisions. I was ushered into a bad decision when I was told where to go find a nice, cold beer.

Knocking on the door, I had no idea what was in store for me. Behind that door stood only one thing I knew of for sure: some kind of shitty beer that had been purchased for a bunch of under-aged kids at an Anime Convention. Yes, that is an interesting enough thing to be behind door number one, but wait…there was more.

The door flung open. Scene: A totally naked Alice stands petrified (or drunk, one of the two) as she tries to focus on the person who is looked at her wide-eyed. Next, a shocked Telea is asking if Diablo is naked in there, too. Alice finds herself responding that yes, he is, but he is covered in blankets and passed out, so it doesn’t matter.

How many spoiler alerts and foreshadowings does one blog need? Diablo was, indeed, totally naked, but he was not, in fact, covered in blankets. My first glimps of Diablo was a totally nude image. A drunken artist’s sloppy portrayal of ‘paint me like one of your french girls’.

It was horrifying, to say the least. I’m not going to say much more but…a penis that big on a guy that small is blasphemy. He proceeded to awaken from his coma, run to the toilet to puke, and then slap a now-crying Alice in the face. A year later, this would be one of my best friends. In that moment, I swear I hated him.

Now I was living in his house, while he struggled to keep the house without a job, and he was trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do. Furthermore, his cousin (who owned the house) had dropped by that week and cried over the state of it. What Diablo had failed to tell anyone was that he was supposed to be fixing the house. We had, effectively, ruined it. But that is a story for later.

I sat the dear boy down and opened with a simple conversation about the day he found out who God was. I made a clever segway into following the lord, and finally told him he should go on the road with me. We’re going to say that’s what happened in any future conversation about those moments. I was clever, mature, and collected. Now, here’s the real story.

I ate a lot of shrooms and told him he was a worthless pile of shit if he didn’t go on the road with me, mostly because he had nothing at all in his entire life going for him. To which he responded: I’ll pack a bag. Diablo was now guest number two on a reckless journey into the abyss that is the train-riding culture.

If I could paint any picture to describe what we looked like, I would paint a picture of one of those motorcycles with a fancy little side-car. My dog would be driving, my girlfriend would be a translucent head in the sky calling out to us like Jesus, I would be in the sidecar, and Diablo would be pushing the entire contraption, which I just now decided to mention was made entirely out of a refrigerator box. Actually, could someone draw that for me?

In other words, what kind of fucking mess did I get myself into?