Whiskey Church Podcast (Episode 5)

[CENSORED] / Nuance; Or Plow-Truck (Out Of Season)

“Help yourself.

This week on Whiskey Church, fireface, Not Carla and Ansel Adams dive into the world of self-help to discuss the world as it was meant to be: Coached by some jagoff with a yacht now.

What are the truest and deepest impacts of self-help books; psychologically, sociologically, philosophically and pathologically?

 All the answers are in your good vibes, man.

Listen for free, as always. Our step-by-step guidance to happiness is valuable to everybody except for ourselves.

There were no donuts, this week, so the lack of sugar may have effected the economy in Whiskey Church.

With disdain for Secrets,

Ansel Adams (This week, Axel Adams. Thanks to the bandana)

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Whiskey Church Podcast (Episode 4)

[CENSORED] / BLUNDERBUSS (with added emphasis)

“I cannot promise the effectiveness of this, but I will sacrifice a smidgen of dignity for the want of trying.

And then Carla gets indignant again. There were ethereal soundscapes. Then there were none.

One day, we’ll have a giveaway involving the little green army men. They will be arranged strategically. And that leads us into this week’s exciting new episode of Whiskey Church!

There are many more questions asked this week: Do you feel…? How does it…? Where is the fucking…? And then you said…? The nature of proliferation invites a…?

No, yes, yes, no, maybe. The answer key is free this week.

The Honorable State of Whiskey celebrated Easter last week in its own majestic manner, so we apologize for the unannounced by-week.

If it happens to the best of us, there is still only one thing.

There are more words and more when you press the link in order to press play.

Eat well, rest vigorously and chew with conviction,

With intentions unknown, 

Ansel Adams”

Whiskey Church Podcast (Episode 3)

[CENSORED] / [kuhn-vik-shuhn]; Or Lung Butter

“How does a person turn a habit into a conviction?

Why are convictions dangerous when held firm by the wrong hands?

When does a conviction become more than an absolute idea?

We don’t answer any of these questions in this episode. We meander an alleyway between the importance of community, a sense of place in a city and what our convictions are concerning the city of Pittsburgh and communities elsewhere.

There’s an Episode III joke in here, somewhere. Find it and you may or may not win an invisible prize.

Without conviction and forever chock-full of folly,

Ansel Adams”

Whiskey Church Podcast (Episode 2)

[CENSORED] / DEATH RATTLE

“Here in the Honorable State of Whiskey, equivocation is key to solidifying personal definitions for sweeping topics. This week, we take on Passion. We wanted puppies and poodles but the shaking leg couldn’t stop the fervor.

We The People of Whiskey hold true our passion for hopping over parking meters.

We The People of Whiskey hold the same integrity for the bottle as hockey players do for the love of the game.

We The People of Whiskey hold our most unreasonable actions dearest.

Contrary to our own beliefs, this is not an audio excerpt from a room filled with the raging egos of three depressed young men.

Peace and flying squirrels to all,
To all a socially acceptable drunken Sunday,

Ansel Adams” 

Whiskey Church Podcast (Episode 1)

[CENSORED] / LIMBO

At the beginning of 2013, a band of misfits decided to secede from the union. They formed the Honorable State of Whiskey. Every Sunday morning, FireFace, Carla (or Jocelyn? who knows) and Ansel Adams meet on the third floor of a war torn Bloomfield home to discuss topics personal and cultural quite honestly, publicly. This uncensored podcast weaves together experience and perception to answer questions that have no answers.

Also, church is an excellent excuse to drink on Sunday mornings.

Cheers from the Honorable State of Whiskey… all the way to your speakers and earbuds.

With less than best intentions,

Ansel Adams

Open to interpretation.

This morning I woke up with a name on my mind. I won’t write it. She’s young, ten years from now she’s going to drive her firs car out of the driveway. Dad’s going be shaking, scared to death. And two years after that she get’s to dance at her senior prom with a boy who thinks she’s everything. Four year’s later summa cum laude  from Brown. After that she’ll climb everest, backpack across Asia. Become the first woman president.

She won’t. I know it’s impossible. For the rest of the day I’m going to carry this name, and  all  of  these endless possibilities I imagine for her.  And then, I’m going to let it go.

What happened Friday isn’t something to think about.   I heard about it  from a co-worker, and the brief fragments he conveyed wouldn’t shake. I felt it shiver,  turn me rigged and I wanted to climb up the walls. “What would you be feeling right now if you was a parent to one of those little-ones,” he asked. “I’de be in prison” I told him . We were all mad. It bothered me all day and shot me out of work early.

I wanted to talk about it. to anyone and couldn’t.

That night I tried to sleep. I tossed and turned, sent out blind text messages hoping anyone would talk to me about anything because I could not bear the thoughts in my head.

At three in the morning I got my car and barreled down to butler street, I hooked a blind right and followed Allegheny River boulevard all the way to Haulton bridge and  then I blew  Freeport Road all the way back ignoring trafic signs.

A friend returns my desperate phone call but I couldn’t form any words around the feeling in my stomach. This anger. But it’s funny how just sound of someone’s voice can soothe.

Anger fizzles out.

As I read more and more about this it seems like everyone’s mad. And they all want to know why. Mental illness? Gun Control? The Media? And I’m done. These topics and issues are like giant jelly donuts we like throw over things we’re afraid of. Of cores I have an opinion on each of them, but you’ll  need to preform  a Hemispherectomy to find them.  Shut off the news and hug the people around you Damnit.  Tell you son or daughter how much you mean to them.

No. You’re not to blame, but we could all do something about this.

Somewhere out there in the world right now there’s someone  and this someone feel’s completely powerless and he’s entirely lonely. Someone needs a hand on their shoulder. Some kid sitting alone in the cafeteria needs someone to sit with him, maybe,  a pat on the back. Someone to take interest in their reality for five minutes. Social networking doesn’t count.

Start with this: call a friend you havent seen in a while, sit down for a cup of coffee, tea even. Tea is good. Not enough? Take a walk. Walking is good for the mind it straightens things out, puts them in perspective, on your walk say good-morning to the people you walk past. This is  going to feel really good. Do you know why? Because to someone you just became a supper hero, in small way you just saved the world.

Thanks For Your Support!

And we have a book! We couldn’t have produced “Good Vibes & Dirty Chai” without the generosity of our wonderful Kickstarter backers. A round of applause, please, for:

  • Neeraj Bansal
  • Stan and Sheila Bittinger
  • Donald and Sarah Broom
  • Ted and Relinda Broom
  • Bethany Chiarizio
  • Dan Corbin
  • Mary Gemberling
  • Grace Lopez
  • Cara Jette
  • Morgan Lee
  • Cindy Katancik Litzinger
  • Pam Margroff
  • Gail Mosites
  • Linda Nguyen
  • Lindsay Ryan Woge
  • Laura Tomko
  • Adam Tripp
  • Benjamin Stoehr
  • Kristine Whitco
  • Amy Wyatt

We are thrilled to have our words out there in the wild, thank you! If you didn’t get a chance to back this project on Kickstarter and would like to set your eyes upon our printed words, email us at  thegarageleague@gmail.com.

Marta’s Rainbow

Marta’s world was browns and grays.

Her mother talked of other colors – bright airy blues that swayed on flower petals on a breeze; vibrant pinks and oranges in a clouded sunset; the fuzzy yellow on a buzzing bumblebee.

These were stories of her mother’s time, however, her mother’s childhood – before the world changed and the skies exploded and the never-ending winter came.

Marta’s story did not have those colorful things. She had only seen faded pictures of flowers and the bees that visited them, and she had never seen a sunset. She had never seen the sun. But whereas one older than her missed those elements of their past, of the world’s past, Marta considered herself lucky in never having seen them. They were simply elements from a fairy tale.

And besides, the here and now had its own beauty, didn’t it? Yes, the world was brown and grey, but it wasn’t all flat and boring like the adults said it was. It was beige and umber and sepia and tan; charcoal and smoke and ash and… there were plenty of colors here.  Marta honestly couldn’t imagine making room for any more.

She was in her tan dress, skipping down her stone grey street, on her way to the community school when her rainbow of browns and greys moved aside for something more vivid.

Everyone was in the yard outside the building, gathered around a single man. He was a few years older than their teacher Cole, who simply stood off to one side with his hand over his mouth. The stranger had a thick salt-and-pepper beard, and black hair that peaked out from under a thickly woven cap. His shirt was frayed; his vest was patched in several places. He might have looked hard or rough if it weren’t for the smile on his face. It was a quiet, exhausted smile, but it softened the whole look of him.

Marta wandered over to where her classmates had gathered.  The man saw her at the fringe of children, and smiled wider to welcome her closer. She stepped around her friends and looked down at what the man held delicately in his hand.

Marta had never seen color so amazing. Her mind burned with its vibrancy. The thing was bright and red-orange and soft and beautiful. It was the size of hand ball, with a little tuft of leaves growing out of the top.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Hope,” he said.

She looked doubtful, peering up at him through her bangs.

“Well, alright,” he admitted. “Forgive an old man for trying to impress upon… oh nevermind. It’s a tomato.”

She mouthed the word.

“It is quite a special tomato. It’s the first one to come along in a very, very long time.”

She blinked at it, found her mouth watering and swallowed. “Will there be more?”

His grin widened even more. “I sure hope so.”

Marta found herself smiling, too.

Diary of a Gentleman Scumbag 8/29/2010

Any job post that states “No experience required” is a job for suckers. I’m a sucker. That’s what Unck would say.

The beginning of my salad days… I labored for a guy who worked out of Crafton this summer. SOB worked me to the bone and paid garbage. No tax but Garbage.

Take your licks. Own your mistakes. Own the mistakes of others. 

Excavation $8/hour. No Experience required!!! The job post states.

I replied immediately.

Two days later I pull into the Sam’s Club Parking lot. It’s a 90 plus day. Joe’s a little arthritic bastard with too much grease in hair. I shake his hand. He speaks in stubborn laborers sentences with a how it is tone. A lot yep’s, what’s wrong’s.  He never laughs. I learn he’s divorced with 15-year-old boy, “He don’t want to work.”
“I do.”
“Do ya’.”
“Give me something to do.”
“See when they put this drain in they used this foam shit. It got wet froze up. Bam. Sink hole.”
“Dose this happen a lot?”
“These big contractors. I take the side work.”
“Oh!”
“Come look at this hole…”

No bullshit, policy of everyone who knows anything about anything.

“I dug this out, see. I patched the outside watertight. Filled it in with rocks and earth. Today’ you’re goanna fill it out four inches of limestone dust. Then tamp it down with this hand tamper.”

“Sounds good.”

“Over time as people walk over the ground it compacts the soil turns it solid like a rock. It would take a hundred years to press this much dust down, that tamper will do it in an hour.”
“Cool.”

“So what did you do before? You don’t need any experience because I’ll show you have to do whatever I need to do.”

After working at something so long… pass it on.
After so many years in a trade you learn a little of everything. You’ll never learn what you’re worth.
You’ll make money. It won’t be enough. And more than you need. You learn to build a life around what you do. You put yourself into what you make. And become yourself by doing it.

“How are you with heights?”

Within an hour I’m harnessed in dangling in a manhole a small bucket of quick dry tied to my waist and a trial in my hand. It’s a good 80 feet down; I feel the wait of my steel-toed boots pulling on that space.

“This shit stinks.”

“I’ll get you a mask”

By the time he get’s it I’ll have suffocated in this drainage pipe I’m suspended in. I’ll die in here and he’ll cement over me no one will ever find me down here. I doo my best to get the job done.

“It don’t have to be pretty just covered… you know?”

I don’t know… anything about work. Five years of scholarships, and grant letters, and term papers… I don’t know shit from apples!

Joe tells me that tomorrow we will be filling in the hole he dug, 57-80 lbs. bags of cement. Two fit in the electric mixer at a time. My job will be cut open each bag lift it and then dump it in the mixer. he seems pleased but disheartened.

“Once we start it will be about an hour and half of continues work. Then you’ll clean my tools.” He’ll pay me 12 an hour for cement work, he says. But next week it’s back to 8. All his work’s in Crafton after this sink-hole job.  I climb out of the hole he sizes up my work and hands me a pocket sweat wad of cash for the day. See you at ten AM.

“No drinking tonight.”

It was hot work but there is nothing like sweaty money. I turn all of it into river water (Iron City beer) and gas station subs. The problem money.

Thank You & Congratulations!

 

We have reached our Kickstarter goal thanks to the generous donations and contributions by friends, family, artists, and enthusiasts–that means you! We cannot tell you how much this means to us, and how much of a milestone this publication is.

We have been meeting roughly for two years as a group. In those two years, acquaintances and friends-of-friends have become true friends, comrades, and collaborative writers/creators. During that time, we have critiqued each other’s work, inspired new directions, and collaborated in the development of projects meant to express ourselves and bring awareness to our unpretentious goals as artists, individuals, and community members.

With your contributions, we hope to extend our reach farther and produce new work for creative ventures that will add to the inventive, imaginative, and intentional realm of the creative arts within the Pittsburgh community. Please, know that you always will be included and in the forefront of our projects and inspiration.

We hope that you will share your feedback consistently and constructively to let us know what we can do as people and producers to aid in the areas that need both improvement and embellishment for the collective life force of our city.

You have helped us gain confidence as neophyte writers simply wanting to develop our voices and be heard.

We are much obliged & we thank you, thank you, thank you!

The Garage League

P.S. With two weeks to go for our Kickstarter deadline, there is still much needing to be done, and you can contribute yet by pre-ordering your digital or hard copy of our work to aid in supplemental funding for this and future projects. We thank you again!