You're Missing

Y'all know me. Go Sawx!

But Nancy, a huge Yankee fan and my best friend, died this year of breast cancer. It's not the same without her.

We would both call in sick on Opening Day just to drink beer and watch games together.

The devastation of her absence, February, ever sneaks up on me insidiously.

When the Sox won in 2004 she made damn sure she was on the phone with me when the final out was made.

It was a long, happy silence. We could hear each other's TV's in the background. OK, I'll say it. I had something in my eye.

She was happy. She is a saint.

Whether they win or lose, I will look to the sky and smile and never forget her. I can feel her watching me. She probably thinks she owes me something for getting her pot while she was going through chemo. I see it another way. She taught me so much about living while you can. She embodied that by rooting for the Sox because she knew if they won it would make me happy. She wanted to wade in that moment with me. I would give a thousand Yankee victories to have her here for one minute more.

Be it known that this was a non-sexual relationship. It was a cheek-kissing, high-fiving deal.

Lefty still plays with the toys she made for him. I have to fight back emotion when I see this.

Like I said, I can feel her watching me. She helped me, even up to this week, to sweep the bullshitters out of my life. I think she'd be happy with the way things are going.

But I miss her.

Listen to the Bruce song "You're Missing'"

Scent of a Dog

Last night I took a big post teeth-ripped-out step. I ate a chili dog from The Windmill.

For those unfamiliar with The Windmill, it is a legendary Jersey Shore late night take out/eat in restaurant (usually drunk) staple. There is a small chain of them spread through shore communities in Monmouth and Ocean Counties, with the most famous in Long Branch. Bruce eats there, sometimes. As do I.

I went to the one in Red Bank and, defiantly—in the face of oral surgery—ordered a chilly dog and cheese fries.

It was heaven.

Until today. It did my body right, but I never realized that the overpowering aroma of such a meal lingers for hours.

My place smells like a greasy griddle.

Lefty, my cat, is in olfactory heaven. I’m in an aromatic purgatory.

Anyone have an astronaut helmet I can borrow?

Otherwise I’m going to tie a windbreaker over my face to filter out the Febreeze "Fried Cheeze Pork" scent I’m experiencing.

16th St. West Side Manhattan. Thursday evening.

You should have been there. Work life erupts to fun at my agency. I wish I didn't hate my commute. My move to NYC is ever the more imperitive. Need Rox. Need Saatch. Red Bank is great in the summer, but I might have to say good-bye to that 1/4 of the year in favor of the more appealing and beautiful.

I will paint your bathroom, hun, anyday. Just call. I'll do it after work if we can have dinner and a touch of wine together. I'll sleep on the couch. Though I'd prefer a half a mattress.

Pic of Julie and I, yesterday. Chilling on the Lower WEST Side. She is wearing a dildo on her middle finger. Come to think of it, she is kind of dressed as a phallic symbol. Wearing porno-grade high heels. What's going on here? She's perhaps one of the coolest among women ever. We confide. I did not get any mustard on me.

Rocking the boat

What are the neural correlates of the divine?

How will we ever reconcile religion and science?

Where do otherworldly feelings settle?

On the rocks or in the mind?

Guess who just read another issue of Scientific American the same day he finished reading yet another book (Into the Wild)?

Guess who partied after another day of trying to turn graphs and charts into poetry with like-minded people for a client wielding big bucks and a picky opinion?

Guess who went to said party costumed (consumed) as a cross between a navigator and a rock star?

Guess who's going to split his time next week between Boston and Ft. Lauderdale?

Guess who'd rather be in Brooklyn?

Go Sox. Yo Rox.

Uno, dos, tres... catorce

Loathing

OK, so I took the low road and purchased a Cpt. Jack Sparrow costume from Costume CRAZE, an online scam with the slogan, “Thousands of Costumes. Millions of Smiles.” Didn’t even realize that the “Thousands of Costumes” part might have given me some options. But when I was scrolling through their options, it seemed like I would need to first be a hot looking girl to pull off most of the “costumes” they had for sale. Most of the “costumes” were Catwoman, Spiderwoman, or Naughty Nurse—things I’m not anatomically built to slink into. I just don’t have the tits. Or the wannabe whore inclination.

Plus my balls would hang out of most of the leotards. I tried to take R's word to heart (wouldn’t it be funny if I went as a naughty nurse), but I couldn’t shake the fact that one cannot put a price on dignity. Or balls hanging out of a costume meant to make tits shine.

Way too meta-SoHo. I think only New Yorkers would get that. And only downtown dwellers, at that. Not exactly an Upper East Side joke.

I just had an idea—going as Hunter S. Thompson. Everyone at every place I've worked has regarded me as an incarnation of him.
Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. I don’t even carry around my own personal supply of laughing gas and have never done LSD. Usually, I don’t even think monsters are chasing me.

I may yet Google this costume idea. But I refuse to carry around a typewriter all night long (2 hours) while wearing a Panama hat and garnishing a cigarette holder. I would make my legal advisor, Raul, do that for me. In the convertible. Before we get to Vegas. While eluding cops and picking up hitchhikers.

New Old Books

Has anyone read Into The Wild? The Dying Animal? Reason to Live? The Kite Runner? If so, cool, you'll know what to expect. If not, go for it. Wipe that tear and smile. I think a certain stunningly-beautiful woman caught me in the nick of time. With ironically bad timing on my part.

I had sharpened edges dulled specifically for her, via gory dentistry. Why? I like her. Nobody has ever given a damn about me, let alone five fucking teeth. At least not in a few years. The healing has, obviously, taken longer than anticipated. That sucks.

Theology, but not Tom Petty

Has anyone read the God by Mailer article in New York Magazine? It’s actually pretty accurate. Nice going, Norman. A struggling creator, a contemptuous devil and a war in which evil is winning. Nemo = ?

Disguise for huge party

Shall I be Mr. Met or Captain Jack Sparrow?

Our kiss is coming

There is a wordless side toward the specifics of making out. Holding hands doesn’t lead there. Running one’s hands around her body at an intersection in SoHo doesn’t lead there, either, though it does give a clue to how hot her bod might be. Mango Crème Brule surely does not. The thing that leads there is to stop her, mid desire, mid step, and kiss her. For the woman I speak of, this is totally appropriate. Kissing good-bye at the F stop is maxed out. A date in BK or RB might tip the balance. I think I’d like to see a little more of BK.

PK

The sun beams infinite, though dark blots light's side. We rememember that look in the eye, and reflections shined on lightness of mind.

How happy is the blameless vessle's lot! / The world forgetting, by the world forgot / Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! / Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.
ESSM

Hard, crunchy shell. Soft, chewy middle

Surgery for the conscious has a certain crunch to it.
Bones being crushed by pliers.
Then the reflexive, gentle act of picking out the broken pieces.
The nurse squeezing your hand with the vision of what is taking place.
Picture yourself biting into some Skittles or M&Ms.
The soft crunch followed by the gooey middle.
Calcium then marrow.
Bone then pulp then shooting fountains of blood.
Major organs wondering what the fuck is going on.
Then, the feeling of someone lacing and stitching a shoelace over a wound spilling over with blood like water though a levy broken.
That’s surgery.

Flossing with Pearl Jam

OK, after talking to Tasha…OMG, what if I had a uterus? There’s no way I could deal with tampons. Especially in my mouth. The string would make me look unusual. What’s the saying? Don’t trust anything that bleeds for 5 days and doesn’t die. Is that a philosophy or a punch line?

OK I’ve bled for 10 years, and I’m still alive (Thanks Eddie Vedder!). I’m being a pussy about this quintuple-plus-one-extraction. Who should get my stuff when I die? Who want’s to throw the best garage sale EVER?

OK, I’m done for now.

Jungle Numb

Did anyone see Manny's majestic clout?
Red Sox rule.
Don't walk Ortiz to pitch to Manny.
It just pisses him off.
The October arc of said slam is a ringer for Red Sox memory.
I was on the train when it happened.
But I saw it as soon as I got home.
On Sports Center.

Sweet dreams.

I'm in a different time zone.
It's called Percoset.

The Mango Creme Brule was not so good.
Neither was the chocolate gooey thing.
But I had a great time.
We'll know SoHo like the back of our hands soon enough.
I just have to bleed to death first via my mouth.

The street's alive as secret debts are paid.
You are only coming through in waves.

Like a character in a Pink Floyd or Springsteen song.
The show must go on.

Blood sucks...said the vampire without a hint of irony.

I am in absolute terror thinking about this coming week's schedule.

I'd rather be dead than die. I usually prefer being a verb than a noun.

All the xanax and percoset in the world can't change my perception on this. I can feel the blood pooling in my mouth already. If it weren't for R, I'd have thrown up 10 times. As of now, we're still at zero times. I think about R to gain strength. I want to see her again.

Help wanted. Help. Wanted. Broken leg, fine. Slicing tender pink tissue to the point of uncontainable blood eruption? Not so fine.