BFD

Request

I would like reaction to Advent Violin. On one hand, I think it’s a dork-wad of a story. On the other, it won a prestigious contest, back when I was slim, trimmed, hunky and so tan that my swim-trunk covered ass was blindingly white.

UPDATE: Fixed the story, for now. As per Ann's comment. The change is buried, but it's there.

Don't stop believin' (is this an i before e word?)

Religion? I think we’re all correct in our beliefs, as long as we know a metaphor when we see/hear/read/invoke one.

The bigger challenge is to go beyond the force that created the universe. There’s your fucking god, goddamn it. There’s your god with his back to the wall, her force painted into a corner. Then dare to think further.

Go to the unfathomable dual singularity with the eternally open womb on one side, the eternally bleeding wound on the other. Fear the fusion of the spray of dark and light. Or red and white.

It’s eons beyond the eleven strings of said thread-borne theory. It’s out there one atom of an atom of an atom ever closer but still only halves of tinier halves to the beyond of what will seem as primitive as 2 dimensions someday. Still, though, it’s in our sky. Or fingernail. Depending on how stoned you are. Mine’s gone, threw it away. I’ll partake some other day.

Overlap in Manhattan

It’s weird. My dad’s side came from Boston. My mom’s side went to L.A. That’s an unorthodox DNA chess move.

My Grandfather on dad’s side thought Bob Cousy was the best. My Grandmother on mom’s side thought Shaq ruled.

I’m a weird hybrid of Larry’s Bird and Magic’s Johnson.

Plus I’m some damn crazy rook in the middle. Manhattan. The shadows here make me think it’s ever north in the east and always south in the west.

This is a damn crazy world we live in.

Damn crazy.

A compass would drive me crazy. But a dame with a flask would be magnetic north, no matter her GSP. (He said with Dashiell Hammett-esque emphisis.)

f3 e5
g4 Qh4#

The California sector

of the family is roaring to life.

The Aunt Judy is on the mend from ovarian cancer (hopefully-she’s the most beloved in my immediate family. Next to me.)

The Aunt Mary (Great Aunt?, not pictured. Yet.) just turned 82 and wears Gucci shades (maybe more suited to Paris Hilton, but she’s never not stylin’.)

And I just found out I have a cousin who I somehow never knew about but is Gucci-sunglasses-wearing Aunt Mary’s granddaughter. Her name is Lilli and she emailed me on a lark through an environmentally-oriented social networking site we both belong to. Go figure.

And apparently, there is some ungodly number of uncles and cousins by marriage or proxy, if not blood.

There is some serious soap opera material here. This here internest thing is opening whole new doors, breaking bricks in iconoclast San Clemente mansions, Los Angeles locks, San Diego stone, Manhattan mortar blocks, Arizona adobe and Red Bank rocks.

Do people still watch soap operas? I used to watch General Hospital with my mom and sisters after school. Last I remember, Luke and Laura got married or had implied and church-sanctioned, missionary-position sexual intercourse, I went to California for a summer, and the chick who played Laura pinched my shoulder in a Marina Del Ray restaurant before I twirled around and turned out to be jailbait. Either that, or she gave him one hell of a blowjob. Wait a minute, that was one fucked up spot in that paragraph for that most recent sentence to end up.

Pictured are the aunt, the mom (lasagna maker, cookie baker, doldrum breaker...) and the newly found Lilli at a restaurant in Long Beach.

Advent Violin

I thought the trees were trying to tell me something, their creaky bows breaking with the weight of snow and the ache of wind.

“No son, the trees aren’t talking to you,” my father said. “Listen, Shhhh, listen close. That’s a violin. That’s Ol’ Mr. McNair playing his violin.”

Dad whispered his words, but they were loud against the neighborhood hushed by the day’s big snow. Hushed the way a bird stops singing when you toss a cover on its cage.

It was quiet, but for two tranquil sounds: the soft, rhythmic scratch of my father’s brushing the snowy blanket off the firewood pile and Mr. McNair playing what was the truest version of Grandma Just Got Over By a Reindeer ever heard.

I stood still, transfixed, my heart flooding with a warmth that nowadays I struggle to regain.

The moon was full. And dad’s face glowed blue from the light mirrored off the snow. I watched him pause and listen to the music before he dusted off an icy log. He smiled down to me and asked, “So, what’s Santa going to bring you this year?”

“A violin,” I said.

That night was the beginning of a small blessing that forever kept me anchored to that moment in the snow. For years, starting December 1st, Mr. McNair counted off the days to Christmas by playing a different carol each night.

Decembers were extraordinary. There was no music like it. I lived to hear the soaring sound of those unadorned songs.

Mr. McNair lived alone in a room above the neighbor’s garage. Dad told me his heart was broken to pieces as a young man—something I did not understand until I got older.

He didn’t like people bothering him and he talked to himself. Some thought he was mean.

I met Mr. McNair once on Christmas Eve just before he passed away. Dad asked me to carry a load of firewood up for his stove. I entered the dark room and set the wood on the floor. I caught sight of that violin by the stove right next to where would have been his last log. I asked right out if his heart was broken. I was curious. He stared at the wood and told me that indeed it was.

I turned to go but he invited me to stay a minute. He told me that a broken heart still is full of precious gifts. That’s how love sometimes finds its way into music.

“Like a violin carries love into song,” he said, “memory guides love to your soul. Thank you for the firewood.”

“Merry Christmas,” was all I could say.

It still amazes me how a man stung by life still could summon such divine music from his heart.

I never did get a violin that Christmas, but every December I still stop and listen to the trees. I listen to try, to recall that original warmth I felt in my heart.

The music is gone. The sound is forever a part of my soul. The bow is not broken.

pk - '93

My Annual Top 8 Million List

It’s the end of the year, so everyone is putting out their annual Top 10 Lists.

I was reading a bunch of them today when it struck me—dude, put out your own Top 10 list!

I like lots of things, especially if there are 10 of them. So here’s my first Top 10 list:
The Top 3 albums of 12/19/08:

3: The Hold Steady – Stay Positive. This band really likes to rock out. They’re almost like a bar band from Brooklyn. Oh wait, they are. Sounds like they’ve listened to a Springsteen album or two. I can’t wait to listen to the actual music, since I’ve written this review based on other opinions.

2: Coldplay – Prospects March EP. I thought these guys broke up. If I had a choice between Gwyneth Paltrow and a bald drummer, I’d choose Gwyneth Paltrow. No offence to my friend Bob, who is a bald drummer.

1: Girl Talk (DJ Gregg Gillis, pictured above) – Feed the Animals. This accumulation of samples is fucking stocked with the panties of raving sorority chicks. But, unlike other perhaps once similarly noted albums like the Breakfast Club Soundtrack or a bootleg Third Eye Blind MP3, this actually doesn’t make me want to vomit zombie acid. It is so dense with mix it rivals dark matter in how much space it occupies in the universe. It actually defies Newtonian physics in how much stuff it packs into each “song”. They’re not songs. They’re those dancy-trippy things you could make up in your head while walking to the bus stop in 4th grade, but could never articulate. Plus they’re infused with some kind of hyperkinetic sense of all night fucking. I give it 8 million stars. But I’ll hate myself in the morning.

Tapetum lucidum*

As a matter of fact, yes, I do own a Mexican Fighting cat.





*Refers to the effect of a flash photo taken in a low light ambient setting. It's kind of a thing that happens to the fair-eyed. The flash hits too quick for the eye to blink, and the result is some king of bizarre reflection involving melatonin, dilation and the back of the eye, an effect that leaves me clueless. It, tapetum lucidum, is not latin for Mexican Fighting cat.

You figure it out...

These are lyrics from one of the most underrated bands of the past 10 years, Shudder to Think. This band was invented to pop your mind from white bread to golden toast.





Hold back
The road that goes
So that
The others may do
What you let me in
Just to pour me down
Their mouths

Inventing Constellations

Dead to the world and open to infinity.

Let’s do it all.

Let’s be diabolically seductive.

Let’s be the sensual apprentice to shared experience.

Let’s whisper to be easy on the ear. Let's breathe and touches that ultra sensitive lobe, glide down the body core, flutter the heart, warm the tan lines and stir latent arousals laying in wait.

The longest day of dark will be here soon. It’s so opposite of what we want. It’s exactly what we need.

Let’s acquire aural fire and write the worst words ever about desire and despair.

Let’s talk.

Let’s go primal.

Let’s get riled and listen to Korn.

Or Arcade Fire.

Anything that stirs us to inspire.

Give me the impossible power to edit myself.

Let’s stare at the thin winter sky and invent constellations.

The air is so thin, the sky is so close. Our breath is the vapor that distorts eons.

Oh no, I've said too much.

I have so much more to say. Interested?

Hot Child in the City (song that erupted from Ann's blog -I got a whole 'nother entry dedicated to this fucking song...)

Math is not in my favor this weekend

I’m down to my last two Xsnax. (My physician was on vacation this past week. Xsnax refills are not simply a phone call away. He requires an office visit, blood pressure work and a conversation about irregularities between Eastern European immigrants and American people. I, as you might suspect, oblige to all three without question.)

Friday and Saturday and Sunday and Monday. Monday I get my Rx refilled. I have two mysterious yellow tablets in my stash. I don’t know what the hell they are. Could be extra Xsnax*, could be allergy pills. I’m not allergic to anything, but the pills we’re once fun to take recreationally. Shit. I can’t readily ID them. That’ll teach me to be a better expert pharmaceutical creative director-ish person.

*If they are, that would fucking rule. That would mean they are 2 mg doses as opposed to my meager 0.5 mg dose. If they’re not, get ready for a prima-stoned, reluctant, but dedicated blog entry from the hospital.

Mmmm Hmmm.

(possibly the most challenging entry ever for what passes these days as "spell check")

Sling Blade. Who could possibly not like this movie?

Given, it does not precisely follow Hollywood formula.

But it strikes, to me, a circus juggling incarnation of ethos, humor, friendship, love, redemption, karma and, like all good movies, a thespianesque quote ability and-seemingly important to my friends--mimmicability.

I’ve spent the past couple of days pathologically talking to everyone in Karl’s rusty, groaning, world-weary-but-innocent voice. Literally, I’ve been imitating his sound; his drugged-down fury and blank insouciance.

I’m giving my small world the full-nelson Karl.

Even given to vocalize his intestine grinding, think I’m gonna poop in the nearer future, revelatory-get-me-to-the-perch on time, vocal cord gear-grinding volume during meetings.

People are starting to think I’m on another plateau. I recon I’m lookin’ to get let go.

Samples from IMDB quotes, I list them only to help your insight (to this weird link of a billion) bloom:

Karl: I reckon I'm gonna have to get used to looking at pretty people.
Dr. Jerry Woolridge: Yes you will.
Karl: 'Reckon I'm gonna have to get used to them looking at me.

(An articulation of my daily paranoia.)

*

Vaughan Cunningham: You always seem to be deep in thought. Tell me, what are you thinking right now?
Karl: I was thinkin', I'm gonna take me some of these taters home with me.
Vaughan Cunningham: How about before that?
Karl: Well, let me think... I was thinkin' I could use me another couple can’s that potted meat if ya got any extree.

(A typical conversation between me and my supervisor(s.))

*

Karl: There were these two fellars standin' on a bridge, a-goin' to the bathroom. One fellar said, "The water's cold" and the other fellar said, "The water's deep". I believe one fella come from Arkansas. Get it?

(Me trying to tell a joke.)

*

I recon I’m gonna have to explain this entry for a spell. My favorite words are recon, taters and “Get it?”

Maybe you had to be there.

Mmmm Hmmmm.

I'm going to be in Phoenix sometime in the near future.

So you thought you might like to go to the show..

Every single fucking day either I or someone near me props me up like some junkie rock star to go through the motions of the moment. No more.
Watch The Wall, all of y’all. It’s sick.

And stay away from Pink Floyd marathons on VH1 Classic.

Run like hell.

Relax, I’ll need some information first. Can you tell me where it hurts?

The countdown has begun. Can I survive another 6 weeks? Is it worth the cash? Where do I draw the line? All I need? Ramen noodles, running Nikes, an 8 ft board, cat food, rent, power money and fistfuls worth of green stuff. And Xanax. Hmmm.

Got a little black book with my poems in…

I got wild, staring eyes…

There’s still nobody home…

This is not how I am.
Usually.

How can you have any pumpkin pie if you don’t eat your Spiderman Mac ‘n’ Cheese?

Happy Belated Thanksgiving!

This is my sister and my nephew Ryan. We were playing with his wooden train set. He’s being raised progressively untechnologicic in a world of circuits and gigabytes. His imagination beats all of our creativity combined.

You should have seen the look on his face when his dad passed dessert to him on his own personal Sponge Bob plate and I snatched it and passed it to myself. Let’s just say I won’t EVER do that again.

Unmotivated

I have a beach football game later today.
I can feel the hangover inching in.
I’m supposed to QB. I think not. I might just look for cool sea shells.

Freefalling.
Brickwalling.
Skywalking
Boardwalking.
Sun rising.
Ice forming.
Balls freezing.

Hold on. I gotta put some pants on and turn up the heat.

Karma Drama

Wow. Thanks, Ann.

I woke up Friday morning, checked my links and found that Ann passed a picture my way. It’s this thing called a Superior Scriber award. It's only given out to "select" blogs.

Here are the rules and Ann’s rationale for nominating this blog:

First, the link to where the Super Scribbler originated:
http://scholastic-scribe.blogspot.com/2008/10/200-this-blings-for-you.html

OK, on to what I have to do:

A: Post award in your journal. (Done)
B: Link back to blogger who nominated you. (Walking Surreal, link to your right. Scroll. She is one of the best writers on our planet. If not THE best. Her blog is visually arresting, as well. She has a talent for photography and an instinct for layout. She's a fucking genius.)
C: Link back to originating post for list of rules. (Ann, plus above crappy graphic)
Then: Give this award to 5 other people that you feel fit the criteria of this award. (Is this going to cost me money? Or make money for someone else?)

In Ann’s words, her sweet nomination of July’s Hazy Motives:

1) My first choice is a given. I'm choosing PK over at July's Hazy Motives http://julyshazymotives.blogspot.com/ He can write. Plain and simple. I found him 4 years ago over at AOL Journals and became glued to his blog. It may not always be politically correct and it may not always make sense. And sometimes it might really piss you off but -you will read- even if you don't want to admit it ... Because he's good.

My response:

Bollocks!

Don't get me wrong. I love Ann. She has pulled me through life and death with the patience of an arc angel. But I'm wondering what the difference is between this "award" and an honest recommendation. I guess the viral nature of the "honor" compels us to make choices.

But in the spirit of Ann’s kindness, I’ll spread it, thoughtfully.

It will be Judy, Joe, Ann, JudithHeartSong, and Mrs. Linkletter. Way too stoned to excavate.

http://backyarddolphin.wordpress.com/
I get emails from Judy every day about the ocean and stray pets. I adore her. We’ve shared the train a few times this year, and this past summer our empathy overlapped big time for the dolphins trapped in our local non-oceanic river. I hold back a tear for each one euthanized for pneumonia. She and her husband, Cliff host the coolest parties in town, by far. (I’m a seasoned reviewer of parties.) Holy shit. I had deja vu again. It happens a lot when I'm discussing a Judy-based topic.

http://thefullcatastrophe.blogspot.com/
Joe could be making double his salary, easy, if he were to work in the City. He's gifted in science and spirit. His talent was evident the moment I met him. We share a lot of the same tastes in music, films and lit, and he is one of the unfortunate few who have endured me as a fucking boss. He's better off without me in the picture.

http://wakingsurreal.blogspot.com/
Ann is probably the only friend I haven't touched. We’re a thousand miles apart physically and next door neighbors spiritually. She's in love. She gave me a first nod. I don't know how to thank her. Maybe we'll meet in the past, sometime.

http://judithheartsong.blogspot.com/
JudithHeartSong is a smooth gift. She is one of the chosen few who are wired to interpret the world for the rest of us. She crept into my consciousness back when I was an AOL blogger. The company I currently work for is a famous benefactor of the arts. Judith, thankfully, creates by its grace, and thus, for all of us. Check her out. Her talent is astounding.

http://mrslinklatersguidetotheuniverse.blogspot.com/
Mrs. Linkletter alighted upon my AOL journal with the sound of an autumn leaf hitting ground. The principals of physics were caught sleeping. Her words got me through a tough time in life. I miss her and she probably has no idea who I am.




Holy shit. I am baked. My TV sounds like a cross between cartoons and cooking shows. I must resist this mysterious inclination to purchase the Flirty Girl Fitness Pole for my living room. Holy fuck. I think me trippin.

I'm not done with this post yet.

Half of the lies they say about me are true.

I am a liar, and I can prove it.

That was a mathematical theorem. Woah.

Theoretically provable, but never really close to the truth.


There is a bleeding shotgun blast with an ugly exit wound in nothing but your own heavy guilt.

Where is Lady Ms. Kier when I need her?

Groove is in the heart. Thump it with the ass slap crack of a sonic snapstick whip snap whack, my friends.

Who wants entertainment?

Who wants a diary entry?

Who wants a bleeding heart?

Who wants a bleeding wrist?

Who wants a sleepy weeper?

Who wants a bailed out bank robber?

Who wants a line of whispery words?

Who wants a meat-packed monologue?

Who wants a teeny cup of filtered tea?

Who wants a big gulp of laced caffeine?

Who wants to be backstage?

Who wants to be in the LIMELIGHT? The universal dream?

Who met Kramer this week on a 4th street subway platform?

Who met Thomas Friedman in Penn Station?

Who slums in SoHo while inching for precious ass space on 55th and Madison?

Who froze his big balls off today in the coolest city on the planet in the world of the universe while juggling egos and expectations, dodging frozen spit, and buying Thanksgiving coloring books for his nephews at Borders?

Who is reading about Kurt Gödel and Alan Turing and the meshing of their dreams?

Who is striving to comprehend the distinction and blend of reality, truth, perception and proof?

Who is going to get baked tonight with a few friends and funnel a thought or two?

Who wants bacon?

Who wants to DJ some tunes for me?

iMod or iApp? Or BaconBerry?

I don't know whether to get one for my iPhone or my BaconBerry. Maybe one for each.

I am on the plus side of the money question. For now.

I was on the minus side of a six-armed jacket. Way back when.

I write alone effortlessly.

I write belabored, with company.

I mumble funny bacon recipies.

I’m humbled by people who can fake feelings.

I walk all day.

I can’t get my car to start. Time to buy a truck.

I want to stop working.

So I can get on with my life.

I work in the city.

I’m an insider looking in.

I live near the beach.

The commute is worth the money, but at what cost? I’m in the loss column.

Cue REM mandolin, Depeche Mode bass, a pocket full of bottle rockets tossed into a campfire and my distant perspective.


Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I've said too much

I’m losing… my own… personal religion. Boom, Boom, Boom-Boom, bah, Boom, bah, Boom da Boom, Bah, Boom, Boom, Boom…

I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver

IT’S LIKE RA-AIIIIN, ON YOUR WEDDING DAY. BLAH. BLAH.

I think I’m going to go for now.

Whoa

Stayed up way late last night. Watched The Matrix on cable till 4:00 AM.

The more books I read, the more accurate the movie becomes. I’m reading Hey Nostradamus and Brain Fiction right now. (Am also reading Jim Norton’s epic I Hate Your Guts, but Torrie gave me that one, autographed by the author, as an affectionate gift, so if I can’t count it in as a Matrix-worthy mindfuck, I’ll go ahead and give it 5 stars for honesty and laugh-out-loud writing.)

Hey Nostradamus begins with a rip-your-heart-out, first-person rendering of life by a beautiful young woman, newly religious and deeply in love. She’s an 18-year old, secretly married, pregnant high school student. One day she is randomly gunned down, Columbine-style. She narrates her own death. The examination of violence and spirituality elevates, evolves and resolves (kind of) in the ensuing thousands of wonderful words.

Brain Fiction takes on the topic of confabulation, and its network of neural cousins. Confabulation is, from a psychiatric standpoint, the replacement of a gap in a person’s memory by a falsification that he or she believes to be true.

The melding of these two ideas fascinates me.

Anyway, take the red pill. It will pull you from perception into reality. It’s kind of an elaborate euphemism for stoner speed. Life force as a slow booming, intensely beating bleeding healthy heart blood flow. Watch the movie. Check out the slo-mo kung fu and Neo's ability to casually dodge bullets as they ripple through speeding waves of sound, light and time aimed at your life. Trust me. I know my pills. Ha ha.

Let's all go here

Tufa Towers. Mono Lake, CA.

Jeez. I'm turning into a stoner.

No one came to his party

Obama won.
McCain lost.
Palin lost.

Ron Paul needs a hug.

Or a beer.

Or a shot of Yager or two.

And, or, judging by how he's sitting, a mind-blowing PSE hummer.

Statesman as rockstar

The last time I saw anything like this was at a U2 concert in 1987. That last time before that was a Pink Floyd concert in 1986. Some poor bastard lost a contact lens. He spent half the show tripping his balls off, on his hands and knees, looking for that tiny piece of glasstic. Some times you just have to let it go...

Obama

:-)

I like making people look at their screens sideways.

Red

Ok, so now there’s Torrie, my fellow-writer-at-work redhead friend. I wouldn’t have mentioned her, but she just let me know she was thinking of me in a bookstore while waiting in line for having a new release autographed for her and me by the perv comedian who wrote it. Points to her.

Fever dream

I had an early afternoon nap today—one of those sleepy-eyed slumbers where white flashes of light define and defy the eyelid’s weight. Where the mattress rushes to engulf while the ceiling recedes. Kind of like listening to Billie Holliday with Pink Floyd blasting from another room. Hard to process, but the mind does what it can.

When I awoke an hour later, it felt ethereal. There was no distinction between the dream and the dawning of reality. I kissed Alyssa in my sleep. Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for in the whispered overlap of temporal to temporary.

The women in my life

My nieces on Halloween!

They've effectively distilled their uncle's limited taste unto their personas. Clare is a punker, Tara, a Disney character.

Is there someone here now? I mean, besides me?

You can't change the past. You can affect the future.

Not my favorite song--a little to gooey for my tastes--but the sentiment is there. It was, however, composed by a Brit. The ever-prolific and unquestionably talented, Dave Stewart. Gotta love that. Someone an ocean away care about us.



This is especially for three fantastic friends who have young children with a future they'll eventually have to deal with on their own, Joe, Ann and CG.

All I Wanted Was a Pepsi

Listening to: Institutionalized

Band: Suicidal Tendencies.

Mood: Mischevious

Lyrics:

Sometimes I try to do things and it just doesn't work out the way I wanted to.
I get real frustrated and I try hard to do it and I take my time and it doesn't work out the way I wanted to.
It's like I concentrate real hard and it doesn't work out
Everything I do and everything I try never turns out
It's like I need time to figure these things out
But there's always someone there going

Hey Mike:
You know we've been noticing you've been having a lot of problems lately.
You know, maybe you should get away and maybe you should talk about it, maybe you'll feel a lot better

And I go:
No it's okay, you know I'll figure it out, just leave me alone I'll figure it out. You know I'll just work by myself.

And they go:
Well you know if you want to talk about it I'll be here you know and you'll probably feel a lot better if you talk about it.

And I go:
No I don't want to I'm okay, I'll figure it out myself and they just keep bugging me and they just keep bugging me and it builds up inside and it builds up inside.

So you're gonna be institutionalized
You'll come out brainwashed with bloodshot eyes
You won't have any say
They'll brainwash you until you see their way.

[Chorus:]
I'm not crazy - in an institution
You're the one who's crazy - in an institution
You're driving me crazy - in an institution

They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about everything
But then again I was thinking about nothing
And then my mom came in and I didn't even know she was there she called my name
And I didn't even hear it, and then she started screaming: MIKE! MIKE!
And I go:
What, what's the matter
And she goes:
What's the matter with you?
I go:
There's nothing-wrong mom.
And she goes:
Don't tell me that, you're on drugs!
And I go:
No mom I'm not on drugs I'm okay, I was just thinking you know, why don't you get me a Pepsi.
And she goes:
NO you're on drugs!
I go:
Mom I'm okay, I'm just thinking.
She goes:
No you're not thinking, you're on drugs! Normal people don't act that way!
I go:
Mom just give me a Pepsi please
All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me
All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me.
Just a Pepsi.

They give you a white shirt with long sleeves
Tied around you're back, you're treated like thieves
Drug you up because they're lazy
It's too much work to help a crazy

[Chorus]

They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

I was sitting in my room and my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down, they go:
Mike, we need to talk to you
And I go:
Okay what's the matter
They go:
Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of problems,
You've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're gonna hurt somebody,
We're afraid you're gonna hurt yourself.
So we decided that it would be in your interest if we put you somewhere
Where you could get the help that you need.
And I go:
Wait, what do you mean, what are you talking about, we decided!?
My best interest?! How can you know what's my best interest is?
How can you say what my best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'm crazy?
When I went to your schools, I went to your churches,
I went to your institutional learning facilities?! So how can you say I'm crazy.

They say they're gonna fix my brain
Alleviate my suffering and my pain
But by the time they fix my head
Mentally I'll be dead

[Chorus]

They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

It doesn't matter I'll probably get hit by a car anyway

Message from NJ Transit

Due to Phillies Victory Parade in Philadelphia, Atlantic City Rail Line trains
are subject to crowding conditions.
Sent: 9:30 AM



Fuckers

There are few situations in life that count as laugh-on-the-ground hysterical. Especially when it’s you who kills with the punch line.

Johnson’s [Anti] Baby Powder.

Guess you had to be there.

I work with a lot of theatrical women. That’s not a bad thing.

I should have flown coach to Phoenix and First Class back to Newark. I did the exact opposite.

Who was the first ever to document a dream?

(And how much was it like Everlong...Foo Fighters?)

No matter what anyone says, its all about the transition between god and time. Who drew the line?

What is our distinction between daydream and nightmare? Heaven and hell? Child and adult? Entertainment and commercial? Coffee and tea?

It’s far more drastic than a dripping full moon heaving large over the Atlantic.

Is the distinction between three years ago and three years from now beyond belief? Simple spans of six years come and go while lives yearning for meaning dissolve into apathy.

What day will your birthday fall on 10,000 years from now?

Does god see night on the canvas edge of a splattered map? What is our distinction between now and NOW?

Who was the first human to dream of a god?

How deep are his/her bones buried? Or have they been atomized?

Can we excavate his/her daydreams and nightmares?

Migration

I’ve been up to no good.

I’ve been consuming vintage and not-so-vintage videos on MTV.com like one might feast on the blue-gray frosty melt of broadcast static after being the focal point of a nuclear winter’s burning, parching laser blast.

I’ve been indulging in the past.

I’ve been performing CPR on my ghost.

I’ve been a good ghost at whork.

My mind is on the verge of 40 days and 40 nights.

My body needs some rest and some running.

My soul needs kindling.

I figured out the migration, Ann. There are now some 800 or so entries from an oddly named old blog to a new place. Still as stranded as ever. Ever marooned.

Let me out. (That's a clue...)

Ghosts are being resurrected.

In response to the coolest woman in America

Sarcasm? Nope.

Belief? Yup.

Frog? Woman.

I like the Rays because they are not the Yankees. They embody the “I have no idea how I got here” swagger I've swung every damn day since I turned 22.

When one with a fluctuating mind grinds him or her self into the baseball playoffs, he or she learns, maybe gradually, what keeping an even keel means. It means never giving up. And never believing you’re comfortable with a 7-0 lead.
And it means rooting for the good guys. Sorry, hun. My good guys have socks of red. Blood blends into our uniforms (Schilling, 2004). Yours have socks of…aqua???

Regardless, this by no means involves blowing a 7-0 lead with 12 outs to go, as the announcers commenced their annual countdown to the Red Sox demise.

This involves me really liking your frog story. 5x is unusually amazing.

(And the Sox beating your butt.)

Never Say Die

I watched every pitch of game 5.

For nine mind-numbing innings, my heart was audibly thumping, pumping adrenalin-infused anxiety to all invisible, intangible aural points.

By the time the final impact of tired leather upon smoldering ash, I was wired to the fucking ceiling.

The result of that hit had me elated.

I consider the Red Sox response from a 7-0 deficit in the 7th inning of a deciding game to be yet another personal inspiration. These comebacks are beginning to add up, over the years, to my shocked delight.

It's nothing compared to Ann's frog.

But it's all I got right now.

Wake me when October ends

Once again, all I can say is go Sawks, go!

Must be autumn. Beautiful time of year here in NYC.

All the famous celebrities come back to NYC and the Sox are on all TVs. Saw Michael Imperioli, Maggie Gyllenhall and Paul gap-toothed comedian dude this week in elevator rides. Wake me when Youkills is here. (Re: Pic above...google it.)

In spite of the "NY celebrities", lower Manhattan is all about the friggin RED Sox. We're beginning to associate the gorgeous weather of this time of year with the return home from LA of movie stars and our baseball passions. The Village is a Sox recluse from all that uptown Yankee crap.

Red Sox caps abound. We refuse to accept the imperialistic notion of an overpaid October dynasty from the Bronx. We want a team with heart and soul. Like, um, let me think, THE RED SOX. If the Yankees were a political party, they’d have run us bankrupt, wallet-size and passion-wize, long ago. They are as bankrupt as the street named Wall a mile from my office.

Go Obama.

Go Sox.

Ann as a gift not taken for granted

Ann needs love. Is there anyone out there who can embrace her and return her mind to the gilded spun gold god had granted as a given?
http://wakingsurrealal.blogspot.com/

XXX's

Had an interesting discussion with my friend Kyle today. We talked about girlfriends—specifically the ones you don’t stay friends with after the break-up. Those are the ones current girlfriends or spouses seem to worry about the most. It seems to be the opposite with men. Or does it?

'Nuff said

Click on pick to see the rainbow's end.

Long Cab Ride to Red Bank Blues

Holy shit. Suddenly, again, everything is happening at once, Today was Lauren’s last with the agency, so the entire office went to Mr. Dennehey’s together this evening. I don’t think I’ve spent such a stretch of hours laughing so hard in my life. My smile was ear to ear, my gut feeling was black. I’m going to miss her.

As is my style (read:tradition), I brought her out, bought her drinks and took her home. Innocently. No pen. No company ink. Not even a pencil and eraser. Just sad to see a good friend go.

I took an NYC Yellow Cab home from Hoboken. $140 plus tip.

I just rediscovered my old blog, kind of. Red Bank Blues @ aol journals. They’re taking it offline at the end of the month. I’m having a hard time accessing some of those old snippets of unendurable angst. Any tips?

According to Ann, there’s talent there.

Raindrops keep falling on our heads

Why is it that what ever I’m reading soon becomes news? Must be my narcissism.

I began my second read of a terribly wonderful, but difficult and long book, “The Broom of the System”, three weeks ago. I hadn’t picked it up since the time I finished it first, around 1990.

Then the author, David Foster Wallace, hangs himself. (Google it)

Thanks for the inspiration, dude.

The bulk of the novel takes place in Shaker Heights, OH, near Cleveland. How many stories are placed in that setting?

None.

So who goes ahead and dies today?

The most famous man Shaker Heights ever produced. Paul Newman.

Yes, that Paul Newman, the maker of Butch Cassidy’s Spaghetti Sauce and renowned movie star.

My mom is gonna be sad.

Seismic

There used to be three kinds of narratives: Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, man meets whale.

Add one more to the continental drift of ideas: Plane hits building.

This is my job

OK, I’m working on the contact lense thing. The theme is comfort. What would happen if you saw an ad that read “The IRIS in your EYE is SMILING”? Get it?

I’ll go back to the drawing board.

Eye contact

I got nuthin. Maybe an iris a shade less gray...

I have nothing to offer this week as far as keeping up with me is concerned. Not that there’s anyone keeping up with me. Not that there’s anyone concerned.

Camouflaged myself this week in a cloak of visibility. Where eyes can’t find me.

I was loud, boisterous and conspicuous. So that those who listen could hear.

I also apparently happened to utter one of the funniest lines in the history of pharma advertising.

The mere recall of the line still sends Heather into uncontrollable fits of hysterics. At the time of its utterance, I thought she and Alyssa were going to loose all sense of conference call decorum and bark out guttural feminine hyena noises at a telephone thankfully switched on mute.

Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard while sustaining eye contact with two friends simultaneously ever in my life.

Let’s put it this way: Two very smart people, Heather and Alyssa, almost wet their pants at a smart ass comment I made during a conference call. It made the first half of the week worthwhile. Which is code for saying it was barely bearable.

I don’t know how or why I laughed. I was thinking of Ann. She’s going through the toughest of times. And guess who’s supposed to be in Orlando next weekend?

The second half of the week wasn’t quite as funny, but just as noisy. I’m beginning to realize that volume equals respect.

So I just yell all day (not at people, just in general, as in: “Where’s my pen?!”, “Who has the ad?!”, or the always popular, “Who’s going to get us coffee?—I’ll buy!”)

And when I don’t yell I daydream of silence and plan out periods of quiet time that never happen.

I was actually tapped this week to work on world famous Saatchi CONSUMER CREATIVE—probably because of my newly realized strategy of being conspicuous. Stupidly, they think I’m smart.

I was granted the privilege of taking the elevator all the way to the top floor, just to find that they are just as clueless as we are, but with a sadistic edge.

How sadistic? They asked me to work on their stuff over the weekend. Thanks, bitches!

Does anyone know anything about contact lenses? I don’t. And now I have to be an expert on them. By tomorrow.

Virgin and scale equinox

I like the fact that my birthday bridges summer and fall.

I am curious about its astrological significance.

If you look close, you’d be surprised at how often the number 22 shows up with seeming randomness. (Not including this accompanying piece of swipe art.) I mean it in one's daily doings. Last year I went on a trip to Boston, Ft. Lauderdale and Denver. It started on the 22 of the month. I had a seat in the 22nd row twice (curses to coach). I had a hotel room beginning or ending in 22 three times. My dinner tab came to $220 one night. I received 22 voice mails while traveling. Two of my flights (at different airports) began at gate 22. An other flight was numbered 222. And this was just one trip, one series of events I recall to illustrate my point. It happens alot. At least to me.

So often so, it might as well be etched in concrete.

Deck hand

Heard a phrase today that I've never heard before. Suits me well. Not to mention a ton of people I know. It might be one of those common phrases that everyone but me has heard and that I might be embarrassed to divulge.

It goes like this:

You don't need a full deck (of cards) to play a good hand.

Kinda sums me up not so bad.

You?

Carnival in Lower Manhattan

Went to San Generro this week, for what was supposed to be a one-hour lunch. For those of you who don’t know, the San Generro Festival is a pretty big deal here in NYC.

It’s like a giant Italian carnival in lower Manhattan. Sausage and peppers for all. Canolli for all. Pizza and pasta for all. Six bucks a plate.

Not to mention the possibility of a flesh and blood mob hit.

Lauren, Caroline and I walked Spring St., crossed Broadway and hit Mulberry on Thursday afternoon. We met some ex-coworkers for socializing.

Three hours later, we were full of food, had ingested a good amount of beer and wine and found ourselves staggering back across town to Houston St. I’ll tell a tiny bit of the story…

After meeting our friends, we had a serious dining decision to make. We deviated from the norm.

Instead of the usual mode of ordering up some sausage and pepper sandwiches and scarfing them down while circled around a garbage can, we went high class. We got a table at a sidewalk place.

“Table for seven, please.”

The staff took us to heart as non-tourists and gave us a pimp seat front and center. We ordered Poroni’s and baked clams in return. While getting fixated on the scene the maitre’d came to me. With the warning of an impending fake nun.

“She comes by all the time,” he said, “scamming people of money.”

Being technically Catholic, I put on my nun goggles. Sure enough, a minute later this lady dressed in black, wearing Reeboks and hoisting a faux Coach purse comes to our table urging us to “Give to the poor children”. Everyone reaches for their wallets but me. I shouted, abruptly—and to the point of garnering the attention of half a block—“Don’t give her a penny. She’s not a nun.”

For a split second, you would have thought I was the devil himself. But she just smiled, gave me a wicked stare and moved on. We ordered another round or beers instead of giving to a fake nun’s fund.

TGIFNY (Thank God I’m From New York) trumps WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) always, everywhere.


One of the things that happens a lot more than one would think in a city of 7 million people is the fun of running into friends, happenstance. Six of us met at San Generro. Seven of us went to lunch. Why? We bumped into a wandering Justin. Which was weird because…

The woman who inherited his cube announced her resignation just before lunch. Something about that cube that ejects people from Saatchi. Justin, Tommy and now Lauren.

She’s going slightly uptown. I was devastated by the news.

She is good, and I don’t know if I have the patience and energy to break in yet a third copywriter this year.

Ugh.

Plus, Lauren loves to laugh even more than I. That’s unusual. Especially considering that we share a similar bawdy sense of humor.

She makes work fun. That’s a rare commodity.

Nothing like a 20-minute walk with a body brimming with booze to wind up a Thursday.

And then to try to tell of it Friday but barely capturing a glint of the spectrum of the day.

I’m going with Salinger on this one. There is no “The End”.

She attacks me with a knowing grin. She sees the rockstar in my presence. Points for the rich video girl. She knows how to get a smile with her eyes. BFD.

River seemingly between us?

Scott Weiland Complex – Punch drunk and without bail.

Finally home. The ordeal reached beyond the city bounds.

How does one communicate with a woman who does not communicate?

We go crazy in congregation, we only get better one by one. Think about that.

What did I know?

I asked someone not to look back. As if I were a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac.

(Take into account, this is pretty much all in reference to a Jean-Baptiste video...) And that my birthday is not this coming Monday, but the next. 22.






The following reference for the above mentioned pulse of memory will delight my friend, Lauren...though I am not or never was a "Deadhead"...and am a part of a generation distantly disconnected with the as about to be mentioned influence...


Wiki:
(After a mid-way instrumental break is perhaps the song's most famous lyric: "Out on the road today I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac." This image of once-countercultural Deadheads driving establishment status symbol Cadillacs immediately connected with Henley's age group, and neatly encapsulated the song's feelings of loss and aging.[original research?] It is rumored that this line was inspired by Henley seeing Joe Walsh driving a Cadillac with a Deadhead sticker on it while on Sunset Boulevard.[citation needed])

In a 1987 interview with Rolling Stone, Henley explained that the song is more about nostalgia, and questioning the past[1]—a recurring theme in Henley's lyrics (cf. The End of the Innocence, and Taking You Home)

The music video to "The Boys of Summer" is a French New Wave-influenced piece directed by Jean-Baptiste Mondino. Shot completely in black-and-white, it shows the 'main character' of the song at three different stages of life (as a young boy, a young adult and middle-aged), in each case reminiscing about the past relationship. This is shown during the line "A little voice inside my head said don't look back, you can never look back" at which point, each of the three people look back in turn.

Nine Twelve

How many hotel rooms have I slept in over the past decade?

And I couldn’t spend a night, or a part thereof, in a borough other than Manhattan tonight?

I practically live here. It’s not that I’m tired—we all are this week. Why?

Because 9-11 sucks for everyone. Let alone those who work but a mile from ground zero. And all we do is imagine the hell it must be for those closer than us. How many friends did you lose that gorgeous, sunny morning?

I have a whole fucking series of stories to tell pivoted around those frozen moments that still hold keys to the future.

Maybe that’s the answer to the question. Too many vacant hotel nights leave one jaded to the possibilities of a sudden quiet dark. Or the loud dark, as the Lower East Side would be tonight, even in the rain.

All I had to do was go out for a drink. But I was needed on set, couldn’t go wander. Why didn’t I invite her here?

I felt the sensation of dust settling. Finally. After breathing it in for 7 years.

Forget that I’ve been up at 5 AM for the past 3 days, forget that I’ve barely made it back to RB by 11PM any night this week. Forget that I tried to go to bed before 1 AM last night, but made the mistake of keeping the tele on. The channels replayed 9-11 as it happened.

Reliving mourning is no way to go through the night.

I wanted to again meet RR, but not be a stranger to my bed.

But I can’t have it all my way.

I’m in Manhattan. She’s a 10 minute walk and a 15 minute subway ride away. 25 minutes at most.

I want to put it all together for her—she’s pretty, cool, and pretty cool. But I feel a million miles away. Even with WiFi.

Devouring tempo and heat

There was a time not too long ago when the Fine Young Cannibals song “She Drives Me Crazy” took a foothold in my consciousness. It was for none of the below mentioned girlfriends. It was kind of in general.

It had a wickedly effective drum and bass and rhythm guitar groove.

The song made me horny.

Their rendition of, “Suspicious Minds”, the 7 minute dance mix, had sort of the same effect. Plus, it was a particularly inventive Elvis cover.

When I say “not too long ago”, I’m being ambiguous with purpose.

1 year, 5 years, 10, 15? Who is to judge?

When I say the songs made me breathe the accelerated shallow depth of deep passion, I am not not being purposely ambiguous.

The yearning desire for passion inherent in both do not pass me by. And still do not, to this day. I think “Suspicious Minds” can be adopted into a dramatic, expressive 4/8 passionate profile tango with ease and pressing passion on the empty floor of an atelier. With a woman willing to tango in a dark room heated and lit with a fireplace three centuries old. Our silhouettes cast in dark shadow against an orange glow-- ambiguity in contrast with illumination.

Yet another reason why the United Nations should meet at a bar

PK said:
Stay away from the Mexican fighting tequila. Actually, that might be a cool name for a brand of tequila. We could mix the distilled juice of the agave with absinthe and Nyquil. Then sell it at carnivals.

I said that a few months ago. Imagine if we invented a united tequila, wine and martini thing? There'd either be peace or puke. Either way, we'd have a few noisy nights and then some desperately needed quiet days.

In spite of myself...

Vous ne voulez pas être un idiot américain

Why? Have you watched les conventions de notre politique?

Both, pathetic.

Où est notre mieux la nature?

Forgive my French, it is terrible.

Who else though, are our brothers of independence? Who else arms with the red, white and blue like we do? Where did Ben Franklin write the preamble? Paris! What country grew with momentum as we americain entered the world stage?

Why I can never be the Vice President

My history is hazy. My July experiences testify to that. As do a few March days worthy of note. Not to mention one February moment and an October incident, both well within this decade of indiscriminate incrimination. and each documented somewhere on this world wide public diary thing.

Otherwise, I am eminently qualified.

The following 6 human beings/or groups thereof would probably testify in my defense...

I will defer to the testimony of my baseball coach circa 1991. He still remembers that two strike line shot up the middle I hit while batting lefty when he was thinking I was just another righty power schlump 3rd baseman with a hole in his glove. (How do I know he remembers it? Met him by chance in a go-go bar and he began to ignore the boobs. Probably took him 3 or 4 rounds before I started noticing he was time-suspended in the early 90’s.)

Cut to a few years later.

I will defer to the testimony of my voice teacher circa 1995 (she thought I was a one note wonder before she finally learned to play “Disarm” on piano.) Her hands danced on that keyboard while patiently waiting months for me to deliver. She’s the one who gave birth to a new low tenor. She birthed my voice from some kind of musical uterus, covered in Spaghetti-Os and baritone octave triplete'. Kudos to her for refining what I have since let rot.

Cut to a few years earlier (time is not linear, no matter what the voice inside your head says.)

I will defer to my writing teacher, Dr. Cole, who caught me doing something bad with a girlfriend in a hallway and helped me to realize that there was more to life than a buzz. He asked me to take his classes. This man, the most pre-eminent doctor on campus, wanted me in his classes. At least he made it seem that way. That was all I needed. From there on, I was cool, GPA-wise. Somewhat…

I will defer to a woman in Florida who squeezed me like toothpaste a few years ago to see if I had a face to go with the brain. I don’t have either. But that was never the point…

I will defer to the lead singer in the main band I was a member of in the 90’s. This gentleman was a huge Stones fan, a bass guitar player who made sure we had an anchoring groove. Bass and drums. Key to most everything we all dance to. We played a weird mix of covers and originals. Gorilla-Zilla was our signature tune. He actually had the audacity to say that I was the best drummer he ever jammed with. Jeez, he was kind.

I will defer to my surfing friends who were there the night I epically crashed. They had seen me ride in the 12-footers of seasons past. Then they saw me concussed, cut from my wetsuit by EMTs and poured into an ambulance, body blue and limp from a lack of oxygen. They saw a ghost get up and bust out of the hospital to go to work that very Monday.
(No longer blue, more like a sweet bleeding peach now that 6 months have passed.)
With Hurricane Hanna coming, I’m eager to get back out there. They vow to make me wear a hockey helmet. Fuck them.

I have had the kind of life experiences that will prohibit me, in this current climate, of ever holding a high community office.

Sometimes we’re meant for others. Sometimes others are meant for us. We absorb what time and space grant.

I have enjoyed success and failure in athletics, music, love and art, thus…

…I can never be the Vice President, so…

…so instead I will file a patent for the planet earth and draw royalties from those who use it.

Flood of Regret

God knows how many months it’s been since Katrina hit.

I remember being in Freehold, NJ, in a highway hotel.

Before we made our way there, she called me three times while I was on my way to meet her in the parking lot of the place we worked.

She was, rightly so, nervous and excited.

We met and the kiss we had in the parking lot was akin to an iron forging factory releasing a column of steam into the realm of satellites.

We made our way to our hotel, got our room and felt uncommon freedom.

The memories of Katrina are colored by post-argument complications, but I still recall waking after hours of sex to disaster in the French Quarter. Then, at sunrise, looking over to see a beautiful woman snapping up a pair of lacy panties, sitting down next to me on the edge of the bed to watch tidal surges breaking down barriers.

We briefly discussed the redrawing of maps.

There was a metaphor there. We just didn’t know it.

Now it’s Gustav.

Parfois, je peux voir à l'avance (Sometimes I can see ahead of time)

Las Vegas, 2003

I called “Don’t Stop Believin’” as a future touch point song, in an ironic sense.
Four years later, the night The Sopranos ended, I got at least 50 phone calls.

Ask Bob. He was my roommate that year at the Flamingo.

I wanted to stay at Bellagio, but $300 a night was too much for the rest of the crew.
Why do I raise this issue? Because it’s going to be an odd number year, which means I’m going to be in Vegas for awhile. I’m planning it now because I might not get to do it again.

I have no predictions forthcoming.

Why?

I’ll tell you why. Because I ate bad Thai food last night. Gave me nightmares. I ordered a beef and pepper dish. I got brown goat labia and lettuce. The lettuce tasted horrible.

La laitue goûté horrible!!!!

Une nuit, de nombreux

I have nightmares about missing the train in Hoboken. I don’t live in Hoboken. I have nightmares about waking up too early for work. I end up over sleeping. I have nightmares about nothing ever at all sometimes. These dreams repeat.

Photo-op

It’s been a looooong week. What the fuck am I going to need to ease myself into sleep?

beaucoup de caractere

This hazy summer, especially July, has been good to my placid motives.

In addition to a vintage Fender Strat, a set of Pearl red wine maple drums, and a pristine set of 1964 Ludwig Ringo drums, I’ve just realized that I’m sitting on an carillon-esque, turn-of-the-century A.B. Chase piano.

The perfect thing about it all? I can play them all and will not sell. I’m not going for dollars.

I’m going for talented offspring. Not Lindsey Lohans, not beauty queens or chest-caven, ear-flared swimming freaks.

I'm going for natural winners. The synergy of the swift cells concentrating upon the instantaneous consummation of absolute love.

The soundboard of this A.B. Chase piano is fucking alive. Resplendent wood that sings with the swear of a thumping heart, coursing veins and a sense of sonic surrounding. The strings, alas, are waiting for a twist.

Ever bust out When You Were Young or Mack the Knife or Won't Be Fooled Again in a hotel lobby? If a piano presented itself, could you perform in public? I fucking get off on it.

The photo is of the same year, make, model and wood. Perhaps his brother.

Out of this world and under this heart my world is a tornado pumping bleeding blood. I am again about to explode. Give me a day or two.

This is me in action:

Last night in a fury of hunger, I bought 2 pounds of ground beef, a couple of onions, some peppers and a secret blend of spices. My goal was to make the best pot of chili ever. I’ve done it before.

So I went about doing it—browning the meat, chopping the veggies, seasoning the mix, you know, all that fun stuff that makes you feel like you have a cooking show on the Food TV Network.

I let the mix become one as I watched the Olympics, a baseball game or two, and cartoons. I got up to stir it every 10 minutes or so. It was evolving into a fucking cauldron of magic spicy beef.

Then my phone rang and I was in conversation for an hour. Then it rang again, and it was a really boring conversation, but I stayed with it. For an hour. By the time it was over my fucking eyelids were fluttering. So I closed my eyes for just a minute to “wake myself up”.

I am the stupidest person in the world.

I woke up 6 hours later to the smell of acrid tomatoes.

I was all, “What the fuck is that smell?”

I walked to the kitchen and took a look at the giant cauldron on my stove.

Shit.

I just cooked up a two-pound chili brick.

The meat and beloved cooking vessel are now one in food gone wrong heaven.

Here’s the sad part.

I chiseled off a few crumbs and chewed them. Not bad. I think I invented a new breakfast cereal. Chili-Os!

Embarrassed

Maybe some are wondering why I (seemingly) randomly invoked a 23-year-old song in my most recent entry.

It was out of shame.

I was referring to "Up On the Catwalk" (still a fucking great song if you've seen it live in Edinburgh with a bunch of Trainspotting extras and toothpick-thin models going nuts on White China, jeez that was a weird night) but was hiding my take on "Don't You Forget About Me." Both are from the same era of a dead band. The forensics are fascinating.

My agency—the place where I work, the people with whom I work—took what was once a cool teenage anthem and turned it into a marketing abomination.

For, of all things, an attempt to make you shop at JC Penny’s.

Ugh. Google it. It’s horrid.

Why did I think this place was cool?

I need something new. I need something fresh. I need something malleable.

But with the same salary and cool-looking business card.

Yeah, I’m just like you.

I want everything from life.

Do you settle for less?

Don't you forget about me

I am so afraid of the keyboards in the Simple Minds song “Up on the Catwalk.”

Their sound is not grounded in the reassuring present. Rather, they gather some strange mix of harmony and disharmony from a future I have yet to judge.

But the fucking drums kick ass. I think I feel the same way about the entire album, Sparkle in the Rain. It's not exactly Iggy and the Stooges, but it does borrow heavily from Lou Reed. With a not unpalatable keener sheen.

While I love Jim Kerr’s lyrics and baritone emotiveness, I find it difficult to not be afraid for the future after listening to it. It was recorded in 1984 and sounds as if it was the last recording of music ever made.

I keep having this dream

Someday soon I’m just going to accidentally drown to death.

There will be discussion and laughter about the irony of it all. I mean, me, Mr. Ocean Swimmer, drowning to death. There will be brief sadness, then a precautionary tale in a local newspaper.

I'm always over doing it now, I’ll end up over doing it out there. It will be agonizing, but at least I’ll be where I want to be.