Coolest version of a Dramarama song to date?
Anything, Anything, by Buckcherry.
What? You don't know Dramarama?
Must not have lived in New Brunswick, NJ in the 80's. And early 90's. It was pretty much all the shore scene for me after that.
My best friend is very sick. He's had a splattering of his intestines removed.
He called me from the hospital. He has his own pain-killer button, and doesn’t even use it.
We’ve both agreed that drugs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, I guess. I sent him balloons.
Why?
Apparently they don’t accept lap-dancing go-go dancers in lieu of flowers for men with catheters.
Oops.
For those of you looking for inspiration, for those of you in ever doubt, I urge you to seek the St.Crispian's Day speech from Henry V. You will emerge enlightened and energized and enabled once anew. Alas, most will past this post by.
These words are to what I aspire.
Especially when it hits "the few, we happy few, we band of brothers" verse. My god...If not so jaded I'd still blink a tear.
"This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!!!"
Why are those close to me crumbling in health and wealth? Was my 2005 decision to hoard money prophetic? Was my 2004 decision to eat more veggies and fruit both fertile and Viagra-esque? I’ll let you know from my 4 bdrm, 3 bath house in Stone Harbor.
Next on my travel list? New Orleans, Orange Co., LA and Ft. Worth, TX.
Great.
I'm sure that won't lead to any weird new entries later in July or early August.
Has housekeeping found that sex act shattered glass yet? Nice leg swing, rizzo.
Just got my haircut (no this is not a Twitter entry).
Why is it notable, then?
Maybe it was because it’s the first time I’ve ever driven anywhere in Red Bank (I correctly anticipated a thunderous storm, so I decided to drive and not get soaked.)
Maybe it’s because just as I reached the door of xxxxxxxx, I realized I only had $40 on me – not quite enough for a haircut and an Alicia-worthy tip ; )
Maybe it’s because as I left the ATM, the sky opened up, drenching me in buckets of rain far from my car, negating my premonition of the storm. So much for preparation. Or, maybe not...
Clouds break, rainbow appears high in the eastern sky.
Maybe it’s because two of the girls (I’m sorry, young women) went at me with hair dryers when they saw how soaked I was. That felt fucking sweet, as it was overpoweringly air conditioned indoors and the warm air and hands felt pretty damn good on my legs, arms and chest. Every part of my body feels like it just got laid, except for my hang’n’it. There? Swampy, which will need to be corrected post haste via a lather-esque shower. But anyway...
Maybe that will preqil a visit to the Tiki Bar later. Who am I kidding? I'd rather let ride. So to speak.
I think the haircut went well, too. It looks OK, even with all the smooth and sticky products she massaged into me once she was done with the scissors and clippers.
I guess I’ll find out after I sleep on it, if I can look myself in the mirror tomorrow.
OK, this is weird. I'm at 30 Rock, looking down on Coldplay in the Plaza. Chris just held the mike out to the crowd to help him sing a "way-oh-oh-oh" thing. The only other times I've seen that work with success is with U2 and Bruce.
I’ve worked at shitholes with shitheads, I’ve worked at palaces with princesses.
I think the time is coming to bail and work on the beach. Or at least with it within a windowsill view. (Is not windowsill a wonderful word packed with potential?)
Gather texts from a few years ago. Twiz them into some short stories.
Maybe relocate to Stone Harbor/Avalon.
Maybe New England. Maybe Old England. NYC isn’t going anywhere, neither is LA, SanFran or even Cabo.
The difference between wannabes with stars in their eyes and me?
I have 20 years of 50 page journals in the bank, and 5 years of pulp online.
OK, here’s a quick thing I wrote after a meeting last weekend:
The thing about traveling to Orlando is that one of my favorite human beings in the history of my life lives within 20 minutes of where I sit.
The only reason I speculate, consider and contemplate Ann is because she was one of the first ones there in the darkest of days. Where I saw desperation, she saw fascination. When Kara bailed, Ann rowed. Where I saw Cobain, she saw Burroughs. I'm far from either of the above. But someone saw something in me. That's the last glint of hope I had, and have. She warned me to be wary of Christine. She has always told me to write. This is churning through my head as...
I’m here for a presentation for almost exactly 24 hours, which includes an 8 AM on stage moment to 200 of the world’s top gastro docs. So I can’t be tired and hungover tomorrow. Not that it would happen, but it basically means that I’m not going to see Ann on this particular trip. Probably for the best. Last time I went to meet a fave, it didn’t end well. It might have, but my legendary moodiness and fear of even the slightest whiff of commitment kicked in with the mojo of a rutting bull sprinting from the very musk that lured him. In other words, I’m afraid I’m not in a friendly, titratable xanax and alcohol and Chinese food situation. Phoenix, the hottest city in the US, was cooler than I thought. I rue the night I ruined it.
If you would have told me 10 years ago that I’d have a phone that could do anything I was doing on the net a thousand times faster in 1/100th the size I’d have sounded MAGIC! Guess what? My George Foreman Grill cooks hot dogs that much faster. I can’t wait till 10 years from now, when I can eat pizza from a phone in one second.
The new iPhone they gave me Monday night at the concert comes with weird map stuff. I can see my neighborhood in my hand.
This week has been about as up and down as it gets, at least on my scale, which is unapologetically epic.
Down: Orlando. (You can’t spell Orlando without Orland. Just the sense of being in the confines of the town hammered dissonantly on the memory of my once best friend taken from us way before her time. She died in the middle of a conversation. Nancy, the woman with the last name Orland was one of the best friends any one of you would pray for. Red Bank should have her name and mine stamped upon some future sidewalk of fame.)
Up: Ann. Waking Surreal.
Down: Work, epically.
Up: Coldplay at the Garden, backstage, after they screwed up about 6 songs. Hmmmm. I wonder why??? LOL.
I’m one of the ones who has seen through the ribald rose of X&Y. Where the fuck is Nirvana when you need them? I filled in the lyrics (in my head) to Fix You when Chris fucked them up. Then laughed at the words he made up.
Down: 1st row dugout tickets for Mets game. They lose, epically. Ump bumps manager. I look for score on Red Sox game, miss everything.
Up: The smiles and laughs of co-workers.
Down: Volume of work rises inexplicably, exponentially.
Up: An innocuous late afternoon coffee run with Lauren, Margaret and the ever mysterious Katherine. Never realized how blue her eyes were, or how big her boobs. Or how she kept looking behind to see if I was there, seemingly with a smile that encouraged a gaze toward her hips.
Down: The flattery of a 16th floor (the “Lovemarks” floor of Saatchi – google it) turns into a pile on me party, in a bad way. Why am I a whipping boy for accepting unrealistic deadlines that interfere with my planned days off?
Up: I get my day(s) off.
Continuará
My bud Austin became a dad on Thursday afternoon.
Baby girl. Naomi.
I guess that means his wife became a mom. He supplied the baby juice. She did all the heavy lifting.
9.5 months of carrying a child and 36 hours of labor later, she delivers a monster dildo-defying live human.
That's what they taught me in high school.
I envy his emotions right now. He sounds so happy. I knew he was crying on the other end of the phone.
I’ve done so many things wrong. I remember sitting across a booth at the Broadway Diner in Red Bank with a good friend of mine while SHE was preg.
SHE WAS/IS SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.
Ella es tan hermosa follando.
A lot of things didn't work out, but we ended up having a nice summer.
I've put in a heartload of words tonight. I'm tired.
Suddenly, it’s been commented on, I have a “cosmopolitan” inflection with my voice.
Not an accent.
Not a regional dialect.
How the fuck, and when the fuck, did this happen?
Have all my twangs amalgamated into some princely velvet?
Are the push-ups actually working to improve my chest, shoulders, abs AND diaphragm?
Has growing up in central Jersey, coming of age with a surfboard under my feet, working in NYC, doing summers in south and north Cali, having family in D.C and Seattle and San Diego and PA, hanging in Cabo, visiting Chicago, Boston and FLA, conversing with Londoners, Parisians, the Dutch, the Flemish, the Portuguese and ex-patriots, writing and presenting finally paid off?
Or do I articulate well with a lot of fine-tuned regional drunks wasted on champagne?
I guess that’s a redundant question.
Keep reading. Just 2 more new entries to go.
When you try your best, but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need…
Read on, below the fold.
Friday: Woke up at the regular time (6:20 AM) for a most irregular day.
Had to force myself into the office for 2 ½ hours before being picked up to be dropped off at EWR to wait in the 30 minute long “Elite Access” security line.
More like “Eat-my-ass” security. Bad play on words, I know.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I put in my 2 ½ hours at Saatchi Headquarters to kind of make sure everything was on course to get done so the team could enjoy a Summer Friday (1/2 day, how selfless of me), then went down to the sidewalk to get in my fancy Town Car that was SUPPOSED to pick me up to drop me off at EWR.
Problem.
No Town Car was there waiting for me.
WTF.
I REACHED INTO MY PANTS and WHIPPED OUT my voucher. I read it closely (for the first time). The voucher indicated that the pick-up spot was my home address. Not the SoHo Saatchi Headquarters.
SHIT.
UH OH.
I called the limo service and arranged to have a car pick me up in 15 minutes. That’s 30 minutes in limo speak.
So I waited in front of the building doing my best Carpe Diem Sun act, deciding to make the best of a QUICKLY DEGRADING SITUATION.
Sure enough, after a casual ATM withdrawal to kill time, a visit to the lobby newsstand for some Lifesavers and Tums, and a cigarette to milk the most from the sunny day, the Town Car pulls up.
I get in and the driver starts yapping. Great, I think, I HAVE A YAPPER DRIVER. Thankfully, my cell rang and I took a call from Hamilton Jewelers regarding their 50+ Ferrari Sunday promotion.
I confirmed the deal, effectively ruling out any option of me hanging in FLA for an extra day.
The Yapper got quiet when I took the call, but butted right into the silence as soon as I pocketed my cell. Turns out he was a COOL YAPPER. He gave me the lowdown on the BEST/WORST QUALITY HIGHWAYS in the NYC metro area:
• The Pulaski Skyway, which we were on at the time and featured in the intro credits to the Sopranos, is horrible. It’s ruined many a ball joint.
• The Cross Bronx Expressway is the worst road in the country. No surprise to anyone whose spent more than one second on it.
• Best? The NJ Turnpike. Yee ha! Chalk one up for the Garden State.
• My personal fave? The GSP with an EZ Pass at anytime other than rush hour or shore traffic.
But I’m getting behind myself.
The Yapper gets me to the airport an hour before my 1:30 departure. No problem, I think. Continental security is a breeze, especially with my “Elite Access”.
I get out of the Town Car, do the automatic Amex Card computer check in (last one to do so, judging by the lack of seats available and the following on-screen OMINOUS MESSAGE: Flight is way overbooked, dude. You might be booted off ASS OVER HEAD.
My anxiety level inches up a wee bit.
I’m not really looking forward to the trip, but hey, it’s work. If I miss this flight, I get to spend the next 3 to 12 hours in EWR. Fun, right?
So, instead of smoking my customary ANXIETY-QUELLING pre-flight cigarette, I book toward security.
I see a HUGE FUCKING line.
Even longer than this FUCKING POST.
I spot the “Elite Access” entrance to the line and breathe a sigh of relief. Before the breath is out I suck in a GASP OF DREAD. The “Elite Access” line isn’t much better.
Continental is getting a bit loosey-goosey with this whole “Elite Access” crap. Parents with four strollers and 12 pieces of luggage?
Give me a break.
Anyway…
I snag a spot in line and inch forward as my boarding time comes and goes.
Once I actually get to Homemade security I fly through. Hint:
• One (1) bag, no laptop, shoes already off and all metal objects in the bin in the pockets of one’s suit jacket.
Turns out my gate/way overbooked and already boarding flight is the one single point geographically furthest from the security line.
So I throw FATE TO THE AIR CONDITIONING and decide to stroll rather than sweat it out. Even stopped for a nice long pee.
I HATE TYPING. WHERE IS SPEECH RECOGNITION WRITING WHEN YOU NEED IT?
I reach the mob scene at the gate and, again, found the “Elite Access” Line. This time it WORKED OUT A LITTLE BETTER.
Without any semblance of a line, I gave the gate attendant my boarding pass. He scanned it and the computer made the MAGICAL BEEPING NOISE.
Confetti floated down while MISS AMERICA handed me my prize.
An upgrade to FIRST CLASS.
So here I am, writing on the plane, WRITING, vodka tonic next to me, in seat 4B.
I’m sure I look like the SMUG ASSHOLE who just ate the canary and is still wearing his Ray Bans.
I’m officially in the air now, ready for another V&T, a fine meal, and RECLINING in my barca lounge seat as far back as it can go.
ONE PROBLEM.
The woman sitting next to me is wearing perfume that smells like GONORRHEA-infected gangrene feet.
Still, it’s better than the everyday stink of the subway.
Still, first class AGAIN. La-la-la-la-la.
On my PERSONAL TV monitor:
• Ground speed: 493 MPH
• Altitude: 29, 143 feet. (Ew, feet.)
• Time to destination 2:20 hrs
• Time now: 2:09 PM
• Distance traveled: 50 miles
• Outside air temp: 23 degrees
• Access: Elite-ish
More to come, like it or not.
Time to stop typing.
Messages piling up.
Over and out.
Why am I getting emails from Des Plaines, IL? Would someone please answer me that?
At the confluence of coincidence and time
When all the tumblers tick
Where all synchronistics click
When all the world starts to rhyme
That is where thought will free me
Where words of influence are mine
Read “The Raw Shark Texts”, “Rant” and “Spook Country” back-to-back-to-back.
Go ahead, I dare you.
There is a cumulative message that can inform you.
“Spook Country” paid off unusually well for me, with its references to two of the major neighborhoods of my significant whereabouts over the past few years—SoHo and the Sunset Strip.
There’s also an allusion to Red Bank’s 7-point intersection, via London’s 7 points, that marked me deep. I acknowledge that the articulated locales work specifically well in my case.
The only thing missing is the Belmar boardwalk.
That night is forever gone. But the over arching themes reveal the impossible to be possible—to translate reality on your own terms, to wander at will without worry, wondering wishes true.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/main.jhtml?xml=/earth/2007/08/16/scispeed116.xml
The hardest thing I had to do this week besides editing 5 video scripts 15 times as a VP for the biggest ad agency in the world: Finding my doctor’s new office off Washington Square Park. I met a bunch of Russian tourists on the way there and pointed then in the direction they wanted to go. Guess I know lower Manhattan better than I thought. Go ahead, you try to know it.
Anyway, I got 2 sets of digits while directing them to Sheridan Sq. There's an influx of model-esque Russian girls in NYC. God, they are beautiful. How can they be so skinny with such big tits? And a so un-American high sex drive. Don't they realize that sex is a sin?
Back to Washington Sq. Pk. The street addresses around the perimeter of the park are fucked up. They are flat out blatantly random. There's a 15 next to a 70 and across the street there's a 221 next to a 420. The logic of even numbers on one side of a street and odd on the other is abandoned. The expectation of sequential addresses, for example, a 15 followed by a 17, just plain ain't there. You pretty much have to walk around for awhile and get a feel for the area.
Go ahead, google Washington Square Park. You figure it out.
I walked 15 blocks to get a lumbar puncture. And then walked back to work. So for all of you who have a little cold or had a little headache or cramp and decide to sit out a day like a whimpy pussy, try getting a spinal tap and resume work. I worked through this one, although I ended up with a killer headache. At least I got a fat bag of stinky weed in the park. Fucking skunk whisp. With a nice mist of trainspotting tar. Splashed with smack. Enough to notice, enough not to need.
I rolled a joint and fired it up with a bunch of NYU hipsters. I felt like Johnny Fever hanging out with a bunch of mouseketeers. By the time I got back to work, I was tripping balls. Maybe I shouldn't have done that right after an invasive cerebrospinal fluid procedure. You know what? Who fucking cares?
These mild dry leaves make me horny as all hell. Then again, they say that's a side effect of a lumbar puncture. Great. A 5 hour boner. Actually, not much different than the summer of 2005. Except I wasn't on anything, then. Well, I was on something, but it was more of an on top of kind of thing. We'd switch positions so many times I think just to capture every angle, every nuance of penetration. I think we knew our time was limited. We stopped before we were finished.
I just figured it out. Obama doesn’t make Clinton VP. Instead, he makes her Attorney General. She gets appointed and rules the Supreme Court. She ends up with more power than the president, in a way.
We are stoned in San Diego. We are eating ice cream in a baseball stadium.
Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diego, which of course in German means a whale's vagina. [Anchorman, 2004]
