Nothing was important anymore

On June 17, 1976 my uncle died. He was 18. It totally weirded me out. My sisters and I arrived home from the last day of school before summer break. I remember feeling incredibly dizzy around noon that day – just about the time they notched his death.

We were eating oven-heated frozen pizza when the phone rang. Katie answered. There was screaming on the other end. Discernibly audible. My mom ran into the kitchen and took the phone from Katie’s hand.

“Your Uncle Bart is dead.”

Nothing was important anymore.

Katie and I had been arguing over the ownership of a sticker declaring, “I am Thumbody”, with a generic thumbprint as the graphic.

Nothing was important anymore.

On my mother’s command, I went downstairs to lock the back door. That’s where I saw the stupid sticker.

Nothing was important anymore.

Mom was on the phone; now with neighbors to see who would look after a 10 year old boy, an 8 year old girl and a 7 year old girl. The Parkers, a family around the corner said they would take us in while mom and dad dealt with hell in Bergenfield. It was a blessing and a curse. I had a mad crush on Sally Parker, she was about to see me at my worse.

We had to stay at the Parker’s for one night. I was mute, torn between desperate sorrow and a desire to see Sally in her pajamas. How stupid 10 year old boys are, right? Push came to shove and I saw her in her underwear as we passed in the hallway. She was not shy. Especially for a 10 year old girl.

Blah, blah, blah, we end up having to go to Pennsylvania. I threw up.

25 years later, they send me back to Pennsylvania, and I escape.

30 years later, they start sending me to an unreasonable client in Pennsylvania.

Thereafter, I quit.

1993 Was a Bad Year

The lamb came to me in a herd, dyed white blonde, with a young, raspy voice, on a New Year’s Night. Like a ghost portending doom and destruction, her apparition disrupted the reverberation of the party.

Charles and Diana had just split. A Few Good Men and Dracula were the hot movies at the time. What was on the tele? Cheers, Murphy Brown, Wings, etc. Smart, funny shows that didn’t pander to the lowest common denominator.

I was starting a new band with my friend Steve. We rehearsed at a house left to a friend of ours after his parents were killed. Actually, it wasn’t really a house. It was more of a three-story weed and LSD den, with spray paint graffiti on all the walls and a shooting range in the backyard.

Our guitar player, Rob, wanted to call the band Chicken as a Gift. I wanted to call the band Cake. We took a vote. Dennis, Steve, Rob and I. Cake won, three to one. I wanted a name that resonated with sweet insulation. I wanted it to be rich, thick and iced. I wanted it to be both pithy and versatile. I got what I wanted.

I was 26 and accustomed to get whatever I wanted, as long as money wasn’t an object. I was persuasive and alpha. I was the alterna-stud who could pound the drums with the likes of Dave Grohl (Nirvana, then) and the drummers from Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains. I could lay down a 2/4 like Bonham, and lash around the skins with a whip like Peart. But I chose the flannel route. A little slower, a little more introspective, a lot more melancholy.

It was as if the world had finally caught up with my visions of music and artistry and lifestyle.

I wanted to date the lamb. There was a problem, however…

For Ann

You no longer own your memory. Or memories. You signed them over to your health insurance so that others would be spared your second-hand disposition of how life happens. Your health insurance mortgaged them to Intel, Google and/or Fox News. Your gray matter can now transform your finances into black or red.

Fix your memory. Make space for the future, or be doomed to endlessly relive the past. Make room for the future and prepare for unimagined delights, laughter, cooking experiments, and unparalleled support from a man who adores you.

Allow time for walks in the park, lunch in your neighborhood, and unlockable body intwinations at all hours of the night.

Trippy

Hooked up already

I learned how to live on the Upper West Side yesterday. It involves arriving midtown, going to the Upper East to get your taxes done before the REAL deadline, downtown to Washington Square to get a Xanax Rx and to get introduced to a new pot dealer via a tax attorney, then going back to Lincoln Center to crash while doped up on cough medication. Nyqyilia. Eh, ha, ha.

I’m still a little amused and dumbfounded that my tax attorney hooked me up with a primo pot dealer who delivers on the UWS. I mean, he called her while he was doing my taxes to act as a reference for me. (She doesn’t deal with anyone unless they’re referred.) I haven’t even moved in and I have a source. I have her number. I could move to Lincoln Center next week, with three huge closets and a giant living area and bedroom, have a freezer full of weed, and a woman I’m in love with next door.

Sounds weird, eh?

Fenway on Sunday, 10/3/10. The final game of the season.

The game on Saturday busted the energy out of us. Then we had to negotiate this hellish exodus from the alter of Fenway while 35,000 others were negotiating their influx to the shrine. It was a double header—two games in one day.

Oh, and did I mention that I caught a foul ball? I was bleeding a little and had a bit of a broken finger, but won the scrum for the ball. (Hence the pic in the previous entry.)

Lynn and I made it back to the harbor hotel, showered and decided to have dinner and drinks. We had a nice night.

We woke up early on Sunday for the 1:30 game. Had breakfast at a cool whiskey bar overlooking the harbor. Took the T (Boston subway) to Copley and bought sweatshirts.

We strolled to Fenway and took our seats, this time on top of the Green Monster. We were high in the sky, so it was a bit chilly. The sweatshirts came in handy. Lynn went down for some beers and came back with beers and a genuine Red Sox fleece blanket.

The Sox won the game. Their season ended. I was terribly sad. But they crushed the Yankees.

We fought during the train ride home. We made up.

Fenway Park, 10-2-10

OK, so here's how this past weekend went:

Lynn and I arrive in Boston late Friday night for games on Saturday and Sunday.

Turns out Friday night's game is rained out, so there is a day/night double header on Saturday. We are at the first game, which is nationally televised, sitting in the first row behind the Red Sox dugout.

Yes, we were on TV.

Go to the Red Sox Official Site, look up Mike Lowell highlights, and you will see us in the background as he tips his cap for the last time as a Major League player (He was the MVP for the Sox in the 2007 World Series.)

I'm the guy in the first row with the hands clapping over his head, wearing a dark jacket with half of a gray Red Sox shirt hanging out over his waist, white 2004 Red Sox Champs cap, and sunglasses. Lynn is right next to me, on my left, taking a photo. I think a lot of people watching the game saw us on TV (judging by my texts.)

Then came Sunday...

Terribly sad.

The Red Sox lost last night. I am despondent. I still plan on going to Fenway with Lynn next weekend. We have great seats. The kind that are seen on most national broadcasts.

Some ruminations on my brand new nephew, Jake, and about turning the page on the ol' birthday scale this past Sept. 22 are forthcoming. I promise.

I know I'm not exactly blogadicious at this point in time.

My niece and I

My niece, Tara, and I in a pool in Spring Lake, NJ. She can swim as well, if not better, than me. I'm 43 (going to be 44 in 20 days.) She's 9.

Hopefully my new nephew will be born within the next 2 weeks. If he waits any longer, my family will have a backlog of birthdays in the third week of September (3 already.)

Lynn and I at Citi Field

My mom, unfortunately, took the pic. I kind of liked the way Lynn was humping me with the words "Home Run" behind us. This was a beautiful day for a game--even though it took place in Queens, NYC. It was probably the last meaningful game of the year for the Mets. Let's go Red Sox.

Hand in glove

I’m seriously thinking about taking the next step with Lynn. The only problem is my temperament. I seem to become dissettled at the oddest things. Like if she laughs too hard at her own jokes. The better part of me says that she has an awesome sense of humor and is incredibly beautiful. The worse part of me says never laugh at your own jokes. She is blessed with grace and beauty and humor and she seems to – god only knows why – tolerate me. She drinks faster than I do, eats faster than I do, and looks better than I do naked.

There’s a coolness factor that’s not fitting into the puzzle, and I’m not sure if she has it. Frankly, I don’t care. But if I hold out, I’ll be forever alone.

There was a moment at the Met game yesterday that I didn’t fully appreciate until today. She, for no reason, gave me a hug and a kiss. I’m not used to this. The sun was white-hot gold, the sky was cerulean, and the grass was a massive manicured expanse of green. The home team won and it was as if it had happened in our own back yard (10 subway stops or so away.) It was a day to remember forever.

For those of you who have been married, are married, or wonderfully attached, shoot me some advice. I love her.

Citi Field

Went to see the Astros vs. Mets today at Citi Field in NYC today. It was part of my dad’s birthday present. We got mom and dad a town car to the game. Lynn and I took the L train to Queens. We (I) found the brick we bought for him in the sidewalk for his birthday. Then we went inside the Jackie Robinson Rotunda to see the Mets Hall Of Fame. It was pretty cool. Then mom decided to splurge and bought dad and me Mets caps. Both feature the iconic Mr. Met mascot. We then went to find our seats. Fourth row up from the home team dugout, on a straight line from first base to second base. R.A. Dickey pitched another gem. We were as far away from the field as you are from your nearest window wall. It was a happy birthday for my dad. Mets won, 5-1.

My Dad is a septuagenarian!

As far as the Jersey Shore goes, I had the best seat in the house this weekend. Thanks to 15 people, a few gifts, one private ocean-view dining room, and a ton of love.

The weather was beautiful, the beach was pristine, and the ocean was rocking. I spent quality time there with my mom and dad, my sister and her daughter, and my girlfriend.

We celebrated my father’s 70^th birthday Saturday night at The Breakers in Spring Lake, NJ. Kind of a posh place, right on the beach. My mom and I worked on the party for three months to make it go off without a hitch. But it was Lynn, my girlfriend, who stepped in to make it a true celebration.

Lynn and I have been dating for almost six months. Not a long time, but enough time to love each other. She sensed me stressing about making my dad’s 70^th a true celebration, and she knew I was struggling.

My dad’s favorite baseball team is the NY Mets. They opened up a new stadium, Citi Field, last year. As part of the opening, they offered – this is weird – bricks for sale. Pavement bricks that buyers could have engraved with personal messages. I thought it was kind of cool, but too expensive. Then dad’s 70^th started coming up and suddenly the price (in my head) was less pricey and the gift more meaningful. Nothing is too expensive for the man who raised me, taught me how to hit, taught me how to write, and taught me how to chill out. I dished out 400 bucks and bought him a brick. Engraved with a loving message from my mom, my sisters, and me.

But how would we get him there to see the brick (even though they kindly sent us a replica) AND get him awesome seats for a game? That’s where Lynn came in.

My father never really got great seats for a game. I used to get good seats many years back, but it was only because I was a sports writer, and more recently because I worked for a prominent ad agency. I’ve been to many games with him, but they were mostly upper deck or outfield seats. I wanted this game to be special, even if the Mets aren’t.

Lynn got us tickets 4^th row, field level, behind the Mets dugout.

This will be the closest to the field he’s ever been since he played second base in college. Or watched me in little league.

Lynn is a saint. She hadn’t met my father before she bought the tickets. She hadn’t met either my father or mother before the party. But they clicked. And now I’m going on a double date with Lynn and my mom, and my AWESOME dad, to a Met game in a couple of weeks from now.

This time, finally, he’ll have the best seat in the house.

It's like rain...

OK. Back from Antigua (pronounced An-TEE-ga). The trip was on Lynn, which made it a little uncomfortable on me. And it rained the first Saturday through the next Thursday. The final Friday was a tropical dream and we slathered ourselves in lotion while basking in the sun. She began that day with a scuba dive, which I’m technically not allowed to do thanks to a slew of concussions.

Frankly, we were sharing a bed and a room and had a helluva time for the first few days. Then the rain got us down. But when she returned from her dive, I had reserved a primo spot next to the pool and we were affectionate again. We bathed in the sun drinking Strawberry Coladas for a few hours before the inferno sun chased us inside for a nap that will go down in ages.

As far as Sandals Resorts go, don’t go to the one in Antigua. The restaurants are limited and the maids ignore the “Do Not Disturb” signs.

Lynn looks like a goddess in a bikini. I look like a swarthy, trunk-bodied porn mogul. But I can swim like a fish to the pool bar.

One thing about Lynn really had me concerned. She professed to be a non-smoker, but came back from a walk one afternoon smelling like the Marlboro man. She also seems to take a lot of pills recreationally. Including Ritalin. And a lot of speedy diet pills that don’t seem to mix well with alcohol. But I adore her, and she wants to get me a place at the beach.

Now what?

Back to the Caribbien

Getting ready to go to Antigua next week. Haven’t even finished discussing my trip to Costa Rica and Jamaica. I guess the biggest difference is that I’m going to Antigua with Lynn, while my other trip was stag. I did meet the weed-smoking, coke-snorting, wet-t-shirt/party girls in Jamaica. They enjoyed posing for pics and being bad at night in Jamaica. Um, like, for instance, going braless and wearing matching panties when they happened to pull out a box of Magnums from a dresser drawer while we all were hanging out in their room. After last night with Lynn, I think I might have a better time in Antigua.

We went shopping today for fresh resort attire. I bought her a pseudo gun and ammo outfit that looks outrageously hot on her—out of character hot…new persona hot. Insistently fuckable hot. Where did we purchase this un-dainty outfit? Ann Taylor Loft. We then went to the Billabong store where she bought me Aztec board shorts and two rash guards. We basically took turns spending money buying each other clothes we found we wanted to rip off each other. The fact that that she deep throated me last night had nothing to do with this.

We saw that some people had planted a garden in front of the Billabong store. An actual genuine garden with thriving vegetables and flowers. I uttered something about having a house and becoming a testicular/gun powder/Mac Pro hybrid of Martha Stewart, Kelly Slater, and Hunter Thompson. Lynn grinned and gave me the eye.

Right now, we’re getting a thunderstorm, but the sun is out. That doesn’t mean that there is not not a rainbow.

“Nothing you can believe is not coming true.” Don DeLillo, Underworld, 1997. The cover of the book is creepy. It shows a plane flying into the towers 4 years before it happened.

Confidence reigns

I walked the tarmac from the barn/airport in Tamarindo to the plane departing to Miami that would eventually drop me off in Jamaica. Bittersweet is not the word. Costa Rica is paradise. But I was eager to island jump. Stupid me. Should have stayed in Costa Rica longer. First class is first class, though, so I was on the plane, in my seat, with a glass of champagne in hand before the rest of the plane had boarded. Made my way to Miami, got my sunglasses fixed for free + a $5 tip at a Sunglasses Hut, and had a drink or two at the hub club. (Platinum members only, ha ha…)

It began raining in sheets but the jet lifted by God and the physics of aerodynamics, speed, and gravity (is that redundant?) Soon we were over the clouds and heading south again over Cuba to Montego Bay. We landed after my nap and I led the way to customs, even though I had no idea where I was going. Funny how people follow confident people on a mission.

Jammin' Promises Awaiting

Left Costa Rica reluctantly for the promise of Jamaica. Never, in the promise of human existence, has such promise been fulfilled. And we're not talking ice cold Red Stripe beer or the cerelean blue Caribbean or white glove room service. We're speaking on a much grander, indulgent scale.

Board Silly

Went shopping online for a new board last week—something akin to the one I surfed in Costa Rica. An 8-footer with strong rails and three fins. I think I found it. It’s half the price, shipping included, compared to most of the rides out here. It might not air pop like some of the fish one sees in the Pacific, but I’m willing to wait for a Nor’easter to see how it flies. Otherwise, it’ll be cool for riding in chest-high waves.

Career opportunity?

I followed up the rest of my time in Costa Rica hanging at various surf shops in Tamarindo. I took a day to walk into town from the resort, which is billed as a 25-minute walk along the beach but is really closer to 45-minutes—especially with the heat, the crawling over rock formations hidden by the high tide, and the weight of the backpack I was carrying to stock up on local surf gear and souvenirs.

I hit it off with a dude from Witch’s Rock Surf Camp (home of the nachos as big as your ass) and we ended up shooting the shit for awhile. That might be my next stop when I return. I foresee a potential job and bargain lodging.

To that end, I ended up helping out some of the surf instructors in town help younger students to catch waves and to stand by as a deputy lifeguard. Even got to help build campfires and cook burgers and fish for some of the visitors in town. I felt like a local, but only looked like one because of the tan.

*

I was sad to see my Canadian friends leave, but made sure to trade email addresses before they departed to the Great White North. They were some of the kindest people you’d ever want to meet, and they all did what they could to make sure I was never at the buffet alone, not to mention one of the bars. I met a different breed of kind people once I finally got to Jamaica.

TBC

Dear Abby,

OK, so I’m dating this woman kind of seriously. As in we see each other every weekend, either her visiting me at the beach or me meeting her in Manhattan. She has a great place on the Upper West Side—it’s a huge co-op. Way bigger than 99% of the places in Manhattan. Which means only 1% of the people in the world can dream to afford it.

Last week she came down and brought me a Bose iPod/iPhone speaker boombox thing. It is a pristine sound machine. This fucker is block-rocking LOUD.

I went to visit her for the holiday weekend and we had a fantastic time walking from Times Square to Central Park, then spending a couple of hours strolling around said park. We climbed rocks and even saw turtles and hippies.

She came here this weekend with more gifts. Top-of-the-line wok, food processor/smoothie maker, and a rice maker. And an offer to go to Antigua next month.

First class. Gigantic suite. Private outdoor pool. Sugar beaches and salt water.

When will it be cool for me to fart in her presence?

4 Kellys

The next day was spent in the Pacific paddling out and riding until my rash guard had a rash and I decided I had enough with the 9’ fiberglass longboard, which seemed to start weighing about 200 lbs and ending up at about 400 lbs. I opted for an 8’ epoxy with three fins. Much lighter and steerable. Stayed out until my skin was nicely exposed to Vitamin D and glowing with health and vigor.

After this pleasant repetition of dunking my body in ocean water as warm as the 85 degree air, I made my way back to the resort and promptly began drinking a beer. Next thing I knew I was sitting at a table with 8 Canadians eating buffet stuff and drinking free wine. Most of them were making their way back to the north part of North America the next day (including the Judds.) But they introduced me to a couple, Monique and Johan, on a pseudo vacation/2^nd honeymoon. I convinced Johan to take a surfing lesson. He loved it. The weird thing about the eight Canadians is that 4 of them were named Kelly. So, of course, I got names wrong, even with a 50/50 chance. Those Canadians sure can drink, though. Rumor has it one of the Kellys puked in the bushes on the way back to his room.

Score one for the American who surfed, sunned, wandered through Tamarindo, dined, drank, and slept like a baby.

Back to the Costa Rica mom and daughter situation

So there I was doing shots with Kelly and her mom. I had a tough time telling who was the daughter. They were kind of like the Canadian Judds. I decided to play it safe and not pick any favorite, although Kelly, the daughter, was outrageously bosomy. And see-thru-t-shirty. But it was kind of weird seeing her mom’s nipples, too. Kind of too weird. The next day, after hours in the surf, Kelly found me at the bar. She asked if she could prove I was in the ocean all day. I said sure. She licked my neck. I then ate a chicken wing. She said she could taste the salt on my body. I told her I could taste the sauce on the wings. It wasn’t as romantic as it sounds.

words for thought

It is easier to behave your way into a new way of thinking than it is to think your way into a new way of behaving.

American in disguise

(from hand-written journal)

Deplaned onto the tarmac and ran into a cattle line of beautiful humans and flat out ugly Americans. I was in the former category. Why? No socks, flip-flops and an iPhone receiving dictation. But I also had to pee my brains out, so as soon as I cleared customs I made my way to my first Central American rest room and pissed for about 5 minutes. Then I caught my luggage before the weirdest thing happened. As soon as I made my way to the other side of the airport, a driver came up to me and said, “Hello, Mr. Patrick.” How the fuck he knew me, I’ll never know. Fuck him, though he was a nice guy. I asked how he knew me and he said. "Isn't da weter nice today? Perhaps you should let me drive." So I shut up. And he took my private car voucher, put me in his luxury bus, and drove me to the resort. The landscape of Costa Rica is interesting. It was the dry season, so the river and creek beds were dry, the cattle and horses were skinny, and the hitchhiking hookers were kind of bosomy. My driver was nice enough to play Mr. Roboto by Styx 3x. In a row. Got to the resort and found my room to be perfectly placed near the pool and beach and bar. It took me an hour after checking in to decide what to do first. So I went to the beach. High tide soon washed upon me so I moved to the pool. Got some sun, then went to the bar. Met a mother and daughter on vacation together. They were doing shots.

Costa Rica bound: 4/15/10

(from hand-written journal)

It’s my second day here in the beautiful country of Costa Rica and I’m finally settling in.

I took the train from Red Bank, NJ to the airport (Newark) and had to wait there for two hours before the American Airlines desk opened at 3:00 A.M.—kinda boring, but I was glad to be there with plenty of time to spare. For awhile I felt like a homeless person crashing in a big bus station.

Once I checked my bag I breezed through security and waited another hour-and-a-half before my flight to Miami boarded. The flight went by quickly. I was served breakfast (corn flakes, bananas, water, champagne) and watched 30 Rock and The Office on the in-flight tele. So far, not much different than home but for the fact that I was in first class.

We landed in Miami and I bought a surfing magazine to get psyched. After another hour-and-a-half we boarded for Liberia, Costa Rica (upper left corner of map.) Now THAT was a nice flight. Though extremely tired (no sleep for 24 hours) I couldn’t really sleep. I was served a great meal (as far as plane food goes—salad, pork loin, and more champagne) and tried to watch most of the in-flight movie, which was Up in the Air with George Clooney. So far, not much different from an NY to Chicago flight. After soaring over the mountains and bush of Central America, I realized I was finally in a different part of the world. Thank God. And once we landed, that’s when things got interesting.

Starry nights, city lights coming down over me. Skyscrapers and stargazers in my head.

I still get goose bumps when I recall the cast rendition of "We are the Waiting." I knew St. Jimmy was about to make a Judas-like entrance. Then the soon to become infamous pump up the vein, tie it off, burn the spoon, and shoot it up choreography. But St. Jimmy also had a Judas-like exit. Still, though, seeing a couple dancing while connected by a rubber tie off cord hit scarily close to home. At least they didn't sing, "Memories." t.s. elliot is not Green Day. And American Idiot is not the abomination that Cats was.

Time of Your Life

Sorry to once again postpone the not-so-gory details of my vacation in the tropics, but I had one hell of a night last night.

Lynn and I went to see American Idiot on Broadway. We may have had the very best seats in the house—4^th row, dead center. It was a spellbinding mind fuck. Maybe the fact that it’s one of my favorite albums ever had something to do with the chills that are still trilling up my spine, but to see it staged, acted, and sung by such a talented and thrilling cast 10 feet from my eyes absolutely put it over the top for me. I’m still trembling from the bolts of energy zapped into my soul just by making eye contact with so many members of the cast throughout the show.

I wish I could boil down all of the high points right now, but it’s still too fresh in my mind.

Maybe it was the accumulation of the flowing themes of self preservation, self destruction, self sacrifice, and self redemption. That kind of shit hits me deep in the gut.

Maybe it was just that it totally rocked.

Maybe it was just before the last curtain call when the theater was one in joyous ovation and I waved the cast toward us as if to ask for one more song. They saw me! What a fucking rush!

When the curtains reopened, the entire cast were holding guitars and the star who plays Jesus of Suburbia gave me a knowing wink before he started strumming the first few bars of “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life”), an older and wildly popular Green Day ballad. The rest of the cast joined in, making for one of the most apropos curtain calls of all time. People were screaming, weeping, jumping, and hugging when the curtain fell for the last time.

It was windy and unseasonably chilly in Manhattan once we left the theater for dinner and drinks. But we walked the seven blocks to the restaurant through the Times Square throng of humanity on a warm high that I’ve never had and doubt ever will experience again. It was that cool.

I'll have seconds

It was a fun night, then day, in Jamaica last Thursday/Friday. Thanks Jen and Diana. Jen had the gravity-defying breasts, Diana wore the wet t-shirt to the bar and the white shorts that left little to the imagination. Both were very sharing.

I'm baaaaaack....

Costa Rica sunset. On the north west coast. 80 degrees. Sometime in mid-April. Around 5:30 pm Costa Rica time. There were many of us on the beach marveling at the sight. There were many of us at the bar later marveling at the night.

Lynn Pt. 2

Second date. 5 times in nine hours. Not exactly a record, but an absolute friggin' blast. She hugs like I need it. She kisses like she means it. She eyes me like she wants it. She writhes like she's guiding me to a precious place.

Alex Chilton is dead

Perhaps the best songwriter of the 70's and the most famously referenced of the 80's has passed.

Children by the millions/sing for Alex Chilton/ When he comes 'round/They sing, "I'm in love/What's that song?/I'm in love with that song."

If you're curious, listen to The Replacements song called "Alex Chilton." If you're more curious listen to a band called Big Star.

Food

The other night I was feeling ill due to cold and cough, so I did not go to the market as planned. I spoke with Lynn on the fone and she asked what I needed. I said steak, steak, steak, and pineapple. This conversation took place at midnight.

I awoke at 7 in the morning. There were 6 steaks, a bag of cut pineapple (my fave fruit) and carrots, celery with ranch dressing on my door step. Not to mention a giant can of soup.

Lynn lives in Manhattan. She shopped and drove 45 minutes to deliver these goods. She didn’t even bother to call or knock. Should I be freaked out?

Lynn

Had one of the best dates of my life tonight. She lives in Manhattan, but it worked out logistically for her to be in my neighborhood today. She brought a giant bag of strawberry Starburst, three cat toys, two bottles of wine, and a mind-busting sense of humor and intelligence to the show. She’s also a looker. Her legs went from her patent leather shoes all the way up to the slight hipsway that she was graced with genetically somewhere mysteriously in the middle of her slim and sexy blue skirt. If she wasn’t an attorney, one might think she’s a TV anchor or hostess or lifeguard. She’s just a beautiful person, in every which way.

After

Scabilicious! Alysia gave me some advice on dressing the ice blade cut and it's healing. This girl should be a doctor. Lord knows she'd be good with kids' cuts and scrapes.

Now all I need to do is transport this leg out of the snow and into the tropics.

Before

A melting mass of flesh, oozing with blood and puss, unwilling to scab.

Blood red in the snow

I finally called my travel agent today to book a trip to Seattle, San Fran, LA, Cabo, and Costa Rica. Fuck this fucking snow. I went skating Saturday night and it got a little rough. I ended up with a razor cut on my calf that went straight through my uni. Rumor has it there's still a blood stain embedded by the Zamboni in the ice. I want sun.

Fuck

It's fucking snowing again. Goddamn it.

Boulevard of Solid Dreams

My count thus far lists four hometowns inhabited then disowned. Today I revisited the most recent—the one that could just as easily resurrect itself as a future comfort zone. Manhattan. I still have many ties and loose ends there, and made the trip up this morning to get my stix Rx. On the train ride up, I immersed myself into Jonathan Lethem’s latest book, Chronic City. So far, the Chronic part seems to refer to reefer. The City part seems to refer to the Upper East Side—a zone I rarely frequent due to the continuing lack of the 2 line, the long-planned, never realized east side subway. It felt good to be home, though. Natural. Like a human on pavement. I kept the trip quick. I was in Washington Square Park by 9:30, out by 10 and in Penn Station by 10:30. I think I subconsciously made it a morning trip to avoid the temptations that grow as the sun rises, sets, and the lights come on. No trouble today. Yet.

Memory is not linear. Arrange your scrapbooks as such.

So I'm a little off the map...

Men go crazy in congregation, they get better one by one.

All this Time

Need we say more?

Warning: NSFW, vulgar, and funny - Better off Ted outtakes. I think it's viral already.

J-E-T-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!

We won again.

The Jets are in the final four. Wahhh hoooo!

From passports to passwords

In the future OS and search engines will be the new countries and/or continents. Life will boil over at virtual geography.

Philanthropy meets greed meets escape

Rid me of my clothes.

I have one closet in my place and it’s way over-loaded with thousands of dollars worth of clothes. I have one armoire which is equally busting-at-the brim with shirts, suits, jeans, and hoodies.

I came to realize about a year ago that I wear only about half the stuff. Pleated chinos are just not me. And the suits I’ve accumulated either don’t fit or, like I said, just aren’t me. So I decided to start stripping down my wardrobe to the finer elements. To make it more about me.

I planned on donating most of the clothes that hadn’t left a hanger in a year to goodwill. How altruistic of me.

I waited until what ultimately became the literal last minute. I found myself in the torn up town of Atlantic City on the cusp of the New Year and knew the place I wanted to donate everything had sketchy hours. I fled the temptingly decrepit boardwalk town at checkout and before anyone else was awake to draw me in for another day. I called the thrift shop from the Garden State Parkway as I was heading home and asked about their hours. I was a half-an-hour away and they were open for 45 more minutes. I had whiskey on my breath, bed head, and a lead foot lilt that could only be blamed on things that begin with the sound of X.

I made it.

So, just before the end of the year I donated a bunch of suits (Brooks Brothers, Perry Ellis, Joseph Aboud, tailor-made), 20-or-so really cool shirts (Brooks Brothers, Lucky, English Laundry, Banana Republic, some tailor made), a few pairs of jeans, some curtains, and a never-opened coffee machine to the ARC Thrift Shop a block from my house.

I had to make five trips back and forth from my car--they were amazed at the volume of cool stuff I was giving away.

The dude running the store was teasing me because I rushed back from Atlantic City to get there in time to donate before 12/31, so I could take the tax deduction. He told me I looked, smelled, acted, and twitched like it. He asked me where I lived. I told him I was a block away and he blessed me. Then he asked me how much I made in A.C. I sidestepped the question by telling him I always do much better in Vegas.

I suddenly felt out of place, but promised to come back early in 2010 to donate more. As I was leaving, I saw an old woman buying an ancient, torn and taped Monopoly game, which, as we all know, is based upon the old real estate of Atlantic City.

Everything dies, baby that’s a fact, and maybe everything that dies some day comes back – Bruce, Atlantic City. From the album Nebraska.

The Phoenix Rises

6+1+6+1+3+6+1+3+6+1+6+1+6+1+6+1+6+1+6+1+6+1+6+1+6+1+6 =

51-45

Tell me that wasn’t one of the coolest playoff games you’ve seen in the past 20 years. If ever.

It was the highest-scoring playoff game in NFL history.

And the end came about a fluke of a fumble after a coin flip.

I miss baseball—only a few weeks until pitchers and catchers report for spring training. And the Winter Olympics from the wondrous city of Vancouver loom.

Yesterday was a Jet fan’s dream. Today, though, was a football fan’s dream.

J-E-T-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!

Everyone counted us out. We won. So at least one more week of interesting football.

Face Off

Why are so many people suddenly telling me I should be on Facebook?

Why are so many asking me to post my YouTube videos?

Why are so many asking me to set up a Twitter account?

I think I’m just going to figure out a way to combine them all and call it You Twit Face.

Lefty caught in a dream

His brother, sister, and mother are all dead - hit by cars. I wonder if he dreams of his childhood, of the days before I adopted him.

Man Over - Robinella and the CC Band

It's one thing when you connect with a song. It's something else when a beautiful woman sings it before your very eyes as an intriguing metaphor.

Blue Pixel

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If you come to an abrupt conclusion that the embedded video below is not worth it, you should think again. It’s all, kindly, about perspective. And your personal struggle on a fraction of a dot.

Let all us mites of mites upon motes of dust suspended in endless vacuum and protected by a thin layer of oxygen have a happy trip around the sun

Let's see how long we can go without bringing pain to another, thus glorifying ourselves.

This video played on an endless loop in the Saatchi atrium coffee bar for a few days this past year and I was mesmerized to the point of not being able to get much other thinking done. I watched it 50 or so times. I think it contributed to my decision to leave and do things that are a bit more on the fun side. I don't know why, how, or if I'm conscious sometimes. But if I'm aware of what's going on around me, there must be some reason behind it. I plan on indulging this motivation, gorging on its gift.

Watch and enjoy.