Hip Side Crash

So, I’m hanging out in my apt, fresh off another fight with my girlfriend—nothing bad, it happens a lot with her, she’s cool—when I decide to go to the wine bar down the street to try a new Belgian blanc and talk to my friends, who happen to tend the bar.

I’m walking WITH the light on 68^th St when out of nowhere, headlights flood my vision. In a flash I take a defensive position, as if guarding against an explosion. Before I can get down, and while in the street, I feel the steel of momentum hitting me almost right on my left ass. I look up just in time—in slow motion, mind you—to see an old Subaru wagon engulfing me while hearing a deafening screech. The wagon stopped. My ass was on the fender. A 17-year old dude was behind the wheel. He had the good grace to lower the hip-hop from volume 12 down to 4 while he got out of the car begging me not to tell his Mom. I hop off the hood, straighten my tie and jacket and make sure my phone and wallet are where they’re supposed to be. Everything is in place. The only thing out of place is this little kid’s dignity. And, temporarily, my sense of direction. Rumor has it that my girlfriend is warming to me at the wine bar, ultimately to my right. North. I walk around his car, more to make sure I’m not broken than anything else, and then give him the speech:

“Jersey Plates? Yo, bro, no right on red in the city. How did you get this far into town? Don’t you know that everyone from Jersey or Connecticut practices city driving in the daytime or nighttime, but never during showtime?” Then, “Where the hell are you going on 67^th and Amsterdam, anyway? There is literally nothing here but two bodegas, an Apple Store and a Duane Reade.”

Turns out he’s lost. Thinks he’s going south on the eastside. I told him to make a U-turn onto Broadway and don’t stop until you hit water. And if you see the Statue of Liberty, make a left.

Dealt out all this good advice and good karma. Could have had him busted in so many ways (weed, booze, underage, friends, etc…) But I was that dude once. Though never in a car during showtime with contraband.

All I have to show for it is a huge purple bruise on my left hip. Close enough to my ass that I can say I broke my ass this weekend to help a little dude find his way around a logical grid (until the Village, of course.) And if you see a woman holding a torch for me, tell her I’m still on my way.

Jury Duty

I saw the jury pool oh boy

There was a bearded man who’s name was served

And though the news was rather sad

Well I just had to laugh

We took some photographs

We went outside into the snow

We didn't notice that the ice was glass

A crowd of people stood and stared

They'd seen his face before

Nobody was really sure

If I was from the House of Fjords

We had coffee today oh boy

His band was going to go on a tour

A bunch of lawyers turned away

But I just had to look

Having wrote this book

Let’s get high on skunk

Woke up, fell out of bed

Dragged a phone across my head

Found my way downstairs and drank some toast

And looking up I noticed I was late

Found my coat and grabbed my hat

Made the train in seconds flat

Found my way outside and had a smoke

And somebody spoke and I went into a dream

I saw the jury pool oh boy

One million snowflakes near the street of Wall

And though the flakes were rather small

They had to count them all

Now we know the Ono air it takes to flee from City Hall

I'd love to get more of that weed…

Self-centered

No one really understood why or how I could be working on a biography while my Dad was suffering in physical and mental anguish. 

I kind of thought it was a self-explanatory demonstration of my life.  

I, of course, was the only one in on the joke.

Varicose roots 3

There was a knock at the door while I was typing my bio at my parent's dining room table. I knew it was their neighbor, Tommy Xxxxx. He was in middle school when I was 8 years old, so he's kind of the cool neighbor who paves my parent's driveway when it snows. I answered the door and invited him in quietly, not to rouse Dad. Told him about my Dad’s status. He was quizzically surprised. We talked for 10 minutes. He asked me about my drinking. It hit me in the left flank, unexpectedly. How did he know? That was almost 20 years ago. He read the reaction on my face as he breathed obvious alcohol into what I thought was the sterile, quiet air of my parent’s house. He quickly excused himself. I let him go without hesitation.

*

And that’d just one long string of Friday into Tuesday. The events went well into Saturday.

*
This is one old-school lookin' blog.

Varicose roots 2

I was back in NYC Sunday morning, after getting stuck in the post-tunnel traffic jam caused a bunch of leg proficient half-milers. 

Inched my way from the tunnel to Central Park South to 5^th Ave to the 66^th St. causeway to get home.  

Slept a little. 

Then studied and wrote for my court session. 

The evidence was in my favor, as it was naturally, and I knew I had a case to present.

I woke at 6:AM to get ready for court. 

Ate cereal and fruit. Went over my notes. 

Made sure my briefcase was stocked. 

Hit the subway with a suit, sunglasses 

and Coldplay’s “Midnight” pumping through my earphones. 

Totally chill.  

Arrived and took a seat. Met a pro bono lawyer who had previously helped me. 

He convinced me to abandon the constructed script. I did.

Case dismissed with prejudice.

Got home via the 1 train and immediately began packing for a stay at the hospital,

 if not longer, at Mom and Dad’s house. 

Good thing I did that. 

I stayed over at the hospital after the successful Monday surgery 

into Tuesday, when Dad was released. 

Sleepless after almost three nights seeped in early in the PM that night. 

Tommy Xxxx. Jack Xxxx. 911. The neighbor calling. Flagging down the ambulance. The EMT team. 

Following the ambulance to the ER. Fearing a flat tire. Talking to the nurse. 

Bringing Dad home in the Eclipse. 

Total mental and physical exhaustion.

Varicose roots 1

Last week tonight I was in a precarious situation. 

I used to think deadlines were stress. They are nothing but transparent, movable, artificial bait. Nothing like the deadlines imposed by the heart and soul of your true family. 

I had just left my father in the hospital. He was suffering from a vein blockage and about to undergo a risky angioplasty in his leg. I was also facing a company suing me for $7.000 in court, and I was my own lawyer. 

Fuck. All in all, a lifetime worth of potential disaster concentrated into a 3-hour space on the morning of March 16, 2015. 

Talk about sweat...

I came out of the lawsuit unscathed, but for a few nicks on my Metro Card and a dry-cleaning of my suit. Dismissed with prejudice. I told my Mom and my sister Katie (the DOJ lawyer) later in the day that I felt like Matlock. 

But then there was the true, unbreachable realization of Dad going under the knife.

In the state he was in while I spent two nights in the hospital over the preceding weekend, I was not convinced this would be a simple, physical procedure. Indeed it was not, as Dr. Buch, the vascular surgeon explained. 

The balloon might work. If not, a bypass. If not that, an amputation. (Remind me to call my friend Dan).

His mental health was over the cliff and crashed on a rocky seashore with the tide pulling out. That’s all I was focused on at the moment. My Dad was a wasted friend who had taken bad acid. Laying in a hospital bed. Not as immortal as I was conditioned to believe.