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.

I was totally looking for this disk among the rubble, found it like a miracle

If you’re ever wanting to mellow out with a smiling, urgent edge, I, um...highly...recommend the collection of songs by Cowboy Junkies called “Early 21st Century Blues.” OK? Good.

Like Manna From Heaven

We crawl from the scraping sky at high noon
Into a rutty canyon,
offered Thai food and
Thai buds in an alley

So, here we are with some of the latter

Empire State within view
We ride the F train up to midtown
Just to soak the sun among silver statues

(It's night time. So that last line is way more idiotic than you think)

The wide sidewalks of 5th Avenue give solace
To souls separating us from meat
Wide avenues give flight to fierce wandering

I'm down there somewhere.

The underground is indeed velvet.

I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger

Another week of coincidence? Maybe I’m just wired to be receptive to these things. Or am I just wired?

Finished Douglas Coupland’s “Girlfriend in a Coma.”

Before we start, yes, I'm well aware that the book not so coincidentally shares a title with a classic Smiths song. That, in and of itself, is a reason I've avoided it. Nancy. There, I said it. We'll explore that idea another day. OK?

The book magnified my dreams of owls, dreams that were put into motion a week before I started the book, when I stopped at a Greenwich Village restaurant called The Little Owl, with Lauren.

It (the book) also fanned to life incubating fires of thought concerned with apocalypse, odometer readings and catwalk models.

I was working on a story titled “The End is Near” before I dug the book out (unread, with the Barnes and Noble receipt dated 2001 still in the front cover) from a darkened, dusty bookcase. The end of the book is the beginning of the goddamn story I was working on, dammit.

Went to the Super Foodtown to get groceries this afternoon. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, the store was going out of business and looked like it had been looted. Again, like key scenes in the book.

While shopping at said Super Foodtown, an ABBA song came on over the speakers, “Voules Vouz.” Those words were vital to one of the most quotable lines in the book.

Then, right after that, the song “Ooh La La” by Ronnie Wood came on. It’s a fantastic tune, a rousing, drunkards sing-a-long. The chorus goes “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger” (it plays over the credits at the end of the movie “Rushmore”), which is, almost literally the theme of the book. The song also includes the lyric “she gives me her cheek when I want her lips” which is echoed in my favorite song ever, 4th of July, by X, which is the inspiration to the title of this blog.

Or is the title of this blog the inspiration to that being my favorite song? Fuck.

I’m not going to even touch the White China episode of the book, with its allusion to synchronized EKG charts. That really freaked me out.

I feel like I just played a mean round of six degrees of separation with my brain. Maybe it’s just six degrees of SATURATION because of all the words and songs I imbibe.

Is this what it’s like to hear voices? Because if it is, they’re not voices. It’s some kind of mega meta connect-the-dots kind of thing that divines a weird awareness.

Keeps me interested in things and off the hooch, if nothing else.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girlfriend_in_a_Coma_(novel)

Jock Flap

Two things about NY sports right now—

First, Ryan Church, the outfielder for the Mets diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome (and therefore a brother of mine in the world of medical charts) has been cleared to play. The media is having a field day. Why? They don’t seem to care that I’ve been to work pretty much every day since I was diagnosed with the same damn thing.

Second, Brett Favre is now the QB on my favorite football team, the Jets. Chad Pennington, their now ex-QB, is on the Dolphins roster. What to do with my Chad Pennington Jets jersey? Keep it, for a game, like 10 years from now when it will be cool again to wear his jersey? Be a total tool and get a Favre jersey? Or just buy a green shirt and write “Jets” on it. No matter what, this development has the makings of a dramatic football season. I can’t wait.

I haven’t had this much fun with sports since I saw the most boring spring training game ever (Giants vs the A’s) in Phoenix this past spring. At least I had a nice date for that one.

Day in the life

Today:

For those of you who don't know, this is a pic of a pristine, empty, local 1 train (part of the infamous NYC subway system) heading downtown from Penn Station/Madison Sq. Garden/34th and 7th to Varick Street. I ride it daily, just like about 2 million other people. If you're unfamiliar with it, google it.

*

Woke up (7:20 - an hour late) dragged a comb across my head,

Made my way across the bed, and realized I was really fucking late.

Showered and shaved for the sake of vanity.

As a result, way, way fucking late.

Threw on clean boxers, worn jeans and a fresh shirt.

Got my wallet in my pocket and my briefcase over my shoulder.

Made the 7:47 into the city. Miracle.

Put the presentation together on the train.

Was at the office at 9:30. Gathered the artists and finalized the layouts.

Presented at 10:00.

Was done at 11:00.

Home at 4:30.

Funny how the fewest hours applied to one day can equal the longest stretch of the week.

I think I might need to have to find another way to live. I don't like what I do for a living.

These furious fire drills suck.

Sobering

My ex-boss of 12 years is going into detox for about the 5th time since the last time she fired me. (The "last time" she fired me – kinda funny, as if it were George Streinbrenner and Billy Martin. She fired me more times than I actually got fired!)

This time, she’s going to get clean before they do a biopsy on her throat.

There’s a lesion there.

Makes me wonder, yet again, how bombed she was when she fired me. She was doing her decision making on vodka.

Not that I mind.

I’ve doubled my salary since then and have become a fixture in the SoHo scene. Sure as fuck beats the central Jersey scene. Not to mention Chicago.

She’s going into detox at the place that fucked me over and gave rise to this blog (she’s there for detox, I was not. Archives will tell that backstory).

So I’m worried about her care.

After all we’ve been through, after all our fights, I realize that I miss her and love her like a sister. I’ll be crushed if she’s beyond repair.

Caught in public

I guess I finally like women who like me.

Last week, hung out in RB with AD, the hot blooded latina nymphomaniac gifted with a mind-blowing body and a seemingly everlasting Brazillian wax. She's the playfully booty bopping girl who cuts my hair.

After the cut, we had a kind of date. She wanted me to go clothes shopping with her. To most guys, that is hell. To me, it is not. We ended up in a curtained dressing room together. I’ll leave it at that.

My apologies to the girl who walked in on us. Bikini modeling is not a crime.

*

Today Lauren and I killed an hour before picking up the Hoboken train to the shore.

This was after we escaped work and found a West Village place worthy of lunch.

We took the PATH train under the river from the Village to Boken and drank Blue Moons with orange slices at a bar across the street from the train station before our connecting train boarded. We jabberjawed the whole way home on the Coast Line train. I was a good boy.

I had to be. I had a tad of Rizzo on the mind.

I heard a shit load of gossip, though.

I’m usually the subject of gossip. It’s good to be on the other side for a change. (Disregarding the fact that I spent the afternoon at a sidewalk cafe with a 24-year old gorgeous woman.) It was innocent as innocent can get. We’re Jersey Shore beach buds.

Let Manny be Manny

I am devastated. My favorite team traded my favorite player yesterday. Let’s all listen to “Tessie” by the Dropkick Murphy’s one last time and squeeze the last drop of elation from 2004. Shit.

This is a watershed day of sadness.