Degrees of difference

Setting the thermostat in winter…

The huge difference between 66 degrees and 70 degrees. Where else but my fucking apartment do 4 degrees make such a difference? I mean, out of the whole spectrum of possible degrees within the reactionary response of human flesh, I’ve narrowed it down to 0.01% of comfort. Yet that equalizes a 30% increase in my heating bill.

Now I know that I don’t have a 360-degree spectrum to work with as far as my furnace is concerned, but the difference still puzzles me. Like, if it were 4 degrees between liking a girl and not (hot or cold), I’d spot the difference. I got Lynn right, thank God.

Way back when I started off small. In 1985 I was 19 years old. I was a highly respected Boogie Boarder on the Central Jersey Shore and was in the second semester of my freshman year at the College of New Jersey. In the spring, on every sunny day when the temperature tipped 70 degrees, I’d leave campus and drive down the new Interstate spur to Seaside Heights. Those days often fell on weekdays and, um, I did miss a few classes. But I was 19 years old and tan and my veins surged with independence. By the time the semester was over, my GPA was 1.8, but my self-esteem was off the chart. For a change.

Or, in other words, to a certain degree.

Fossil fuel

Nobody remembers exactly how we got together that exquisite summer night. We all just ended up there, parked on the side of Sandy’s lawn next to the driveway. It was half gravel, half grass mixture, so it was okay to both park on and mow. We parked six cars, all pointing toward different landscapes on the horizon. Tire tracks fading from acceptance to lawn.

Nobody remembers who reclined on their car hood first. We all ended up on someone’s car, the warmth of a cooling engine beneath, eying the shining elegance of the stars above. We talked, just basically shooting shit, passed around some beers and a bottle of champagne. As for the champagne, we had nothing to celebrate but for the fact that it tasted better than those fucking wine coolers.

Nobody remembers who became aware that we were in a deep conversation until it was too late. We couldn’t move. It was time to come to conclusions and view a spectacular meteor shower.

I slipped into a fine line to mode out and become one-dimensional. To focus on a star and become the line of sight between myself and the space between. To be that line and to bond and bridge. To maintain composure and stop at the star, to not penetrate its surface. Only touch the tension. Allow it to froth and twist in its own dimensions. Touch, understand, then leave and be the line and the single dimension. Watch the soft focus. Nurture the vision.

Travel like gods, sweat the ages away, and do me.

Notes From a Future Exile from Red Bank

Our entire physical activity is bent upon procuring pleasure and avoiding pain. – Freud

The ego learns that it must inevitably go without immediate satisfaction, postpone gratification, learn to endure a degree of pain, and all together renounce certain sources of pleasure. Thus trained, the ego becomes, “reasonable,” is no longer controlled by the pleasure of principle, but follows the reality principle. -- Freud

Exiles inhabit a personal universe. They may be found in any sort of place, but the choice is always based upon expediency – whether they stay for a short time or forever has little to do with the particular locale, for they do not commit themselves to any time or place. The site of the exile represents anyplace away from the place, or more commonly, person, the exile has voluntarily abandoned, fled from, or lost.

Cain’s exile in Genesis. Greek war myths about heroes like Philoctetes and Achilles. Odysseus, who does not want to go to war, yet only serve as a prototype for the myth – which entails both the exile and the return from it – but also presents himself as the romantic epitome of the type.

The exile exists in a state of brooding alienation, but always with a submerged patriotism for the right side, if not for the flag-waving that symbolizes the right side. The exile, when fully aware of his own strengths and the necessity of action, can be counted on to burst his bonds.

Having said that, I will add this non sequitur: What is the difference between New York City and other cities? In New York we wear nicer shoes to walk on dirtier sidewalks.

The End, for now.

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...