Rapidly aging, oblivious thief

Talked to an old boss of mine a few days ago. Told her what was going on in the working world. She had absolutely no comprehension of the fact that there is no remaining economy for anyone succeeding her trough-gorging generation. She was all like, but haven’t you planned for the next 30 years, dummy? I told her that our 401(k)s were decimated. Pshoosh, right over her head. She’s living in a million dollar house. And she lives there like everyone she ever gave a job to owes it to her. An obscene cut from every employee’s salary in a cash business. She’s a “job creator”. (e.g. billing skimmer). She jettisoned key chunks of the creative staff when she realized they were chomping at her ego and making more than $90,000 a year. And, like a fucking idiot, she wonders why we don’t have wealth. All the while she bails her brothers out of jail and goes in and out of rehab. The interest she made pays for the upkeep on her lawn, flowers, and slimy pool. In short, she’s the boss that expects you to thank her for being paid to work 65 hours a week, her cut being the meager 30 hours extra you bill that never went to anyplace but her bank account.

Afghan Whigs

The strongest strands to the past are sometime the most tenuous, the thinnest, and the most unlikely.

The best band of the 1990’s is making a comeback in NYC and I’m going to be angling for the best view from the very front of the stage. Seems like an odd, maybe out of place thing for me to do. I’m of an age that should secede such a precious vantage point to a younger version of myself. Fuck that.

I saw the Afghan Whigs in April, 1994 on the day it was announced that Kurt Cobain had shredded his skull with a shotgun. The Whigs were then Sub Pop label mates of Nirvana.

The lead singer, a dude named Greg Dulli, walked his band to the stage and launched with arrogance and passion into the first few songs from his band’s album Gentleman before most of us could finish our first few beers. I had been stoned for a good hour already, having busted out a phatty with fellow passengers on 1-95 en route.

A few weird things happened in that hour, including memorizing my way to the venue via meta-popcorn kernels left behind three years past. We were so fucking baked that time altered and the band took the stage before the hot bartender girl gave me a few drinks prior to the start of the concert.

Greg Dulli stopped the show and confirmed to the uninformed that Kurt was indeed dead. The audience roared in mourning with his then breaking news disclosure. He cued the band, and they blistered into the song Fountain and Fairfax with meaning that brought tears to his eyes.

The music? It was a bastard hybrid of grunge and soul. Not James Brown soul. More like Otis Redding fronting the Screaming Trees. A double-barreled guitar attack backed by blistering keyboards, drums like cannons across the bow and a voice that howled like a growling wolf in fits of anguish, anger and passion. There was a bass player, too.  

I could tell a thousand stories about that show. Like the one about the pretty girl who was offering to make out with guys for a dollar of beer money. One dude, one dollar at a time. Kinda nasty, but she was Eastern-European-model hot. (I just gave her a dollar. No kiss. To this day I am herpes-free). Or on the drive to the show, when I busted out the blunt and Kenny Cos came to life and I subsequently forgot how to park. Wait. I already told that one—or at least part of it. Or how I stood next to the PA and permanently lost hearing in my right ear.

This is a thin thread to the past. This is a fiber of a thread to a memory. This is a quantum electron to any point in time it lands me. This is a lifesaver thrown off the Titanic. This is a zygote borne into the past to return self-aware. This is a chance to go ape shit.

This is ago, a go, fuck this, no?

This is the Afghan Whigs at the Bowery Ballroom in a few weeks.

TBC

*

Testing, 1-2-3

Tshk, tshk, tshk. Hello-lo-lo-lo? Damn. It's empty in here.

I thrive on drama like a...

Dirge digging dive-bomber…

With a full head of steam…

A barrel-chested beer blaster…

Beaming out his dreams…

A letter-pounding lead head…

Following his own screams…

Along the way I became co-dependent in my own wake of heartbreak, hospital bracelets, love letters, blog posts, unopened cans of Fancy Feast, medication, numbness, and submission to all but the blinking cursor. Bye. For now, anyway. R.I.P. Nancy. Thanks, Ann. Thanks, Joe.

Sleep

Lefty died today. I was cradling him.

Lefty, my bubba

May 1, 1996 - October 11, 2011

The Boxer

I guess I’m known for having a rather large heart, and the sentimentality to go along with it. This is why my body caves to emotion, and why I will soon be grieving the loss of Lefty.

Lefty had a feeding tube inserted into his nose today because he will not otherwise eat. Some animals walk into the woods and never come back, some vanish without a trace, some have dads who give them feeding tubes in order to muster the courage to say good bye.

I am, obviously, of the latter.

They’re building an Apple Training Center in my building. The jackhammers have been incessant for these past few weeks during the day. I was going to call Steve Jobs to complain. But now he’s gone.

Somehow, I’m connecting the two. The ongoing of progress, in spite of events, and the ongoing of events in spite of progress. Either way you see it, my cat is wearing a backwards lampshade on his head, and is fucking perplexed by it.

I’ve wept eons of tears tonight. For the past, present, and future. For dead dogs and heart attacks, for gray hairs and kittens wearing lampshades. For not being on Facebook. For being googleable. For the inaccuracies inherent. For trying to breathe.

Personally, I would clean out the nacho rack

So, we got this thing called a hurricane this weekend. It was windy and rainy. I mean, really windy and rainy. So much so, that there was a run on bread and milk and water AFTER the thing hit. This is a pic of the bread rack 12-hours post storm. To me, it looks like a Florida market before a 32 degree temperature forecast. Or what a San Diegun (San Diegoion? San Diego-un? San Diegan?) market would look like before snow.

Uh-Oh

There's a hurricane coming. We already had an earthquake this week. What next? No cable?

Back to the beach

We, the family, including all siblings, nieces, nephews, in-laws (except for Kerry’s husband Steve’s mom and dad, who seem inaccessible in the hinterlands of North Carolina golf courses) made it from all corners of the country to celebrate Mom’s 70^th birthday this past weekend.

We swam as a family in the ocean. I gave my nephew a boogie board and he immediately rode in his first wave like a champ. Clare, who was born when I was 31, is a beautiful, nationally recognized soccer star. Her sister, Tara, takes to the ocean like me—naturally. Ryan doesn’t like to get his nose filled with the Atlantic yet, and his younger brother, Jake, is still too little to wade in, but I have confidence for him.

Our family has waves in the DNA. We had special moments with Aunt Judy, 71, myself, 44, brothers-in-law Steve and Matt, and Tara, Conor, and Ryan, swimming as if we were gifted. Tara rode her fathers back as he took some waves in. We all took some bigger waves in from crest to sand. We all—despite the SPF we applied—ended up with tans.

There are few things more special than wading into the ocean with a nephew or niece holding your hand or on your shoulders, braving the next wave. Life is love again.

Compassion

I have drugs that are illegally legal. Percoset, medical MJ, codine, etc. Why? Because surgery incurs pain, and if the doctor prescribes less than you need, you ask for more. They give it to you out of compassion. They don’t want to see their patients suffer. It’s better than going to a liquor store or a dealer on the street. Politicians don’t understand this. They think a perfect world consists of aspirin and Viagra. Hey cop, judge, prosecutor: Ever get your gum flapped open and a bolt inserted into your jaw? I have an account at a local pharmacy chain for heart and chill out meds. Doctors and pharmacists see the problem. They do all they can to relieve it. They do it with a good heart and smile. And a warning. They care. Hey blue with the red lights, do you like to see people suffer? Judging by the tasers shot into people who have died, yes. That was supposed to be an alternative to bullets. Steroid-pumped droids with badges suck.