Today is the greatest day

Fuck all. I’m going to 30 Rock to see Bruce play for the AM show. This usually leads to euphoria or disaster. I’ll take that risk with Mr. Springsteen in town. Only happens twice a decade. Rox is my rock.

It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive

Tonight was a long, appropriate, and beautiful Jungleland sax solo in life.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, listen to Born to Run the whole way through—no FFWD—and get to the moment of which I speak in that last song on the album. Drink it in. Let your creative soul feast on the emotion.

In the song, it serves as a link between West Side Story and what’s flesh and fantasy.

Sharks, Jets, Mets. An honest stand.

But not as an ending.

Just stand back and let all be.

It is more of a bridge, or coda, than anything near an ending.

It is as happy as it is sad. A moveable feast, and a fun fellow eater of Lure bait. Whatever, it Rox. Beneath the city, two hearts beat, TBC…

Thank you, friends.

Thank you all for the Happy Birthday wishes. After last year's brutal betrayal, this means a lot.

PK

Hold and let go

Over two years ago, a very close friend of mine miscarried at 10 weeks along.

I felt horrible. My affection for this human being had, has, no bounds.

I never face-to-face apologized. To me it was so personal. Less than 2 months later we initiated a super-charged sexual relationship. I am still, two years later, despondent over the way things unfolded.

At least there is no kara to smirk at me now.

Refundable first-class ticket

Flying to the West Coast this week, just for the hell of it. If I get arrested in Encinada or Cabo, I will pay back rapidly, with interest, for bail money. Consider it an investment.

Hopefully donkeys and hookers will not be involved. It they were, though, wouldn't it make for some funny mug shots?

My main worry is night swimming with supermodelesque Mexican women with long, black hair who have boyfriends with long, sharp razors.

Maybe I'll just stay in Red Bank and get my shit straight.

Minor scar

When one is 15 years of age;

How do you know when you’ve crossed the line?
How do you know when you’ve broken a windshield with an angry arm inside out within a car in motion on a state highway?

Pebbled glass, that’s how. And stitches. And a black eye given by one's father.

Trust me.

Polar Bear Road Kill

Polar Bear Road Kill

Better overkill than road kill, I always say.

I’ve become the defacto leader of a bereavement club, death by tiny death, over the past 6 months.

It’s kind of like Fight Club. But without the author. Or the soap. Or the rules.

There is no Polar Bear Club. If, when asked, there is no Polar Bear Club. Rule Number One: There is no Polar Bear Club. Rule Number Two: There is no Polar Bear Club.

But I made the rules, then. And I make the rules, now.

Norton and Pitt in a blender, that’s me, though. At least in these morbid meetings.

We, a.k.a, the Pallbearers, gather to mourn and tell stories and contemplate whether we have more life ahead or behind us. Everyone usually ends up talking about sex. And contemplating whether we have more life ahead or behind us.

I thought Roxanne said polar bear instead of pallbearer. En mass we all envisioned a bunch of drunken people who live near the edge of the continent and run into the cold ocean on a said cold winter day. To feel alive.

I had always found the cold ocean experience to be a negative extension of one’s sense of sexual levity. But then again the Polar Bear group tends to give me an erection that ends up in negotiation. (Sorry to get all 50 Cent on you, but that’s just the way culture works.)

Back to the Pallbearer Club.

For instance, I think it’s off target when a Graphic Artist extols the bells of vector imaging without wrapping it into the life of an ad concept.

These are the deaths we now talk about. Not the death of people, family or friends, but the death of ideas.

Laura brought up the loss of a charm on her charm bracelet the other night. She put it in detail that made me shiver. I never considered the flotation ability of a loved one’s prosthetic.

They say white polar bears will suffer from camouflage extinction as their territory shrinks.

I brought up the death of a squirrel I saw happen before my eyes on a 1997 bike ride. Road kill before my eyes at the speed of light. And of agonizing screaming, squishing sound.

Mary told of the death of her mom.

Matt told a story of lost sunglasses.

Not all deaths need coffins. But most have a living need to be boxed up. And, somehow, buried.

Bereavement puts the charm in death.

Duh.

Going to a gallery opening tonight. I'll be the guy watching the Red Sox vs. Yankees.

Le vent nous portera

We can look at this in two ways. The wind will carry us, as in a seaside bench at the very blooming of a love affair, or the wind will carry us, as we watched Katrina destroy vulnerable, protected territory. The parallels of translation are as amazing as the construction of witty words lined up well.

Mountain road

A woman sat next to me on the train the other day and started doing a Rosary. At first, I thought she was voodoo. Then, I thought that there isn’t much difference.

My friend, Dave, came by this week and we talked about his father’s death (hit him quite hard) and Nancy’s death (steam-rolled me.) This, and all the flying I’ve been doing, and my insane work hours, my reckless nature in the ocean, and the chemical abuse of my body have me thinking about mortality. Not to mention the fact that I have a killer toothache. I’ve been reading a lot to help make sense of it all.

Maybe I should include more of the minutiae of daily life in my stupid blog/public diary. Maybe my entries wouldn't seem to be swaying madly and kicking up dirt on both shoulders of my self-built, cliff-hugging mountain road so much.

There is a man named CJ who shares a life with a woman who is a good friend of mine. He has cancer. Can we all wish him well? He's an incredibly cool person.

New Bruce, see you at rehersal...B4 Tour, What's up with Max on this one? He's suddenly John Bonham, Keith Moon, Stewart Copeland, but still all Max.

RADIO NOWHERE©

I was tryin' to find my way home
But all I heard was a drone
Bouncing off a satellite
Crushin' the last lone American night

This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?

I was spinnin' 'round a dead dial
Just another lost number in a file
Dancin' down a dark hole
Just searchin' for a world with some soul

This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?

Is there anybody alive out there?

I just want to hear some rhythm
I just want to hear some rhythm
I just want to hear some rhythm
I just want to hear some rhythm

I want a thousand guitars
I want pounding drums

I want a million different voices speaking in tongues
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
Is there anybody alive out there?

[Instrumental – Max fucking rocks an all-time, hall-of-fame drum fill during this interlude]

[Then, the beloved Jersey Myth kicks in]

I was driving through the misty rain
Yeah searchin' for a mystery train

Boppin' through the wild blue
Tryin' to make a connection with you

This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?

Is there anybody alive out there?

I just want to feel some rhythm
I just want to feel some rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm