Flood of Regret

God knows how many months it’s been since Katrina hit.

I remember being in Freehold, NJ, in a highway hotel.

Before we made our way there, she called me three times while I was on my way to meet her in the parking lot of the place we worked.

She was, rightly so, nervous and excited.

We met and the kiss we had in the parking lot was akin to an iron forging factory releasing a column of steam into the realm of satellites.

We made our way to our hotel, got our room and felt uncommon freedom.

The memories of Katrina are colored by post-argument complications, but I still recall waking after hours of sex to disaster in the French Quarter. Then, at sunrise, looking over to see a beautiful woman snapping up a pair of lacy panties, sitting down next to me on the edge of the bed to watch tidal surges breaking down barriers.

We briefly discussed the redrawing of maps.

There was a metaphor there. We just didn’t know it.

Now it’s Gustav.

Parfois, je peux voir à l'avance (Sometimes I can see ahead of time)

Las Vegas, 2003

I called “Don’t Stop Believin’” as a future touch point song, in an ironic sense.
Four years later, the night The Sopranos ended, I got at least 50 phone calls.

Ask Bob. He was my roommate that year at the Flamingo.

I wanted to stay at Bellagio, but $300 a night was too much for the rest of the crew.
Why do I raise this issue? Because it’s going to be an odd number year, which means I’m going to be in Vegas for awhile. I’m planning it now because I might not get to do it again.

I have no predictions forthcoming.

Why?

I’ll tell you why. Because I ate bad Thai food last night. Gave me nightmares. I ordered a beef and pepper dish. I got brown goat labia and lettuce. The lettuce tasted horrible.

La laitue goûté horrible!!!!

Une nuit, de nombreux

I have nightmares about missing the train in Hoboken. I don’t live in Hoboken. I have nightmares about waking up too early for work. I end up over sleeping. I have nightmares about nothing ever at all sometimes. These dreams repeat.

Photo-op

It’s been a looooong week. What the fuck am I going to need to ease myself into sleep?

beaucoup de caractere

This hazy summer, especially July, has been good to my placid motives.

In addition to a vintage Fender Strat, a set of Pearl red wine maple drums, and a pristine set of 1964 Ludwig Ringo drums, I’ve just realized that I’m sitting on an carillon-esque, turn-of-the-century A.B. Chase piano.

The perfect thing about it all? I can play them all and will not sell. I’m not going for dollars.

I’m going for talented offspring. Not Lindsey Lohans, not beauty queens or chest-caven, ear-flared swimming freaks.

I'm going for natural winners. The synergy of the swift cells concentrating upon the instantaneous consummation of absolute love.

The soundboard of this A.B. Chase piano is fucking alive. Resplendent wood that sings with the swear of a thumping heart, coursing veins and a sense of sonic surrounding. The strings, alas, are waiting for a twist.

Ever bust out When You Were Young or Mack the Knife or Won't Be Fooled Again in a hotel lobby? If a piano presented itself, could you perform in public? I fucking get off on it.

The photo is of the same year, make, model and wood. Perhaps his brother.

Out of this world and under this heart my world is a tornado pumping bleeding blood. I am again about to explode. Give me a day or two.

This is me in action:

Last night in a fury of hunger, I bought 2 pounds of ground beef, a couple of onions, some peppers and a secret blend of spices. My goal was to make the best pot of chili ever. I’ve done it before.

So I went about doing it—browning the meat, chopping the veggies, seasoning the mix, you know, all that fun stuff that makes you feel like you have a cooking show on the Food TV Network.

I let the mix become one as I watched the Olympics, a baseball game or two, and cartoons. I got up to stir it every 10 minutes or so. It was evolving into a fucking cauldron of magic spicy beef.

Then my phone rang and I was in conversation for an hour. Then it rang again, and it was a really boring conversation, but I stayed with it. For an hour. By the time it was over my fucking eyelids were fluttering. So I closed my eyes for just a minute to “wake myself up”.

I am the stupidest person in the world.

I woke up 6 hours later to the smell of acrid tomatoes.

I was all, “What the fuck is that smell?”

I walked to the kitchen and took a look at the giant cauldron on my stove.

Shit.

I just cooked up a two-pound chili brick.

The meat and beloved cooking vessel are now one in food gone wrong heaven.

Here’s the sad part.

I chiseled off a few crumbs and chewed them. Not bad. I think I invented a new breakfast cereal. Chili-Os!

Embarrassed

Maybe some are wondering why I (seemingly) randomly invoked a 23-year-old song in my most recent entry.

It was out of shame.

I was referring to "Up On the Catwalk" (still a fucking great song if you've seen it live in Edinburgh with a bunch of Trainspotting extras and toothpick-thin models going nuts on White China, jeez that was a weird night) but was hiding my take on "Don't You Forget About Me." Both are from the same era of a dead band. The forensics are fascinating.

My agency—the place where I work, the people with whom I work—took what was once a cool teenage anthem and turned it into a marketing abomination.

For, of all things, an attempt to make you shop at JC Penny’s.

Ugh. Google it. It’s horrid.

Why did I think this place was cool?

I need something new. I need something fresh. I need something malleable.

But with the same salary and cool-looking business card.

Yeah, I’m just like you.

I want everything from life.

Do you settle for less?

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.