Cliff jumping not allowed

Do not commit suicide. It will hurt more than it helps. Trust me. The people surrounding the man in the middle are terribly, unexpectedly, angrily, and regretfully anguished. Look how happy he was. There were many days like this awaiting him. Still, he is a saint, a man who brought laughter to all and knew how to comfort others, even though we could not figure ways to comfort him. (Picture taken in a London pub, a few years back).

Godspeed, Kenny Cos

Kenny Costello.  December 5, 1967 - June 24, 2012

This is the saddest of times. This is a gaping, empty void. This is silence where there was once never ending laughter, tears where once there were nothing but ear-to-ear smiles. This is what we all feel missing Kenny.

My personal memories of Kenny are highlighted by our trip to London back in February of 1995. Never saw so much rain or Guinness in my life. Maybe it was raining Guinness.

Other memories include being his band mate in the Young Elastic Idiots (YEI) along with Chopper and Teddy; all those softball games with the Widdis Wisenheimers; and one side-splitting night in Ocean Grove with Geoff and John where Kenny’s alter ego, Fred Zeppelin, told us the ways of the world.

I could go on for pages, but Kenny would probably want me to stop so everyone could get a beer.

Kenny, you are a missed, mourned, adored and immortal man.

Growing Roots

Lynn, in her always good-natured manner, has been telling me that I spend so much time in my apartment that I’m growing roots.

In a way, though, I feel like I’m growing wings. We’ll get to that in a minute.

I spent the weekend in front of the TV and a book (Chronic City, by Jonathan Lethem) watching the Red Sox and Mets get swept by their respective opponents, and watching Mad Men and Breaking Bad reruns on Netflix streaming. I believe that during one particular 5-hour spell, my ass did fuse with the couch in a non-emetic way.  Anyway, I barely left my apartment. Hence the, “growing roots” implication.

But today was a big day. I had to go all the way downtown to see my neurologist and, then, my dentist.

My neurologist—a delightful man with a sing song Yiddish accent and an amusing way of summing things up in a word (he called my white blood cell count, “impressive,” while reading my nearly deadly meningitis results)—didn’t have me on his schedule. So I had no choice but to hit the streets.

To kill time I bought a wicked cool pair of Tiger slip-on track shoes and a way cool red Nadal Nike bandanna at Paragon Sports on 18^th St. Then found a hard-to-find MacBook book at the gigantic Barnes & Nobel. I found a stylus for my Nook, too.

Went to the dentist and got a pretty good health approval. They took pictures of my teeth with an intraoral camera. They asked that I slow down on the acidic fruits (pineapple.) My dentist and hygienist kept asking  how much pineapple I eat. I told them, a lot, along with a lot of oranges. Why they were intrigued, I don’t know. I think it had something to do with a loss of enamel. My dentist is a tall, skinny, statuesque, Eastern European woman. She likes to hear of my adventures, then use insanely gauged needles to numb my gums. There's probably videos of that kind of thing on 4chan.

I later found out that my health insurance policy had been terminated. I’m fucked. But I’ll at least have cool sneakers in the casket. The pair I bought today seem not to have obvious wings, but definitely have wing like things woven into the seams. Hopefully, they’ll be light enough to help me float away someday soon. In a good way. Like a tree turning into a bird.

On the Radio (same day as the Mets first no-hitter)

There are special days and there are days that just suck. Today was a special day. A big red letter day.


(If Lefty were here to see me he'd be looking at me like the pic over there.)

It began with a backwards segue into yesterday on account of my insomnia. I needed to be awake, alert, and articulate at 9:00 AM for the first time in months to be on Meryl’s radio show.

I twisted and turned in bed trying to sleep with little luck. Too much heat, too many blankets, too many pajamas. I turned on the air and pretty much did away with all else. Next thing I knew, it was 7:30 AM and time to wake up from no sleep. You’ve been there. It’s unpleasant.

Lynn and I made it to her office so that I could call in on a land line to “Let’s Get Organized” on Voice America.com. We got there with time to spare, so I had time for a cup of coffee. Lynn set me up in an unoccupied conference room and I drank the coffee. I called in. The interview went well. If you want, you can listen to it. I was her her first guest on her very first show. She's Fran Dresher's cousin. Very cool person. 

http://www.voiceamerica.com/episode/62097/time-to-get-organized

After the interview, I took a cab back to the west side to get some errands done. Came home and made tacos. Listened to the show and bristled at the number of times I said the word, “ummm….” I went to the gym and worked off my frustration. I came home and felt strong. I ate tacos.

Then I turned on the Mets. On the radio. The team across the bridge.

Johan Santana was on his game. You could tell from the first inning. Then the second inning. Then a buzz started. Then the buzz became audible and text and phone calls started flying. Then, after 8 innings and no hits, I called my dad. He’s an old Brooklyn Dodger fan and a Met guy since 1962, two years before he married my mom. The Mets have never had a no-hitter in 8,019 games. My dad has seen 8,000 of them. Dad was locked in. We decided to talk after the game, for better or worse. Almost as if not to jinx anything.

Fifteen minutes later we were talking. My father was as lucid as I’ve heard him in almost two years. He was elated. Santana had done what Seaver, Ryan, Gooden, Koosman, and Cone couldn’t. He threw a no-no.  This is history. This is fun. This is happy. This is the contrast to what Lynn told me last week: bad things always happen, get used to it.

I refuse to get used to it. I liked today. 

How is the word doush bag spelled? Douche bag? Need some help here.

The Afghan Whigs Live at the Bowery Ballroom

Lynn woke me up at 6:30 asking if I was ready to go.

It took me a minute to process the thought. It’s daytime, as in the streets are lit by things that are not electricity. But I’m still a step behind, so I get off my ass and hit the shower. The doors open at 7:30, which means the first band goes on at 9:00 at the earliest and the headliner will stop drinking tea with honey and start smoking until at least 9:45.

Turned out Lynn was on the sync of time a half an hour before me. I was out of the shower and on the 1 train by 7:45.

Perfect timing.

Got there at around 8. We went in and found ample space at the bar. Soon enough, the crowd began to pour in. They were mostly nice, feeling an urgency to discuss the most recent Twilight Singers show.

I had the ace in my back pocket. I had seen the Afghan Whigs the day Kurt’s death was announced in April of 94.

This blew some people’s minds.

But I looked around the bar and saw old people. I wondered if I looked like them.

The crowd grew and we got to know the bartender wearing the DJ Bonebreak t-shirt. She kept the drinks coming.

Soon I feel the need to pee. When I came back, there was a weird man encroaching upon my girl. I elbowed my way between them, to her relief, but not his. He tapped me on the shoulder and said. “What the fuck, I was here first.” I told him I had been there for an hour-and-a-half and that he was free to reach in for a drink, but not take my space at the bar. Or my girlfriend. This upset him. Unfortunately, he called me a dick. I began to turn around. He soon camouflaged himself into the background.

Either I’m getting big or he was a wuss. Either way, he was the only asshole we encountered the entire night. For an Afghan Whigs show is full of cool people.

We smelled weed from the smoking lounge, then soon enough in the bar. We made more friends. We even bought t-shirts.

Then it was show time.

We made our way upstairs to the ballroom and decided not to encroach upon those who had made their way up earlier. 100 feet away was cool.  We saw everything and heard every note.

Then it was after show time and Matt Pinfield, the longtime Alternative DJ, on radio and at clubs, as well as the host of MTV’s 120 Minutes was there. And for once, all hell didn’t break loose. He said .”Hello, Patrick.” and went to pee. I wanted to get a pic with him, but felt weird after staging it with Lynn after his bladder relief. I just let it go. He’s a cool dude.

We had a final drink at our own downstairs table, found a cab, and made our way up Broadway.

Videos to follow...

Better than Leno, and I'll gladly chat

Never thought it would evolve this way.

I received my first invite to be on a talk show this week. But it has nothing to do with writing, advertising, drinking, drugs, sports, video games, music, surfing, sneakers, or clothes.

It’s for organizing. (The hamper of my mind has officially blown a gasket.)

Go figure. This king of hoarder-bordering before I made the move to NYC became a model of modest materialism. Before I moved, I junked about two-thirds of my possessions.

I saved the books and the writing. Got rid of tons of t-shirts and caps, old furniture, stuff with dust on it, etc.

I moved in to this new place with a fresh, but still crowded start. So I got rid of more. Tons more. Memorabilia, computer hardware, entire stereos.

I then called upon the services of an organizational consultant. Going from 1,500 ft. to 800 ft., is not easy on one’s possessions.  But I did it.  And as a result garnered the attention of one of the most prominent organizers in the NYC area. Plus her cousin is an actress famous for her nasal voice.

I invited her over for a consultation a few months after I made my home here and she felt more impressed than compelled-to-compartmentalize.  She admired me for a willingness to abandon junk for open space.

She even helped me keep stuff. She saw potential in what I grouchily held onto. She read my writing—some of it, anyway. She commanded me to not discard rare personal treasures. We crated “Dummies Guide To ______” books to the bin.

She recognized the value of my rare drum set. She knew my Strat was a rare guitar. She was familiar with the fact that my piano had heirloom potential.

Plus, she saw that I have closets larger than many NY apts. That, in and of itself, is in keeping with the discarding of luggage essential to becoming upwardly mobile/philosophically free (see Robert DeNiro's climb up the falls with the indigenous and the Jesuits in the movie The Mission for reference.)

Now she wants me to testify on her new radio show. I think I’ll help her out. She can cut my armor free any day.

Watch The Mission for a clue for where I hope my point will go during the interview.

Why we sell

My Dad has Parkinson’s. I want to memorize his life as he would want it to be remembered. He, and my mom, want me to start selling his photos. They’re beautiful, and they’re superimposed with pithy poems. That’s a main reason I started my company. It’s also a paralyzing realization.

Time flies

I was 15 when MTV hit my eyes.

I was 17 when I moved into a dorm.

I was 19 when The Breakfast Club came out.

I was 21 when the Joshua Tree was released.

I was 24 when I got my first serious job.

I was 25 when I sprung for my first abortion.

I was 26 when I paid for my second.

I was 27 when Cobain died.

I was 30 when Natalie turned from tits to ellipses…

I was 34 before I ever got fired

I was 35 when I got rehired

I was 36 when the skyline smoked souls

I was 37 when they sent me to the loony bin

I was 38 when I met Christine
(She sent me nude pics. I think I destroyed them to save her marriage. She also knelt down to give me oral. I said no that night. But then we slept together a week later. And then it was a year later. Then two years later. And two gallons of elation here and there sloshing in her womb. Not to mention my sheets and mattress).

I was 39 when we imploded. Even though we were still hanging out together.
(Those days we took the train together into NYC, talking and smiling and appreciating how we would ever exist in the secrecy of memory).

But for room service...

The storm of Katrina was a weird reference point for us to unify sexually. Flood, deluge, escapism, evacuation. Trapped. Starving. Lonely. Protection. Elevation. Wetness. Evaporation. Ft. Worth. 20 pillows. Refuge. Elation. Freedom.