A Love Letter

Dear Alcohol,

It seems like I have known you since birth and perhaps I have. That is all my dad did. Towards the end of mom's life, she did a lot of it, too. I love you so much. You are really warm. You make me feel euphoric, then you make me angry. That is the only feeling I seem to have in my bones when you come to visit. You make me hate myself by far further than any human being could. In fact, Alcohol, you make me fail to recognize that people love and care about me. You make me loathe myself and by loathing myself, I project all of those feelings upon others. It makes them hate me.

Last night, I went to Tip-Top to have my last drink. I fell in love with the place the first time I walked into it. Bed-Stuy. It reminds me of Tina's Cozy Corner in North Philly. I'll never forget walking outside of that bar and seeing a guy pointing a gun at another man in the middle of the street. We went back in, in a hurry.

Back to you, my dear, Alcohol. We have to separate. We have to move on. We have to look for other sources of inspiration. I am done with you.

Best and Love,

Finding Deerhunter

I bought a new pair of headphones this past week and really did my research before purchasing them. After hours of scouring the web and not wanting to spend over a hundred dollars on in-ear headphones, I decided to go with the Klipsch Image s4. I tore through, quite literally, a pair of Bose a couple of years ago and sore I would never purchase in-ears from them again. The reviews for the s4s were astounding and they were only $79. A day before, I downloaded Deerhunter's Halcyon Digest.

I decided to buy the entire album after hearing Helicopter on Conan. Man, I haven't been so excited about finding a band since discovering Pavement in 1992. Since that purchase, I've got three of their albums and have been astounded by each one I listen to. I slipped on my headphones and just, listened. I must say that the phones are pretty fucking amazing, but the music that the band has made is a pleasure to hear on them. It is layered, textured, yet simplistic. They are far different from Malkmus and co., for sure, yet they capture this kind of vibrancy, albeit with much more mellowness than Pavement.

It's funny, I'm double the age I was in 1992 and to just randomly stumble upon a band that hits me is such a great thing.

Check 'em out if you haven't already.

Poem (untitled)

It's been a long time since

a song comes back to you,

defined in a different way than you heard it.

Then, you defined it.

A long time.

Phone rings and you wonder, could it be?

And it is nothing.

Static.

Television shares a favorite film.

Something? Phone?

Nothing.

One cat sits on my lap now,

missing everything about his companion.

He allows me to compensate.

I'm warm.

On the outside.

Cold to the touch inside, if you even get that far.

And if you do, run away.

They all do.

Anyway.

There Is a Time For a Turkey

Happy Thanks-something. It seems like the entire meaning of the day has been misconstrued by anyone who wants to prove a political point these days.

Anyway, I want to discuss the virtues of a turkey, negative as they may be. The turkey has always been a joker, by it's gobble, gobble. Yet, I don't think the bird would find that to be so funny if you really look at it. The beast only used its vocal chords to save other birds from harm. And, damn they can run. They are a kind of modern day emu. Fast, threatened and loud.

The turkey always feels threatened, scared of what is coming to look at it. It feels like all it can do is scream with its red neck flapping, vocal chords extended. It is always in defense and for no reason at times. I'll never forget seeing the plume of one on the wall in a garage in Maryland. So gorgeous. Yet, so dumb.

Even moreso, the poor beast gets the most average name of "Tom." They are more than Toms. They have been here in North America, goofy as they may be, and have thrived upon it's soil for decades.I feel like they are family, those Toms...Dumb, yet fast and always easily caught for some reason.

Way back in kindergarten we used to trace our fingers, add feather to them, glue them on. Those turkeys were unreal because they were perfect. Cookie cut-outs. The real turkeys we ingest on this upcoming day have flaws. They were too loud, they pecked wrongly. They guessed wrong in their get away plan.

They were, sadly, plainly, utterly human.

Unless they were farmed, then they were slaves....

So, to go back to the old style, here is the haiku:

Steeeeeady, not so fast.

If you run, they will break you,

they always catch up.

Trivia and Self-Talk

La Resistance! Came in second place again. Second place isn't a bad place to be at all. We beat Super Sperm (aka Whiskey Dick) in all categories but one. Yet, the thing I want to write about is my weird tendency to talk to myself as of late. I just noticed it as I was going to the bathroom and talking to myself as I peed. I felt ok, I said to myself, about ordering soon to be delivered Omaha steaks and lots of franks for Murph. I said it is okay to be tired and order an iPhone. I was really psyched about that until I had to truly put my brakes on and realize I have a bid on a Nexus one on ebay. So, we shall see, faithful readers. Which one prevails? The iphone? The nexusone, which has become a rare commodity in America these days? We shall see.

Back to the fact of talking to yourself. I have this weird feeling it is all due to the heat reduction in the city these days. A week ago, I simply wanted to spit on myself. How do you like anything when it is that hot? Yourself, is the first to go. So through all of the self-loathing and hatred I felt, it simply felt good to say these things to myself, aloud, and proud, that I wouldn't normally say.

Examples:

I have to pee!

Such a cute kitty who loves me.

Thank God I have Foxy.

Wow, you are really talking to yourself.

You should write about this.

Do not pick up the phone.

Can't believed you ordered Omaha steaks!

Wow, you've gotta wait til the eBay auction ends before you cancel your iPhone order.

These are all things I"ve said aloud to myself this evening/morning.

How American Am I?

I gave my Yankee tickets to a man from down the street. For some unknown reason (he grew up in Brooklyn, loves the Knicks), he is a Red Sox fan. He hadn't been to a stadium since he was 4, which was old Yankee Stadium. So, I gave him my tickets a few weeks ago. He went to the game; the Royals won, we lost. He was happy.

So, I see him today and just ask about his experience. He goes: Are you American? I say: What? Do you mean was I born here? He says: Yeah, were you born here? I say: Sure, I was born in Pittsburgh. And he goes: Well, who is taking over our country? And I say: What? And he says: Go down to Nostrand and Fulton and you'll see what I'm talking about.

So I did. And in this low budget style was a parade of poor folk who were Bangledeshi. They were all in costume. It was a short block parade. Man, the sky looked fierce. And, I thought, fuck ya, I'm American. And, they are American. This is America.

Afterwards, I went to my boy Ricky's birthday party in Williamsburg at an obscure, big bar on a hidden street. Indians surrounding me, as his wife is Indian. And, I felt so good to just not be surrounded by myself. In my mind that is what makes you American. You just don't even think about it. You just laugh, drink beer, admire kids.

It is an odd thing, when you are forced to look at race. I never told anyone the guy from my block was any which race. By where I live, it might be easy to figure out, yet he loves baseball. I love baseball and he was a perfect man to give a ticket to.

Man, though, nobody owns these streets. To see Bangledeshis partying, was awesome. I just feel bad it rained on their parade at all today.

E

I never thought Entourage on HBO would make me feel bad about myself, or lonely for that matter, yet it did. The last episode with E standing alone while his boys go off to Vegas was kind of a soul searcher for me. E got it right; stay. There is nothing out there and he has what he wants. Yet, there is that random part of anyone who just wants to go. It really doesn't matter what Vegas has in store with Vince, etal, what does matter is that E loves his lady and they have some kind of florist or some shit coming. He stayed and Sloane will be happy. He will fulfill responsibilities. Maybe I'm looking into E too deeply, he might fuck up. Fuck, Turtle is in Mexico City for christsakes! Yet, I feel very much like E. E fucked up with Sloane, made up with her, etc. I have not yet fucked up with FB, and I don't want to. I am not E and FL is not Sloane. So, there is work to be done.

Bridge

Leigh and I have approached a bridge that is one I'm sure many couples have met before. Their spittle dangles. This is a bridge we need to travel over, in different cars. There is no E-ZPass. It is that bridge of doubt and lack of forgiveness. It is that bridge you look upon and just guess it's depth. We need to love each other through shitty times. And, that is my bridge. My bridge is weak and rickety. It is barely standing. It is scary. It sways. Yet, that is me at this point.

The Way Things Go

The cats stare at me,

don't know who I am and want.

Coldest of cold spells.

So, the haiku came first this time. Missing baseball so much, watching Lincecum blank the Mets. All I think about is how much I love Favorite Librarian.

New Haiku:

Stare at each other

we care about what we think,

yet we are silent.

Umbrella PArt 2

By FL:

We went to a beach

no shade to be found at all

lost and found again

Umbrella Part 1

With FL:

Gay umbrella found,

at Jacob Riis park, roadside.

never sit under

Bicycle

I rode for the first time in a long one on Brooklyn streets. I own a car now, so the joy of riding on these potholed streets is noted on every block. It is weird how the two can work together. You really can avoid every sinkhole if you know which streets to avoid.

This boy is tired after trying out his new re-vamped Rocky Mountain. He is a bit to the wind. Yet, the gears work way better than he thought they would. The brakes screech a bit. Perhaps he is ready for the street again. The bike felt really good.

Haiku:

Wind blowing against,

the shore kept on calling him.

Coney Island bound.

The Coast II

The ape looked down on us, without expression. The cars blew exhaust in much the same way. The Safari didn't have wifi. The Safari just had a view of the beach. The beach. Ocean City barely has a beach. The waves were ferocious, yet covered in a pink blanket by the boardwalk lights. They (the waves) looked like weak pantyhose. Breaking and tearing in the twilight. I guess that is OC, just a flood light, aimed against what we all really want to see. There is no ocean anymore, as it is covered in oil and suntan lotion. The ocean is very much like Murph. I keep him alive for me.

The Coast Haiku:

Crash. Over and again,

tip, tip, tap the dog walked cross,

the waves kept crashing.

The Coast

Wow! It was great to have left NYC before all of the others left it. It felt vacant this past weekend. We went down to the Eastern Shore of Maryland first. The two of us had never been to the place we had first met each other as a couple before and it was haunting yet exhilarating at the same time. We returned to summer camp, a place where she and I were separated by years and boyfriends and girlfriends and clauses. Now we are adults and have re met in Brooklyn, NY. Everyone we had spoken to were also adults. We felt like we were at home. The dog, whom I've had for 17 years, almost 18, had never seen a huge body of water before. He had never walked on sand before. At first he was happy with the grass. He hadn't seen nature in years. By nature, I don't mean NYC parks, but acres and acres of ground. His eyes lit up and the soil was soft. He just walked and walked and walked.

We got to Ocean City, MD and didn't know it was Cruise Week. As we drove, we pointed out car after car from 1950, or Back to the Future and wondered where they were going. FL and I drove in awe at the strange Chevys and Fords that passed us on the narrow highway to OC. We just kept on thinking about the odd redneck feeling of OC. Did we make a mistake?

Then, when we looked up pet-friendly hotels in OC and we found the Safari, we knew we were OK. I walked in and saw all of the totem poles (Safari?) and random stuffed mongoose to know we would be okay. The hotel was at the best 2 star. They were obviously getting ready for the season and weren't ready for the weekend of vroom, vroom to come. Yet, they were the most accommodating I had felt in a long time. FL and I were happy. We had a great ape staring down on the beach to keep watch..

PART II Soon.....

Haiku time:

The waves and the sea,

Antlantic Avenue cars,

cannot compare them.

Home Haiku

To be in Brooklyn

after the sand and ocean

is tough to swallow.

Today

The cat is at the window and he looks and all he thinks about is freedom. This is the same cat whom did receive freedom and ended up in a bodega, searching for his papa. Dying to get out of the brooms and mops he had been stuck in between. He was dehydrated and sick when he made his way back. He wasn't himself as he lapped water from two bowls at once. Then he knew he was home and it was comfortable. I watch him now, at the window, and he is a cat. He wants to go, not really and knows he shouldn't, but he wants to.

I'm not really sure where this post is going. I do know I have re-discovered Brand Nubian. Maybe that is the kind of home I'm looking for. Old school home. I used to love Grand Puba. For Christ's sake, he was an MC-teddy bear to me. So amazing with his rhyme scheme, yet I could play him to my mom and out the window back in high school. He was, back then, and now, a great MC.

Been doing a lot of driving lately, especially between FL's place and mine. She's in Ditmas Park, BK. I'm in Bed-Stuy/Crown Heights, BK. Night and day neighborhoods, yet I feel they are the same. None really want to live in them, but people do, and they are great in their own ways. Mine has a huge backyard; hers has air conditioning and way old trees. Man, by old, I'm talking trees from the 1800s.

So, there is where home has led me. I'm exhausted. And, must now end the post with a haiku:

Window, cats and beer,

dog barking in the backyard,

street lights on and pink.

Home (Unemployment #3)

Amazingly, the kid's head is still held high. I thought twice about going back through those old journals I own and adding them to this forum. Instead, I want to write about the day to day life at home and how I've been spending my time for the past month. So, I got laid off over my vacation before Spring vacation. Was in Scotland, on the isle of Arran and drinking great Scotch. The entire semester was prepared, all the work done. Out of four years working in the same place, it was the second time I'd repeat a semester. And, that is what kills me in its own way. I really do look for new shit to teach. New book, new ideas to spread to foreigners.

Anyway, back to home. I have spent the majority of my time here since I got laid off. The irony of the layoff and the timing of the neighborhood, albeit, a new one, Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, was not the street. It was an exhaust fan which faced my backyard. It was the most frustrating noise I can ever imagine hearing. I spoke to the owner of the restaurant where it was coming from. Called him. Sent him letters. Nothing. Finally, the DEP came and within an hour of their reading, the noise disappeared. Amazing. Yet, while at home, I wonder why it has to be that way. Why didn't the guy believe me? Why would I waste so much time even trying to make it better if it didn't really disturb me and the neighborhood?

On a lighter note, Kumo, the cat now sits on my lap. I'm not missing any baseball games at all. Yet, it is so lonely. You know that the rest of the world is at work. Your colleagues are at work. You know that the block feels some weird feeling that I see everything that goes on during the day. I hear it all. It just feels like the days go by and I don't have the balls to go to a temp agency because I don't want to work in an office again. It is not part of my pedigree. I'm a classroom guy, or at least some sort of man who can't wear good pants and a nice shirt to work every day.

Home. Home is numbing. It makes you buy music you wouldn't normally buy. It makes you check your credit. It makes you feel like you were really good at something and then wonder why you aren't doing it. It makes you sleep too late.

So now for the end of the night haiku:

Jerk chicken, Leigh Fox,

off to Chicago, my dear.

Sleeping on the couch.

Pavement Haiku

Dateline: Pittsburgh, PA. 1992.

Pies delivery.

Chinese Delivery then

"Summer Babe," shift gears.

The next post will be old, bad poems I've uncovered from those days.

Cant't wait til September.

The Unemployment Journal 2

Alex Chilton died while I was half-assed looking for a job. AC is a hero of mine, having discovered Big Star while still in High School and the soccer jocks were kicking their goals. They were September Girls, I thought as I delivered pizza or worked in Chinese restaurants, getting pimply and shit.

This past year has been been a strange one when I think about deaths of amazing singer/songwriters. Oddly enough, the other night I put on Be There to Love Me. That's a film about Townes Van Zant. Then, I read that Steve Earle had just written a a book about Townes. Then, I started thinking about my strong feelings about Townes and it revolved around TCW.

TCW and I used to get wild. He has a baby now, as does Lee, and we used to get wild, too. And you think, you pause, and you wonder why the radiator is bitching at you. You wonder what it would be like to just take it all in: a family, a job, a car, a __________

There is a man outside making music on a fence post, with a fork and something more metallic. It sounds great!

Death, though is a new beginning. Marriage is another new beginning, perhaps it is the death of of the individual. That is not a bad thing at all. Individualism has never truly existed as long as there are 5,000,000,000 other people in this world. Yet, you meet someone, and I mean, MEET someone and they meld into you. Aha, lucky!

So, back to AC. He met the guitar. He made music better than most of us ever will. He wrote songs that will stay with you for the rest of your life.

I am unemployed.

The Unemployment Journal 1

So, so , so. Whiskey and beer. And music. And a cover letter I worked my ass off to write have just seemed to disappear. It is all about the insecurity now. I've never been unemployed in my life. Since I was 16 years old, I worked at China Palace. At 18, Echo Hill for the summer, then restaurants. I am unsure of how long I'll be unemployed.

Some of my faithful readers must know I didn't leave the last job whilst in Scotland. Thou did not know he could be let go so easilieth.

And now he searcheth.... and all he feels is bitter....

It Might Get Loud

This might be my new favorite movie of all time. I played bass in a bad punk band in high school. Bought a guitar in 2000, left it with a neighbor in Williamsburg, as with all of my vinyl and left for Nippon. Never saw them again. I broke my finger and can't play chords anymore at all, but this film makes me want to pick up the guitar again and make noise. Get some pedals and see where it goes. Write songs again, or at least poetry.

Lastly, it makes me want to get a coke bottle and a piece of nylon and make something.

BTW, the Edge looks like a pussy in comparison to White and Page

Things

Well, just got off the phone with Lee. He told me that I need to update my blog.

It has been awhile. We have a new president. We have a recall by Toyota, ever faithful of all cars other than a Honda. Then I read that some Hondas are being recalled. And that makes me think of my car. A Honda. Then, I think of my body. A Pauley, which has a horrible track record.

Onto other things.

FL is already worried about layoffs. I am going back to Scotland for a vacation in February. Can't wait.