Family By Choice

Since I've been here on the west coast, I've read my friend's kid's daughter to sleep or near sleep.  Depending on the book, it took 5 minutes or 15 minutes.  Yet, my ex told me I'd be a bad father.  And that sort of astounds me.  I worked at Echo Hill Camp for years and had a hand in raising some amazing kids in my lifetime.  

So, I'm hanging out with Aya, playing the amazing castle-guessing game (which it is that amazing).  And she just wants to stop.  I was up 5 cards, but she just said, "Jon Pauley, let's play a different game."  Not, I quit, not I give up.  She said, "I know you are going to win and, you won, but let's try a different game."

And we did.  It was called Blockus??????  And she won.  Legit.

D is for Dishevelment, Dick, Destiny and December

In a few short hours from now, I'll be sitting on a tarmac, waiting for a plane to take off and get me the fuck out of this city until next year.  I'm beyond excited to escape so many things: migraines, ghosts, and disturbing, unrealistic dreams causing disruptive sleep.  The dreams may stay with me while gone, but at least the naked walls of my apartment will be banished.  It is so odd.   I look at my favorite poster, a Pavement one, and can't get myself to hang it on the wall.  Another one, an old, strange Paramount silent I've had for ages.  Nope.  I blink, look and just look away only to find it glaring at me.  Alas, that is dishevelment.  That is feeling cold on the inside so your surroundings do the same.  And, meteorologically, it has been a cold one here in New York.  So, while hiding under the covers and being rather anti-social, this boy has dug his nose in books. There was one thing I went back to, though and it was a gem.   I finally finished Moby Dick!

I started this leviathan of a book three years ago.  The first edition I had of it was a cheap, Barnes & Noble joke of a version.  It was next to impossible to read due to the lack of references.  The vernacular is old and the countries have changed names many times over.  After becoming frustrated while still in Nantucket, I shelved it.  While at the beach, as is it perfect to read at the beach, the pages began to fall out.  I finally tossed it out of frustration.  I knew there had to be more.  My best friend told me this was really a novel worth reading.  People who have read it said it is a monument to literature, unlike anything that came before it…..

I got the Norton Edition of Moby Dick and dug my teeth into it.  I re-read all I had before, but with page notations and it made so much more sense.  The biblical references were explained, as were coins, words, countries.  It became an adventure and a book that was beyond educational.  It was fun, adventurous and full of word play.  Then, other things popped up.  Moby Dick collected dust as other things needed to be read.  Life was changing!  Things were happening!  It sat by my bedside for two years.  Yet, I kept coming back to it….hoping this would be the time I would finish it.  The point is that it is a quite exhausting read.  It is a great deal of work to get through until the payoff.

I was on the phone with my friend Carl the other day and he referred to it as a cork ready to pop.  And, did it do that indeed!  I plowed through the last 140 dense, sweaty pages like a starving python in a cold place looking for warmth in prey.  The book really can devour you as you devour it, but only if you let it.  Melville breaks so many barriers.  He trashes convention in narrative storytelling and told the story he wanted to tell.  The lesson of Moby Dick is that you will never really find what you are looking for.  If you obsess over something that is unattainable, it will drive you mad.  That white whale is the analogy for everything you want but is unattainable.  All that shit has been said before, but what  Moby Dick did for me was prove that there is some sense of irrationality in what drives us to do anything.  The ending may end up being a calamity, or it may end up being peaches…..rosy even.  Moby Dick doesn't give us the rosy ending of misguided obsession.  Obsession is a cruel, dark (even though here it is white) brooding thing within each of us.  The point is can we control it before it breaks us and takes all we care about, even superficially, down with us?  A book that can force us to ask that question, ponder on it, go off on random sidesteps of interest and return to the obsession is what makes it so unique and beyond that, realistic in its scope.

An entirely different beast of a book is Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle.  WOW! This was a perfect follow up to Moby simply due to its brevity at only 146 pages.  I really ripped through this one.  It has such a dark sense of humor and general foreboding through all of those short pages up until the 100-120 page mark where shit truly hits the fan.  It is a sort of novella where you begin in a certain place and you know that place will, or its inhabitants will come back to haunt you.  The book deals with cruelty and misunderstanding to such an extent it is almost nauseating.  There is a good deal of repetition in this book, but it serves its purpose well.  It also makes it very human, as we do things in such a repetitive nature as well.  We avoid streets, people, places and things we feel as if could hurt us.  Whether or not that pain we might feel is a reality or not, we do our best to keep our distance.  I never thought of going through a daily existence as a board game until reading this.  Yet, it opens just like that.  There is strategy involved to avoid pain.  Two turns forward, three back on the next roll.  Five on the next and so on.  But, as in most games, as is the case here (and in life), the strategy becomes a moot point.  Sometimes things come to you and all of your devising gets thrown out the window…..

Finally there is the apt titled Tenth of December  by George Saunders.  This is an amazing collection of short stories.  I'm not done with it yet, but have already felt its profundity deep in my bones and heart.  He is an observer of human nature unlike any author I have read since Raymond Carver…on the short story level that is.  So, my dear readers, I will leave you with my favorite passage from this fine collection thus far.  It comes from Escape from Spiderhead.  Basically, it is about a guy who is serving a prison sentence without doing time but forced to participate in mental/physical experiments to not serve time.  What he endures is far worse.  This is the most beautiful and eloquent thing I have read in awhile.  Enjoy:

I sailed out right through the roof.
And hovered above it, looking down.  Here was Rogan, checking his neck tattoo in the mirror.  Here was Keith, squat-thrusting in his underwear.  Here was Ned Riley, here was B. Troper, here was Gail Orley, Stefan DeWitt, killers all, all bad, I guess, although in that instant, I saw it differently.  At birth, they'd been charged by God with the responsibility of growing into total fuckups.  Had they chosen this?  Was it their fault, as they tumbled out of the womb?  Had they aspired, covered in placental blood, to grow into harmers, dark forces, life enders?  In that first holy instant of breath/awareness (tiny hands clutching and unclutching), had it been their fondest hope to render (via gun, knife or brick) some innocent family bereft?  No; and yet their crooked destinies had lain dormant within them, seeds awaiting water and light to bring forth the most violent, life-poisoning flowers, said water/light actually being the requisite combination of neurological tendency and environmental activation that would transform them (transform us!) into earth's offal, murderers and foul us with the ultimate, unwashable transgression.  

On that note, I leave New York City with this:

17 Days

One of my favorite Prince songs is 17 Days.  It was the B-side on the When Doves Cry single.  It is a downer of a song about the sadness and pain he feels in not having had contact with someone for such a short period of time.  Moreso, that number of days is arbitrary; it could be months or even years  Anyway, the next set of haikus begins with a line borrowed from that song.

Let the rain come down,                            
drenching, soaking and lonely.
Coldest December

Must be a way out,

this vortex of misery

has become too much

So many corners,

places that have history,

unabridged in mind.

It's what could have been

those unreal conditionals.

The ifs and then some.

Keep on having dreams

of nonsense conversations.

Greatly lacking sleep.

Cold December air,

cutting wind and blowing dust,

nothing to protect.

Nothing is answered,

a plaintive face and slack arms,

all facing downward.

A lack of spirit,

walking alone through the streets,

ghostly air from lips.

My head is pounding,

the loudest like gongs ringing.

Troubling, piercing.

Many censored thoughts,

some recycled and some new,

the same conclusion.

When all bets are off

it feels  just like a mousetrap.

Small pellets of shit.

You have not left me.

I carry your memory.

A weighted burden.

I try not to look 

at hundreds of images,

great, botched reminders.

Fuck this  Christmas shit,

songs and all the pageantry

can go straight to hell.

There is deep anger,

inexplicable feelings

devoid of passion.

Sometimes one gets burnt,

the struggle to get past it.

The same as drowning.

There are strong people.

I know quite a few of them

much stronger than me.

Dark in the air shaft,

the weather as mystery.

Sun or not, dark days.

To go far out west

for simple escapism,

new geography.

I think about him,

all he introduced me to,

then took it away.

The cruelest of blue,

sparkling eyes that match the sky.

A black hole iris.

True, everything dies,

many wish to avoid it.

I'm sure its calming.

Over just one year,

all has been turned upside down.

A blind tsunami.

\

FLA Dispatch: AKA Family

As I write this, it is 59 degrees and I'm typing on my sister's back patio.  I guess that's chilly for Florida, but the warmth I feel is more than enough to finish this blog post.  Yet, it will be short.  My sister's kids are awesome.  Her daughter, Catie, is whip smart and had several well-earned high fives tonight.  There is a 10-week old kitten roaming around the house and a 9-year old dog.  It is all surreal and a far cry from "home."  Got a game date with Matthew to learn how to play Call of Duty tomorrow.  Grandma's broccoli casserole, a squash  recipe from the Times.  Family is what makes you feel good no matter what.  All of the bad that does flow through our veins, all of the misfortune and what the fuck questions that won't be answered are subsided in unexpected ways when you are with family.  And there are only two of us, immediate siblings that is…..and we are going through shit.  Yet, the love abounds.  Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers.

15 Cold Weather Haikus

Like a switch turned off.
The phosphene lasts forever.
Scattered and blurry.

The conversations,
from mundane to important
have ceased to exist.

Unrealistic dreams,
words I'll never hear for real,
a jarring wake-up.

To keep your secrets,
have internal dialogue
alienates us.

How they just creep up.
Some good and bad memories,
just to turn and shake.

Hard to look at them,
my photos from the last year.
The smiles, now frowns.

Now, for the first time
have painful, throbbing migraines.
They are beyond cruel.

The darker the day,
the longer they seem to last.
An eternal black.

Used to be so warm,
then all of this had happened.
A frosty icebox.

The same Brooklyn streets
are now redefined patterns
of yearning and loss.

Looking for patterns,
like fine stitches on a quilt.
Yet, all is static.

Dying to be back,
to my self.  Normality
seems light years away.

Heard of the headaches,
had never felt them before.
Pain you can't explain.

Alien city,
far detached and more removed,
as if it were Mars.

Frayed bones and a heart,
lean towards some type of flame.
Or at least embers.

Oh, Deer (Part I Maybe?)

One of the  things that has consistently stuck with me about riding out to Montauk was the number of deer I saw in the night.  They were everywhere.  Yet, I couldn't see them with my naked eye at all.  The last leg on my ride was pitch black, yet every car that came over any crescent, or not, be it flat, illuminated their eyes.  Rows and rows of odd glowing eyes peered out onto the road from bushes.  As I rode, my arms were wobbling and my headlight was next to useless.

This set of entries is dedicated to the deer and how they look at us.  I've been writing this for  a few days now and not sure how it is going, but these are the first few ideas/starting points I have:

I.

"I SEE YOU"

The absolute silence in which I traverse this world, man, will always confound you.  My ability to be allusive and non-combative must make you question everything about yourself.  I do not kill anything, nor do I want to see you kill my family.

II.

"I STAY AWAY"

I have to admit it, it does suck to always be in a sate of panic; running and hiding and hiding and running.  It really isn't that much fun.  It brings little joy to my life.  But, it is better than being in the open; the center of attention.  Your kind loves to "look at me" because it is temporary.  I will run away.

18 New Haikus

Down to one eighty,

nothing to be that proud of. 

Misery eating. 

Red-faced in mirror,

memories of cactus spine

lodged deep in my foot. 

There are many days,

all come and go and pass by. 

Yet, some stick with you. 

Way too much of it. 

Blasting eternal Fridays

blend into next days. 

Faulty wiring

like fireworks, off and on. 

Blinking and reeling. 

Imaginary

streets populated with ghosts

All just drifting by. 

She is an echo,

such as she always comes back

in explosive ways. 

Avenues for miles,

all leading to my dark heart

lacking a crosswalk. 

Many addresses,

all home at one point of time. 

Never really home. 

They are passing by.....

cars, meteors, people, deer. 

Pausing for a min. 

At a coffee shop,

Crying woman to my right

absorb all her pain. 

Unabashedly 

and listlessly reeling on. 

Time is suspended. 

Dying to feel it. 

Weightlessness and lost spinning. 

Abandon control. 

Topsy & turvy,

to be surrounded by kids. 

So much kind laughter. 

And they have reached out,

only to pull far away. 

A heart demolished. 

Movies about boats. 

Utter sea devastation. 

A man left alone. 

Dreaming of ocean

or another vast expanse

to soak all away. 

Rush water on me,

Running water doesn't work, 

not at all cleansing.  

Family

So that is my mother.  Beautiful.  Young and vibrant.  Yet, she had such a dark past.  She was beaten by a drunken aunt underneath a kitchen table once.  I recall a big fight we had in high school when she pulled that card….."Well, at least you weren't beaten by your aunt as a child…"  Those were the last words I heard as I stormed out of the house as an angry 16-year-old boy.  Can't recall exactly what I was angry about.  Yet, was angry nonetheless.  That is an undercurrent in my family.  Anger.  My sister has a case of it, I have a case of it and it never really seems to subside when you need it to.  But, that is family.  You know each other and you know how it ebbs and flows.  You know when to take a break from eating at each other and you know when to dig in.  Somehow, you just know.

I'm leaving out a picture of my father for a later post.  It's creepy how much I look like him.  Yet, I am very different from my father, but the same in ways, I act like him and don't want to die like him….heart attack with newspaper in hand (I still get the daily paper, subscribed, and never thought about that until now), and found in between the front door and the main door of his house.  I'm leaving out his photo for now because I'm at the point where I remind myself too much of him.  Everyone loved him except for his wife, my mom.  Yet, they were 16 years in the marriage wormhole.  My father punched a huge hole in the wall when my mother spoke of leaving him.  Never thought she would, I guess.

And this is me, just a little over a year ago.  Happy as a lark.  Really, really happy.  Yet, this darkness crept in.  Could that be my father?  My mother's father running through my veins (he straight up abandoned her after she was born)?  Could it be our inability to make a child when everyone else around was able to do so?  Could it be drinking too much?   These are the questions that swirl and swirl, tilt and whirl around my mind when I get to the concept of family.  I keep on swinging back to the idea that my family was too fucked up to let me experience one of my own.  That, in a weird way, or not weird at all, I'm not supposed to plant a seed in this world.  My family's soil is too tainted, the earth too broken in our veins of life, to make anything grow.  And with that idea, I will crash.  Wondering what exactly it is that makes me fail at being a father I'm not even allowed to be, a husband who can't even be given the chance to work on his faults.

My definition of family is not what it is supposed to be.  It is defined as temporary and that……..sucks.

The Long Journey (Brooklyn to Montauk) The End

The beginning of this last and final entry is lacking a photo to start, as there were few chances to really stop and the sky's light was fleeting….but there is photo porn at the end.  It was getting closer and closer to darkness and  the ability to see the road was going to wain.  The time was slipping away and really didn't want to be on the road that late.  As posted in an earlier portion of the blog, I was pissed I had slept in, but if I hadn't a lot of the meaningful parts of this trip wouldn't have occurred.  So, I rode past Hampton Bays, which was the last photo of the earlier Montauk entry….blue skies, filled with grey and white patches of cloud and then onto South Hampton, which according to my GPS was about 97-98 miles and just about under 8 hours.  There are these Indian reservations all along old Montauk Highway selling cheap cigarettes.  I pull into one, asking for a pack of American Spirits.  They don't sell them.  I move on.  For the ENTIRE ride, I hadn't passed another person on a bike and then see this kid in front of me.

For my life, I felt as if I must catch up to him.

"Hey man, how are you?"

"Good.  You?"

"Good, too.  Where are you riding from?"

"Brooklyn."

And that is the first what the fuck moment of the ride.  Another comes shortly after that.  So, meet this kid, Matty, from Brooklyn and he becomes this inspiration in a way.  He is 24, young as shit on a fixie on his way out to Montauk keeping a 16mph pace.  My god, he was like an angel from heaven.  I felt as if I were slowing down……getting tired…..just pedaling.  But, this kid coming from the same place, doing the same ride I was, was exactly the jolt I needed….on a single speed fucking bike no less!

We got to talking while riding, hit some hill in East Hampton and right before that happened, he asked me where I was originally from.  I told him Pittsburgh.  The guy is from the same fucking place.  Really?  Pittsburgh.  Amazing and surreal blood begins to flow through my veins.  It didn't matter if I had a hotel booked or not, this shit was happening.

And, to not go into exposition, the conversation Matty and me had was beyond amazing.  He showed me photos of his work.  Incredible!

So, we keep riding to Amagansett.  He has some work that he wants to show to a gallery owner out there.  I carry on.

From Amagansett to Montauk is still another 11 miles.  Again, I wish I had a photo, at least one.  But it was about 6:00 or so then.  Sun setting.  Miles to ride.  On and on, beautiful landscape, focusing too much on pavement as the sun is now down to really focus on it.  My phone was down to 1% battery.

Dark now.  Really dark.  There is a crossroads on Rte. 27.  Old Montauk Highway or Rte. 27.  I turn to my left, 27.  Climb a crazy hill.  My headlight on my bike was dying.  No phone to see where I really am.  Climbing, climbing, climbing.  That hill was great at night.  I couldn't see its height so it didn't ruin me.  So, get to the crest and it's awesome riding, rolling, dipper hills....  Then after a few minutes, I look to my right and see all of these lights.  Should I have stayed on the old road?  I panic.

Stupidly, I turn around and go back down the hill, get on the other road and take the long ass, scary, nowhere ride on Old Montauk Highway into town.

Upon getting to the circle of Montauk, I am exhausted. Spent.  Done.  Such a shitty detour.  I search my pockets for the original cue I had.  Gone.  Back pocket, panic.  Left pocket, panic……no idea of the exact name or address of where I'm staying as it was all on that sheet of paper.

All I knew is that is was Kenny's?????something?????Inn????

I got directions, was told it was "about" three miles away on the harbor and up a hill.  Fuck.  Another hill.  As I was climbing the last ascent of the ride, my arms were incredibly wobbly.  My dying front light was splayed across the road in such awkward directions.  Exhausted, and kinda like Alien, a new fear set in.  Deer.  Every car behind me displayed them.  Silent to my right.  Scary shit, actually really scary shit.  Alas, the final descent and then the hotel.  135 miles or so, 10.5 hours.

The rest of the trip looked like this (the last photo is Matty from PGH, a bit of a knucklehead, but a rare one) :

Passed Through:  Southampton, Water Mill, Sagaponack, East Hampton, Amagansett, MONTAUK!

Heavy Rotation 11-2-13

It isn't often one comes across an album and thinks Jesus, this is beautiful.  Luckily, this gem of a record was discovered by yours truly this weekend.  As of now, I've listened to it seven times today.  It has turned out to be a great companion piece to this week's second selection in this entry.  But, we'll get to that later, as it deserves its own space.  This, Mutual Benefit project is amazing.  Most remarkable is that the kid who made it is a 25-year-old named Jordan Lee.  As I get older, 14 years removed form a 25-year old-life, I become more and more amazed by what kinds of music these kids are capable of making.  Moreso, this young kid has created a consistent atmosphere.  The songs feel extremely cinematic and intimate in nature....like you've been there before.  They are layered and layered and linger far after they end.  Usually, someone has to go through some life shit to make music like this.  As of yet, I haven't done much research on Jordan Lee, yet the lyrics and sound make me think he had to have gone through something to be able to develop and nurture these compositions.  Hotels are mentioned and I wonder how he knows them so intimately.  Why was he staying in one?  How can the sounds surrounding the words make you feel as if you are really there with him?  It is all based on atmosphere.  Spooky, yet hopeful.  I wouldn't be shocked if this becomes my favorite album of the year.  Looking forward to listening to it with all the lights off and a candle burning.  Not there yet, but pretty close.  It would only enhance its beauty and simplicity of even how it is recorded.




Finally, there is this...

Pat Noecker is someone I am proud to know.  He explained Transmissions in A and E to me a couple of times, but the concept was so abstract and hard to envision.  I couldn't really "see" it.  The outcome is phenomenal, rich and filled with surprising sonic textures.  Although this obviously wasn't released as a recording, the video proves there is a way sound exists and it can change our environment through its complexity.  Pat controlled the initial sounds through his iPhone.  That is something I greatly respect about this project.  It is experimental as shit.  And that brings me back to the first sentence about this piece and about this work.  I feel like Pat took risks to make this happen.  Of course, it was practiced to an extent, but it is still an experiment in sound and a magical one at that.  I'm not going to give that much away, as it needs to be seen and heard  to fully appreciate it, but here is the concept in a nutshell: Pat played the tone/note of A through an app on his phone, looped it and then had 11 other instrumentalists meet the key.  Instrument after instrument, adding to the layers of a consistent and solid sound to a pitch.  Later, this same concept is repeated in E.  Amazing.

His tumblr/blog is here and it is a good read: Pat's blog

The Long Journey (Brooklyn to Montauk) Part II

Part of the rationale of this long ride was to get out of my head.  As of late, my mind has been contaminated in unexpected ways.  Riding is that opportunity to get out my mind and just not think for an extended period of time.  The repetitive action of pumping the pedals, pulling your legs back up then thrusting them down again becomes all that matters.  The repetition and knowledge of traveling distance is cleansing.  It is, if only momentarily, healing and being 60 miles away from home was lovely as well.  Montauk was getting closer and reaching the destination became all-consuming.  That was all there was to focus on.  

And that is where I left off a few days ago.  Patchogue was surprisingly cool.  It is a town I plan to revisit in the future and maybe get to know a little better. The time at this point was about five after three in the afternoon and needed to cover some major distance.  This was when the very important aspect of continuing moving without stopping became all important.  There was major distance to cover and it was getting late.  The idea of catching the sunset out there was becoming more and more fleeting and seemingly impossible.  That was okay at this point.  I paid for a hotel room out there, so refused to eat the $140 that cost.  I was going to get there, but stopping would have to become something I did very little of.  There were also friends who went out to surf in Montauk and I really wanted to see them there.  They were these secret motivators to ensure I completed the ride.  Nichole is a co-worker of mine and her husband, Justin, celebrated his birthday the day before.  Seeing them in such a different context would be amazing.  So, they deserve a major shout out for being silent enablers to keep me moving along the highway.

The air out on Long Island changed.  Even though there was a constant flow of cars to my left, the sea was to my right and although I could't really see all that much of it at this point, you still knew it was so close.  25 miles later, I reached the town of Quogue.  I hadn't been there in more than ten years. I recalled an inn I stayed in that was right on the water, but cannot remember the name of it for my life…..  It was beautiful and quite surreal.  My companion and I arrived there after work and quite late on a Friday night.  There was a note left for us explaining how to find our room.  There was also this gigantic hound dog, with humongous, floppy ears and massively overweight.  His eyes were bloodshot. He pretty much lived on a beer diet and I find that to be extremely depressing now, but back then I thought it was kind of romantic.  The owner placed a beer tap at the check-in desk and it was to be consumed on an honor system of paying something like two dollars a pint.  I'm pretty sure I was extremely dishonorable.

The next town was Hampton Bays and the road hugs the water and your lungs are filled with salt water air and it feels great.  Seeing towns with "Hampton" in their names became another major boost.  You just know you're getting closer, but just not close enough.  But, you know you're getting there and you're feeling invigorated even with a drastic headwind blowing against you.  Man, the wind on most of the ride was working hard against me.  At times it felt a bit defeating, like the earth itself was rooting against me.  Perhaps, that is just my self-defeating mind frame these days, but those crazy, asinine thoughts worked their way back into my mind.  The thoughts don't truly go away, but they are kept at bay for hours at a clip.  But, like flies to shit, they make their way back and need to be pushed out again.  Alas, the pedaling continues and you keep on going……….

Areas passed through:  Bellport, Brookhaven, Shirley, Mastic, Moriches, East Moriches, Westhampton, Quogue, East Quogue, Hampton Bays.

Heavy Rotation 10-24-13

Thus far, this week has been brutal. It has been one of those nosedives of a week where everything feels dreadfully sad and off.  There is also the realization that Daylight Savings Time begins next Sunday and I'm dreading the short, dark days.  The sunlight will be surely missed.  These two albums have been working for me through a week of literal and figurative nightmares.

Emancipated Hearts - Dean Wareham

It is great to hear a new Dean Wareham album without Britta as his singing partner.  She is on this EP, but she is just there as a background voice, not in the forefront and that is a blessing because these collections of songs sound like old Dean Wareham tunes.  The opening track, Love is Colder Than Death is kind of crushing, but beautiful in its simplicity.  It is a song about a failed relationship, yes, but it also feels like the season....dark skies, vices, unanswerable questions.  The great thing about Wareham is that he is at his best when he is a minimalist and this collection of songs feels pretty sparse at times, both lyrically and instrumentally.  That doesn't mean it is empty, far from it because it is the best thing he has released in years.  In all there are 5 new songs, a remix of the title track and two covers.  I hope he continues to record solo because he is a solid songwriter and musician on his own. One last thing, Jason Quever, as noted on the album artwork, is the producer.  He is from Papercuts and I think this pairing is a perfect one.  Possibly, Dean needed a pretty young kid to remind him where he should be returning to as a musician.

The video for Love is Colder Than Death can be found here: http://vimeo.com/75818830

The Modern Lovers - The Modern Lovers

There isn't much to write about this one that hasn't already been written.  It is a classic, but it keeps on returning musical gifts. At times, so sarcastic, while at others, utterly heartbreaking and full of longing, it just keeps on giving year after year, phase after phase. Hospital has been haunting me for days and can't stop listening to it.

Other Stuff:

IABF - Les Thugs
The Dirt of Luck - Helium
Hip Priest and Kamerads - The Fall
Nature Noir - Crystal Stilts
Diaper Island - Chad VanGaalen

The Long Journey (Brooklyn to Montauk) Part I

This entry begins with this image, taken last Friday night before the journey began.  The Empire Drive-In was located in Corona in a parking lot outside of The New York Hall of Science.  Getting there was a 10-mile ride and hairy as hell at times due to having to ride on Woodhaven Boulevard at night.  But, man this place was incredible.  A group of artists got a bunch of salvage yard cars and piled them on top of one another.  You had the option to sit in them or on top of the roof.  We chose the roof of a late 80s (?) maroon Ford Taurus.  It was a sort of bike night sponsored by Transportation Alternatives and the feature film was Breaking Away.  I totally forgot how amazing of a film it is.  It's funny, romantic and has some great bike porn in it.  The timing of seeing this gem was beyond one of strangeness.  It was literally showing the night before going out to the farthest point of Long Island.  It was a night of inspiration, to say the least.  There was a full, blood moon, the ride back was smooth and avoided any major roads, cemeteries zoomed past, quite a few of them actually, and then we got to enjoy a cold beer on Washington Avenue once back in Prospect Heights.

The morning came a lot quicker than I had anticipated.  I mean, bam!  There she is and I overslept a bit, which definitely turned out to be a good thing.  I really needed the energy later in the day.  But, I was pissed at myself in the morning.  Ended up waking up a hair before 7:30.  My original plan was to be on the road by 6:00, with an alarm set for 5:15.  One of the main objectives of the trip was to see the sunset in Montauk proper.  My hotel was purposely located on the harbor to make things easier.  Obviously, with an actual start time of 8:30, that wasn't going to happen.  After the initial feelings of self-loathing passed, I was able to have a bit of coffee, hop in the shower and get shit going.  Ended up leaving the apartment with a pack that weighed about 20-25 lbs.  That added weight was something I hadn't really thought about when planning.  I mean, I packed as lightly as possible, but it took some getting used to.  It was still pretty early for the city on a Saturday morning and the traffic on the initial avenues (Washington and Myrtle) were pretty light and breezy.  Then, out in Queens, Merrick Boulevard began.  Jesus Christ that was that fucking awful.  Zooming traffic, double parking, doors opening and jaywalking people galore.  It was awful as all hell for miles.  It was the segment of the trip where I thought my eminent death was a real and likely possibility.  Then you are in Nassau County and Merrick Blvd. turns into Merrick Road and thins out a bit.  Luckily, the cue sheet I was using got me off that road for a bit and onto wonderfully mellow, suburban streets.  You could take normal breaths again and all the bicycling risks subsided.  It was lovely.

The first stop was in the notoriously haunted village of Amityville.  This was an unplanned stop, but had to be made.  It also turned out to be about 34 miles of riding at that point and nearly three solid hours of pedaling.  The Amityville Horror is one of my favorite haunted house movies.  It is pretty bad, but in the Run-DMC good way.  I have been on the LIRR many times and my eyes always light up when we hit the Amityville station, yet I had never really stepped foot in the town.  Lucky for this horror movie obsessed boy, I was able to ride through all of Amityville.  It was a kind of dream come true.  It is important to note that the mileage at this point of the ride really means nothing to me.  It is a walk in the park and the adrenaline is pumping, just by being on Long Island and starting to feel a bit far from the city.  And, I'm finally in Amityville!  The ride continued and the next stop I made was in Babylon.  One of my best friend's wife is from here and have been to this town a number of times.  There was an autumn festival going on and my cue sheet was a mess, seemingly taking me all over the southern end of Long Island.  I asked some Babylonians (ha!) for directions to Montauk Highway and just made my way to it.  Montauk Highway becomes Main Street in many towns, so there was a Halloween parade in Sayville.  Tons of cute little kids in costume, fire trucks with all of their doors open, rides.  It was awesome and felt like I had gone back in time.  It is one of the first times I felt as if these near parts of Long Island could actually be beautiful!  Sayville was 55 miles in and my arrival time was 1:05.  

And here is the fact of the matter and where things become important.  This point is not even the fucking halfway point and that extra two hours of sleep begins to creep their minutes of importance through my body.  I have to admit I was feeling amped, but starting to feel some negative energy coming from parts of my body.  At that point, my neck muscles were starting to ache.  They weren't bitching and moaning, but they were starting to tell me they were getting a bit cranky.  My knees also began to start to feel a bit weird here.  It felt amazing when they popped.  I'm not exactly sure what is working when that happens, but man, it is heavenly!  This was also the point where the straight up concept of self-discipline kicked in.  There would be no more stopping for at least 90 minute or so intervals.  That became a weird mental trick as well, as checking the watch every three to five minutes was torturous.  And, right after setting that rule, I came to Patchogue and stopped.  I just needed electrolytes...big time and water.  So, got a Poland Spring and a Gatorade and felt amazing after consuming those.  That was 60 miles.  Still, just under the halfway point.

Areas ridden through:  Brooklyn, Queens, Valley Stream, Lynbrook, Rockville Center, Baldwin, Freeport, Merrick, Bellmore, Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville, Copague, Lindenhurst, Babylon, Bay Shore, Islip, East Islip, Oakdale, West Sayville, Sayville, Patchogue.

Montauk Solo

Stuck on the concept of alone. It's odd as I'm addicted to biking and prepping to get my ass in gear for a solo ride to Montauk this weekend. I'm thinking if I do it solo, it'll be a quick trip. At the same time, I have no other option. Nary a soul I know wants to do that ride with me. And, to be honest, it is a long as hell ride. Yet, there is a reward: the ocean. Montauk is gorgeous and I think the actual ride out there could be one of those Gamechanger rides!  It's 126-140 miles or so and I'm hoping it'll be as flat as flat can be to maintain 16 mph throughout it. I'm imagining leaving at 6:00 and getting there by 4:00. The sun should still be up and there would be time to visually soak in the sea. Actually, I think I'd focus on all five senses:

The one I'd be most content with, obviously, would be sight. Seeing the ocean and stars, STARS, out in Montauk would be priceless. The stars there aren't Outer Banks stars, but they are close to that end of the earth shit as you can get outside of NYC.  Like Outer Banks beaches, they are wide, expansive and wavy

The scent of Coney Island or Rockaway Beach does not always equate a "good" smell.  There are exhaust fumes, sweaty people galore and the city to contend with.  Old Montauk Highway on the other hand will smell like the sea.  There is a scent that only exists when you are close to the ocean.  The salt itself and the dunes.......inhalation.  Mmmmmm, just like fresh-baked cookies.  Then, when there it is pure, unadulterated ocean.

The sense of taste is an odd one.  Sweat tastes like the sea in so many ways.  I'm kinda sure I'll be sweaty as all hell.  It is a long ride after all.  Yet, the ocean taste differs from sweat.  How?  I don't really know, but will get back to this in a later post and after I complete the journey.

Touch!  All I need to say is sand.  Sand between toes, stuck in your hair, in your bed sheets.  Even after you get home you find it everywhere.  It is annoying and a reminder at the same time.  The sand that returns back with you says summer.  Or, at least it reminds you of those long days when they don't exist anymore.  At this point, I"m making a personal check list to bring a small bottle of it back with me to remind me of what is ahead after these winter days.....

Finally, there is the sense of sound, of hearing.  The thing I am most excited for on this ride is to get the fuck out of the auditory realm of the city.  I envision getting out of NYC, then getting into Long Island where the passing cars will become wavelike on their own.  Then getting onto Old Montauk Highway and noticing the traffic to become less and less as I pedal.  I'm hoping that, at that point, I'll actually hear gulls and the rustle of a breeze through the grass.  Finally, after truly reaching Montauk, there will only be the sound of waves clapping the shore.  The waves and me.  Just hoping my thoughts, negative and brooding, do not overpower them.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Biking

I'm just about to finish Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.  It's a book about running, yes, but also writing and self-discipline.  He always returns to the point that there are days when you don't feel like doing something but you have to do it because it must become routine or things (muscles, thoughts, etc.) will fall apart if you become lazy with something that ends up making you feel so good after you do it.

Since July 24, I have ridden 874 miles, without counting my daily commute to work or random errands to and from places.  The following passage comes from the first chapter and is one that has really resonated with me.  In the original text Murakami is writing about long-distance running.  I changed any word mentioning run or running with bike or biking and then it became a pretty amazing passage to describe thoughts and feelings that occur while riding for distance:

I'm often asked what I think about as I bike.  Usually the people who ask this have never biked long distances themselves.  I always ponder the question.  What exactly do I think about when I'm biking?  I don't have a clue.

On cold days I think a little about how cold it is.  And about the heat on hot days.  When I'm sad I think a little about sadness.  When I'm happy I think a little about happiness.  As I mentioned before, random memories come to me too......But really as I bike, I don't think much of anything worth mentioning.

I just bike.  I bike in a void.  Or maybe I should put it the other way; I bike in order to acquire a void.  But as you might expect, an occasional thought will slip into this void.  People's minds can't be a complete blank.  Human beings' emotions are not strong or consistent enough to maintain a vacuum.  What I mean is, the kinds of thoughts and ideas that invade my emotions as I bike remain subordinate to that void.  Lacking content, they are just random thoughts that gather around that central void.

The thoughts that occur to me while I'm biking are like clouds in the sky.  Clouds of all different sizes.  They come and they go, while the sky remains the same sky as always.  The clouds are mere guests in the sky that pass away and vanish, leaving behind the sky.  The sky both exists and doesn't exist.  It has substance and at the same time doesn't.  And we merely accept that vast expanse and and drink it in.  

Heavy Rotation 10-11-13

Man, way out of sync.  There is nothing new here this week, but there is one old gem I love more than most these days

Copenhagen-Galaxie 500

This is not even a Galaxie 500 album proper, yet it contains every G500 song I could think of at this point of time in my life.  It is a perfect now record.  It is a record for listening to on a Friday, when you feel dead on the inside, when you are asking yourself, why did I give a shit about anyone?  And, then it answers those questions.  It answers them as indirectly as anyone could ever possibly answer those shitty questions.  Yet, the album is also a live recording.  The Wareham solos, when he was young, make you feel solidity in a void of whirls and are priceless.  There are some tracks off their last LP, which sound great live.  Yet, it is the solid bookending of the set that leaves you in awe.  To begin with "Decomposing Trees" and end with a completely different and new rendition of "Don't Let our Youth Go to Waste"is beyond brilliant for a set.  There are very few things to ask for or demand after a set like that.

The Gravity of Gravity

Last night, I went to see Gravity, a film by Alfonso Cuarón .  He directed Children of Men, which is a movie I am proud to own and blew me away when I first saw it.  It felt like a master class in filmmaking because of what it accomplished in single takes and the story was so fresh, new and frightening.  But, nothing can really prepare you for Gravity.  It is an experience unlike any other one I have had in a movie theater.

A lot has been written about how long it took to make and the technology designed and implemented to finish it.  What Cuarón accomplished is nothing short of breathtaking.  The film begins with a single shot that lasts for maybe twenty minutes.  There are no cuts and its meandering pace sets the film up beautifully.  Even more, because the scene is so long and there is so much to take in visually, it immerses you in the space of space.  It feels like you are really there with these astronauts because you have the opportunity to take it in as if you were out there with them.  You can compare it to visiting a scenic expanse of land.  When you get there, you are in awe.  You breathe and look all around your surroundings and you have the time to do so. You want to interact with those surroundings, have it absorb you and become one with it.  The opening shots of Gravity accomplish that same feeling except it is a place very, very few of us will ever see.  We are privileged to be there for 90 intense minutes where 3D is not used as a gimmick.  It is used to allow you to feel what it might be like to spin, dive and drop out of control in space.

Gravity also manages to make you feel very, very scared.  It constantly teases you by showing Earth from so far away, yet you can't get back to it.  In this film, outer space itself is a horrifying place all on  its own.  You don't need aliens or black-clad enemies to accomplish a sense of dread and doom.  Just being alone in a place that is unforgiving and impossible to live in without technology is enough to give you nightmares if you really think about it.  There is a line, where Ryan, Sandra Bullock's character, tells Kowalski (Clooney) that the silence of space is her favorite part of it.  Yet, as she delivers that line, there really isn't all that much silence as Earth is constantly communicating with them via radio.  That silence, or void, doesn't become so ironic and damning until shit falls apart and that happens very quickly.  What Ryan thought she loved so much becomes terrifying and crippling.

The very concept of being alone is brought to new levels as well.  We have all been alone, obviously. But, being utterly alone in space, thousands and thousands of miles from this orb we live on, is profound.  There is no safe place you can go.  In our lives, we have people and places we can go to for comfort.  We can hug someone or cry on their shoulder.  We have oases to make us feel better about things.  In Gravity, that option doesn't exist.  Instead, there are only things that can physically hurt you or you are left to your own devices to mentally hurt yourself and give in to the concept of death.  The imagined "alone" in Gravity is one of the most terrifying aspects of it, yet it is something (thankfully) many of us will never feel.  Our fears of being alone, living alone and dying alone are exploited in such a visceral manner, you almost want to grab someone after the movie is over and say, "I am here!  And, so are you!  Let's make the most of this shit simply because we are not fucking alone."  That is something I have never felt after seeing a movie because there has never been a film like this one.

Cats, Pirates and Ponds, Pirates, Ponds and Cats, Ponds, Pirates, and Cats

Pirates

To begin, I must state how happy I am for my hometown Pittsburgh Pirates.  I never left you and followed you even through the worst of years.  I became a Yankee fan while out here, switched divisions and all.  My grandmother was pretty upset when I told her that after only living in the city for a year.  But, grams, I pleaded, possibly over Thanksgiving dinner, the 98' Yankees were an incredible team.  I lived with Carlos then and he was born and raised a Yankee fan and to watch games with him, to see young Mo on our TV that summer was priceless.  Amazing, actually.  See, my grandma would watch Pirates games in the evenings with a meal she had cooked for herself and sip one Iron City beer throughout nine innings.  It was beautiful and her devotion to that team was one never fleeting.  Every fucking night in the summer, there she was: IC Light/dinner/talking to the TV.  I'll never forget that about her and I know, good bless her soul that made it 94 years, that she would be so proud right now.  Yet, she'd be a realist and know that 9 innings of ball is a lot of ball and you can't get too excited about anything until they really win it all.  (Photo above is courtesy of Lee Mazzola and Harvey Hawkens Ehrbar)

Cats

Kumo and Apache are getting along pretty well.  Sadly, the only chance I get to take a picture is when they aren't.  The one above is a rarity.  Apache is 6 months old and 98 percent grey.  His nose, which I'm obsessed with, is totally grey.  He is named Apache in homage to Commanche, the best cat I have ever owned, pure black, and was a soul who could read into everything.  His primary motive in life was to provide comfort.  Kumo, my 9-year-old boy has been taking it pretty well.  He is meowing and following me around less.  He is cool with the little guy until he wants to play.  Then, Apache gets defensive and hisses, growls, etc.  Yet, he is growing and sitting at the window as I type staring at busy Washington Avenue, amazed by it all.  He is taking big kitty strides.  Kumo, on the other hand, needs to regress.

Ponds

Today's ride, a 54-miler, took me to Forest Park, Cunningham Park, Alley Pond Park and then out to Port Washington in Long Island.  It was a great ride at points.  The above photo is from Cunningham Park which connects to Alley Pond Park.  Gorgeous urban, tree-lined trails abounded in both, yet neither are that long.  My riding partner, Joe, told me that some of the oldest trees in NYC exist in these two parks.  All of those parks in the city are awesome to ride, especially if the weather was as shitty as today (so few pedestrians).  It began with a mist  and then a drizzle and then it was just......moist?  Took a smoke break (stupid, I know) about 12-14 miles in and got munched by mosquitos.  There were dozens of trails to veer off on, but we decided to stick to our plan.  Make it to Port Washington.  So, on we rode on Northern Boulevard, which is hairy as all hell, lots of fast-moving traffic, but hills to die for.  At least going down them were to die for.  Climbing them, not so much.  Then you are in Nassau County.  It happens quickly, actually and it is a time when you realize how fucking packed in we are in so little space.  Manhassett is next, which has an old art deco theater I wish I snapped a shot of, but then that would have required stopping and that would have sucked.  Finally, after dips and curves and some more hills you arrive in Port Washington.  It is a quaint, little town and we sat and talked about Sandy.  Had she ruined it?  We looked around at the grass and lack of water damage.  We assumed she hadn't.

And, so another weekend rolled by.  Other good stuff happened...got to see some really old, good friends uptown, got news an old friend got a new job doing what she would (really) love and is getting out of a shitty work environment, and I know I have to listen to more of The Fall.

Heavy Rotation 10-4-13

Earl Sweatshirt-Doris

The West Coast hip-hop movement has been filled with moments of brilliance, violence and straight up silliness.  Quasimoto was this guy back in the day who got kind of emotional at times.  Perhaps, Drake’s openness framed Earl Sweatshirt’s, yet it feels so much more raw, straightforward and honest.  Earl says, directly, “I’m depressed.”  What?  An MC letting his guard down that low is a pretty new thing to me.  Then, on the other hand there is a song about fucking freckles off a bitch’s face.  So, it is a mixed bag of maturity.  Yet, unlike Drake, who pours out his heart again and again, this kid is still protecting it.  He is only 21 or something and he should protect it.  Yet, this album has some of the best sounding beats I’ve heard in a while (since early Qausimoto/GZA?) and his delivery is priceless. 

Sonny and the Sunsets-Longtime Companion

This album came out in 2012 and he has a new one this year, which is also really good.  I’m spacing the title at this point, but it is really good and has a bit better production value than this one.  I looked up Sonny’s name beforehand, but I want to make you, dear readers look that up yourselves because it is fun to investigate things on your own.  Anyway, this amazing album came up as a recommendation on Spotify.  I listened to it and I thought, this is a divorce album.  It turns out it was.  Yet, what is brilliant about it is that it is as open as open can be.  He spares us from too many personal experiences, which could alienate a shitty episode from listeners.  You know that he and his wife had spilt up, yet he makes that break up as universal as possible.  You feel him, in ways, kind of letting go as he sings, yet you’re not sure if he wants to give her up completely.  His voice only says so much.

Other Stuff:

Galaxie 500- This is Our Music

Townes Van Zandt- Live at the Old Quarter

Bruce Springsteen- Nebraska

Pavement-Slanted & Enchanted

Drake- Nothing Was the Same

Neil Young-Zuma