Wednesday, August 13, 2014

The Laying of Wreaths



These memories of youth recede further into the sunset with each passing day, days that seem so old now that they could be sepia tinted in the bursting of the dotcom bubble, the time of hand over fist money and living hand to mouth, these days that make up part of this colorful tapestry known as a lifetime, a bright and dangerous corner embroidered with blood and sweat and laughter, and i keep saying i'm going to write it all down but as we know the days can slip away faster than a poor man's money, these days strung upon days, Raskolnikov's Blues and Goodbye to the Billy Goat, these tales that have been spun in bars and park benches and lying sweaty in bed next to some strange female, they are there and they are floating through the ether waiting to be gathered up like so many lost flowers and planted in the most meaningless of places...

A woman who claims to love me was chastising me from across a wooden picnic table painted white, she said i could talk to anyone, and apparently this bothered her, i stated i could listen as well and by this statement she was not amused, maybe angered but not amused and as i stood and gazed at the beautiful drops of water beading on the amber bottle there was nothing left to do but listen and gaze off into the trees and dream of the clouds i could not see, as there was no use in defending the indefensible, it was best to take the switch and show as little pain as possible, and it was not my gig and i wandered aimlessly like a ghost, the cold beer and hot sun my only lovers and i dreamt back to those days strung upon days and these days stringing upon days and i said to no one in particular that it's time to write it all down, to make empty promises to every cat in the house, and you will succeed yes you will indeed at least that's what the man said, and why don't we stand up and yell bullshit? we'll just have to let each and every one of us define the S word in whichever way their heart desires and then it won't much matter, it won't much matter at all...





Friday, August 1, 2014

The Old Man Diaries

They called it Boyo Night, and it was, we played games and ate tacos, had a Klondike Bar, it wasn't anything astounding and yet it was one of the most beautiful fucking evenings of my life, there are times when you write things down cuz you want to remember them, no other reason, just so you can look back and smile, they spent the night smiling and laughing and then they dragged themselves towards their rooms, spent from the futbol and the park and the games, at one point i stood and listened to the wind and watched the blue light grow darker, i wondered why i always had problems remembering days like today... and then it struck me, we remember and we forget, if only to be surprised by it's beauty the next time it happens, to keep it sacred, to hold it up and gaze at it in wonder... trying to figure out how the simplest most ordinary of days can have more meaning than years of running the streets and looking for some unknown truth and yet now here the truth sits, clutching his stuffed bird or propped up and reading a book in his bed...

And so i post this clip again, it's the closest i can come sonically to how today felt, if that makes sense... and of course because i have sung both these songs to both the boyos, ND has turned 5 and i know that soon he won't want me to sing to him anymore, especially cuz the old man doesn't always sing the traditional songs and because most likely his singing voice is shit, but it's coming and i know it, i'm lucky, i get to put the boyos to bed every night, i know soon that will end and they won't need the old man to read or sing or just lay there and talk, when i'm brutally honest i know i'll miss it alot more than they'll ever know... all i want in life's a little bit of love to take the pain away...

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Another Night at the Opera



A scant ten minutes drive through from the tree lined, feather pillow i call home is the hood, of course ten minutes doesn't sound that far geographically but in reality it is more like fucking light years, you can almost tell by the shininess of the police cars that the affluence is dwindling the closer you get, it's a pie-ZAHN neighborhood but also swiftly becoming the Burgh's new Tijuana complete with street side taco stands and a Mexican grocery, a place that i venture to now and then when i need some grit, the threat of violence, the aroma of the neighborhood betties all dolled up for a trip into tahn, it's Brook-line not Brook-lyn and for that i love it... and so i stopped by the bodega run by the ever present Pakistani immigrants who besides selling lottery tickets, cigs and soda also have a rather nice selection of hookahs, bongs, pipes (both for grass and rock) and even a vaporizer, you see the old deer antler i had purchased from some friendly Native Americans at a half assed amusement park two summers back had become so clogged that even i, an expert in the cleaning of paraphernalia had given up on it and so for a mere ten bucks i acquired myself a new little piece, i didn't have to say a word, just stood by the cabinet and the old Paki woman strolled out, pointed to which side of the case i wanted opened and then wordlessly i selected, we walked back to the counter and i handed her 10 bucks (no tax) for a new glass piece that will serve my needs nicely, you see the selling of these articles is technically still taboo in my fair commonwealth, this is the place where our former half-assed Fed prosecutor sent up Tommy Chong so this money wasn't about to be taxed, hell it was like it didn't exist as it was rung in on a second register, we city dwellers past and present know how this works...

And so i hopped in the auto and headed down to see Crazy Kenny, a resident of this wonderful neighborhood and was greeted at the door with a bong and a beer, his young co-worker hammered from happy hour and slouched on the couch, frosted tipped hair and all, his Infiniti parked in the drive and i took a rip from the binger and cracked my fine American brew and sat down... Crazy Kenny is a former co-worker from the Big World Bank Machine, a guy with multiple masters degrees and completely off his fucking head most of the time, i sat and listened to his co-worker pine away for his days spent at university, myself laughing and realizing this kid must have been out of college for all of two years maybe and telling him that he's right, life only begins to suck left hind tit even more and that if i were him i'd go back as i slugged my beer and packed up the new peace pipe, i don't think he realized i was fucking laughing the whole time and taking the piss but i realize he was young and wanted to get laid and kept going on and on about the beauty from the office that he just had to fuck, i wanted to ask if she had any taste in men cuz if she did he defo had no chance but i'm not that cruel anymore and who am i to crush the hopes and dreams of young stockbrokers... and so Frosted Tips sobered up enough to drive his precision auto home and CK and i headed up the bully as they say here and to the bar...

Brook-line is not Brook-lyn, it is not inundated with hipsters and artists, it's home to a brand new makeover by some ambitious local pol, the sidewalks redone and widened to give it that family friendly feel, of course off the beaten path away from the bully and it's streetlights and nothing but steep hills and narrow brick-lined streets, it's dark back alleys used for meeting the dealer and mugging, in winter it's damn near impossible to navigate, as we wound our way towards the bully aka boulevard, CK began listing all the bars that he was currently banned from which from my count was most of them, we settled on my favorite place, a place with cheap imports all day Friday then ambled in and found a table cuz the bar was full, Ally the bartender immediately asked if i wanted a Guinness but i smiled and told her in summer i tend to go a bit lighter, the fact she remembered my drink after my not having stepped foot in the place for damn near a year is the sign of a top quality bartender in my book, she's also an attractive woman but smart enough to stay clear of the charmers which in this hood is pretty much every other Guido who walks through the door, by now CK is scouting the bar for the local purveyors of powder and badgering me to get a package but i tell him that i gave up skiing years ago and have no desire to return to the slopes, he quickly spies a supplier but judging by the look of him he decides to leave him alone, it's the usual two sides of the coke dealer coin, they are either euphoric and laughing and having a ball or (as this one was) sweating and muttering curses and looking as if they are ready to shoot someone, after a few beers and mindless chatter where CK, now well on his way, repeats the same three stories over and over, my favorite of which is about his new girl, a black girl from the hood whose brothers told him in no uncertain terms they'd like to shoot him... after a few beers i pointed at the clock, asked if CK needed a ride home and then headed to the exit..

In the car and the stereo is playing the above song and i can do nothing but laugh at how less than a decade ago i would have been well on my way to scoring that package, chasing cocaine and the loose women that come with it until all hours of the morning, those late nights spent in shitty after hours clubs or at the lock-in at the local, pouring my own beer as i stood behind the bar grinding my teeth, chain smoking cuz ciggies and blow is like chocolate and peanut butter, and now here i was, laughing at the absurdity of it all, driving slowly through the hood and watching all the action taking place on those brand new sidewalks, turning towards what i refer to as the buffer, that urban suburb that separates the hood from the lily white where i now reside, the window down and the music playing, driving like a grand-daddy to avoid any unwanted attention from the boys in blue, those days of not so long ago like some surreal dream, part nightmare part beautiful fantasy, me sitting on the other side of it, heading towards a quiet tree-lined street well before midnight so i can sit and watch the highlights with a bowl of Rice Crispies, the man still needs to wander now and then but it's not like some mission he's on, not like in his youth, now it's more to remind and refresh, odd how it still feels like home but at the same time it feels like being a tourist, like another night at the opera, let us waste the days away....

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Cleaning out the Closet



Another sunday night alone in the cave, the neighborhood sleeping, the humidity rising, the cat sneezing, you know even the unemployed have the weekend comedown, waiting for the Monday morning grind, thinking about that first cup of coffee and an afternoon spent ogling milfs poolside, trying to read a book but having to many thoughts crammed into the head, thoughts of lust and movies and dollars and sense and drugs and lust and ice cream sandwiches, the smell of sun tan lotion, popcorn and dusty baseball fields, all the useless things that occupy the mental garage, the derelict daydreams that come slipping in the unlocked screen door at the back of the house, always at the most inopportune moments, catching me completely off-guard like the uncontrollable boners of my wayward youth, like slapping yourself in the face, and yes i stole that last bit but blah de bliggety blah, the words constantly tossed in my direction, the self importance of the self important always trying to work on my self-improvement, when really lets face it, there's nothing left to improve or more correctly nothing left to prove, the making of a well made pancake between the hours of 9am and noon will forever interest me more than the corralling of greenbacks 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 days every week, and it comes back to Sunday night and it's almost murderous quiet, interrupted occasionally by the bark of a dog or the sigh of a ghost, and like Mr. Owens i just don't understand, with all these hamsters running to and fro, with all the egos and ids and super-kids, with an endless news cycle and all the entertainment that the first world can afford, that this world keeps goin' nowhere, so that lap steel will convey more meaning, that trumpet have more feeling, than all the words and numbers, than all the words and numbers, and i just won't understand, i just can't understand.... another Sunday night, alone in the cave...

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Let us stab the lazy right outta me, like that man on the cross, let's give up on this struggle and fucking surrender, like a certain boho afro'd white man of times past let's just say that i'm not here, i'm gone, i'm not here nor there nor anywhere, i've have drowned the ego and brought him back to life in some vain attempt to destroy the monster... and yet it was the monster who whispered let it go, it's all ebbs and flows and shadows and light and what does it fucking matter, it doesn't matter, the point is not to ponder the praise of the flower lily but to get on with the weeding, one can only hopscotch from one addiction to the next, from vice to vice, for so long before one becomes bored and tired of the ritual, no sense lighting candles to the filthy saints, do not genuflect to the past words of the long gone self, do not worry about the outcome or the market or the morality, just do, just listen to Li Po laugh, wait for the horn section to kick in, avoid the back of the garage, keep the hand out of familiar and strange pants alike, wipe the blood from the fingers, suck the blood off the teeth, the only noble savage is the honest savage and this savage is sharpening his spear and angling for honest nobility, granted from a plastic sword by the boy-king in all his wonder, just do, that was the message, found in the fortune cookie, found scribbled in black sharpie on the derelict bathroom wall, found scrawled on a note in the pocket of some blue jeans not worn for years, found staring blue-eyed back in the mirror each morning, found curling from the smoke as it rises from the pipe, just do motherfucker, just do...

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Instant Disassembly



Long live the lounge... the lounge is dead... long live the lounge... the lounge is dead... long live the lounge... the lounge is dead... long live the lounge... the lounge is dead... mamacita, long live the lounge... the lounge is dead...

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Nick Disaster - 5 year edition

 
This is Nick doing the Joey, as in Buttafucco, rocking the Adidas track suit at the ice cream stand, since October of 2012 this kid and i have been hanging out on a daily basis and i can honestly state it's been some of the best days of my life, he's the second son of the son of a second son and though his daddio wasn't a second son he was a second kid, what does that have to do with anything? jack shit.  These days he's scoring goals for the local futbol team and he spent the winter on the ice playing hockey, he's a thinker and sometimes he doesn't say much but when he does he makes it count, that is of course when he's not talking like a sailor cuz he spends to much time with his old man, next September he starts school and his old man will be sad that first day knowing that it'll never be like this again, i'm fucking getting misty-eyed now just thinking about it, but i know how it works and don't worry kids, his old man will be alright... the other day he spent the day playing with my friends daughter, he'd been playing with a little girl down the street recently as well and when his big brother tried giving him the business about having two girlfriends ND just smiled, his big bro was like, "you can't have two girlfriends" and ND shot back "yes i can" and big bro said, "no, you can only have one" and ND just grinned and said, "I can have two, you just don't tell them about each other", all his old man could do was shake his head and smile.