Monday, January 04, 2016

So This Is The New Year (written 1/1/13)

As he was still waking up to his new reality, sitting in her chair, staring out the front window, gazing at a rustic cross in plain view, he sipped the coffee, black, from a French press.  She had put on Band of Horses, the one artist on her iPod he intentionally skipped past, lest he start thinking of his other recent dalliance.  The one he started dating first.  The one who had hoped their second date would be to see Band of Horses.  There were still certain lines he wasn't willing to cross.  Other lines, however, could possibly be redrawn, redistricted, gerrymandered.  "This is how 'Maggie May' happened," he mused, singing along to "The Great Salt Lake," while secretly pondering the thought processes of Rod the Mod's young protagonist. 

The 16 year age difference didn't really phase him.  Sure, it was usually the other way around, but hypocrisy wasn't his Modus Operandi.  Keep an open mind.  Besides, her skin was taut, and smooth.  Her small breasts still had a perk to them.  At 2am, with a ceiling full of stars, this seemed to be the very place he wanted, neigh, needed to be.  At 5am, still unable to sleep in the most comfortable bed he'd been in for quite some time, he tried to toss and turn without tossing and turning noticeably.  Unless he had been dreaming that he wasn't sleeping.  Too much information to process about the events that had just unfolded.  He had just gone with the flow, said "what the fuck?" and went for what was presented to him.  The great effort to not overthink what was being handed to him on a silver-haired platter.

But now, in the half-light of a winter's day, he wasn't so sure.  Leading up to this possibility, a friend had asked him if he knew what he wanted.  He assured her he knew.  As the wheels were slowly turning in his mind while sipping his coffee, she was sketching his sneakers in her sheer robe.  She hadn't changed overnight.  But something inside him had.  He had gotten something he wanted.  What would he have to give up in return?  He wasn't ready to barter with her.  He had brought a mix cd last night.  Maybe that could tide her over for a while until he was sure of what should come next.  After the last four years of being single, he simply couldn't handle too much attention focused on him being the only other person in the room.  Why couldn't he have snuck out in the middle of the night?  If he didn't have to work today, he might have stayed forever.  What then?

He had finally just begun to focus on getting himself out of the seemingly bottomless pit he had been unable to escape, his inner light sucked into the ever-expanding blackness as if it were a metaphysical Sarlacc.  Whatever light she saw in him upon their introduction must have been the last gasp of a white dwarf blowing out, beaming from long ago and far, far away.  A ghostly flicker in the abandoned lighthouse.  He was currently in the throes of climbing the rickety spiral staircase to the top to find that switch, and hopefully a spare bulb.  He wasn't going to hold his breath, though.  The mere thought of letting someone in wracked him with panic and guilt.  All this time he thought he had been looking for someone, when he was merely hoping to find a bigger fuck-up than himself.  When presented with a reasonably together specimen of the female persuasion, he felt like that young man playing hooky from school, having abandoned his post in life, stalling his development and swapping it with someone else's achievements.  He wanted to simultaneously run as far and as fast as he could while staying here forever.  Feeling protected, wanted.  Cared for, and perhaps, god forbid, even needed.

He longed to be able to blurt all of this out to her and have it somehow make sense without wounding her.  Instead, she insisted he pick a Cowboy Junkies track to play next.  Thinking "Because Cheap Is How I Feel" would send the wrong message, or perhaps the right one, he went with "Misguided Angel."   Finally, when he had exhausted the second round of contents from the French press, he gathered his records and clothing, said his goodbyes and tried not to destroy his broken car on the steep-hilled pebble ash driveway.

On the drive home, the sun was shining as his mind was churning overtime.  He recalled the time he had told a woman that on paper she was perfect.  He had broken her heart and she ran out of the restaurant so nobody could see her cry.  He then realized that on paper, he was a trainwreck.  What was he to do now?  He took a deep breath and sang along to the mixtape as loud as he could.

Tuesday, September 02, 2014

Gazebo (first draft) 9/2/14

This is a first draft, no edits.  Typed directly into my iPhone as the words shot through my brain within 5 minutes and was gone...

Gazebo   9/2/14

And if we were a couple
A couple of what I don't know
We could sit in the gazebo
And imagine sgt pepper
Teaching the band to play.

But that was more than 20 years ago
And god knows where all that time did go
But we lost it forever and can
Never get it back.

And the moon is proudly shining
Over the water on the harbor
And I'm sitting in the gazebo
Waiting for my song to play.

And I don't know if I believe
In love or fate or destiny
Or if everything is entropy
Just spinning out towards the sun.

I just know I can't sit here forever
Forgetting about my passions
Silently waiting for my life
To just someday reappear 
on the event horizon 
Like this imaginary band

In the gazebo of the mind.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Bottle

So, I've been pre-meditating a poetry/essay chapbook for a few months now (the original target date was my 40th birthday, which has now come and gone), and I'm closing in on finishing up.  Obviously, I should keep some of the contents off the internet, so that there is a reason for folks to bring home a copy of the physical object.  Conversely, I should post something on the internet to drum up interest.  I'm going to try and post a few things to drum up interest, and this is the first of those things.  Try not to read too much into it.

Bottle 5/29/13

You looked for inspiration in a bottle
because it's hard to look inside yourself.
All you can see are the mistakes and failures
because it's hard to see much else.

You settled for mediocrity and comfort
because it's hard to reach for the stars
when all you can see are the mistakes and failures
from looking inside yourself so hard.

So you looked for salvation in a bottle,
because it's hard to take all the blame
for all the mistakes and the failures
that you can't seem to or want to transcend...

How much was the bottle and how much was you,
that got yourself stuck in the town you once fled
with no short-term plans for escape
from your newfound uncomfortable mediocrity?

And when the dust settled after the crash
all you could hear was shattering glass,
crystallizing your mistakes and failures
into a single moment you can't undo.

Maybe you shouldn't have texted the words
"BTW, I am awesome at life..."
from underneath an empty bottle.

Sunday, May 06, 2012

One Year After Leaving NY (9 months after returning)


38 Years and what have I to show for it?
Massive credit card debt and student loans for an education
I am currently unable to use for bills I am unable to pay --
Clearly my life has written checks my self-worth can't cash.
Nearly 40 and working a shit warehouse job
Meant for someone 20 years younger and in better shape than I

Wake up in the morning feeling like I got run over
By a truck, by life, the life passing me by?
I own mountains of other people's work --
books, records, movies --
But have released almost none of my own.
I get anxious, I get nervous, I get blocked.
I get distracted...
I medicate with alcohol, I sedate with TV.
I make grand plans and pronouncements
then make excuses and curl up in a ball.
I go out and party, I come home and hide.

If I don't finish it, I can't submit and get rejected.
Why do I care as long as it's out there?
Finally out of my head, maybe then I could sleep
Perchance to dream the unthinkable dream --
In which I wake up in a world where my talent gets recognized
Where my words get respect
Where my bills get paid merely by being me...

Or will I collapse before 40?
Under the weight of this debt ceiling?
Under the rubble of our crumbling Republic?
From the burden of mixing metaphors?
If there is a G-d out there, I am sure he is more Loki than Odin.

 5/2/12

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Rock N' Roll Heaven


Rock N' Roll Heaven                                                 
                                                    
I've been meaning to write this piece for several years, but now it seems I must, with Thurston and Kim splitting up after 30 years together.  It feels almost like my own parents splitting up, since Kim and my mom are the same age (!).  Sonic Youth was the first band on the indie scene that made me feel like it was okay to be adventurous, musically.  I mean, R.E.M. and U2 led me down the path, but SY blew the gates of my mind off the hinges.  I had always been trying weird things with guitars and pedals, but I had no clue.  To see that these ADULTS were doing it meant that it was okay.  And then, when I was 17, I saw the video for "Dirty Boots."

In the video, a guy who looked like my skater friends and dressed like me spots this cute brunette chick across the room, also decked out in flannel made before 1991 - and they lock eyes, in that magical way they do on the silver screen, as if the heavens themselves made it happen.  They spend several minutes making Goo eyes at each other while the band is playing "Dirty Boots," blissfully unaware of the young love blossoming like the multiple feedback squalls before our very eyes via Tamra Davis's camera.  Their burgeoning romance culminates in their shared stagedive, holding hands as they jump, only to get pulled apart by the crowd.

I've spent twenty years looking for my stagediving diva in flannel with eyes like stars.  I've even dated a girl or two with the same hairstyle.  Not her.  Nowhere have I found this grunge princess.  The amount of shows I've gone to since then is ridiclous.  Even more ridiculous is that at almost all of these shows, I scan the crowd trying to find her.  I've gotten a number exactly once.  We sort of dated for three months, but I was 28 and she was 18.  Was it a bad idea?  You betcha!  I excel at bad ideas.  Or at least, I'm better at executing the bad ideas than the good ones.  Good ideas take a lifetime to build into something.  Bad ideas manifest themselves before the little blue man in the closet can yell "MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!"  Caitlin from Connecticut, however, might have been a better choice.  I met her at the Dismemberment Plan/John Vanderslice show.  She was a big JV fan but had never heard of Dismemberment Plan.  I was the reverse.  I think we would have been a good match.  Alas, I was too afraid to ask for her number.  Also, she didn't look the part.

They (those anonymous, insufferable They, who seem to always be saying something...problem is, these days it's all a blur as to what is a cliché and what is a sales pitch, although lately, everything seems to be a sales pitch) say that life is a journey (but yet a singer who has nothing to do with Journey sang "Life Is A Highway" - curious, isn't it?) and that getting there is half the fun -- so I guess that means I'm only having half the fun so far in my life.  So thank you, Sonic Youth, for sending me on this snipe hunt for love.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Mistled'oh!

Mistled'oh!
Christmastime 2008 was particularly rough for me, for some reason.  I suppose it was just the season itself.  They always say that it's the most depressing time of year for lonely souls, although I still haven't a clue as to who "they" are.  They never introduce themselves at parties.  Maybe those mysterious, amorphous they are right.  I was feeling particularly down in the dumps when the blizzard hit that December evening.  I blew off plans to see a show in Long Island because of the snow.  I didn't need that grief.  So I went off in search of some other, unknown, grief instead.

My buddy Chris was throwing a party.  There was mistletoe, food, egg nog and ladies were present.  I'd never been to a party with mistletoe as an adult and was infused with the holiday spirit, amongst other spirits, by night's end.  I had been going through some stuff emotionally, and hadn't really been touched voluntarily by another human being in longer than I'd cared to remember accurately.  At the end of the apartment part of the party, as we were clearing out to take the party elsewhere, I was feeling impish and impulsive (and drunk).  I smiled at B and  gestured to the mistletoe above our heads.  She smiled that smile that we know all too well (those among us who have been passed over for taller, thinner, or god forbid, better looking folks know it well, at any rate), and actually followed it up with the excuse.  You know the one.  The tried and true chestnut "You're awesome, but really, I'm just looking for a buddy right now."  A buddy.  Because that is what I'm best at - being a freaking buddy.

I tried to play it cool, letting the drunken bravura act as a shield.  "Thanks for not laughing, at least.  It was a stupid idea."  I tried to let go of the awkward taste in my mouth - the taste of an attempted light-hearted gesture stillborn.  We partied some more and I acted as normal as I could muster.  Later on, I made the mistake of attempting to explain myself, though it was more like shoveling shit on an open wound than it was applying salve.  I sent her a message via Facebook that read like this:
I'm sorry...i've been going through a ridiculous patch and the whole mistletoe thing (which I've never tried and only did on you because i figured you wouldn't laugh at me, and you didn't, so thank you) was just me being weird. It's been a particularly ridiculous year and I didn't mean to be too nuts. You're awesome and I meant it when I said that it was okay coming from you when you said I was "awesome...but."  Seriously, though, I've heard "you're awesome...but" from way too many people lately and most of them I don't believe, but you're not one of them.
Sometimes I can be such a toolbox.  I wasn't really trying to be more awkward.  Somehow I managed it.  I'm good like that.  So, the next time I saw her, at her birthday gathering, at a bar I don't particularly enjoy, I asked her if she got the message.  She said "Yeah, I got it.  Case closed.  You don't have to say anything else about it." And then she kissed me on the cheek.  Shortly thereafter, I made my way back to my apartment because I wasn't feeling like being out.  I just wanted to get some writing done and go to bed.  Of course, this was not to be the case.

I walk the fifteen minutes or so back to my apartment, all excited to salvage my night with some writerly productivity (some nights are exploring for material (drinking is research), some nights you write about these (mis)adventures).  After all, if I'm not in the mood to be out, I should capitalize on it as best I can.  So I go to turn the key in the wrought iron pre-door door, and - snap!  The key breaks in half and I can't get in.  I call up both roommates on my cell.  No answer.  I cannot reach the ladder for the fire escape.  In panic mode, I decide to do some crazy building climbing that would make Peter Parker, The Amazing Spider-Man himself, proud. 

The door to the adjacent building had this diamond-pattern metal grate to keep out trespassers, so i used it as a sort-of-ladder to then grab a hold of a piece of metal jutting out from my building's roof.  Despite everything being covered in ice and snow, I manage to get onto the roof and immediately wonder why i have done this.  My downstairs neighbor is not only not in her bedroom, but if she had been, would she not freak out when someone knocked on her bedroom window?  Instead of letting me in, she might have maced me.  Still nowhere near the fire escape, and about a story below my bathroom window, surrounded by drifts of snow and spots of ice, eight feet above the frozen sidewalk.  How the hell am I getting down?

I call my best friend, who is more than 50 miles away, and can clearly help me at this juncture.  I suppose this is the returned favor for the summer previous, when she called me while I was sitting on a bench in the park with a lady friend, to tell me that she has gotten her car stuck on the side of a pond.  Clearly I was in a position to help her from the other end of the phone on the other end of our barely shared sandbar.  But that was then, this is (s)now.  From the warm confines of her double-wide, she asks how I got up there in the first place.  "Sheer force of will and a recessive monkey gene" I say, feeling more akin to a cat up a tree than a gorilla in the mist.

Somehow I survived the climb back down without landing prone on my back, concussed, as I had pictured myself winding up moments earlier.  However, I still was no closer to entering my fortress of attitude.  I called my buddy Davecat, and he said I could camp out on his couch.  Of course, it meant trekking back from the way I came, since my car keys were in the apartment I couldn't get into.  Not that I was a stranger to walking to Greenpoint and back.

I went to sleep on the couch, watching "Zoolander" on DVD.  I think I absorbed some weirdness from the film, because I was dreaming I was dancing in a supermarket, drinking with a European pop duo of some sort.  It was kind of like those "Do you wanna Fanta" commercials, but with Eastern European ladies instead of tropical ones.  And the Fanta was most likely vodka in one hand and cranberry juice in the other.  The details are fuzzy, you know from all the dream partying.

So, i'm drinking with these two girls who are pop stars from Europe and I've got a beer in my left hand and a piña colada in the right when Davecat wakes me up.  Startled, I say "Davecat, there better be a REALLY good reason to wake me up -- I was dreaming about drinking and dancing with a hot European pop duo in the supermarket!"

This is when he says the weirdest sentence I've ever been told with a straight face -- "Wake up, we're going to Harrington's bar and surgery."

"...And surgery?" I inquire, and he says, "Yes, Jon '...and surgery.'  It's the hottest new place in town, according to Time Out..."

Just then Davecat wakes me up for real (apparently the previous wake-up was part of my "Zoolander" fever dream) and I get to tell him about the dream within a dream, where he woke me up to tell me about Harrington's Bar and Surgery.

"...And surgery?"  he asks.  And I said "Yes, Dave '...and surgery.'"

Monday, December 13, 2010

To Do List For The Fifteen Or So Months I've Been Unemployed

Hey there people who might not even realize that I still post stuff here.  The purpose of this blog was to be a repository for my more-stylized/formal pieces, whereas J-Ro's Syntax Eros was created for my more extemporaneous rants.  I guess this qualifies as the former.  I want to thank McSweeneys.net for rejecting this piece.  I figure maybe it was too close in theme to Erica Reder's Recession Resumé to be published.  I wonder if she spent four months writing it, since I started mine two months before hers was even published.  Oh well.  I think maybe it's time for me to start submitting my essay pieces to magazines.  Because those still exist.  So, without any more whining, here it is...

To Do List For The Fifteen Or So Months I've Been Unemployed
  • Finish the paperwork HR gave you that would provide an extra eight weeks of severance pay at full salary (of course, HR could have returned your calls and/or emails, but then they'd have had to pay you).
  • Drink through the twelve weeks of severance pay that they had to give you, regardless of whether you filled out aforementioned paperwork.
  • Finish that novel you started writing in 2002, when you freaked out that you were turning 30 in a year and needed to accomplish something.
  • Take a sketch comedy writing class with a member of The State.  Stop writing sketches immediately after class ends and you've made the teacher snort from laughing so hard.
  • Finish (or actually record) any of the songs you've started writing since 2003.
  • Break up with your girlfriend via text message (accidentally).
  • Manage to go on a second date from an OK Cupid encounter.
  • Go out of town five days after breaking up with your girlfriend via text message with plans to meet up with a single lady you met on the internet at a major music festival.  Never meet that single lady (it will later be revealed that she came down with a case of swine flu).  Sleep with the friend of your friend you haven't seen in ten years that he's had a crush on since high school instead.  Repeatedly.
  • Find a missed connections post on craigslist that is actually meant for you.
  • Get broken up with by out-of-town girl a week before your birthday.  Celebrate said birthday alone at the bar with a Guinness while upbeat 80s music plays in the background.  Use the fly you find in the bottom of said Guinness to score a free Guinness without a fly (just barely).
  • Wake up before noon two days in a row.  Three if you're feeling jaunty.
  • Move back in with your mom and dad to the house you've left five times previously.
  • Update at least one of your three blogs (four if you count the record label) on a weekly monthly semi-annual basis.
  • Sing "Round Here" by the Counting Crows at a karaoke bar in Asheville, NC in front of complete strangers while in the midst of a road trip to relocate your best friend/lesbian sidekick and her three cats to Florida.  Your 17-year personal moratorium on entering the state of Florida is now ruined.  Upon returning home on the first flight out of Tampa, have Facebook inform you that out-of-town girl is now "in a relationship" not with you.
  • Go on a third date with anyone since being dumped by out-of-town girl.
  • Go on a road trip to Punxsutawney, PA for Groundhog's Day.  Try to sleep on a movie theater seat.  Freeze your tokhes off.  Realize you and your friend are the only humans over 18 who aren't drunk at 4am while gathered at Gobbler's Knob.  Attempt to eat a 2 pound hamburger on the way home.  Fail to eat a 2 pound hamburger.  After enduring long hours subjected to Sugarland and Lonestar, arrive home and check Facebook.  The day before was out-of-town girl's birthday.  She is apparently now ENGAGED to the fellow she was heretofore "in a relationship" with.  Your mutual friend will ask if she's spoken to you.  You will say she hasn't, but that Facebook has.
  • Transfer all your old VHS tapes to DVD.
  • When  one of your closest friend's step-father dies, leave a Facebook comment on his sister's page that, though heartfelt, comes off flippant at best, racist at worst.
  • Write your cousin who wrote the book "Doc Hollywood" to ask for advice on finishing/shopping your novel.
  • Have sex with your ex-girlfriend you broke up with 5 years ago because you were both too neurotic.  After all, they did that on Seinfeld and it worked out just fine.
  • Sacrifice your vague financial stability to follow your dreams instead of stressing out over being "comfortable" but unhappy.
  • Get job in retail doing commission-based sales in attempt to finance your dreams later by being miserable now.