I am officially an uncle.
My nephew Daniel came into the world this afternoon and according to my sister, he was screaming and peeing all over the place. Well done, young man, well done. I can see you and I already have a lot in common.
Big ups to Dee, Marty and Grandma and Grandpa since this uncle won't be changing any dirty diapers.
Milk Crates
A writer doomed by his lack of memory must resort to fiction or the testimony of an eyewitness.
This is no fiction, dear reader.
Sure my recollection is hazy, but I can still sense the emotions, the smearing lights, and the raving madness I inspired in the Village one night.
On the approach to my lady's abode, after a considerable amount of carousing, I stopped at the corner store that we affectionately refer to as The Korean.
I'm not sure of my motive, but judging from the angle at which I conversed with the merchant, I believe I was withdrawing money from the ATM to purchase more beer.
The pressure on my kidneys was volcanic. I asked the merchant if I could use his restroom and he snarled at me and said he didn't have one.
In the background, my lady said, “let's go home, you can use the bathroom there,” but I was vexed.
"Criminal! Savage! To refuse your restroom is against the law! I shall call the police!”
The merchant took this as an idle threat even though I dialed 911 on my cell phone. He was right. I knew better than to send the call, the bugger had called my bluff.
I exited the store and nearly fell over a milk crate lying by its entrance. It sputtered onto the street. I snatched the thing and without a moment’s hesitation, I fired it at the storefront with all my might.
The empty box ricocheted off the window and bounced back toward me as if the glass was armor. Hysterically, the merchant flew out of the door, screeching like a spoiled child who’s mother has told him no.
He drew forth another milk crate and charged me with wrath in his eyes. I retrieved mine off the pavement and faced him head on.
We were within striking distance. He rattled his crate and I rattled mine back, but we never came to blows. I could feel his momentum ebb as I, too, had called his bluff.
My girlfriend, amused by the absurdity of it all, offered a quid pro quo where I drop my shabby bludgeon in return for a slice of Joe’s Pizza at her expense. Drawn to the brighter flame, I flicked the box aside and came to a gushing realization that I still had to piss.
And piss I did, good reader.
This is no fiction, dear reader.
Sure my recollection is hazy, but I can still sense the emotions, the smearing lights, and the raving madness I inspired in the Village one night.
On the approach to my lady's abode, after a considerable amount of carousing, I stopped at the corner store that we affectionately refer to as The Korean.
I'm not sure of my motive, but judging from the angle at which I conversed with the merchant, I believe I was withdrawing money from the ATM to purchase more beer.
The pressure on my kidneys was volcanic. I asked the merchant if I could use his restroom and he snarled at me and said he didn't have one.
In the background, my lady said, “let's go home, you can use the bathroom there,” but I was vexed.
"Criminal! Savage! To refuse your restroom is against the law! I shall call the police!”
The merchant took this as an idle threat even though I dialed 911 on my cell phone. He was right. I knew better than to send the call, the bugger had called my bluff.
I exited the store and nearly fell over a milk crate lying by its entrance. It sputtered onto the street. I snatched the thing and without a moment’s hesitation, I fired it at the storefront with all my might.
The empty box ricocheted off the window and bounced back toward me as if the glass was armor. Hysterically, the merchant flew out of the door, screeching like a spoiled child who’s mother has told him no.
He drew forth another milk crate and charged me with wrath in his eyes. I retrieved mine off the pavement and faced him head on.
We were within striking distance. He rattled his crate and I rattled mine back, but we never came to blows. I could feel his momentum ebb as I, too, had called his bluff.
My girlfriend, amused by the absurdity of it all, offered a quid pro quo where I drop my shabby bludgeon in return for a slice of Joe’s Pizza at her expense. Drawn to the brighter flame, I flicked the box aside and came to a gushing realization that I still had to piss.
And piss I did, good reader.
Let Freedom Reign
 |
| Donald Trump and Miss USA |
So what if she's not a priss. That's not why our blessed grunts are spilling their precious blood over seas. If we wanted our women to tow the line and sacrifice their souls for some bullshit Leave It to Beaver ideal, then why bother with the Taliban and those holy warriors in Iraq.
 |
| Miss USA Tara Conner |
Is anyone truly surprised that Miss USA is a coke snorting, cock smoking socialite? Did we honestly believe Paris Hilton was unique? This is America. If a gorgeous, successful 20-year-old can't live a little, what have we become?
Alas, the great bastion of morality that is Trump will seize back the crown to preserve the austerity of his franchise and America's perverse infatuation with beauty pageants less he condone this image for Miss Teen USA to follow. (Like it ain't too late.)
 |
| Miss USA Tara Conner |
Let the grunts plaster her centerfold in their dust filled barracks to remember what they're fighting for while they scoop beans out of a can. Or better yet, let's superimpose our naked beauty queen on the front of every charging tank and swooping Blackhawk as a refutation to those who treat women as subjects and fear what freedom will bring -- equality, a lust for life, and a plethora of amusing gossip columns.
To the Left, to the Left
Everything you own in the box to the left.
I played Beyonce's Irreplaceable video on Yahoo! Launch a half dozen times this evening. Perhaps it's my impending departure from PR Newswire that makes it relevant, not that the corporation is a sugar mama who caught me driving another girl around in the car that it bought me, but more like I'm the scorned lover and you must not know bout me.
It's hard for me not to gush over everything Beyonce does, but this song is immensely beautiful, so much so that I am convinced Victoria's Secret should have had its models parade down the runway in a bra and hot curlers, but I don't think any of them are ready for this jelly.
Speaking of which, last night I sat on the couch and watched Gisele run to and from the catwalk in high definition, a brave new world even Huxley would enjoy. While it's true there is not a trace of cellulite on any of these ethereal specimens, there is only so long one can stare at Karolina Kurkova's cameltoe before feeling imbecilic, or gaze in wonder at Justin Timberlake's head, which is as perfectly round as a bowling ball. Not that I want to hurt him in anyway, but I can't shake the image of his head spinning in the ball return at Chelsea Piers; bringing sexy back, I guess.
Nor could I shake the image of Al Sharpton prancing down the catwalk wearing those angel wings, no doubt an amalgamation of the local news tease and effervescent eye candy. I neglected to mention I was smoking a fine Cohiba cigar and sipping a chilled Winterfest, which enhanced the juxtaposition of NYC outlawing trans fat, the Dunkin Donut's Fritalian jingle, and the filler of Gisele saying she wanted to wrap it up cause she was hungry. Naturally, I imagined her and the other models hitting up the drive thru at Taco Bell followed by the lipstick smirk of Channel 7's Bill Ritter saying with a simultaneous air of incredulity and twinkle in his eye that they all became sick due to the E. coli outbreak. Poor Adriana Lima, shown spitting up green onions with ripped hot sauce packs in her lap, but I digress. Has anyone seen Liz Cho?
To the left, to the left, everything you own in the box to the left.
So don't you ever for a second get to thinkin you're irreplaceable.
I played Beyonce's Irreplaceable video on Yahoo! Launch a half dozen times this evening. Perhaps it's my impending departure from PR Newswire that makes it relevant, not that the corporation is a sugar mama who caught me driving another girl around in the car that it bought me, but more like I'm the scorned lover and you must not know bout me.It's hard for me not to gush over everything Beyonce does, but this song is immensely beautiful, so much so that I am convinced Victoria's Secret should have had its models parade down the runway in a bra and hot curlers, but I don't think any of them are ready for this jelly.
Speaking of which, last night I sat on the couch and watched Gisele run to and from the catwalk in high definition, a brave new world even Huxley would enjoy. While it's true there is not a trace of cellulite on any of these ethereal specimens, there is only so long one can stare at Karolina Kurkova's cameltoe before feeling imbecilic, or gaze in wonder at Justin Timberlake's head, which is as perfectly round as a bowling ball. Not that I want to hurt him in anyway, but I can't shake the image of his head spinning in the ball return at Chelsea Piers; bringing sexy back, I guess.
Nor could I shake the image of Al Sharpton prancing down the catwalk wearing those angel wings, no doubt an amalgamation of the local news tease and effervescent eye candy. I neglected to mention I was smoking a fine Cohiba cigar and sipping a chilled Winterfest, which enhanced the juxtaposition of NYC outlawing trans fat, the Dunkin Donut's Fritalian jingle, and the filler of Gisele saying she wanted to wrap it up cause she was hungry. Naturally, I imagined her and the other models hitting up the drive thru at Taco Bell followed by the lipstick smirk of Channel 7's Bill Ritter saying with a simultaneous air of incredulity and twinkle in his eye that they all became sick due to the E. coli outbreak. Poor Adriana Lima, shown spitting up green onions with ripped hot sauce packs in her lap, but I digress. Has anyone seen Liz Cho?To the left, to the left, everything you own in the box to the left.
So don't you ever for a second get to thinkin you're irreplaceable.
LAst night
Had a few martinis before going over to the Staples Center to watch the Kings game. Ended up back at the hotel lounge. There was a guy at the bar talking football with the bartender, saying he liked the Pats this week with the points. For some reason, I volunteered that I liked the Colts and we went on from there. He had tinted glasses and the look of a man who fancied himself a professional gambler. He was armed with the sports sections from the previous four days to study how the lines moved.
I asked him what he thought about the upcoming Giants vs. Bears match up and he jumped all over it, saying he'd take the G-Men and he was certain they'd be favored. I told him I thought so, too, then went on a riff about how Rex Grossman was due to blow up because he played for Steve Spurrier and Spurrier's a jinx. Drunken blather, no doubt, but it made for lively conversation.
The gent finished his drink and gathered up his papers and I overheard the bartender say, "Have a good night, Mr. Z," before coming over to see if I knew who he was. Of course I hadn't a clue.
Turns out Mr. Z is Anthony E. Zuiker, creator of CSI.
I had another drink at the bar before it closed then went back to the room and delved into the mini bar, which was not a good idea.
Ended up puking in the sink this morning while reading the Hilton Earthquake Safety guide, which for some reason was nearby. It happens to apply to hangovers, too.
1. Stay calm.
2. Stand in an open doorway with your back to the door, or crouch under a heavy piece of furniture such as a couch or heavy table. Hold onto the furniture and be prepared to move with it.
3. Stay clear of windows and pictures.
4. Avoid standing near shelves, armoires, book cases or other top-heavy items.
5. If in a crowded area, do not rush to the door. The chances of being trampled are greater than the chances of being injured by the earthquake.
6. Since emergency and disaster agencies require first priority to the public telephone system, please do not use the phone except in an emergency.
7. If outside, stand away from the building, trees, power lines and other suspended objects.
8. DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS!
In the rare event that an evacuation is requested, please lock your room and exit via stairwells 8 and 9, which are located next to the guest elevators.
9. Proceed to the lobby. Our Emergency Response Team will direct you from there.
I asked him what he thought about the upcoming Giants vs. Bears match up and he jumped all over it, saying he'd take the G-Men and he was certain they'd be favored. I told him I thought so, too, then went on a riff about how Rex Grossman was due to blow up because he played for Steve Spurrier and Spurrier's a jinx. Drunken blather, no doubt, but it made for lively conversation.
The gent finished his drink and gathered up his papers and I overheard the bartender say, "Have a good night, Mr. Z," before coming over to see if I knew who he was. Of course I hadn't a clue.
Turns out Mr. Z is Anthony E. Zuiker, creator of CSI.
 |
| CSI Creator Anthony Zuiker. |
Ended up puking in the sink this morning while reading the Hilton Earthquake Safety guide, which for some reason was nearby. It happens to apply to hangovers, too.
1. Stay calm.
2. Stand in an open doorway with your back to the door, or crouch under a heavy piece of furniture such as a couch or heavy table. Hold onto the furniture and be prepared to move with it.
3. Stay clear of windows and pictures.
4. Avoid standing near shelves, armoires, book cases or other top-heavy items.
5. If in a crowded area, do not rush to the door. The chances of being trampled are greater than the chances of being injured by the earthquake.
6. Since emergency and disaster agencies require first priority to the public telephone system, please do not use the phone except in an emergency.
7. If outside, stand away from the building, trees, power lines and other suspended objects.
8. DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS!
In the rare event that an evacuation is requested, please lock your room and exit via stairwells 8 and 9, which are located next to the guest elevators.
9. Proceed to the lobby. Our Emergency Response Team will direct you from there.
Day 7
Crystal clear
in my Sunday beer
and second Bloody Mary,
I stare down indecision
with sun-protected vision
as Hollyween turns scary,
Universal CityWalk,
engage in see-through PR talk,
then off to where my lair be.
in my Sunday beer
and second Bloody Mary,
I stare down indecision
with sun-protected vision
as Hollyween turns scary,
Universal CityWalk,
engage in see-through PR talk,
then off to where my lair be.
 |
| Universal CityWalk, Los Angeles |
Downtown LA
There's a film shoot in Pershing Square, a PA replete in urban cowboy garb checks her list as she hustles to Starbucks; meanwhile, a block away on Olive Street, there's a platoon of LAPD surrounding a shackled vagrant who is shouting, "I'm going back to the jailhouse, gonna eat three meals and a hot cock," between fits of maniacal laughter.
Serendipity
Prior to my flight from NY to LA, I scavenged an assortment of pharmaceuticals necessary for smooth travel. I popped a Xanax while waiting to board and once in my seat, I chased it with a vike. The girl next to me was young and attractive, which is contrary to the odd-smelling geriatric I usually get. I found the cabin temperature to be cool, but she stripped down to a skimpy tank-top and gently brushed my side as she shifted her position. Any attempt at speech on my part would have played out like a tranquilized Will Farrell in Old School. I drifted off, eyes closed and neurons dancing gaily to the iPod shuffle.
I arrived at LAX in a proper frame of mind. My luggage spit out promptly and my dear friend Janine was waiting outside the terminal. We whisked off in her sporty convertible to a Mexican restaurant, where I immediately ordered a margarita.
Day two in the downtown office and a colleague suggested I check out the Dresden, which was featured in the movie Swingers. As it was on the way back to the hotel, I decided to give it a shot.
I emerged from the train station at Vermont and Sunset, confronted by a busy intersection. I had no idea which direction to go, so I phoned the office. After I relayed my bearings, they confirmed I was headed the right way.
There was a film crew across the street from the Dresden with blinding lights. I eagerly took refuge inside. The place was familiar, whether from Swingers or my imagination, I'm not sure. I took a seat at the bar beside a cast of characters straight out of a Bukowski novel, but there was no bartender. I had a message on my phone from Janine, so I went outside to answer it and scout my options. The sidewalk was empty and then there was a lone passerby ... my friend, Hoda! The odds were impossible! Random! Absurd!
We crossed the street to the Tiger Lilly Lounge and ordered drinks and I was delighted to have company in a strange place. To think we lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn for years and never had occasion to bump into each other.
We hopped over to The Vermont for mojitos and afterward Hoda had to ask a patron for directions to the highway and I had to ask the bartender about the train schedule.
I went back to the hotel and it was still early, so I headed over to the City Walk where I heard music thundering down from a place called Howl at the Moon. Behold, dueling pianos complete with a house band and patrons lined up to perform a song of their choosing. I ordered a beer and this guy operating under the name of Fat Navajo worked the crowd into a frenzy with a bluesy rendition of Stormy Monday. To my left, two women were dancing like nobody's business while their friends fed them shots of tequila. Finally, they jumped on stage and shook their moneymakers to the delight of the crowd and the boys in the band.
The End.
I arrived at LAX in a proper frame of mind. My luggage spit out promptly and my dear friend Janine was waiting outside the terminal. We whisked off in her sporty convertible to a Mexican restaurant, where I immediately ordered a margarita.
Day two in the downtown office and a colleague suggested I check out the Dresden, which was featured in the movie Swingers. As it was on the way back to the hotel, I decided to give it a shot.
I emerged from the train station at Vermont and Sunset, confronted by a busy intersection. I had no idea which direction to go, so I phoned the office. After I relayed my bearings, they confirmed I was headed the right way.
There was a film crew across the street from the Dresden with blinding lights. I eagerly took refuge inside. The place was familiar, whether from Swingers or my imagination, I'm not sure. I took a seat at the bar beside a cast of characters straight out of a Bukowski novel, but there was no bartender. I had a message on my phone from Janine, so I went outside to answer it and scout my options. The sidewalk was empty and then there was a lone passerby ... my friend, Hoda! The odds were impossible! Random! Absurd!
We crossed the street to the Tiger Lilly Lounge and ordered drinks and I was delighted to have company in a strange place. To think we lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn for years and never had occasion to bump into each other.
We hopped over to The Vermont for mojitos and afterward Hoda had to ask a patron for directions to the highway and I had to ask the bartender about the train schedule.
I went back to the hotel and it was still early, so I headed over to the City Walk where I heard music thundering down from a place called Howl at the Moon. Behold, dueling pianos complete with a house band and patrons lined up to perform a song of their choosing. I ordered a beer and this guy operating under the name of Fat Navajo worked the crowd into a frenzy with a bluesy rendition of Stormy Monday. To my left, two women were dancing like nobody's business while their friends fed them shots of tequila. Finally, they jumped on stage and shook their moneymakers to the delight of the crowd and the boys in the band.
The End.
Open Mic
After not playing out for nearly a decade, I decided to go down to the open mic at Bar Four last night.
I have many romantic memories of this dimly lit lounge in Park Slope, only a few blocks from where I live. Among them is winding up there at the end of a neighborhood pub crawl, knowing it would stay open past four a.m. in spite of its moniker.
While the ambiance is still in tact, the addition of the stage has not only changed its landscape, it has heightened its vibe. One might say it feels like Williamsburg in the South Slope, but without an air of pretension, which is why I thought I'd give it a shot.
The place was crawling with talented musicians and I wondered if I was in over my head. I already made the mistake of eating a burrito beforehand and although it was tasty, it made me gassy, which is never a smart move prior to having microphones pointed at you. Of course ordering a beer to calm my nerves didn't help.
One of the musicians who played before me ripped off some delta blues reminiscent of Mississippi John Hurt and I wanted to split, just grab my gig bag and take off. After all, the biggest audience I had in the past year was my weeping fig tree and my girlfriend, who usually raises the volume on the TV when I play.
As if sensing my cold feet, the host, Tania Buziak, sought me out and reassured me that I belonged among those present. She confided in me that she still got nervous before playing, even at this, her own open mic. She said she was amazed at the remarkable growth some of the musicians have shown after a few appearances, and then, like casting a stone in a still pond, she reminded me that I was up next.
I grabbed my guitar and headed to the stage where I was greeted by the soundman, who was unaffected by the madness. I told him I can't decide whether to use the high-back chair or the stool, so he made an executive decision to go with the stool and then adjusted the equipment around me. I sat there strumming furiously trying to remember the words to these damn songs I wrote and then the monitors came up and I was off like a prom dress.
Thirty seconds in and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I dared not look at the audience, fearing they'd show me the contempt well known to fat, out of shape strippers who mercilessly solicit lap dances. After the first song, my shirt was soaked through and my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. I looked over my shoulder and winced to find my beer sitting on a ledge, way out of reach. With the adrenaline pumping, I pushed on through the second song, grateful two was the limit.
I finished to the obligatory applause of the crowd and hopped off the stool, eager to get out of Dodge. But before I packed up, the next act took the stage and I did not want to be rude by exiting during their performance. My eyes fixated on the nearby sit-down Galaga video game and a guy walked by me on his way to the bathroom and said, "good song, man."
Between sets I made my way out of the bar and contrasted the relief I felt walking home to the anxiety I felt on my way there. This thing that makes people write music and compels them to perform it is mysterious, but for every hack like me, there is a kindred soul who will one day enhance the human experience.
I'm certain there were plenty of seeds at Bar Four last night and the hosts tended to each of them like dutiful farmers. Who knows what will grow from it, but I'm pretty sure my contribution was fertilizer.
I have many romantic memories of this dimly lit lounge in Park Slope, only a few blocks from where I live. Among them is winding up there at the end of a neighborhood pub crawl, knowing it would stay open past four a.m. in spite of its moniker.
While the ambiance is still in tact, the addition of the stage has not only changed its landscape, it has heightened its vibe. One might say it feels like Williamsburg in the South Slope, but without an air of pretension, which is why I thought I'd give it a shot.
The place was crawling with talented musicians and I wondered if I was in over my head. I already made the mistake of eating a burrito beforehand and although it was tasty, it made me gassy, which is never a smart move prior to having microphones pointed at you. Of course ordering a beer to calm my nerves didn't help.
One of the musicians who played before me ripped off some delta blues reminiscent of Mississippi John Hurt and I wanted to split, just grab my gig bag and take off. After all, the biggest audience I had in the past year was my weeping fig tree and my girlfriend, who usually raises the volume on the TV when I play.
As if sensing my cold feet, the host, Tania Buziak, sought me out and reassured me that I belonged among those present. She confided in me that she still got nervous before playing, even at this, her own open mic. She said she was amazed at the remarkable growth some of the musicians have shown after a few appearances, and then, like casting a stone in a still pond, she reminded me that I was up next.
I grabbed my guitar and headed to the stage where I was greeted by the soundman, who was unaffected by the madness. I told him I can't decide whether to use the high-back chair or the stool, so he made an executive decision to go with the stool and then adjusted the equipment around me. I sat there strumming furiously trying to remember the words to these damn songs I wrote and then the monitors came up and I was off like a prom dress.
Thirty seconds in and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I dared not look at the audience, fearing they'd show me the contempt well known to fat, out of shape strippers who mercilessly solicit lap dances. After the first song, my shirt was soaked through and my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. I looked over my shoulder and winced to find my beer sitting on a ledge, way out of reach. With the adrenaline pumping, I pushed on through the second song, grateful two was the limit.
I finished to the obligatory applause of the crowd and hopped off the stool, eager to get out of Dodge. But before I packed up, the next act took the stage and I did not want to be rude by exiting during their performance. My eyes fixated on the nearby sit-down Galaga video game and a guy walked by me on his way to the bathroom and said, "good song, man."
Between sets I made my way out of the bar and contrasted the relief I felt walking home to the anxiety I felt on my way there. This thing that makes people write music and compels them to perform it is mysterious, but for every hack like me, there is a kindred soul who will one day enhance the human experience.
I'm certain there were plenty of seeds at Bar Four last night and the hosts tended to each of them like dutiful farmers. Who knows what will grow from it, but I'm pretty sure my contribution was fertilizer.
Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001
My lungs burn with the ashes of the desperate,
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
Bugs Bug Me
Bugs, bugs everywhere! They have descended on the city like a tempest, a jihad against exposed flesh. Where are the seagulls? These lazy pigeons ain't doing shit.
These pests are spawning faster than gremlins in a bathtub, even at the office where I work. It's unsettling when they land on the computer screen as nonchalantly as they did the black and white TV I watched growing up. They're in the bathrooms, the hallways, and the elevators. I got bit on the back of the thigh and on the Achilles tendon this morning. Vicious thugs -- it's hard to scratch the Achilles.
One would expect bugs to be in the park, but the other day this one landed on my shoulder and it was as big as a squirrel. I can't believe the darn thing didn't think I'd notice it, but I did and then I freaked out in front of these kids who were on a nearby nature expedition.
Is Hitchcock having fun with us? Is this some new-fangled terrorist plot? Where did all these bugs come from? Canada? How did they get so mean? Can we stop them? There's one crawling up my shin right now ... bugger.
I suppose the insect-repellent stocks will do well this quarter. I plan to douse myself in it and smoke big stinky cigars among a pyre of citranella candles until the first frost.
It's unsettling how many times this season I've heard someone say "wow, your blood must be sweet" or "they must really like you." And the affliction is never more apparent than on those poor girls who go to work in sleeveless shirts with red bumps lining there arms like heroin tracks. Some say bed bugs, some say it's a late season hatch, I say it's bloody Armageddon.
Is it tied to a meteorological event, a hurricane wind, or global warming? No suitable explanation has come forth, no formal investigation has been conducted. No one wants to run the risk of being bitten again, especially when they're already bugging about the war on oil and another September approaching.
Just now, one flew over my banker's lamp.
These pests are spawning faster than gremlins in a bathtub, even at the office where I work. It's unsettling when they land on the computer screen as nonchalantly as they did the black and white TV I watched growing up. They're in the bathrooms, the hallways, and the elevators. I got bit on the back of the thigh and on the Achilles tendon this morning. Vicious thugs -- it's hard to scratch the Achilles.
One would expect bugs to be in the park, but the other day this one landed on my shoulder and it was as big as a squirrel. I can't believe the darn thing didn't think I'd notice it, but I did and then I freaked out in front of these kids who were on a nearby nature expedition.
Is Hitchcock having fun with us? Is this some new-fangled terrorist plot? Where did all these bugs come from? Canada? How did they get so mean? Can we stop them? There's one crawling up my shin right now ... bugger.
I suppose the insect-repellent stocks will do well this quarter. I plan to douse myself in it and smoke big stinky cigars among a pyre of citranella candles until the first frost.
It's unsettling how many times this season I've heard someone say "wow, your blood must be sweet" or "they must really like you." And the affliction is never more apparent than on those poor girls who go to work in sleeveless shirts with red bumps lining there arms like heroin tracks. Some say bed bugs, some say it's a late season hatch, I say it's bloody Armageddon.
Is it tied to a meteorological event, a hurricane wind, or global warming? No suitable explanation has come forth, no formal investigation has been conducted. No one wants to run the risk of being bitten again, especially when they're already bugging about the war on oil and another September approaching.
Just now, one flew over my banker's lamp.
Sugar in My Coffee
My hangover remedy of late is an everything bagel toasted with butter, a fruit punch Gatorade(R) and an iced coffee, black, no sugar. Can't stand sugar in my coffee, not sure why, just doesn't jive.
Had a rough go last week, where the old I'll-go-out-for-a-beer led to an impromptu vodka taste test after brief interludes with tequila, whiskey and the Captain.
Next morning, I get to a bagel store for the appropriate prescription. Standing on the sweaty subway platform, I take a sip of the sweet, sandy solution, failing to notice the sugary beach at the bottom of the container. I shake it up hoping the ice will dilute the syrup, but it's no use. If not for the two bucks spent on the large cup, I would have dumped it and cut my losses.
Damn sunk costs. Damn language barrier between me and the proprietor. Damn glad I didn't forget the aspirin.
Had a rough go last week, where the old I'll-go-out-for-a-beer led to an impromptu vodka taste test after brief interludes with tequila, whiskey and the Captain.
Next morning, I get to a bagel store for the appropriate prescription. Standing on the sweaty subway platform, I take a sip of the sweet, sandy solution, failing to notice the sugary beach at the bottom of the container. I shake it up hoping the ice will dilute the syrup, but it's no use. If not for the two bucks spent on the large cup, I would have dumped it and cut my losses.
Damn sunk costs. Damn language barrier between me and the proprietor. Damn glad I didn't forget the aspirin.
No Luck So Far
Lately I've been thinking
I spend too much time drinking,
winking at my reflection
staring back from the bar,
My dreams and chances shrinking,
involuntary like my blinking,
sinking all those hopes
of one day being a big star,
At least when I'm drinking
I can cloud up this thinking,
winking at a woman sitting
across from the bar,
It goes to show that I've
had no luck so far.
I spend too much time drinking,
winking at my reflection
staring back from the bar,
My dreams and chances shrinking,
involuntary like my blinking,
sinking all those hopes
of one day being a big star,
At least when I'm drinking
I can cloud up this thinking,
winking at a woman sitting
across from the bar,
It goes to show that I've
had no luck so far.
Midsummer Classic
In what can only be described as a bizarre coincidence, I, too, am off during the All-Star break. Time to ruminate.
Admittedly, I am surprised with how well the New York Mets are playing. Sure we dropped three up in Boston, but that was to appease the gods, who so mercilessly ripped victory from the Red Sox in 1986. There was a team reunion before the first game. Bill Buckner was invited, but decided not to go; meanwhile, Roger Clemens took the mound in Houston for his first start of the season, 20 years after the Mets won and Orosco flipped out like a kid cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
The '86 Mets will reunite later this year at Shea. It will be good to see the old gang, some out on parole. I wonder if Keith and Darryl will have a go at one another for old times sake. I look forward to seeing Davey Johnson, who was criticized for being too technical when reporters learned he was using a computer to set his line-up, but when you consider that HoJo, Dykstra, Teufel, and Kevin Mitchell were essentially platoon players, who always seemed to get big hits at clutch times, you get the feeling Davey knew what he was doing. Of course, he still can't figure out Tetris.
Back to the '06 Mets. Randolph's greatest feat this season has been keeping Wright and Reyes cool. I mean those kids are super cool. Think about it, 23 years old, voted to the All-Star team, 12.5 game lead in the East ... At 23, I was playing baseball ... RBI Baseball on a beat-up Nintendo in the valet booth of the Crest Hollow Country Club, which brings up another coincidence: The Detroit Tigers, a good team in RBI Baseball, are in first place now, too.
Wright, Reyes, Beltran, Lo Duca, Martinez and Glavine are certainly having big years and are worthy of comparison to the '86 team in that they have a confluence of veterans who know how to play the game and explosive young players who can ignite the stadium and get fans to forget about how many beers they had and how many All-Star ballots they filled out.
This Mets team has a personality emblematic of its skipper, cool, calm, and collected, but I'd like to see it develop the swagger its predecessors had. Looking back at the Red Sox series, when Varitek stuck his shin guard in Reyes' chest much the way Zindane speared his opponent at the end of the World Cup, Reyes sat on the ground while the rest of the team watched with baited breath. I thought of the time when Ray Knight punched Eric Davis for sliding into third a bit high in a game in Cincinnati. Knight was like a crazed dog. If only Reyes got up and smashed Varitek like Michael Barrett did A.J. Pierzynski earlier this year, even Alex Rodriguez would feel vindicated.
And while we're on the subject of the other All-Star third baseman in New York, let me ask you this: Two outs, runners in scoring position, who do you want at the plate? The guy with the blistering .380 avg. in such situations, or the one hitting more than 100 points lower.
Yeah Wright ...
Admittedly, I am surprised with how well the New York Mets are playing. Sure we dropped three up in Boston, but that was to appease the gods, who so mercilessly ripped victory from the Red Sox in 1986. There was a team reunion before the first game. Bill Buckner was invited, but decided not to go; meanwhile, Roger Clemens took the mound in Houston for his first start of the season, 20 years after the Mets won and Orosco flipped out like a kid cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
The '86 Mets will reunite later this year at Shea. It will be good to see the old gang, some out on parole. I wonder if Keith and Darryl will have a go at one another for old times sake. I look forward to seeing Davey Johnson, who was criticized for being too technical when reporters learned he was using a computer to set his line-up, but when you consider that HoJo, Dykstra, Teufel, and Kevin Mitchell were essentially platoon players, who always seemed to get big hits at clutch times, you get the feeling Davey knew what he was doing. Of course, he still can't figure out Tetris.
Back to the '06 Mets. Randolph's greatest feat this season has been keeping Wright and Reyes cool. I mean those kids are super cool. Think about it, 23 years old, voted to the All-Star team, 12.5 game lead in the East ... At 23, I was playing baseball ... RBI Baseball on a beat-up Nintendo in the valet booth of the Crest Hollow Country Club, which brings up another coincidence: The Detroit Tigers, a good team in RBI Baseball, are in first place now, too.Wright, Reyes, Beltran, Lo Duca, Martinez and Glavine are certainly having big years and are worthy of comparison to the '86 team in that they have a confluence of veterans who know how to play the game and explosive young players who can ignite the stadium and get fans to forget about how many beers they had and how many All-Star ballots they filled out.
This Mets team has a personality emblematic of its skipper, cool, calm, and collected, but I'd like to see it develop the swagger its predecessors had. Looking back at the Red Sox series, when Varitek stuck his shin guard in Reyes' chest much the way Zindane speared his opponent at the end of the World Cup, Reyes sat on the ground while the rest of the team watched with baited breath. I thought of the time when Ray Knight punched Eric Davis for sliding into third a bit high in a game in Cincinnati. Knight was like a crazed dog. If only Reyes got up and smashed Varitek like Michael Barrett did A.J. Pierzynski earlier this year, even Alex Rodriguez would feel vindicated.And while we're on the subject of the other All-Star third baseman in New York, let me ask you this: Two outs, runners in scoring position, who do you want at the plate? The guy with the blistering .380 avg. in such situations, or the one hitting more than 100 points lower.
Yeah Wright ...
The Hello Deli Saga
There have been many highlights during my career at PR Newswire, perhaps none more notable than getting a sandwich named after the company at Hello Deli.
The video would have you believe that I pleasantly politicked to have a local merchant pay homage to our place of employ, but in reality the idea was first presented to Rupert Jee in passing by my colleague Steve (right). While the chronology cited in the video is accurate, the catalyst was conveniently omitted.
One day, Steve, Simon and I went in and placed our orders as usual. It was a sunny afternoon and we were in good spirits. Simon was making the usual small talk with Rupert when a CBS camera crew barged in. A crusty old security guard started yelling, "Everybody get the f--k out." Simon acknowledged the guy and told him we would leave as soon as our food was ready. I could see Rupert tense up as his partner May scrambled to get our order together. Then the guy yelled, "What are you a wise guy? If you don't get out, I'll throw you out."
After what seemed like an eternity, Rupert handed the food to Simon and he and Steve left. On my way out, I stopped and said to the guy, "You ain't the only one working today, you gotta ruin my lunch." I was only a few steps from the door when he burst outside screaming, "You wanna go, let's go." His face was bright red and he nearly fell down trying to take off his jacket. His cell phone went flying into the middle of the street, shattering into pieces. Spit flew from his mouth like a rabid dog. I stood my ground, thinking if any got on me, I would strike. Then the camera crew intervened, fearful their co-worker would have a heart attack.
A patrolman who was on the corner of Broadway came over to investigate. Eyewitnesses told him that this crazy guy came out of the deli threatening to fight me. The cop gave me a bemused look and said, "Do you care about this?"
"Not really."
"Do you wanna just walk away?"
"Sure," I said.
When we returned to the office, Simon (left) recounted the episode in front of a captive lunchroom audience. Some listeners told me I should have let the guy hit me and sued CBS. Others were incredulous that Letterman would employ someone so unprofessional. Steve decided to write a letter to the producers to let them know the potential liability they had on their hands. What if we were tourists for goodness sake.
The next day, we received a package from Barbara Gaines, the executive producer of the Late Show. In it were three heather gray t-shirts and a note that read, "I know t-shirts are no consolation -- Thank you for writing!" Simon was incensed at the cheap bribe and refused to take it, so we gave them away to our co-workers, thinking the case was closed. Then one of the editors on the floor said he had May from Hello Deli on the phone for me. She asked that we come by as she and Rupert were really upset by what happened.
We went over on our break and Rupert and May apologized for the incident. They offered us lunch on the house for our trouble. Then Rupert told us that the security guard, Bill, was totally out of line and it had gotten him in a lot of trouble with his boss. Not that we had much sympathy, but then Rupert said Bill was a retired city cop and had protected him over the years when Letterman would send him out to harass the public. Just then, in a bizarre coincidence, Bill walked in to get a pack of cigarettes. He looked at me, Simon and Steve and said, "You guys can say whatever you want," before dashing out.
Rupert asked me to smooth the situation over and get Bill off the hook because he owed it to him. There were two new sandwiches on the counter with paper plates as their temporary signs. I said I would take care of it if Rupert named one of the sandwiches on behalf of PRN, which he did, and the other became the Regis Philbin. (Photo: Bill standing on the far right outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater.)
The video would have you believe that I pleasantly politicked to have a local merchant pay homage to our place of employ, but in reality the idea was first presented to Rupert Jee in passing by my colleague Steve (right). While the chronology cited in the video is accurate, the catalyst was conveniently omitted. One day, Steve, Simon and I went in and placed our orders as usual. It was a sunny afternoon and we were in good spirits. Simon was making the usual small talk with Rupert when a CBS camera crew barged in. A crusty old security guard started yelling, "Everybody get the f--k out." Simon acknowledged the guy and told him we would leave as soon as our food was ready. I could see Rupert tense up as his partner May scrambled to get our order together. Then the guy yelled, "What are you a wise guy? If you don't get out, I'll throw you out."
After what seemed like an eternity, Rupert handed the food to Simon and he and Steve left. On my way out, I stopped and said to the guy, "You ain't the only one working today, you gotta ruin my lunch." I was only a few steps from the door when he burst outside screaming, "You wanna go, let's go." His face was bright red and he nearly fell down trying to take off his jacket. His cell phone went flying into the middle of the street, shattering into pieces. Spit flew from his mouth like a rabid dog. I stood my ground, thinking if any got on me, I would strike. Then the camera crew intervened, fearful their co-worker would have a heart attack.
A patrolman who was on the corner of Broadway came over to investigate. Eyewitnesses told him that this crazy guy came out of the deli threatening to fight me. The cop gave me a bemused look and said, "Do you care about this?"
"Not really."
"Do you wanna just walk away?"
"Sure," I said.
When we returned to the office, Simon (left) recounted the episode in front of a captive lunchroom audience. Some listeners told me I should have let the guy hit me and sued CBS. Others were incredulous that Letterman would employ someone so unprofessional. Steve decided to write a letter to the producers to let them know the potential liability they had on their hands. What if we were tourists for goodness sake.The next day, we received a package from Barbara Gaines, the executive producer of the Late Show. In it were three heather gray t-shirts and a note that read, "I know t-shirts are no consolation -- Thank you for writing!" Simon was incensed at the cheap bribe and refused to take it, so we gave them away to our co-workers, thinking the case was closed. Then one of the editors on the floor said he had May from Hello Deli on the phone for me. She asked that we come by as she and Rupert were really upset by what happened.
We went over on our break and Rupert and May apologized for the incident. They offered us lunch on the house for our trouble. Then Rupert told us that the security guard, Bill, was totally out of line and it had gotten him in a lot of trouble with his boss. Not that we had much sympathy, but then Rupert said Bill was a retired city cop and had protected him over the years when Letterman would send him out to harass the public. Just then, in a bizarre coincidence, Bill walked in to get a pack of cigarettes. He looked at me, Simon and Steve and said, "You guys can say whatever you want," before dashing out.
Rupert asked me to smooth the situation over and get Bill off the hook because he owed it to him. There were two new sandwiches on the counter with paper plates as their temporary signs. I said I would take care of it if Rupert named one of the sandwiches on behalf of PRN, which he did, and the other became the Regis Philbin. (Photo: Bill standing on the far right outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater.)
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)