Not that you care, but...

Quilted Love

2011-07-10T16:46:00.002-04:00

So there was this girl that I was seeing, right, and she was mad crazy into me. Like, kill the world crazy, son. But one day I ended it. I just had enough, you know? Man can only take so much. And maybe you're right. Maybe I wasn't all proper about how I ended it, but this girl, right, this girl was just over the line. Crazy in the morning and crazy at night. Why the hell do I want that, right?

So this girl didn't want it to end. Can't say I blame her, right, cause I'm all me and shit. Who'd want to lose that? But this girl, right, she gave me back my keys but didn't say nothing about making a set of her own. No harm, right? Nah, man, wrong. I come home one day and my house smells like bleach. "That's weird," I says to myself, cause I knowed I ain't done my whites in the laundry that day.

I go up to my bedroom, right, and there, on my quilt, this girl bleached a big heart with her name in the middle. Crazy shit, right? So even though I said we shouldn't talk I grabbed my phone and called her straight up. I was mad heated. You would be too, right, I know.

I hear her ring coming from my room. I turn and see this crazy girl was sitting in my closet, waiting to see my reaction. She comes out smiling, arms all open and coming in for a hug and shit. Crazy, right? She thought this little move would win me over, like seeing her name in a heart on my quilt was just the convincing I needed to know she wasn't crazy or something.

Man, I can't even tell you what thoughts I was having. I was thinking straight up outburst. But I didn't do nothing. I just started punching the wall until she left. Cause it's just a quilt, right? They sell them in stores these days and it wasn't worth getting worked up over.

Still, I think I gotta change my locks now. And that ain't cheap.

Hold Tight My Hand

2011-07-05T23:22:00.001-04:00

Tonight's a night my sight's impaired,
a night my drunkenness declared
its presence for the world to see,
to smile, to smirk, pass judgement on me.
But I can handle what you think.
Lord knows I've pledged this night to drink
and nothing you can say will change
my mood. My 'tude you can't arrange
to meet the lofty goals you've set
without a thought to how I'd get
up to the level where you wait
for soberness to fill my plate.
Cause like I said - this night's for booze,
So hurry! There's no time to lose.
If this cup doesn't hit your lips
I bet your hands won't leave your hips
and you'll keep judging from afar
each time I return to the bar.
That is no fun for me or you
so take a shot. Hell, take a few!
Hold tight my hand and join the fun
cause two's a better ride than one.

a trail of crumbs

2011-06-28T16:09:00.000-04:00

if every rhyme
is like a crime
that i commit to paper,
i wonder if
you'll catch a whiff
and try to solve this caper.
but i would bet
there's safety yet
cause there's no trail behind me;
without one clue
you cannot do
the things it takes to find me.
so till that day
i find a way
to shrewdly blow my cover,
i'll ask the stars,
Venus and Mars,
to help make you my lover.

Up For Discussion

2011-06-23T00:51:00.000-04:00

"I tell you what," she says. "We'll pick an article, read it, share it, then talk about what we read."

He looks at her and tilts his head slowly to the side.

"What kind of article?"

"Whatever you want to talk about."

"Whatever?"

"Whatever."

He thinks for a second. "So let's say there was this magazine stand I passed when I got off the bus."

"On Archer?"

"On Tremont. Can I live?"

"Please do."

"So let's say I got a magazine from this stand and picked an article. You'd read it?"

"Sure, but only on the condition that you read it too and talk to me about it."

"Any article I want?" He smiles.

She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Yes. Even...yeah. Any article you want."

"Is this a trap?"

"A test?"

"Is it?"

"It's neither."

"I feel like I'm gonna come home with a copy of 'Twisted' and you're gonna be disgusted with me."

"Twisted?"

"London-based mag that deals with some crazy stuff. Fetishes and perversions and all sorts of fun topics." He can feel the judgement. "Don't ask me how I know about it."

She furrows her brow. "You read that?"

"I've seen an issue or two at Jake's."

"Shocking." She rolls her eyes.

He shuts his and takes a breath.

"So you'd read it and talk about it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"So we'd have something, anything, to talk about. Shit, we don't talk anymore."

"We're talking now."

She sniffs and looks down at her nails.

"We don't talk about things that matter."

"And you think an article about Falkner suspensions is something that matters?"

"I have no clue what that is and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. But I'll learn about it so we can talk about it. Not because I think it matters but because it will get us talking again. Once we get used to having conversations about nothing it will be easy to have a conversation about something."

"Isn't this a conversation about something?"

"Hardly." She sighs and walks over to the window. With her thumb and forefinger she spreads two slats of the blinds and peers out onto the street. The evening traffic on their block is dead. She turns back around and meets his eyes.

"A conversation about something," she begins, pausing to find the words, "has meaning. It can be about us or about feelings or about our families."

"Seems pretty narrow."

She glares at him.

"Don't give me that look. You just told me that there are only three possible avenues of conversation that are actually about 'something'. You know how quick we'll be back to nothing once we cover off those somethings?"

"Those are only examples!" She's fighting the urge to yell, to throw something, to simply turn and walk out. She takes a deep breath and slowly blows it out. "Those are only examples. But they're things that matter because they're real. They affect you. Me. Us."

She is met with silence. He is staring at a discolored spot on the carpet and clenching his jaw. She knows that means he's thinking.

"What?" she asks.

He cocks an eyebrow but remains transfixed on the spot.

"What?" she asks again.

"What if..." he looks at her with the beginnings of tears in his eyes. "What if we try to talk and we find there's nothing there? Like, what if we're great conversationalists when it comes to Falkner suspensions but we're never able to take the next step and talk about me. You. Us?"

She smiles at his glossy eyes. Not because she's happy he's sad, but because he cares enough to be saddened by the thought of not being able to talk to her about things that matter.

Softly, ever so softly, she kisses him on the lips.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. But for now, I'm ready for whatever article you choose to shock me with."

He smiles at her. "Dangerous words."

"Bring it," she says, and heads into the bedroom, slowly undressing as she goes.

make the turn

2011-06-22T00:28:00.000-04:00

a brand new day
a sparkling chance
another choice
to change the dance

yet now it's night
and here I sigh
just one more day
I didn't try

Quad Crowns

2011-06-20T18:00:00.002-04:00

I bet you bet I'd never bet
with odds stacked high like these.
But yet I'm set to call and sweat
and hope I take the cheese.

I know you know I never know
when moment's right for risks.
I'm so below the gambler's flow
I still rock compact discs.

I face your face and then the face
that graces my four cards.
His smile, his style, his royal guile
will be my bodyguards.

This time it's time I make the time
to take one final stand.
A crime so prime if I don't chime
in with this winning hand.

If Nature Were More Perfect

2011-06-01T00:02:00.003-04:00

I love bacon.

I know this isn't an earth shattering revelation and I know some of you are shaking your head saying the bacon train has passed. It peaked, you say. It reached its apex with the bacon explosion and has been in a steady decline ever since.

Your point is duly noted and I appreciate the feedback. But you know what? I respectfully disagree. Bacon will always remain the brightest star in our pork-blessed sky and no internet meme will ever take that away from us.

Some things are great enough to endure an internet rise and fall. The Star Wars Kid may not have been, but bacon is. It's like a plant that grows no matter the conditions. Sidewalks can't stop it. Round-up is powerless. Pull out as much as you can and it will grow back twice as strong.

Which leads me to think about what kind of plant bacon would be if it grew from the ground instead of a pig.

Would it be a tree, tall and majestic with bacon leaves that crispen and fall when the Autumn winds blow? Or would it be a bush, squat and hearty and harvested by families who come for days of bonding over bacon picking?

If I were a bee, I'd hope bacon flowers covered the land because baby, there ain't no pollination like pork pollination!

But I'm not a bee. I'm a man. A man who knows that bacon would grow on vines that thrived in the country and survived in the city. Bacon would not be local to one region or prefer one climate zone over another. It would need no watering and no fertilization. It would just grow and grow, spreading its taste to all of us lucky enough to live in such a magical world.

Imagine it. Vineyards devoted to bacon. The outfield walls at Wrigley a crispy, sizzling brown. Homes like this increasing in value because of the bacon bounty they provide.

Could there be a more perfect mixture of pork and plant life?

Reunion

2011-05-30T12:13:00.000-04:00

While sitting in my study, got a call from an old buddy
who was wondering why years had passed since our last drink was shared.
He said "Life makes it hard sometimes but surely there were no worse crimes
than friends who thought past differences could never be repaired."

"I thought," he said, his voice real low, "we'd many miles still to go
if only we could clear our minds of mem'ries of the fight?
Besides", he said, "it just makes sense for us to mend our broken fence
considering the vodka drank that cold December night."

Then the phone fell into silence while my mind screamed out for violence
but I did not let my anger make its way into my breath.
I was calm and I was level when I said "Only the devil
could keep old friends like us apart from now until our death."

He laughed and then agreed with me and said "there is no need to be
so distant when we used to be just like peas in a pod."
I bit my tongue and said, "That's true. Let's make it happen, me and you,
we'll meet up and return to the past glories of our squad."

We made some plans and said goodbye and gingerly I rubbed my eye
to feel the awkward bumps from where the bone had broke in two.
Then I stood up and smiled big and felt the urge to dance a jig
as plans for payback by my hands began to mix and brew.

he's not me

2011-05-28T10:12:00.002-04:00

you're out with him
but he's not me
and with me's where
you're s'posed to be.

if you kiss him
you'll kiss his lips,
and how am i
to come to grips

with choices made
where i don't win
a chance for our
life to begin?

The Pros and Cons of Beard Ownership

2011-05-26T22:35:00.005-04:00

The best part about having a beard is that you always have a beard at your disposal. It's there for you to play with and to smooth thoughtfully. It protects your skin from tree branches and kamikaze moths.

Plus, let's be honest, a good beard just looks totally boss.

Now, I'm not sure who invented the beard, but if we were looking at a Top 10 List of History's Greatest Inventors he would have to be in the Top 5. But he wouldn't be Number One.

Not if I were making the list, at least.

You see, as great as it is to always have a beard within fingers' reach, it's awful to always have a beard within fingers' reach.

My fingers, operating under orders unknown to my conscious mind, often find their way to my cheeks and chin for idle dawdling. It doesn't matter where I am. The beard's call does not discriminate between business meetings, drinks with friends, guarded introspection, and playful flirtations. Surely it has a magnetic pull that science can quantify.

I wonder how this attraction would be measured. Joules? Watts? Pounds per follicle? Whatever's decided, I know my beard would tip the scales.

When my brain catches up with my fingers I send a command for them to stop what they're doing, to drop down to my side and leave my face alone. Then, a minute later, I realize they're right back at my face.

It never fails.

While I like the feel of my beard, I don't like the thought of rubbing my face with all the gunk and junk my fingers accumulate throughout a New York day.

And I hear you. I can just carry around hand sanitizer and squirt a dollop into my palms every minute on the minute. But where's the fun in that?

Nowhere. That's where.

And sure. I can just shave my beard so that I won't have to worry about playing with it. But again, I ask you, where's the fun in that? Like I said, it's awesome to have a beard.

Anyone who's had one will agree with me. And anyone who hasn't had one? Well, I just feel sorry for you. Because it truly is one of life's greatest delicacies. I just wish it weren't so damned addictive.

How do you feel about beards? Are you drawn in by their gravitational pull like I am?

how to deal with days like these

2011-03-28T16:35:00.004-04:00

there's doom
there's gloom
but there's no room
for tears or fears
when we consume
our beers.

The Dare

2011-03-24T23:34:00.001-04:00

It was me, Hacken, a fifth of Jack in our bellies, and a dare to swipe the rusty old revolver from Mister Ferguson's house when he took his dog Skipper for her evening walk. We didn't even have to climb in a window or anything. The back door was left unlocked.

"Smell that?" Hacken asked when we stepped inside.

"How could you not?"

I couldn't tell exactly what I was smelling, though. There were hints of mentholatum and under currents of chewing tobacco, but the main notes were foreign to my nose. And offensive.

We made a bee line for the bedroom, walking past piles of yellowed newspapers and stepping over mounds of laundry. Pictures on the wall showed a younger Mister Ferguson, vibrant and ready to take on whatever the world threw at him, but we knew better. Those happy brown eyes would fill with hate and disdain, and the flowing blonde hair would gray and fall out.

"Found it!" Hacken yelled. I turned and found him holding the gun in his hands. His smile was one of pleasant surprise.

"I guess Jay was right. Ferguson did have a gun under the mattress."

"Is it loaded?" I asked.

"Not sure."

Hacken held the gun away from his chest and tried to spin the barrell. It was rusted tight. He looked through the exposed slots and was able to see through them.

"Looks empty to me."

"You sure?"

"Wanna hold it and see? It doesn't feel heavy."

I grabbed the gun, barrell first, and tried to gauge its weight. It was the first real gun I'd ever held.

"You're right," I said. "Feels empty."

We smiled at the gun, not stopping to think whether or not it would be missed. It's not like mister Ferguson was taking it to the range everyday.

"So what now?" He asked me.

"You think a picture is enough?"

"I don't know." Bryan reached out for the gun and I handed it to him. He pointed it at my face and squinted down the barrell. "Jay dared us to steal it. Not model with it."

I picked up a ratty tshirt from the floor and flicked it at the gun.

"Don't point that at me."

"Scared?"

"No." I trusted him. I just didn't trust any gun pointed towards me. "But like you don't want your mom to fellate me, I don't want a gun pointed at me."

He stared at me for a couple of seconds before cocking the hammer. "What did you say?"

"I don't want a gun pointed at me."

"About my mom."

"You heard me." I turned my back and heard him laugh and call me a dick. "How much time do you think we have?" I walked out of the bedroom and went into the bathroom. Figured maybe Ferguson had something exciting in the medicine cabinet.

"Not long," Hacken said as he walked past the bathroom towards the back door. "Come on."

I gave Ferguson's pills a quick glance but didn't grab any. The names were unrecognizable and I didn't want to accidentally take a prescription strength laxative. That would not have made for a fun Saturday night.

"Crap!" Hacken came jogging back down the hallway. "Ferguson and Skipper are coming around the back."

I looked towards the front door but Hacken shook his head. Skipper was already in the house, barking at the presence he sensed but didn't recognize.

"Come on," I grabbed Hacken and pulled him towards the bedroom.

"What are you doing?"

"Just start folding laundry."

"What?"

I didn't have time to explain. Skipper was barking at us from the threshhold and Mister Ferguson was walking towards us. Hacken shoved the gun into his waistband and pulled at the bottom of his shirt, hoping he could stretch it out enough to help hide the bulge.

Skipper stopped barking. I looked up from the dirty laundry I was folding to see Mister Ferguson standing at the door. He was leaning hard on his cane and, with his other hand, pointed a gnarled finger at us.

"Why are you boys in my house?" he croaked."Who said you could be in my house?"

I forced a laugh. "Hi, Mister Ferguson! Remember you asked us to help you clean up?"

He squinted and stared hard, his eyes darting suspiciously between Hacken and me.

"Who let you into my house? Do your parents know you're in here?"

"Sure they do. And the back door was open," Hacken said. He grabbed a pair of crumpled pants off the back of a chair and gave them a good flick. The motion caused his shirt to rise for a half second and I saw the handle of the gun. I looked at Ferguson, sure he saw it, but his eyes were elsewhere. "It was open just like you said it would be, so we let ourselves in. Hope that was ok?"

"What are you doing here?" he snapped his fingers and Skipper dropped her aggressive stance to sit by his side. "Why are you in my house?"

"Fine," I said. I put down the shirt I was holding and looked at Hacken. "Let's just go if he doesn't want us to finish."

"Sorry, mister Ferguson," Hacken said as we walked past him. "We were just trying to help."

"Fine, fine" he grumbled as we walked past him. "But you were folding dirty laundry."

I looked at Hacken in the hallway and his eyes said he was just as nervous as me. He wanted to get out the back and start running. Our steps quickened. We needed to leave before Ferguson even thought about looking for his gun. We were fast but we ran into a problem; the door was locked.

With a padlock.

Without the key there was no way we'd be able to open it. We stared at each other, hoping there was one answer between the two of us. Then Skipper's bark tore through the silence. She ran into the hall and stopped about five feet from us with tail stiff, hackles raised, and teeth bared.

Behind her, shuffling on his cane, came a laughing Mister Ferguson. "Well boys, it looks like we've got ourselves stuck in a bit of a pickle. You're not getting out that way. And me and Skipper won't be letting you get out this way. And my daddy's gun's gone."

"You're crazy," I said. He smiled at me and moved a hand behind his back. Let's go out the front, Hack."

"Seriously. We try to do a favor and we get accused of stealing."

We started walking towards him and stopped dead in our tracks. He was holding a gun. Hacken abandoned our lie and yanked the revolver out of his pants, pointing it at Mister Ferguson. I looked at guns and didn't like our chances. Where the revolver was old and covered in rust, the model in Mister Ferguson's hand looked like it would actually fire. The metal, black, was polished to a dull shine, and the laser sight centered on my chest was, well, a laser sight centered on my chest.

"You can have your stupid gun back," Hacken said and cocked the hammer, "but not until we're out of here."

Mister Ferguson cackled so hard he had to lean against the wall to stop himself from falling. "You threatening me with my daddy's revolver?" With his gun hand, he wiped a tear from his eye. "Boy, that gun hasn't shot a bullet in 2 generations. Probably hasn't been oiled or cleaned in even longer than that."

"All he needs is it to work just this once." I hoped my voice sounded tougher than I felt. "You want to take that risk?"

"You want to take the risk that I'm so old and weak I can't point this red light in a good place?"

The dot moved from my chest to Hacken's crotch. Mister Ferguson giggled.

"Think girls'll still like you without those?"

Hacken pointed the revolver to his side. "Ok, you win. Let's not do anything crazy."

My heart was beating in my neck as Mister Ferguson cackled and spoke to Skipper, the laser sight still trained on Hacken's nuts. "What do you think, girl? Should we teach these boys a lesson?"

a day in colors

2011-03-24T19:37:00.001-04:00

The sunshine's slowly creeping on
It's overwhelming purple dawn
Then orange morning will take hold
Just to give way to day-long gold
When violet dusk is settled down
The silver moon will shadow town
And still I'll be here all alone
Wond'ring just when my chance was blown

a quick little ditty

2011-03-14T23:50:00.000-04:00

this quick little ditty,
before i go to bed?
a data dump of daily deeds
to empty out my head.

a quick little ditty,
so i can say i wrote -
this purloined promise i provide
with meter that i dote:

when little lillith ditched her bike
and chose instead to take a hike
to reach the peak of dead man's pike
i truly tried to stop her.

"the hill's too high and you're too slow
and look how far you have to go
before the whole hill's down below
plus your shoes are improper."

she simply laughed and said goodbye
and said that if i didn't try
there was a chance that i would die
regretting my decision.

ten years have passed and still those words
are cir'cling like blue cartoon birds
because they were the last i heard
when she fit in my vision.

By the Light of the Sun

2011-03-03T15:11:00.000-05:00

The sun comes up.
Another day,
another chance
to find our way.

The sun goes down.
The day is done,
the healing still
has not begun.

one step, then two.

2011-02-22T10:28:00.001-05:00

I stand singing,
my heart ringing,
and my beaten soul
still stinging.
Those prayers offered up?
Returned to sender.

The open door?
Open no more.
Celestial dreams sunk
to the floor.
What happened to the
promises of splendor?

And it’s so strange –
that lightning change
when goals became too
out of range -
a thousand questions
rocketed ‘cross my mind.

Where’d I go wrong?
My choice of song?
Or did I hold on
far too long?
Have I already
fallen too far behind?

I wipe the tears
and hush the fears
that have been growing
all these years.
Tomorrow’s gonna
listen real close to me.

One step then two,
that's what I’ll do,
until I have found
my path true.
I am the author
of my own destiny.

the trouble with a muse

2011-02-14T14:29:00.002-05:00

I know that I should write for me,
I know it's my best chance.
But only when I have a muse
does my mind wake and dance.

The muse makes words pour out of me,
a spigot on full blast -
a flow not slowing from its start
until it's done at last.

The trouble with a muse, of course,
is she's not eas'ly found,
and waiting, hoping, she'll arrive
keeps my feet on the ground.

The Hippie Spin

2011-02-11T10:21:00.000-05:00

I see you dancing, hippie girl.
I see you smile and spin and twirl
and for a moment our eyes meet
and in that moment I'm complete.
The band, your gaze, our matching moves,
we're fully sharing in the grooves.
Just as the moment comes it goes
and off you whirl atop your toes.
Although I want to fall in stride
I don't belong there at your side.
Your freedom's what helps you to twirl,
it's what makes you a hippie girl.

at the company dinner

2011-02-10T10:43:00.001-05:00

He could smell the roasted pheasant
and he deemed it more than pleasant
when a tiny hint of garlic
joined the chorus in his nose.

With a glass of wine before him
and a girl who did adore him
he could feel the magic spreading
from his head down to his toes.

He was feeling overeager
after listening to Seger
sing a song about tomorrow
taking backseat to tonight,

so with tone he felt inviting
asked his girl if 'twere exciting
if they ducked out 'fore dessert came,
grab some evening-time delight.

With a hand as quick as lightning,
and a force borderline fright'ning,
she slapped him quite ferociously
and made him second-guess.

But then she shared a smile
and said "wait a little while,
I'd like another drink or two
before i drop my dress."

He rubbed his cheek while nodding
and decided against prodding
to find out just why she slapped him
when it seemed she was on board,

so he raised his glass and downed it
and encouraged her to pound it
and before it hit the table
a new glass for her he poured.

Memory of a memory

2011-02-07T17:45:00.000-05:00

The idea hit while I was surrounded by friends. More than an idea, really, it was a memory that had been drifting, unclaimed, for years. I smiled at the re-collection.

"Oh yeah," I thought, "I forgot about that." The moments replayed in my head. "That would make a great story."

I didn't write anything down. I simply filed it away for later. After all, no thought that vivid would dare disappear.

Except it did.

My mind was uncooperative when a pen finally found my hand. I remembered I had a memory, but I couldn't sort out what the memory was.

I wonder if it's because my mind wouldn't let me.

Maybe it was teaching me a lesson. Maybe my mind was saying that I shouldn't look away when an idea strikes, that it takes two of us to put words to paper and if I was going to ignore inspiration then I wouldn't be able to find it when I declared myself good and ready.

I tried to hold my anger but it was quickly replaced by apathy. After all, if I wasn't willing to drop everything when my mind called out to me, why should it have fired himself up when I called out for help?

Once before and now once more

2011-01-20T22:30:00.000-05:00

I used to write.

I used to write and it bothers me.

I used to write and it bothers me because I don't write anymore. Even though I want to.

It's just that I want to do a lot of other things, too.

Sometimes I want to play guitar. Or Halo. Or lay on the couch and watch tv. And the voice that's always whispering, saying I need to check out Facebook because my feed might have refreshed with something exciting and life-changing? Well, like I said, it's always whispering.

It's easy to say this will all change and I'll start moving words from mind to screen each and every day. Unfortunately, I wouldn't believe it. That's a lie I've heard from me too many times.

So what can I say?

I can say I'll try.

I can say I'll try and maybe I'll even do it. After all, it's been thirty years. I'm bound to surprise myself when I least expect it.

carousel

2010-11-23T11:46:00.000-05:00

The question's never why but when
she'll pack her things and leave again
(it's just a cycle she repeats -
full steam ahead then she retreats.)
You'd think by now the lesson's learned
but who can fault a lover spurned?
The heart makes choices, often blind,
that contradict the sober mind -
one smile and the past's forgot.
It's always worth another shot
because this time perhaps she'll stay
so she can see me everyday
and crawl into my arms each night
to shine by moon's ephemeral light.
I say "perhaps" because I know
that in her mind she's set to go
but I can hope and I can dream
that in her heart she's on my team
and she's signed up to guard my side
no matter how bumpy the ride.
Though chances are she'll leave again,
the question never why but when.

underwear magic

2010-09-24T10:30:00.001-04:00

I was wearing my Superman underoos when she caught my gaze and walked over.

What terrible luck, I thought. Cindy Crawford eying me and I'm rocking my red and blues.

She didn't know that, of course. I was wearing pants so there's no way she could've suspected I was wearing a pair of XXL children's underwear I bought on eBay.

It was a good price, too. Less than seven bucks. Was that something I should've told her? Would it have impressed her?

"Hi," she said, her beauty mark smiling along with her lips. "I'm Cindy."

"I know." I said, my voice threatening to crack. "I saw you in Playboy."

Her smile disappeared.

"Real artsy," I stammered. It would not be an easy recovery. "Must have been awesome shooting with Herb Ritts."

"Herbert was the most professional photographer I ever worked with. Tell me, what's your name?"

"I'm Evan."

Her smile wasn't back, but her look was getting softer.

"I like that name," she cooed. "the first boy I ever kissed was named Evan."

"Was he a good kisser?"

"As good as a twelve year old could be, I guess. It was a game of spin the bottle and I was so excited when his spin landed on me. I had a big crush but," she paused and looked off into the distance, seeing the pain of the memory, "he didn't love me back."

"What a fool," I said, feeling the flow of the conversation. "He was so young."

"So was I. And so are you." she reached out and ran her knuckle down my cheek. It made me feel bold. It made me feel like it wasn't such terrible luck after all.

"I am. In fact, I'm so young I still wear underoos!"

With a flourish I stepped back, pulled down my sweatpants, and did a little spinning pirouette.

Cindy just stared at my face. Her mouth was open but no words came out and she refused to acknowledge my underwear. I read disappointment in her beauty mark and a sadness in her eyes.

"A deal breaker?" I asked.

Her lips moved but no words came out. I reached forward and touched her chin, letting her know that it was ok to look.

"No," she let out meekly, her breath raspy and picking up speed. Then, like a switch had been hit, her eyes lit up and her voice rose to a fevered pitch.

"My Evan wore underoos too!"

She leapt at me with mouth open and tongue attacking, her mind taking her back to that seminal day so many summers past. I tried to relax. I wanted to go with it but the whole thing felt weird. She was kissing me like she was twelve again.

"I'm sorry," I said. I meant it too. "Way too much tongue."

Pushing her back and pulling up my sweatpants, I could see the hurt in her eyes. A second Evan in underoos wasn't returning her love. A shame, too, because it wouldve been awesome to bring her to my high school reunion.

I heard her whimper as I walked away but I didn't pay attention. I was already looking forward to the next adventure my underwear would deliver.

kebabs and stones

2010-09-22T10:29:00.000-04:00

I walked north on Broadway. A cold wind knocked the smile from my face but couldn't shake my resolve. I would not raise my hand for a taxi.

A kebab vendor nodded as I walked past. The details of his face were hidden by the smoke from his grill but his eyes, dark like the ocean floor, shone through and caught my gaze.

Fool, I thought, my toes turning to face him, just keep going.

"Yes my friend," he said. His accent was faded but I could pick up a young adulthood spent in the middle east. He was Americanized but unable to shake the truth of his roots.

The breath of his words pushed the smoke away. I only caught a glimpse before the cloud re-formed. I thought I saw scars but they may have been wrinkles.

We stood there, separated by less than a yard but standing a world apart.

"I'm sorry," I said and turned. "She's waiting for me."

"But to show up empty handed? Surely you are better than that."

"I'm better than a chicken kebab." I took two steps before a hand grasped my shoulder and spun me back around. "Hey!" I stopped. The man was still behind his cart, too far away to have touched me.

"My friend," he laughed and the veil of smoke parted like curtains on opening night, revealing a face cross marked with scars and a mouth sporting only three crooked, decaying teeth, "I offer more than chicken."

He raised his hand to show me a red stone perfectly cut to look like a film prop.

"Fake jewels? No thanks."

"No my friend." he flattened his palm and the stone started to glow. He raised his hand and the light touched his face, setting his black eyes on fire. "This is the Fangheeju stone, stone of legends."

It dazzled me. The light danced across his face, waltzing between scars and twirling between his eyes. In that light I saw our future - a house in the hills, financial security, kids, a dog - but I knew it would only come if I gave her the stone.

"How much?" I asked, reaching out to touch it and feeling a painful ecstacy shoot up my fingers when they entered its light.

He closed his hand and the light vanished as he pocketed the stone.

"For you my friend, three dollar."

I couldn't pull my wallet out fast enough. I gave him a five and told him to keep it all. He took the money, thanked me, picked up a kebab and asked "bbq sauce? Hot sauce?"

I just stared at him through the smoke. Was he serious?

"My friend. Any sauce?"

"I don't want any sauce. I want the Fainkeemu stone, or whatever the hell you called it."

"Fangheeju stone? My friend, that is a stone of legends. But kebab? Meat of reality."

I stalked off, leaving him holding a dripping stick of chicken. The wind had picked up and I was late.

I would be back, though. He had my money and he had that stone. One way or another, I'd be getting both.

the night must go on.

2010-06-02T16:22:00.001-04:00

Silent and sulking, I know what you think.
But you can't believe I'll let my evening sink?
Old Man Macallan is still going strong
while Miss Suzie Sauza will soon burst with song.
And Jack just arrived so you know its plain wrong
for me to tell Jim that I won't go along.
So instead of giving that slow angry blink,
stop judging and join me and have one more drink.

starting small

2010-05-11T23:58:00.005-04:00

i'm starting small -
a tiny ball
rolled down the hill,
first at a crawl

but gaining speed,
taking the lead
to refine skill
for a stampede

that won't be stopped.

wu-tang wednesday 8

2009-11-18T16:14:00.000-05:00

dollar dollar bill, you all.

happiness and jealousy

2009-11-07T18:15:00.001-05:00

Dude was tall. Real tall. Duck down when he got on the train tall. And his face? A super long and impressive canvas for those bushy blonde mutton chops.

He swayed when he walked. I couldn't tell if he was drunk or had some kind of swagger. The bottles clinking in his "I love new york" bag solved that mystery right quick.

"I want to sit" he said, his voice raspy like a slow hacksaw moving through wood.

The guy and girl sitting down moved closer to the opposite polls and he sat between them. His knees bounced up and down. His thighs twitched open and shut. He shot looks left and right and left again. Dissappointment is what I read in his face. Then, with fingers nervously tapping his discman, he stood back up and took a couple steps down the train.

”I want to sit," he said again, this time talking to a different duo.

Like the first, they pushed over a bit to give him some extra room. He sat and, again, began bouncing his knees and opening and closing his legs. He was not being mindful of his neighbors' space at all.

The guy sitting next to him had enough. He stood up.

"Thank you," the tall man said with a sarcastic snarl, like the extra space was something he was entitled to.

He sure acted like he was. As soon as the space opened up he turned sideways so that his legs stretched and blocked anyone from sitting next to him. As if to prove his point, he put his bag on the seat.

I stared at him, intrigued, as he pulled a bottle of Brooklyn lager out of his shopping bag. Was he going to drink it? Did he have one in that little bag for me?

Holding the bottle like a delicate piece of crystal, he breathed on it and buffed it with his shirt. Then, when its level of shine reached the sparkle he wanted, he placed the bottle against his cheek and smiled.

Bliss. He was experiencing pure bliss and I was jealous because he looked happier than I could ever dream to be.

I wanted to ask him what the secret was. Was it the ripped jeans? The timberland boots that looked like they'd been handed down from his grandpa to his dad to him? Or was it something else entirely.

Had I been a braver man I would have asked. I would have questioned what it was that made him smile the way he did. As it was, I just made eye contact with the guy who stood up and shook my head in silent agreement.

wu-tang wednesday 7

2009-11-04T22:46:00.001-05:00

alvin is hardcore, yo.

The Trackers.

2009-11-03T00:16:00.001-05:00

Was her and him,
Estelle and Jim,
Who set the place
On fire.

Was him and her,
A dashing blur,
Who raced into
The mire.

Now me and you,
What can we do?
Why should we stand
and wallow?

Now you and me,
we'll make them see,
There's nowhere we
won't follow.

the worst world series possible

2009-10-28T23:01:00.006-04:00

I suppose I could root for the Yankees. After all, they're from New York and aren't in the same division as the Mets.

On the other hand, I can pull for the Phillies because, well, they're not the Yankees. I've spent years rooting against the Yankees. Hell, one of my happiest sport memories came in 2001 when the Diamondbacks strung together some hits against Rivera in the bottom of the 9th to win Game 7. I even wrote about it.

There's such a different relationship between the two teams. As a Mets fan, I feel I'm always chasing the Yankees on the back pages of the local papers. Just check out this pic from the Daily News:

The Mets beat the Yankees in a game of a Subway Series. Awesome, right? But instead of the Mets getting some love for a game well-played, the Yankees catch shit for giving the game away.

Even when we win we got no love!

But the Phillies. How can I root for them? They're in the same division as the Mets. That would be like a Yankees fan rooting for the Red Sox. A Bears fan pulling for the Packers. It's just not proper.

There's an actual baseball rivalry between the Mets and Phillies. They play almost 20 times a season and chase each other in the standings. And, as a Mets fan, it's been a horrible chase. And I'm not even talking about this year when we should've stopped playing games in June (actually, I think they did stop around that time). But let's talk about the two seasons before that we were in first going into the last couple weeks of the season. You know happened both times? We blew it.

Cole Hamels went so far as to call the Mets a bunch of choke artists on WFAN. He went on our home radio station and called us out!

But he was right. We did choke. Twice.

So what do I do? Do I pull for the team I've spent my life hating or do I root for the guys who knocked the Mets off their NL East Pedestal (however short lived a reign it was) and made fun of us while doing it?

It really is the worst World Series combination possible.

You know what? I can't do it. I can't pick a team to root for. Because the Yankees are getting spanked right now in Game 1 (down 6-0 in the 9th) and that's awesome. That makes me happy.

But the Phillies are spanking the Yankees right now in Game 1 (up 6-0 in the 9th) and that angers me to no end.

I just want it to be over.

addendum: i can root for pedro. he's fun.

my train buddy

2009-10-28T11:43:00.001-04:00

I was reading my book and didn't look up when she got on the train at Times Square. After she sat, her fire engine red wool jacket exploded in my periphery. It distracted me for a second but I easily turned my attention back to the book.

Then a sound snagged my attention.

She was filing her nails.

I looked over from my book. Her hands were dry, white, and cracked, like someone had poured a thin layer of wax then pushed down after it dried. A curiosity overtook me. What was the face that matched the fingers that were methodically moving up and down, dropping flakes of filed off nail past a wedding ring in need of a polish to the ground below?

I tried to turn my focus away. My eye went back to the book but they weren't finding any traction among the words. They kept flicking right to watch her file.
She was in control and my will power was quickly fading.

I gave in and decided to look. I was smooth, though, pretending to do a slow neck roll like I was stretching. I turned my head left then slowly and deliberately moved it right. At the halfway point I got very uncomfortable.

She was watching me.

I could feel it.

I stopped the swivel and looked back down into my book. She switched nails. Dust started collecting on a second finger. Then a third.

This is ridiculous, I told myself. There would be nothing wrong with stealing a look at her face. People check out their seat neighbors all the time. I’d even looked at the guy on my right before without any reservations. Why was this woman any different? Just because she was filing her nails? Did that really change the rules?

I gave myself a pep talk and got ready. Then she stopped. Just as I was about to look her fingers went silent. She lowered the file, looked at her nails, and blew.

White flecks of dust, sanded down pieces of nail that had been part of her body mere moments earlier, flew up and came down to land on my sleeve. My black sleeve. They stood out like an alpaca in a jewelry store.

I curled my lip and blew at the dust. It didn’t move. I flicked it off then looked up at her. Her head was turned and our eyes met. They were green. I wanted to admire them but I was having a hard time looking past the crazy. Her pupils were bigger and darker than the mouth of a cave and they were looking through me. Past me.

It was like I wasn’t even there. Her crooked smile wasn’t for me.

At least I hoped it wasn’t as I sent a puff of air out from my nose before turning my attention back to my book. Nothing good could come from having that kind of crazy focused on you.

wu-tang wednesday 6

2009-10-28T06:50:00.000-04:00

see, that's the thing with wu-tang. they show us that it's ok to do something for someone else just to see them smile.

the question that made time stop

2009-10-26T07:31:00.002-04:00

Since my days are always better with a little bit of Jenny,
I was thinking I would ask you and your answer would be "many
days are coming when the two of us will share each others spaces,
when the two of us will work as one to win life's little races.
And remember any fight we have will prove inconsequential
thanks to love and laughter and a bond that's truly monumental."
So I guess the thing I'm saying is (my eyes they open wide)
will you take my hand and choose to live your life out as my bride?
"I can't tell you just how long I've kept my eyes locked on your lips
with my ears perked up and hard at work to pick up any tips
that your brain was sending messages to make you say those words,
cause I knew that when I heard them I'd soar up among the birds
where the weights and troubles plaguing me would quickly disappear
and the answers that I'd always sought would come to me so clear.
And I knew that when you asked me I'd cry tears from feeling blessed,
and I knew that when I moved my mouth the word you'd hear is yes."
Oh my J (I gush profusely) you and me until forever.
Can I tell you as a young man I'd spent nights thinking that never
would I find someone to fill me with a love that kept me burning,
with a passion unencumbered that would always leave me yearning.
But well here I am and here you are and we've got our tomorrow
(it is then I see her joyful tears are naught but tears of sorrow).
You're not crying cause you're happy and I did not hear you answer.
You just moved around the question like a coked up salsa dancer.
"I have waited for this day so long," (she said between her tears)
"but now that it is upon me I can not escape my fears.
Will our feelings in the future be the same ones we've today?
Will you ever deny guidance if I ever lose my way?
Can I count on you to root for me no matter who I'm playing?"
Well of course I’d have your back and re-enforce the words you’re saying.
If you’re doubting if I love you you should show that doubt the door
because every day I spend with you my love grows even more.
You’re my meaning and the reason I wake each and every morn,
you’re my shield against a hate-filled world that looks on me with scorn.
You’re the one that I’ve been waiting for since my first day of life.
You’re the only one I’d want to take the title of My Wife.
So please (I ask with heart in hands, my future on the line)
will you take this ring and all it means and tell the world you’re mine?

give the boy a gun

2009-09-30T00:09:00.004-04:00

you give the boy a gun you'd better listen to his breath
cause you're giving him the power to decide on life and death.
you give the boy a gun and you will soon learn if he's loyal
cause you're giving him the power of a drunk medieval royal.
you give the boy a gun but know his aim may not be true
cause you're giving him the chance to use his brand new gun on you.

the salamander

2009-09-24T15:16:00.003-04:00

the sexy little salamander scurried 'cross the grass
while a sloppy drunk chameleon was ogling her ass.
"hey baby where you going? do you got some room for me?"
she turned and with a frown replied "i think i'll have to pass.

"i know your type, you're all the same. you fake sincerity.
you'll love me till the loving's done then treat me like debris."
she turned to leave, her head held high, a true portrait of class,
while the sloppy drunk chameleon was left alone to pee.

looking into tired eyes

2009-09-23T16:58:00.002-04:00

I look into those tired eyes,
they stare right back at me.
I dare them to show me the way —
they shrug in apathy.

I plead with them to give me strength,
To say my moves are right.
They laugh right into my poor face
and ask off for the night.

They’re tired, say the eyes to me,
and they deserve a break.
It’s not their fault I can’t decide
whose fault it is I ache.

As much as I wish they were wrong
I cut the eyes some slack.
I retreat from the mirror and
I lay down on my back.

the talk

2009-09-18T12:03:00.001-04:00

The movie ended but they didn't want their night to.

"Grab a drink?" he asked.

"No beer," she answered, "I'm still feeling a little off and I have to wake up early."

"No worries. We can pop into Cosi and grab some hot chocolate or something."

She grabbed his hand and lit the night with her smile. "Sounds good."

They stood on the corner of Broadway and 13th as a number of taxis and black sedans whizzed by. The breeze that followed a passing bus sent a chill down her collar. He saw her shiver, pulled her in close for a hug and decided to steal a kiss instead.

She did not fight the thievery.

When the light turned red they jaywalked their way to the west side of the street.

"Where is it?" she asked.

"Not even half a block, beauty."

They took slow steps, her hand in his and his feet striking the ground at the same moment hers did. She turned to catch a glimpse of his profile and smiled when she caught him doing the same. There was a sense of mild disappointment when the walk ended, but they took solace in the fact that the night was still going.

"What's up guys?" the host asked. "Here for dinner?"

"Just some drinks," he answered. "That cool?"

"Of course! Right this way."

The host grabbed a couple of menus and led the two to a table in back. They thanked him and sat down. She unwrapped her scarf, took off her jacket, and put both on an empty seat next to her. She smiled at him. "What?"

"Nothing," he answered, taking his own jacket off. "Just smiling at your baby browns."

"My grandma used to joke and say they were doody brown."

"Doody? I'd say captivating is a better word."

"Captivating," she mused with a slight nod. "I like that a lot better."

They ordered drinks, her a hot chocolate and him a tea, and talked about the movie while they waited.

"Great soundtrack," he said.

"It was good. Indie, but trendy indie."

"You ever hear of the band they were trying to find?"

"Chasing Fluffy? Never." The drinks arrived and she thanked the waiter with a warm smile. She turned her eyes back on him. "But that doesn't mean they're not real. There are lots of bands we've never heard of."

"Very true," he agreed.

With his hands cupped around the mug, he closed his eyes and let the warmth radiate through his palms. He took a deep breath, in through the nose until his chest could expand no more, and slowly exhaled onto his drink, pushing small tendrils of steam towards her. He opened his eyes and winked. She blushed, furrowed her brow, opened her mouth, and stopped.

"What?" he asked her.

"What?" she replied.

"You looked like you were about to say something."

"Forget it, dude," she said, her eyes looking down into a cup as she took a sip.

"Come on," he prodded, his fingers reaching out and resting on her forearm. "What's up?"

"Dude," she sighed. Her eyes met his and shocked him with their sadness. It was an emotion he hadn't seen from her before. "Do you think you can really date someone that you know you can't marry?"

He felt his eyes pop a little at the question.

"Not that I'm talking about you and me," she added in a hurry, "but, just, you know..."

It was something he'd been thinking about himself but, to be honest, he didn't think it was something that needed to be talked about yet. They hadn't even assumed the boyfriend/girlfriend titles. But, looking down at the Star of David around her neck, he started to think that maybe it was better to have the conversation beforehand. Maybe it would be easier for both of them if they figured out where their path would lead before they walked themselves into a dead end.

"It's funny," he said without actually meaning those words, "but I've been thinking about that myself lately."

"Yeah?"

"You know I'm not a religious guy. Don't read the bible, don't go to church, don't really believe in the whole organized religion thing. I mean, I know it does some good. Gives some people a feeling of belonging and helps bring communities together, but I think on the whole it does more harm than good. So I don't know that I'm going to raise my kids with religion. Sure, I'll teach them about it, but I don't think I'm going to push them to go to church. So I could date someone who's a different religion, but could I marry them? Yeah, I guess I could. But not if they're really into their religion."

"What do you mean?"

"Like I don't want to take my kids to church, so I sure as shit don't want them going to a Temple or a Mosque or whatever. I just think it would be unfair to them."

"Unfair?"

"Yeah. To them and to me and my wife. Because how do we choose how to raise them? Do they go with their mom, or stay home with me? And will they look at me staying home and say, 'Daddy doesn't have to go. Why should I?' And what if we give them the choice and they choose one parent over the over? Will mom resent me because the kids decided to hang out with me Saturday morning instead of going to Temple? Will I get pissed the kids can't come camping with me because they have to go to services?"

She dropped her eyes and took a long sip from her cup. She looked up after a slow and deliberate drink.

"What about you," he asked. "What do you think about it?"

"I guess I agree," she said. "I was raised with certain beliefs. And I like those beliefs. I don't want to have to abandon them."

"Hey, I like that you were raised the way you were. It's part of what makes you you. And I like you, so how can I have any argument against your upbringing?"

"I just feel like it's my responsibility to pass them onto my kids. You know?"

"I do," he answered, a tinge of defeat seeping into his voice. "So what now?"

"Dude," she laughed, "I told you I wasn't asking about us."

"I know," he sighed and smiled and thought ahead. If they both just said there were some huge obstacles ahead, how much longer could they go on before the elephant got too big to ignore? "But it sure sounds like we were talking about us."

"Forget I even brought it up. You want another drink?"

"Nah," he said, his voice trying hard to cover the sadness he felt, "but I'm down to walk around a little more if you are."

Her eyes smiled as bright as her lips. "Always."

sing with me

2009-09-07T22:10:00.003-04:00

come sing with me
while night is young,
while stars shine bright
and strings are strung.

please sing with me
before the dawn,
before the moon
has ambled on.

let's sing together
'bout our life,
about the smiles
and the strife,

let's sing of all
the days we've shared —
of all the dreams,
the secrets bared.

come sing with me
of days that wait
(our destinies,
our future's fate).

but hurry.
let me hear your voice
because before us
lays a choice —

two paths with
different twists and bends
will take us to
two different ends

and listen,
i'm no slave to fear,
regardless of
those lies you hear.

cause after all,
look, here i am.
i did not run.
i did not jam.

i came to you
with pleading eyes
and threw away
my alibis.

i won't pretend
my strength has held.
with one wry smile -
my walls? you've felled.

so please, your lips,
don't keep them shut.
lift up your arms
and gloat and strut

and sing to me
that i should stay
and i'll fight hard
to find the way

'cause i don't want
to sing life's song
without you there
to sing along.

the truth doesn't have to hurt

2009-08-24T18:08:00.001-04:00

the truth doesn't have to hurt
when properly promoted.
the truth doesn't have to hurt,
not when it's sugar coated.

the truth doesn't have to hurt,
it can be soft like fuzz.
the truth doesn't have to hurt
but it hurts when it does.

the score

2009-08-18T10:45:00.004-04:00

i'm just scratching my head
as we're lying in bed
while i try to recall
all those things that you said.

but my mind's drawn a blank
so now let us be frank,
is this really for real
or just some girlish prank?

when we wake in the morn
will you blast me with scorn?
will you even be here
or will i wake forlorn?

it's not that i object,
i'm quite glad that we necked
guess i just want to know
so my heart isn't wrecked.

see, i've been hurt before
when i opened my door
so before we push on,
baby, tell me the score.

Screw you, Upright Citizens Brigade

2009-08-05T17:10:00.002-04:00

I've always been a fan of the Upright Citizens Brigade (UCB). Living here in NY, one gets to appreciate the cheap shows, cheap beers, and rampant laughs they provide.

I've also always considered myself an actor in disguise. After all, they don't just give the lead in the 8th grade play to anyone. I must have had some talent. Unfortunately, as I've mentioned earlier, acting is an activity I quit. Twice.

The first time was when I made it to high school. It just didn't fit into my busy schedule of JV Football and the Disney Afternoon. I quit again after completing Improv 101 at UCB in 2006.

Our teacher ditched the class about halfway through and I wasn't very impressed with the other students. Half were timid and unsure of themselves while the other half kept trying to one-up each other to get the most stage time and laughs. This went against one of the main tenets of the class' teachings - always set the other guy up - but the new teacher didn't seem to mind.

I was less than impressed with the whole experience and when the class ended I was none too excited about taking another. The only way I'd go back, I said, was if I did it with friends.

Fast forward to a conversation I had with Aldous a few months ago. Turns out he had also taken Improv 101 and was looking to take 201 at some point. Perfect! Since, as the web site says, the only pre-requisite for 201 is the successful completion of 101, we decided to take the class together.

Aldous successfully signed up for a class but it sold out before I could get in. Not a problem, we thought, I'd just sign up for another and meet him in 301. I sent an email to UCB to find out if there was any chance I could get into Aldous' class and, if not, when I could expect some new classes to open up.

I received a funny little response:

I noticed the last class you took was in 2006. We require returning students who have been inactive within our school for two or more years to contact us to be placed in the appropriate level... You currently have permission to sign-up for one of our registering 101 courses.

You can imagine the elation I felt at being given permission to pay another $350 for a class I had already taken and paid for. In fact, I'm still all giddy and goosebumped at the privilege they've bestowed upon me. But you know what? I think I'm going to pass.

The class was bad enough the first time through to keep me away for nearly 3 years. I don't presume it's a worthy investment to start at the bottom again. Plus, as I mentioned above, the UCB website says, and I quote, "Prerequisites: Completion of Improv 101".

I'm pretty sure completing Improv 101 means I completed Improv 101.

Whatever. I'm done with them. I was even thinking of taking a sketch writing class, but apparently they don't want my money.

No, that's wrong. It's not that they don't want my money. It's just that they want more of it than they deserve.

Speeding

2009-08-03T12:47:00.003-04:00

I just don't know
the way to go,
so often times
I go too slow.

But I get passed
when folks move fast
so I speed up
to not be last.

It's then I find,
though not behind,
I've lost my way
and lost my mind.

ways unknown

2009-07-26T18:09:00.005-04:00

sometimes the syncopation
is too much for me to bear.
it's like the world is working hard
to make sure i'm aware.

but do i really want the world
to point me where to go?
or would i rather ditch the path
and swim against the flow?

i don't see endings either way,
they're both as dark as night.
just wish i knew which way to go,
which way would serve me right.

but that's the thing with ways unknown —
you've got to scout them on your own.

anyone but me

2009-07-21T21:55:00.003-04:00

it's true, some days i wish that i
was anyone but me.
but it's not like i have a clue
of who else i could be.

the astronaut up in the stars
who travels round the earth?
with no loved ones to share the view
just what's that beauty worth?

and sure, the movie star's the one
who's in the flashbulb lights.
but how could i stroll down the street
enjoying quiet nights?

i guess i could be president
and put the world on track,
but why subject my family
to partisan attack?

it's true, some days i wish that i
was anyone but me.
but in the end i understand
i'm just who i should be.

Finally, fireworks

2009-07-20T11:35:00.004-04:00

"Solamente uno,"
said Celena's friend to me.
The glowing sun made her eyes glisten
immortality.

I nodded, numb and insecure,
and asked, "you're sure of this?"
Then watched my world explode in flames
as she leaned in to kiss.

Routine liner to third

2009-07-13T23:53:00.012-04:00

The sneeze, I tell her, the sneeze is the only thing I remember. Well, that ain't entirely true. I remember Matt starting to go into his windup before the sneeze and I remember waking up after it. But between the sneeze and coach holding my hand? Nothing.

Was that the worst part, she asks me. Was the realization after I woke up the worst part?

No, I tell her. I also tell her I didn't know what was going on when I woke up. I tried to move my head as someone told me to stop moving my head. Thought it was Ray but turns out it was Alex, his assistant. Ray had a rare night off.

So was that bad, she asks me. Was it bad that Ray wasn't there?

Nah, I say. Hell did I care if it was Ray or Alex? I could taste the blood and I couldn't breathe through my nose. Just sucked more blood into my throat. And that's when I started kicking.

Kicking who, she asks me, her hand tight on my wrist as we cross the street.

No one, I tell her. I say I was just really writhing there. I was seeing stars the pain was so bad. Thousands of stars in a real dark sky. Then it happened.

What, she asks me. What happened? The worst part?

Not yet, I say, pulling her arm one way but giving in when she stands her ground and says we both know I should follow her and not the other way around. The next was actually the best part, I say. See, that's when Alex whispered that he was gonna give me a shot. I think he whispered because the stadium was so quiet and the cameras were all on me.

Alex was good, though. He didn't take out a big needle. Didn't need everyone to see him give me something. You gotta relax, he told me.

I said something pretty crass back to him. I didn't mean it. I just knew I couldn't relax.

Then I felt the prick on my quad. Warm relief shot down to my toes then up to my head. I could feel the towel they had on my face but I didn't feel them lifting me onto the stretcher. I couldn't see and my hearing was all like the ear equivalent of having tunnel vision.

Coach says he told me to give a thumbs up about ten times before my hand finally moved. The crowd roared, though. I'll never forget that.

Was that it, she asks. Was that the worst part for me because I knew it would be the last time I'd have the crowd cheering for me?

Now wait just a second, I say, and I pull my arm away real hard. I'll be damned if that's the last time a crowd ever cheers for me again. I may not play anymore but that don't mean I'm dead. I'm still me.

You're right, she says and gently grabs my arm again. We start to walk and I feel grass under my feet. Keep going, she says.

So they put me in an ambulance and the guy riding in the back must've thought I was passed out. He tried to talk to me but I didn't answer. What the hell did I have to talk about? My career was over. I knew it. But I didn't know where my life was going. And this guy wanted to know if I was comfortable or it he should move my legs a couple inches to the left? Give me a god damned break, you know?

Anyways, I'm not answering him so he starts talking like I wasn't there. Doesn't look good, he said to the driver after taking the towel off my face. Definitely lots of damage. Nose is busted up. Can't say for sure without an x-ray, but the orbital bone is probably shattered. Eyeballs could've been punctured.

Sucks we missed the play, the driver said with a laugh. What the hell was he doing that he didn't bring his glove up? He was no gold glover, but you gotta think he's gonna bring his glove up to protect his face.

Don't worry about it, the guy in the back said. It'll be on YouTube.

And that, I say, is the worst part about this whole thing.

She asks if I'm serious as she leads me to a bench. Everything that happened, and the worst part is some EMT saying he'd be able to go online to watch me sneeze at the worst time and take a liner to the face?

No, I say with a sigh. The worst part isn't that he said that. The worst part is that even though it's there for me to watch, I'll never be able to see the play that left me blind.

why can't i walk?

2009-07-08T09:59:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I think
there's just no time
and that's not fine
with me.

It makes me think
I have to run
to catch my
destiny.

back on the train

2009-07-01T08:04:00.002-04:00

I've quit a lot of things in my life. Let's take a look at everything I've given up, in no particular order:

Ballet (I was four and my mom thought it was a good idea that I take this class)
Tap (Same as above, but I was five)
Gymnastics (I can still cartwheel)
Football (I stopped growing but others didn't. It started to hurt)
Wiping (There's no proof cavemen did it, so why should I?)
Piano (Couldn't get the hang of crossing my thumbs)
Guitar (Wasn't a superstar, didn't want to practice)
Acting (Freakin' Quintavalle)
Shaving (It's easier not to)

Not a bad list, eh? I'm sure there's more I'm missing, but screw you for trying to find every little thing that makes me look like a quitter. Besides, I'm trying to make amends by getting back into some things on the list. Ballet and tap are out, and the closest I'll get to gymnastics is bending down to touch my toes. I can see wiping making a comeback. Same with acting and shaving. Piano I'm not so sure about because I've started playing guitar again.

That's right. I'm picking it back up and I'm going to take you along for the ride. Admittedly, I'm not very good now. There's a distinct possibility I'm downright painful to listen to. My chord changes can be herky-jerky and my strumming can be as smooth as chopped up asphalt. But I'm practicing and I'm going to get better.

Just you wait. Oh, and as you'll see in the video below of me playing a simple chord progression, I'm also not very good in recording myself. I kind of missed the opening bar. Again, screw you for judging me.

it starts tomorrow.

2009-06-30T21:36:00.003-04:00

July 1, 2009.

Canada Day.

The day I set my alarm an hour early so I can start to incorporate some new activities into my morning routine.

It won't be easy. I'm going to have to slog through it. But if not tomorrow, when?

grosser than gross.

2009-06-29T20:23:00.002-04:00

"Bet you wanna go see something gross," he said.
"In a way that's the absolute most," she said.

"So the thing that will make you squirm most?" he asked.
"Yes the thing that will outshine all gross," she tasked.

"Well I don't know if you should come see," he shrugged.
"Then you'll never again play with me," she bugged.

"Oh in that case come walk there with me," he sneered.
"I can't wait till I'm able to see!" she cheered.

China White

2009-06-29T14:48:00.003-04:00

I recently finished reading Scar Tissue, the Anthony Kiedis biography. It was a great read and taught me a lot about the man and the band. My favorite part was finding out where he found the inspiration for a number of my favorite songs.

The one recurring theme in his life was drug use. No matter what was going on with the Chili Peppers, that tasty smack was calling his name from just round the corner. With that addiction in mind (and liberally borrowing from the meter he established in Breaking the Girl), I wrote this following piece.

He was a man
who did all he can,
always adapting,
abandoning plans.
He was a man
who put his girl first,
She never quenched, no,
she left him with thirst.

Kept his gaze forward
he kept pushing toward
a goal far away.
Always let her down.
Didn't know why he
continued to try he
could never succeed.
Always let her down.

He was a man
whose eyes hid his strain.
Shouldered all burdens
and took on the pain.
He was a man
who swallowed his pride.
Lost in the journey
and stuck on the ride.

Kept his gaze forward
he kept pushing toward
a goal far away.
Always let her down.
Didn't know why he
continued to try he
could never succeed.
Always let her down.

He was a man
who could take no more.
Sighed and replied she
should walk out the door.
He was a man
who ignored her tears.
Saw through the act that
he fell for for years.

Kept his gaze forward
he kept pushing toward
a goal far away.
Always let her down.
Didn't know why he
continued to try he
could never succeed.
Always let her down.

declining their offer.

2009-05-20T07:48:00.002-04:00

stingers and ringers and flies that can sing
all circle my sight line like I am their king.

dancing and prancing they're taking a chance
that i'd put my hands out when they offered pants.

"crazy and lazy are words for my day,
i can't be your king" are the words that i say.

yelling and quelling they promise me hell,
so I walk away after wishing them well.

Untitled: Installment 1

2009-05-18T01:38:00.003-04:00

This is the first installment of a longer work. I'm not sure how many installments there will be because I've only written this one. To be honest, I'm not sure where the story will take us. I'm kind of excited to find out. Hopefully, after reading this, you'll want to learn the rest as well.

The strangest tale I've ever told
is stinky like gym locker mold,
its fishier than lead to gold
but still you'll want to hear it.

The tale will tantalize your mind
with power that gives sight to blind,
but like the panzers from behind
perhaps it's best you fear it.

This tale of strangeness is, in fact,
centered around a scand'lous pact
between two men not known for tact
or following direction.

With whiskey coursing through their veins,
a shield against their life-long pains,
they looked out past the summer rains
and beamed at their selection.

Her name they had no way to know
but they were drawn in by her glow
and like the shock of August snow
she left them both in wonder.

"She'll do just fine," old Arthur said,
while scratching at his hairless head.
He turned to his companion Ted
and laughed, "Now don't you blunder."

Ted gave a look like he was hurt,
He dropped his eyes and kicked the dirt
then oh-so-calm he smoothed his shirt
and answered, "Art, I've got this.

"I know my lines, you play your part.
We ham it up right from the start?
She'll gladly give to us her heart.
Come on, you know I don't miss."

"I know it truer than my name
but don't get cocky all the same.
I'm looking forward to the game
And we can't play without her.

"We're just a couple normal folk.
We understand this life's a joke,"
Then, thoughtfully, he lit a smoke,
"There's just something about her."

Ted licked his lips, walked out the door
of their old rundown fish bait store,
his body shaking to its core
as he ran out to meet her.

"Excuse me miss!" he raised his hand
the one without the wedding band
and with nine steps across the sand
He was right there to greet her.

"My name is Ted, pray tell, what's yours?
And there inside those double doors?
Old Arthur's fighting saboteurs
A battle, dear, we're losing.

"We thought we'd be safe from their acts
but now that we've got all the facts
we realize we're just men in slacks
who can't escape this bruising."

A tear rolled down his leathered cheek
and then his voice, so soft, so weak,
allowed the girl to take a peak
into the men's existence.

"We're fearing for what's sure to come,"
he said with eyes that looked so glum,
"but maybe we could bang the drum
if you'd lend your assistance?"

The Ginsburg Doctrine

2009-05-11T11:30:00.003-04:00

Sometimes a Facebook status message will make me stop and think. The thoughts can be anything from, "What the hell was he thinking?" to, "Wow, she really is a dirty pirate hooker." Every once in a while, though, someone's status will push me to take a look at myself.

This was the case with Brandon Ginsburg's status a couple of days ago:

"Identify your most commonly used word or phrase and eliminate it."

An interesting challenge, I thought, and one that I would like to participate in. Let's face it - if I'm saying something over and over and over again, there's a chance it gets on other people's nerves or makes them think I'm less than intelligent.

"Look at that dolt," they surely must say, "can't he come up with a new phrase?"

The only problem is I don't know what my most commonly used word or phrase is. It's possible I don't know because I don't have one. The more likely scenario, however, is that I'm immune to it because it has become such an integral part of my vernacular that it flows from my lips like water through a sieve.

So I'm asking you to help me out. Be honest. What do I say over and over again that I could do without? What word or phrase should I send to the garbage to make the world a better place?

Did April really exist?

2009-05-03T16:08:00.002-04:00

I saw it in on the calendar and I wrote it on my rent check. I know it was there because my kindergarten education says it always gets slotted in between March and May. So how come when I come and look at my blog I don't see one entry for April?

No rhymes, no quotes, no fiction at all. There was nothing good and nothing bad. There was, frankly, nothing.

Let's make May a little different, shall we? Let's step it up and string some words together. I mean, what the hell? You know?

And on that note:

	Suicide machine - new girl

	Found at skreemr.com

Planet Fitness is Twisting My Arm

2009-03-31T23:22:00.005-04:00

I almost feel like I have to do it. Doesn't matter whether I want to or not - Planet Fitness has made me an offer I simply can't refuse.

$1 down.

$10 a month.

That's $121 dollars for a year membership to a gym located 4 blocks from my apartment. The best part is that even if I don't go it won't be like I'm really losing out.

$10 a month? Please. That's a drink and a tip or a 5pm taxi taking me 20 blocks. Hell, $10 doesn't even get me the salad I want at some places (I'm looking at you, Chop'd.)

Conventional wisdom says you don't need a gym. You can always exercise on your own if you feel motivated enough. Supposedly. I can't really confirm this because I've never really been motivated enough. But for $10 a month I can try to see if I'll be motivated to travel the 4 blocks.

Damn it, Planet Fitness. You got me.

Eyes On The Prize

2009-03-24T15:26:00.002-04:00

Salivating,
ruminating
on the night's direction,
fingers crossed
we don't get lost
and struggle for correction.

i gaze across the brown

2009-03-18T08:31:00.006-04:00

with hazel eyes you smile at me
from 'cross the leather brown,
and i can't help but smile because
there's no one else around.

the sparkling look that's on your face
that no one else can see?
you're glowing and it's showing that
you're glad you're there with me.

i sense the way you're feeling and
i'm sharing in your glee,
it's like we're celebrating our
own private jubilee.

so with blue eyes yes with blue eyes
i gaze back 'cross the brown,
and lay my head upon your lap —
in happiness i drown.

the secret that's not really so secret

2009-03-15T10:28:00.000-04:00

It was cold and we were lazy so we walked a block to McDonald's. I had a vague idea of what I'd have when we got there - quarter pounder with cheese, fries, 4 piece nuggets - but everything changed when I passed a particular table on my way to the register.

Two girls were sitting together, couldn't have been more than fifteen years old, eating lunch. They both wore dark-rimmed glasses and had yellow bandanas tied around their wrists. My eyes went from the bandanas to their fingers. And their nuggets. They looked amazing, full of crispy golden deliciousness.

The quarter pounder lost all appeal. I wanted nuggets and I wanted a ten piece. Until, that is, I saw I could get twelve of them for less money than ten would cost me. This revelation astounded me. Why would they make a system where you could get three dollar menu 4 pieces for less than a ten piece? Wouldn't everyone just go with the dollar menu?

Whatever, I thought. More nugget is good nugget.

Chris, whose voracious appetite for the bite-sized bits cast a shadow over mine, ordered after me. I didn't hear what he got and didn't ask until we were walking back to work.

"20 nuggets," he answered.

"From the dollar menu?"

"No. The box of 20."

"You pay more than 5 bucks?" I asked.

He thought for a second. "Six something."

I pressed my lips and shook my head slowly from side-to-side. McDonald's suckered another one.

"You should've gotten five off the dollar menu. Same amount of food. Less amount of dollar."

He stopped walking and did the math in his head.

"Damn," he said. "20 nuggets." He shrugged and smiled. "I'll have to remember that next time."

How many Chris's are there out there? How many innocent nuggheads order their chicken without even knowing there's a cheaper option right on the menu?

The beauty is you don't even need a coupon. It really is the gift that keeps on giving.

Someone should alert the world.

The people have a right to know.

Why not just wear a pirate patch?

2009-03-13T17:12:00.004-04:00

I'm bothered when I see someone walking on the street with their hair combed down so it covers an eye.

I get it. You're emo. Whatever that means. But can you actually see out of that eye? Are you covering it for a reason? Did your pet parakeet escape its cage and peck your eye out while you were sleeping? If so, I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to judge. But if not? If you're just doing it because you're dark and cool and edgy and don't think the world deserves to see your whole face? Well, then screw you.

Bye-Bye Bad Memories!

2009-02-18T08:59:00.001-05:00

Therapy, while expensive, is not guaranteed to be the cure for what ails you. No matter how much mental poking and prodding you endure, some memories will stay repressed, forever haunting you from some hidden room in your mind. And what about the things you remember? The people and events that you want to forget but can't? Wouldn't it be nice if you could just chase all these memories away?

Well, friends, thanks to modern science's ability to keep pumping out new pills for old ailments, you can!

That's right! You can now achieve in one pill what entire bottles of vodka are powerless to do. Want to forget about that bully in third grade who made you eat dirt? Done! Has an uncle's inappropriate hug at your cousin's birthday party turn you into an asexual introvert? Erase that hug forever!

This got me thinking: If I could erase bad memories, which ones would I kick to the curb?

I'd start with my performance in "South Pacific" for my 8th grade peers. Now, don't get me wrong, I was a kick-ass Emil De Becque. Maybe the finest since Ezio himself. But puberty stepping into the spotlight and making my voice crack while I'm belting out "Some Enchanted Evening"? I can do without that, thank you very much.

I'm not really too sure what I'd target next, but I'd definitely forget 2 Girls 1 Cup before all was said and done.

Another Thing I Wonder About

2009-02-12T23:19:00.005-05:00

Again, not something I see myself doing, but I wonder how someone would react if I picked up their litter and handed it back to them.

One time, while walking west on Houston St. with Jamie and a couple of other people I can't remember (apologies if one of them was you), a guy walking in front of us dropped his paper plate on the ground so that he could have both hands free to handle his piece of pizza. Jamie was not pleased.

"Hey," she said, her words unleashing a series roundhouse kicks, "you gonna pick that up?"

He spun around and spoke some Chuck Norris of his own.

"Why don't you pick it up?"

Their voices rose and more verbal karate ensued. In the end, both ended up a little pissed off and the plate was left to fend for itself.

She didn't mean to be rude about it. Littering just really gets her goat. I mean, she doesn't even buy into Dave's theory that it's not littering if you place your garbage on the ground instead of dropping it. That's how you know she's serious.

Still, I wonder what would happen if I took a different approach in a similar situation. What if I treated someone dropping their garbage on the street with the same urgency I'd treat someone who dropped their keys or their wallet?

"Hey!" I'd yell to get their attention as I bent over to pick up their discarded item. Then, with garbage in hand, I'd jog a bit to catch up to them.

"You accidentally dropped this," I'd say with my hand outstretched and my words dripping honey.

What would the person do? Would they thank me and take the garbage back? Would they mutter under their breath and turn away? Maybe call me an unkind name and shake their head is disgust? And what, then, would happen to me? I'd be stuck standing there holding someone else's garbage. That's what.

Well, worse comes to worse I could always just bend down and place it back on the floor.

Just something I wonder about

2009-02-11T22:57:00.003-05:00

It's not something I'd ever do. Honest. But that doesn't mean I can't be curious about it.

You know when you're driving fast on the highway and you pass somebody who's driving in the middle lane? You know how sometimes you look over and they're looking back, and you lock eyes for a brief second?

Well, what would happen if you smile at that precise second and jerk the wheel hard to the right?

What kind of face would the driver make? Would he be angry? Surprised? Scared?

Like I said, it's not something I'd ever do. But I'm real curious how it would end up.

I've tried

2009-02-04T15:15:00.003-05:00

I've tried to drown you out with drink
but still you're in my head.
I've washed the sheets a dozen times
but still you're in my bed.

I've tried to look the other way
but still you're in my sights.
I've kept my mind engaged all day
but still you rule my nights.

I've tried to walk down roads brand new
but still my feet won't move.
I've tried to find a brand new beat
but still I'm in your groove.

It's not that I have failed to try,
it's that I failed to pass you by.

How many legs would you like to have?

2009-01-23T15:35:00.007-05:00

This morning I had a job conversation with a friend who works at VH1. Part of her responsibilities include waking up early on Monday to go to a shoot, then again on Friday to help edit the week's work. She said it sucks that she has these two early days and I agreed. Waking up is tough.

In an attempt to cheer her up, I reminded her that it could be worse. She could have no legs. Then I thought about what could be worse than having no legs and I thought up the scenario where she had 5 legs. Then I pictured both and wondered if 5 would really be worse than none.

With no legs, you're confined to a wheelchair or a rolling box. You can't skip, you can't jump, and you can't sure as shit can't do the running man. That being said, you don't have to wait in line at Great Adventure, can legally park in the primo spots and poop in the big stall without people giving you angry looks when you come out.

Having five legs makes it hard to wear jeans. Skirts and dresses? No problem. But how are you going to fit those extra three legs into your Wranglers? And think of the increase in your sneaker budget. Still, I bet your roundhouse kicks would become the stuff of legends and you'd be able to give a cheetah a run for its money in a race across the Serengeti. And, with five legs, you could probably get away with using the handicap stall, too.

So? What say you? Would you rather have no legs or five?

Daschle's Confirmation Hits a Snag

2009-01-21T15:30:00.007-05:00

Tom Daschle, nominated to be Obama's Secretary of Health and Human Services, is still waiting to be confirmed. As this Huffington Post article points out, the delay isn't because of a just unearthed story about him having non-consensual sex with his son's best friend's father's illegal alien pet donkey. It's because they want to pore over his tax records.

But I'm not sure I believe that. I think it's because Senate Republicans have discovered his true identity and they just don't know if he has the right kind of experience to head the HHS:

wu-tang wednesday 5

2009-01-21T08:42:00.003-05:00

	Irn Minky (Johnny Cash vs. Wu-Tang Clan)

	Found at skreemr.com

the judge wouldn't listen

2009-01-13T16:16:00.004-05:00

Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought his hand up to her face. He'd spent hours thinking about her cheeks. Those soft, smooth, inviting cheeks. A thousand thoughts stampeded through his head but he ignored them all. He wanted to focus on the moment.

She, on the other hand, was only thinking one thing as she sat with her hands tied and legs bound to the seat: the restraining order wasn't enough.

if only the people had listened

2009-01-09T16:54:00.004-05:00

It's a pretty surefire way to avoid house foreclosures and being overrun with credit card debt. Too bad it's a system that's incredibly difficult to follow:

ball and chain

2009-01-06T22:46:00.000-05:00

sometimes my eyes are looking left,
sometimes they're looking right,
but even when they look ahead
they can't see through the night.

the darkness is a blinding black,
the darkness is a void,
and though i know it soon will lift
it still leaves me annoyed

i feel the walls are closing in,
i feel my feet are locked,
i can not choose which way to move
it's like all paths are blocked.

i know i've not yet reached the end,
i know i've just begun,
but it's so hard to pace myself
when i feel i should run.

Resolution Oh-Nine

2009-01-04T21:22:00.004-05:00

Resolutions are tricky things. They sound great when midnight rolls around and your sixth Jack & Ginger is growing perilously close to the end. They get you amped. They fill your head with delusions of grandeur, with optimistic visions of the upcoming year's triumphs and conquests.

Then what happens? Well, if you're me, nothing. You write the resolutions down in your sloppy drunk handwriting, put the paper in your wallet and completely forget about it until 11 months later when you find it in time to remind yourself that you've accomplished nothing you set out to achieve.

This year will be different. This year I'm making one resolution and I'm going to make it stick. Once I succeed, I'll know there's nothing I can't do when I set my mind to it. It will be hard. I know this. But with your help and support, I truly believe I can turn this year's resolution into reality:

1. Masturbate less frequently, more furiously

Wish me luck!

two-double-oh-nine

2008-12-30T09:02:00.002-05:00

in the new year will i really see change?
will i actually have resolutions?
can i conquer the goals i see out on the range?
will i act when i find the solutions?

will this pending new year really be new?
will the refresh be more than a number?
can i change all the ways that i do what i do?
can i wake myself up from this slumber?

wutang wednesday 5

2008-12-24T12:21:00.001-05:00

	GZA - Duel Of The Iron Mic

	Found at skreemr.com

i got wowed by my tv tonight

2008-12-22T23:21:00.003-05:00

Television blew my mind tonight. Well, not television, per se, but DVR.

I was flipping through channels in search of something to watch. It was 11:21 PM when I came to the Daily Show. Normally, that would mean I only had about 8-9 minutes of Jon before being treated to the wonder that is Stephen. But my tv did something it never did before. It gave me the option to start the show at the beginning even though I didn't set the box to record the show!

Technology sure is wonderful.

But don't think it doesn't have a dark side. It does. A terrifying side. Even the wonderful surprise I spoke about earlier doesn't escape it! Although you can start the show at the beginning, you can't fast forward through the commercials.

They take away the option to skip them!

Tread carefully, friends. It's getting scary out there.

wutang wednesday 4

2008-12-17T10:51:00.002-05:00

It was much easier to get drunk when I was in high school. All it took was $2 and a rousing game of "Hey Mister?"

You know the game I'm talking about. It goes a little something like this:

"Hey mister? Can you buy some beer for me and my friends?"

Lots of swings and misses, but it was all worth it when that one nice fellow (though looking back, you have to figure he was a bit of a douche to buy beer for a bunch of bright-eyed fifteen year olds) said yes. More often than not, we turned to malt liquor. We believed it was stronger than regular beer and, being that we were drinking in the woods on Staten Island, how could we not toss our money behind a product supported by the Wu?

*thanks to the nice boys at fancypipes for unearthing this gem

pit stop

2008-12-16T08:20:00.000-05:00

His boots are too tight. A quarter tank till empty and a cracked windshield that whistles with the wind and all he can think is that his boots are too tight.

“Just give me a minute to think.”

Scared blue eyes dart to the rear view. Empty. But he can’t see more than 200 feet back because of the night and rain. His nerves stay on edge. He turns the radio up because the bass helps him concentrate.

“Come on. Turn it down, will ya?”

He sees headlights. They’ve gotta be xenon the way they’re cutting through the black. And they’re closing fast. No sirens, though. Always a good thing.

“Come on. Turn it down.”

He reaches with a smile and puts a finger on the volume button. He doesn’t press it. He can see the car now. It’s a red Corolla. Safe enough but you can never be too sure. He turns.

“What are you doing? This isn’t the exit.”

“I know. We could use some gas.”

“We can’t make it on what we have?” She looks over. “Quarter tank’s not enough?”

“Better safe, right?”

The Corolla doesn’t follow. He loosens his grip on the wheel and reaches out to rub the back of her head. She purrs. He thinks about his boots.

“Still waiting on an answer,” she coos.

“Still thinking of one.” He slows down and puts his hand back on the wheel before making a u-turn. “You’re right. Quarter tank should be fine. Let’s get back on the road.”

She looks at him for the first time since they got in the car. Really looks at him. His eyes don’t stay on the road. They’re attracted to the rear view like summer bugs to a zapper. The corner of his mouth is pulled tight. A shame, she thinks, to flatten out those beautiful lips.

“You’re nervous.”

“What gave it away?” He wants to turn the radio up. Instead he signals left, presses down on the gas, and moves to the left lane.

“Do you not want to do this?”

He peels his eyes from the dashboard clock and looks at her. “It’s not like I have a choice at this point.” She looks hurt. His eyes shoot back to the road. “I didn’t mean it that way. You know I want this. Things just didn’t go like we planned. And look at the time. If he’s not after us, he probably called the cops.”

She looks at the clock and curses herself for getting lost in the moment. She knows better. But still, they have a head start. They’re driving fast. Their lead should keep them safe.

“How long do you think we have?” she asks.

“Long enough for some,” his left hand adjusts the side view mirror to a wider angle, “not enough for all.”

She bites her lip and lifts her bangs before letting them plop down onto her forehead.

“We’re stopping at the cabin. That’s the some.” She checks her phone. Seven missed calls. “Well, at least we know he’s conscious.” She lowers the window and tosses the phone with a laugh.

“Still can’t believe how he rolled over the windshield.”

“Still can’t believe you wanted to stop and make sure he was ok.” She sees him wince. “I mean, I don’t want him dead or anything but you’re stealing me away and you want to stop to make sure he’s ok chase us?”

“No. I just didn’t want him left for dead. There’s a difference.”

He presses the gas, sets the cruise control at 86 and turns the right rearview out towards the road more. His pocket buzzes. He doesn’t recognize the number. He turns the phone off. A better option, he thinks, than throwing it out the window.

“Slow down,” she says.

“We’re almost there.”

“All the more reason to slow down. This would be a stupid time to get pulled over.”

“Noted.”

They pass mile markers in silence. He pulls off the parkway at Milford, turns right onto Route 44, left onto 82 and settles into the curls and tucks and turns of the single lane road. There are no street lights and the moon has a hard time breaking through the trees that stand where the shoulders should be. He flicks on the brights.

“Keep your eyes on the right,” he says after they pass Halcyon Lake, “the road just kind of pops up.”

“There!” she says and points ahead. “Tyler Drive.”

He squeezes her thigh and smiles. “We’ve got to be quick. The faster we’re back on the road to Barrington the better off we’ll be.”

Loose gravel crunches underneath the tires as they pull into the driveway.

“Nice place,” she says, looking at the shuttered windows and crooked wooden stairs leading to the door.

“Serves its purpose,” he answers.

She follows him into the house and smiles at the bed. It’s big. A king-size, she thinks, and the sheets look almost clean. She’s naked by the time he gets his first boot off.

“So?” she coos. “What’s the answer?”

“Missionary,” he says before cursing under his breath at the second boot. The leather’s got no give and his foot is stuck. “I want to see your face.”

She lays on her back and smiles. “I’ll be here waiting whenever you're ready.”

connecting over connect four

2008-12-14T12:12:00.006-05:00

Of course I wanted to win. But that doesn't mean victory was my only reason for playing. Far from it, actually. My main motivation was to try and guess her moves before she made them.

Sometimes it was simple - the mere dropping of a piece to cut me off at three in a row. Other times it was a little harder. Was she trying to set up the diagonal on the left side of the board or would she continue building her verticals on the right?

The real challenge came in looking ahead two moves or more. Why did she just drop that piece there? What was she trying to do? Was she setting up an unblockable foursome that I didn't see? Blocking my potential win before I could close the deal?

It was tough at first. I was wrong more often than I was right. As time wore on and more games were played, my percentages went up. My guesses were less random. More accurate. It was rewarding, sure, but it was more of a comfort than anything else.

Even though I couldn't figure out what she was thinking about me, at least I could know what she was thinking about the game.

Firehouse Friday!

2008-12-12T11:50:00.001-05:00

	Firehouse - When I Look Into Your Eyes

	Found at skreemr.com

overheard on the subway

2008-12-08T11:07:00.002-05:00

Guy: I dunno. I kinda think all genitals are funny looking.

Girl: I don't think my vagina is funny looking.

Guy: It is.

Girl: ...

Guy: I mean, it's nice for a vagina, but they all look funny.

what i found at the end of the universe

2008-12-03T23:50:00.006-05:00

Standing at the edge of the universe, I rear back and spit. Then I laugh.

“When things don’t pan out the way you hoped,” mom always said, “give the world a big old laugh. It’s sure a heck of a lot easier to clean up than tears.”

I peer over the precipice one final time and shake my head. It isn’t what I expected. Hell, I don't even know what I expected. Carousels and caramels? Rockets and rhubarb? No, but I at least figured there was something big. Something grandiose. Something I couldn’t describe because there are no words that exist that could begin to do it any justice.

It's my fault, really. I should have known the end of the universe was just like the end of any other road.

An end.

CD Review: A Better Life

2008-12-02T00:59:00.009-05:00

This may come as a bit of a surprise to you, but I'm not a Nobel Prize winning physicist. I've never even been a nominee. Shocking, right? It knocks me on my ass every time I think about it.

Know what else? I've never been a lion tamer. I've never commanded a submarine or a space ship or a hot air balloon. Or one of those cool futuristic machine-gun-mounted motorcycles with the gyroscope-driven balance barometer that prevents the bike from falling while a rider is on it.

Ok. That last one doesn't exist. I don't think. But shit, wouldn't it be sweet if it did? I digress.

Aside from things I"ve never done, there are lots of things I'm not. Like a race car driver. Or an escaped convict. Or a career contortionist who one day woke up with a rare skin condition that caused his skin to tighten and tear anytime he bent a joint. Or a music reviewer.

But still, I know what music I like. I know what I deem good enough to let play and what I skip as fast as it comes on. Scott Krokoff's debut solo album, A Better Life, is the former.

A quick disclaimer here - I know Scott. I've known him since I was 12 and he was my counselor at summer camp. Yes, I went to summer camp. Yes, it was awesome. Yes, I'd be there right now if I had my summers free. But no, that doesn't mean I'm biased. Hell, my own brother has been in some bands that I've absolutely loathed. Knowing Scott doesn't mean I have to like his music. It just means I got exposed to an artist I would otherwise have missed.

I'm not really sure what his exact genre is. Pop? Acoustic rock? Singer-songwriter? One thing's for sure — it's not Trance. Which, I feel, is a good thing. In a world that's too often dominated by heavy bass and electric riffs, Scott's smooth strumming on songs like I Know Your Story and Holy Fire cut through the oonce.

My favorite track on the CD is Autumn Sky. Maybe it's because it reminds me of the Summer of 93. You know, that magical summer before my sarcasm picked up an extra mean bite to counteract the pimples that would start buying up my facial real estate. Or maybe the soft melody puts a smile on my face and lyrics like "slowly i walk down/through the city streets where i live now/few people know the way to go/so i slither by" remind me of the happy punching impulse I get whenever a Times Square crowd gets in my way.

Either way, I dig it. And I dig the album as a whole. It's not earth shattering. It's not life changing. But it's good music that works in the background or the foreground. Melodies, beats and lyrics work together to treat the ears to a soothing snack. And in a world filled with musical diarrhea, these are not things we should overlook.

the gamble

2008-11-21T07:58:00.000-05:00

“So that’s the plan,” she said, her eyes smiling bigger than her lips.

“$20,000?”

“$20,000,” she answered, the number dripping with enough sugar to inflict diabetes on the entire eastern seaboard.

“Same as you?”

“Same as everyone.”

“We all take the same risk?”

“And we all share the same reward.”

“You sure it’s enough?” His nostrils flared with breath as his thieving fingers flicked at his stubble like a match across its sandpaper strip. “We don’t want to undersell it.”

“It’ll work.”

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then we run like hell and find somewhere quiet to lick our wounds."

"And each other?"

Her cheeks blushed in spite of her promise to not let emotions play a part in the job.

"Let's take it one step at a time. $20,000. Are you in?"

He laughed and cocked an eyebrow. "They trained you good."

"Well," she answered, her eyes and attention turned towards a speck of dust on her sleeve. She brushed it aside and looked back up. "They trained me well. You know how to reach me."

She stood and walked towards the door, opened it, and without turning around said, "But gather your money soon. The window on this one is tight."

He chewed the inside of his cheek and ran the numbers in his head one more time. It was a pretty decent risk, no doubt about it. But the money and the girl were just too good to pass up.

wutang wednesday 3

2008-11-19T11:19:00.001-05:00

	wu tang clan - freestyle

	Found at skreemr.com

You veered off right

2008-11-18T17:05:00.002-05:00

you lied to me,
not with your words,
but with your actions
you inferred
you'd take a left
up at the light
but then, so quick,
you veered off right.

oh hey. i remember you.

2008-11-17T23:06:00.006-05:00

Look.

It's not like I just chose to stop writing for a month. It wasn't voluntary.

Truly.

It wasn't.

And it's not like it was due to a lack of ideas. Hell, just check out these topics that have been floating around my head:

How I turned one steak dinner into two
Sweet revenge after the incident in Ollaytantambo
A review of Scott Krokoff's Better Life
My tragic confrontation with the Red Ring of Death
You veered off right
Lieberman's Libido: How an old man's lust saved his chairmanship

You telling me that doesn't just set your brain abuzz?

And that's not even mentioning the Captain! There's always time for more of the Captain.

I guess it was really just a matter of distractions.

A lack of focus.

It's sucks that motivation is so slippery. I'll just have to try and grip it a little harder the next time it strikes.

monster ballad monday 1

2008-10-13T10:12:00.002-04:00

Happy Columbus Day. Hopefully you, unlike me, have the day off from work or school or whatever it is that normally occupies your Monday-Friday.

	Motley Crue - Home Sweet Home

	Found at skreemr.com

capturing the lines and loops

2008-10-09T08:54:00.000-04:00

I sit to work with pen in hand
and ideas coming on command,
with brain wide open, set to go,
a river with a raging flow,
but when the wheels start spinning I'm
a surfboard in the sand.

The page remains a taunting white.
It's screaming, "What gives you the right
to cover me in lines and loops
created by your pen hand's swoops
when you know there's no meaning
to this drivel that you write?"

That's when the doubt begins to creep
and voices rise up from the deep
advising me to give up fast,
to quit attempts to push on past,
because I'll murder all my words
and leave them in a heap.

Too often I heed this advice.
I stop and chase a simpler vice
and leave the paper so pristine,
so sparkling, glowing, gosh-darned clean,
I get up and I walk away,
I don't even think twice.

And so, together with my pen
the paper ponders if and when
I'll finish what I've not begun
or will I turn tail, start to run,
while telling myself it's ok
that I have quit again?

eddie doing pete

2008-10-09T08:45:00.004-04:00

he's not doing him doing him. come on. get your head out of the gutter and be mature for a minutes. krikies...

	pearl jam - baba o'riley

	Found at skreemr.com

wutang wednesday 2

2008-10-08T10:14:00.001-04:00

	Wu-Tang Clan - Shame On A Nigga

	Found at skreemr.com

the heat's coming soon

2008-10-07T10:49:00.003-04:00

The thermometer is dipping and the sun is starting to go down earlier and earlier. For me, this signifies an exciting time in my new apartment. I'll soon find out how well the heating works.

My last apartment, that dreamy 1-bedroom with 12-foot ceilings and exposed brick wall in Park Slope, doubled as a sauna in the wintertime. If my lease didn't forbid running a business out of my home I could have easily charged a bunch of wrinkly old men $20 for every half-hour spent on my couch. Since this option was off the table, I just opened every window in my apartment.

What's that, you say? Why didn't I just turn down the knob on the radiators? Great question. Truly.

I tried that but, as my apartment was on the top floor of the building, I received all the heat and steam that was blocked from the apartments below me.

It was nice to walk around in my boxers for the entire winter. I don't deny this. But it really screwed with my head when I had to get dressed for the real world. How could it be freezing outside when it was sweaty inside?

But that's all in the past. As I said, the time will soon come when I'll find out the state of heat in my new apartment. Hopefully, for the sake of my sweatpants and hoodies, the temperature will trend on the side of cool. I don't want to go through another winter sweating in my skivvies.

don't believe the florist

2008-10-07T10:46:00.001-04:00

the roses are never free. never.

	Phish - Roses Are Free

	Found at skreemr.com

sing to me, christian

2008-10-06T11:06:00.003-04:00

His voice might be gruff as Batman, but it's sweet as sugar when he's Jack "Cowboy" Kelly. And the dance moves? Lordy lord, the dance moves would set Gotham on fire!

winning the bet

2008-10-02T09:37:00.004-04:00

After four arduous hours of creeping uphill, Gabe, Hacken and myself finally reached the top of Dead Woman's Pass. We spent a couple of moments basking in our accomplishment before collapsing down to rest and relax while the rest of the group finished the hardest leg of the trek.

I laid down with the sun on my face and closed my eyes. I opened them minutes later to see Gabe and Hacken talking with worried smiles.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Toilets," Gabe said to me.

Hacken nodded. "We heard there are real toilets at the campground where we're eating lunch."

I saw their minds in motion and couldn't stop mine from kicking into gear. The only "toilets" we'd seen so far were nothing more than holes in the ground with foot markers indicating the best place to squat. Peeing, obviously, was not a problem. But pooping? Well, that was something else.

"You thinking of going?" I asked them. "You really willing to give up already? It's only been two days."

"It's a toilet," Gabe said. "Who knows when we'll see another one."

Hacken didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His eyes were nodding in agreement.

"Suit yourselves," I said before walking away to lay back down on the grass, "but I'm still gonna hold it in."

Once the whole crew arrived we began our descent to the lunch site. The three of us outpaced the rest and made it down in a little over an hour. We passed the time talking about music, movies and, of course, the toilets.

"I don't know," Gabe said, "but I'm really thinking of going."

"Have you ever taken a $20 deuce before?" I asked.

"It's worth it," he answered.

The three of us sat next to each other in the dining tent as our lunch was spread out. As was the routine, the meal started with a hearty soup and was followed by a salad, a stew (some sort of chicken concoction), 2 different vegetable sides and 2 different starches. Plates were filled and forks shot into action.

About three bites in Gabe stood up and made his way outside the tent. Hacken and I met eyes and started laughing at a cacophonous level that drowned out the entire tent.

"What is it?" asked Jeanie, a lonely extrovert in her mid-forties who shared every single internal thought in her heavy Boston accent. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Hacken managed to get out in between laughs.

"You boys laughing at what I said?" she asked, her eyes shining with the recognition she was dying to get.

"Sorry," I said when we'd gotten ourselves back in control. "Didn't hear you." I debated whether or not to let the group in on our bet but decided against it. "We were laughing at something else."

"Oh." Disappointment covered her face like a mask.

Gabe came back into the tent with a smile.

"You out?" Hacken asked.

"No," Gabe said as he sat down. "Was just doing recon. The toilet looks good. There's no seat, but it's a real toilet."

"Your call," I said. "But I think you should go."

Our minds stayed in motion the rest of the meal. Everyone watched us with suspicious eyes because they knew we were up to something. They just didn't know what.

Lunch ended and Gabe lasted 10 minutes.

"Let me get the wipes," he said to Hacken. "It's time."

Hacken smiled, clapped his hands and handed over the wipes.

"Enjoy."

Gabe walked off and Hacken turned to me.

"Dude," he started, "let's call a truce. We'll split his $20 and just call it even."

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Looking for an out?"

"No. I'm just trying to help you out."

"Mighty white of you. But I'm ok to keep waiting."

"No you're not!" His lips formed a straight line while his eyes pleaded with me. "You want to go."

"I sure do, but I'm not going to."

"Fine."

Gabe returned with a smile on his face and a glow like he'd just deflowered a member of the Swedish royal family.

"How was it?" I asked Gabe.

"Dude," he said, "I feel like a new man."

I too wanted to feel like a new man but I didn't want to lose the bet. I was more than willing to deal with my internal discomfort if it meant Hacken had to do the same.

"Did you squat?" Hacken asked, hoping Gabe didn't subject his cheeks to the cold and dirty ceramic.

"Yes." A moment passed and a smile formed on his lips. "No. I sat on the porcelain."

We all started laughing. Hacken looked at me, at Gabe, at the toilets in the distance, grabbed the wipes and walked off with a scowl. I stayed behind but was soon overcome by curiosity. I made my way to the toilets and found him waiting outside. He laughed when he saw me.

"Come on," he said, "let's just call it even."

"Look," I answered, "the minute you flush I'm gonna go. But if you don't go, I'm not going to. I'm more than willing to turn around and walk away."

"I'm doing this for you, you know."

"No you're not. You're doing it for you. You have to go."

"I fucking hate you," he said before walking into a stall.

I sat down on the ground and waited. Hacken emerged after five minutes with a grin on his face and relief in his eyes. He handed me the wipes and called me an asshole.

"Easiest 40 bucks I've ever made," I said before entering the stall and unleashing two days worth of Peruvian fare.

name that film 1

2008-10-02T08:39:00.001-04:00

new kid in town attends his first party on the beach. there's a fire, there's soccer, there are dirtbikes, there's blossoming love.

Name that film!

	Bananarama - Cruel Summer

	Found at skreemr.com

wutang wednesday 1

2008-10-01T09:51:00.003-04:00

Growing up in Staten Island, it was a necessity to like the Wu. It didn't matter if you were a goth, jock, geek, freak or aspiring astronaut. They came from the island. They were our treasure.

	Wu-Tang Clan - Wu-Tang Sword: Da Mystery Of Chessboxin'

	Found at skreemr.com

the letter

2008-09-30T13:09:00.004-04:00

Xavier Rudd has a beard. George W. Bush does not. Draw your own conclusions.

The mystery package

2008-09-30T10:54:00.003-04:00

I came home last night to find a "We tried to deliver a package but couldn't do it because you weren't home" note in my mailbox. Excitement coarsed through my veins. A package! My mind raced to figure out what it could be as I looked for the place to leave my signature. My system shut down, however, when I saw which box the postman checked off:

"Postage due"

What the hell?

Anytime I order something I always pay the shipping up front. Hell, places don't let you not pay for shipping. Also, why was it being sent to my house? I always get packages delivered to my office to ensure someone is there to sign for them.

Now I find myself in a bit of a pickle. Do I go to the post office to pick up the package? It bothers me that I'll have to pay $6 for something I don't even know I want. Sure, I've paid a lot more for a lot worse, but that's besides the point. It feels like a trick. A trap. An attempt by the post office to take advantage of an unsuspecting customer. Of me.

But what if it's something awesome? Five gold dabloons sent to me by an anonymous benefector who lives his life at sea? A map that will put me on the trail of Blackbeard's treasure? A set of Ginsu knives?

I'm really at a loss here. Should I pick up the package or let it sit there? And if I let it sit there, will the post office take notice and start punishing me by not delivering other pieces of mail?

This is a rough one, friends. Truly.

vikingman

2008-09-29T08:59:00.002-04:00

Sure. Everyone knows about the exploits of the rocketman. But how many are familiar with the vikingman?

	Rodrigo y Gabriela - Vikingman

	Found at skreemr.com

i puked hard

2008-09-26T17:18:00.004-04:00

Ok. I threw up. But it's not because I was hammered.

In fact, I was pretty far from it.

I only had a cocktail before dinner, a beer with dinner, and a beer after dinner. Not bad, right?

I was ok with the first two drinks. Satisfied, even. But that after dinner beer? The one I really didn't need but was resigned to drink because it was ordered for me and placed directly in my line of vision? Bad idea.

"Come on," Nate urged. "We gotta run."

"Show already started," Rich said while looking at his watch.

I looked from them to their empty glasses to the nearly full pint sitting ominously before me. I sighed, grabbed the beer, and proceeded to chug it down.

My stomach's protest grew louder with each gulp. I felt it expanding to the point of explosion but I continued to push the envelope. Momma didn't raise no quitter. Unless, of course, we're talking about gymnastics, piano, guitar, acting and football.

But that's neither here nor there.

I slammed the empty glass down in triumph and let out a burp. I was positive such a move would ease the pressure. But no. Nothing.

"Not good," I thought to myself as we walked out of Duke's.

My mouth started watering and my stomach started grumbling. Nate and Rich looked at me and raised their eyebrows in question.

"I think I'm gonna puke," I said.

They stepped away quickly.

I started walking behind them with my entire consciousness focused on keeping things in check. Then I coughed and my world came undone.

Along with the cough came the last beer I forced down. I think some pulled pork went along for the ride but there wasn't enough of it to effect the utterly liquid viscosity of my up-chuck.

I stood up straight and smiled. My stomach felt better. I wiped my nose and laughed when it made contact with my nostrils. It came away wet.

Not content with my mouth as the only means for escape, some of the puke decided to come out my nose.

Thank the maker it was beer and not bile. That would've stung.