Sunday, 21 February 2010

New York City

Pointless life day 13,150

I'm burned out on this tomb of a town full of the soulless walking dead. You have to be numb to survive here. I've had enough. I can't go through the motions anymore. I drag myself out of bed. I eat. I drag myself to work through the stone faced crowds. I daydream through work each day detaching myself from the crushing banality of it all. I drag my tired self back home through the wretched cold and the half dead masses, hunger gnawing at my stomach. She has food for me. I am safe and warm and crawl back into bed to do it all over again. Again. And again. And again. I feel a helpless rage building in me. When will it change? Something has to change. But what? The book has to sell. I stay up at nights working on it. There is something there... a light, a fire at the end of the tunnel... I feed the flame nightly... One day it will burn brightly... She cries when she comes home from work... The hours, the stress, the constant worry of money. I make grand pronouncements and declarations of the future. I see her face fill with hope. I worry. I secretly worry. I feel less than able. I feel less than a man. The old Fears and insecurities haunt me. I put on a face. I go to work. I hold it all in, until finally, one day it gets the better of me. And it all comes pouring out sitting in bed on a day off drinking coffee and reading the paper. It all spills out on her. The Fears. The Insecurities. I am not enough. She will cheat. She will tire of me. And I will fail her just like I did the other women. She can't stand the constant need for reassurance. She dismisses me. I am a child. I am boy. I lash out at her in rage. I say terrible things. I leave and walk the streets through the snow and the freezing wind, smoking, my fingers numb. I am coming undone. I have no where else to go. I have no one else. My face is frozen in shame. The shame tears at me. I can't forgive myself for not being able to provide, for not being secure with myself, with her, with us. For not being man enough. I call her. She's quick to pick up the phone, "where are you? Are you okay?" I tell her that I'm sorry. I'll be home in a little while. I just need a moment. The apartment is sad and uneasy when I get there out of the cold. We are tense together. Unsure. There is silence. And in the silence we make love. We will be okay. We reassure each other. But things must change. And we decide that we must leave for a while. We are going to Paris.


Pointless life day 13,148 (or thereabouts)

I sit and wait, lurching in dark alleyways of the mind, forever hoping to catch a glimpse of the illusive shadow - Inspiration.

I don't know when exactly I lost it. But it is gone. I don't know what series of events transpired that I lost its sight. But is gone. The first soul crushing job? Perhaps. The first heart break? Maybe. The first time I sold myself for money? A possibility. Or the first time I slit my wrist?


That was the first time that I realized how much I actually wanted to live.

Then, perhaps the second time?

Possibly as well, as there was a sad resignation and the thought that for all that I may have wanted and required of life I was perhaps simply ill equipped to grapple it away from the silent and unfeeling forces.

Then perhaps it was the slew of manual labor jobs for moronic and petty tyrants that never quite paid enough, that always exacted more than they gave, that always left me with a sickening feeling of foul rot in my stomach at the end of each day. A simple peasant eeking out a tiny existence on crumbs, reduced to pandering, begging and borrowing for rent at the end of each month. A failure to myself and the women I loved, turning to the drugs, the pills, the cigarettes and the alcohol to kill the pain and the endless Fear. Yes, I think that was it.


I have awaken once again.

And I need you to feel my pain.


Honking Mad

The worst drivers in the country this year are here in New York City, according to GMAC Insurance's annual National Driver Test. And as a recently transplanted Texan, who drives a variation of box trucks and sometimes a Honda Element for work, I concur. The drivers here are God awful. They stop in the intersection. They stop in the middle of the road. They stop when they're supposed to go and they go when they're supposed to stop. They cut people off. They slam on their brakes. Then they speed off. They don't use their blinkers when they're supposed to, then they leave them on and they never turn. They move to the right lane, then back to the left lane, then back to the right, then back to the left lane again, all in a futile attempt to gain one car length in a never ending traffic jam. And they honk. They honk, and they honk, and they honk! And still, they don't get anywhere.
The traffic I can handle – most days – if I simply pretend that I don't care if I ever get where I'm going. The honking, on the other hand, becomes nerve rattling, especially when I'm sleeping at three o' clock in the morning and some frustrated drivers blaring horn wakes me up from the street below. Bleary eyed and confused as to why I'm being honked at in my bed I fall back to sleep dreaming that the City of New York has put me in charge of enforcing the no honking law. The rest of the night I weave through streets in my little traffic scooter slapping tickets on the windshields of transgressors. And I am happy. I am very happy.
I try to refrain from using my horn as much as possible when I'm driving. But sometimes I just can't help it, like at the end of a long day when a mini van dragging a felafel cart behind it swerves across three lanes of traffic to cut me off. That's usually when I lose it and blast the guy with my horn, then tailgate him for a good block or so while flipping him the bird. That exact scenario usually happens daily.
But I'm getting used to it all and gradually settling in as a New Yorker in the process. I read a quote in New York magazine not to long ago in my therapists waiting area (yeah I need therapy after driving in this City) by the comedian Dennis Leary about what makes someone a real New Yorker. He said something to the effect that if the pope mobile cut a real New Yorker off in traffic he'd flip him the bird. I've recently mastered a technique of honking and flipping the bird at the same that I'd use on the pope in a heartbeat if he tried to pull that on me.
Yeah, I'm settling in.

Review of discontinued TV show

I wrote this at the last minute for a writing class. It's for a sitcom called DO OVER. I missed the class where the teacher showed it and gave us the parameters for the assignment. But I found it on YouTube and winged. I didn't follow standards, protocol, formula... nothin'. Nobody liked but me. I thought it was fine. I'm the only one. Teacher deemed it inappropriate. Girlfriend said my opinion doesn't need to be heard.

If you're an adult male over 30 who wishes you could go back to the beginning of puberty knowing what you do now about life, then Do Over is the perfect show for you. It's the story of a 34 yr old guy whose life and hair are in free fall, who gets knocked unconscious and sent back in time 20 years. All the current shows aimed at men in a state of mid–mid life crisis go the opposite way: men over 30 acting like eternally pubescent boys. And being an eternally pubescent adult male I get the joke in that approach. But being semi retarded in the maturation process isn't nearly as fun as these shows make out it to be. But to go back to being a sex crazed 14yr old again with all of hard earned knowledge that I have about substance abuse and the female species sounds like a lot more fun than being a developmentally challenged adult. And Do Over is the fantasy show come true for any red blooded adult male with a pulse and a libido left in their slowly dying carcass, like me. I can relate to the creators of this show. In fact I had the exact pair of black and white checkered Vans, parachute pants and Members Only jacket (though mine was gray, not blue) that the main character wears on his first day back to High School – Jesus I was cool. To be able to go back to High School wearing my collar up like a Yale graduate and have a second shot to get in all the girls pants that were out of my league is a semi – grown adult males wet dream. But, like the main character, Joel, I'm sure I'd regress back into fumbling cave man grunts when trying to talk to the girls that wouldn't screw me the first time around, break out in fits of anxiety at having to take Algebra tests again, and cry when sent to the principals office just like I did the first time around. And therein lies the comedy of the show that the current crop of emotionally stunted adult male shows play off of as well: that boys don't really grow up. God I hate Algebra.

So there it is. Whatever. I did it in like an hour. I'm not fuckin' Leonard Maltin.

NY Die

The realization that I can’t do another day in New York City hit me like an electric cattle prod to the gut today.
At 7:45 something is incessantly beeping at me trying to get my attention. Why is my alarm going off? I’m not working today. Oh yeah. My girlfriend brought a van home from work last night and asked if I could move it this morning before eight so that it didn’t get ticketed.
I get up, throw my clothes on and drive around the neighborhood for a half an hour bargaining with Christ to help find a parking place. I spot something. A little close to the fire hydrant. But it’ll work.
Back home and back in bed for minute.
Not long enough.
The girlfriend’s alarm is going off. Gotta get up get going. Gotta drop the girlfriend off at an appointment, then drop the van off at the rental place. We throw our clothes on. Coffee. Out the door.
Van’s got a ticket. Too close to the fire hydrant. Fuck. Ticket says that vehicle must be five feet away from hydrant. I’m four feet eleven and three quarter inches. I spout a turrets syndrome style rant at Jesus and the New York City meter maids.
Girlfriend tells me it’s okay.
Woman in car in front of us at the intersection is talking on her phone. Light turns green. I blow my horn. “Come on!” Girlfriend tells me to chill out. I tell her I’m fine. An van on the bridge nearly blows us into the river.
I let it go.
I’m a perfect little Buddha as we creep through bumper to bumper Manhattan traffic until the old man in front of us sits through an entire green light, then blows through the red. I hold my tongue and horn. I start cussin’ under my breath. I am the calm inside the storm. I drop girlfriend off at therapists office. I can cut loose with my verbal abuse. In the fifteen minutes that it takes me to get to the rental place these exact phrases come out of my mouth: “Are you a fucking moron?!”; “Jesus, you’re fucking retarded!”; “You stupid dildo bitch!”; “Are you fucking shitting me?”; “Sure come on. Just stop traffic while your fat ass walks across the street.”; “I will fucking kill all of you! I will run you down!”
I feel a little better.
Drop the van off.
Need some fresh air.
Crossing street cab driver cuts me off then stops. Control self and don’t kick in windshield like Bruce Lee. Think I need a drink. Too early in the morning. Not a good idea. Guy walking down the street in front of me moving slowly, oblivious to the rest of the world. Make my move on the left to pass him up. He swerves, cuts me off. I swerve to the right. He cuts me off. Fucking asshole! I move to the left. He cuts me off again. God!
I surrender…
Meet girlfriend. She asks me what’s wrong. Nothin’. I’m fine. She presses and I go into a rant about how people who cross the street when they have a red hand signal fuck up the whole flow of foot traffic for the mass of people who are crossing going the other way, thus causing a cluster fuck on the corner of the sidewalk, creating pandemonium and chaos. My girlfriend looks into my eyes searching for remnants of sanity as a red hand crossing guy’s backpack smacks my shoulder. I’m gonna fuckin’ go postal on someone… My girlfriend starts laughing. I tell her that I can’t take another fucking day in this town. Which works out perfect, because we’re goin’ to home to Texas for the holidays tomorrow.

LISTROPHY - 10 Things Not To Tell Your Girlfriend (cuz you don't want Gonorrhea)

Submitted to but never accepted - bastards!

1- Never ever tell your girlfriend the truth...
2- Never tell your girlfriend that you don't know if you trust her. Because in her crazy little reptilian mind, that's a reason to cheat.
3- And never ever tell your girlfriend that you watch porn as you have just unwittingly given her damaged little psyche all the excuse it needs to go full blown psycho slut on your dumb ass.
4- And never ever ever tell your girlfriend that you sometimes think about other girls as you might as well have just signed her up for a membership to AdultFriendFinder - because she will be banging, it just won't be with you much anymore brother.
5- And never ask your girlfriend where's she's going on a Friday night dressed like a whore, as she will simply accuse you of being controlling, scream, storm out of the house, get shitfaced at the bar then blow some guy in the back of your car.
6- And never ever tell your girlfriend that you think she might have a drinking problem the day after she comes home at ten in the morning after drinking all night and blowing some dude in the back of your car, as she will simply accuse you of being controlling, scream, then storm out of the house, get shitfaced at the bar and blow some guy in the back of your car, again...
7- Also, never tell your girlfriend that you think it might be a good idea that you take a little time off from each other to sort some things out unless you're sure that you never ever want to see her again. As while you're taking some time off from the relationship to sort things out she will be wildly and drunkenly banging as many people as possible to spite your existence. And you don't want Gonorrhea...
8- And never ever ever tell your girlfriend that while you were taking some time off from each other to sort some things out you drunkenly kissed some girl one night, as that will immediately send her out on a drunken pill induced fucking spree! And you don't want Gonorrhea...
9- And come to think of it, it's not a good idea to tell your girlfriend that you think her idea of having a threesome with a black guy is a good one as she'll probably forget to tell you about the time and place. And you don't want that image in your head for the rest of your life.
10- And lastly, never ever ever ever ever in a moment of weakness ask your girlfriend if she wants to get married. As you're just askin' for trouble. And you don't want Gonorrhea...

Wednesday, 17 February 2010


Underwear underpinning my existence working my scene unseen the fashionable cornerstone of my being unique and always oh so fucking styling as I hit the stoop and then the streets secure and at psychic peace with my briefs providing me the security that I need as I tear through the mad energy of New York City doing my thing always absolutely certain that if in doing my thing my clothes are torn from me the person standing there will say goddamn where'd you get those bad ass briefs?

Sunday, 14 February 2010


My mind is on fire again! My feet are cold as the thoughts chase me like demons down the passageways, walking quickly through the narrow, cobbled twisting streets of The Latin Quarter past the barkers in foreign tongues tempting me to their gastrinomical fares. They are grotesque annoying creatures and if I had the strength I would shut their holes forever. I would clap their ears like symbols, then steal their damn food as my belly screams at me to do so! But not now... I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO TEND TO: I am on my way to Shakespeare & Co. to raid their store! steal their goods! ransack and pillage! then seek refuge forever in the sanctuary of Notre Dame across the Seine. I NEED THOSE BOOKS! I NEED ALL THOSE FUCKING WORDS! I need all those glorious, glorious fucking words! I want them all! I need them! I will have them! I need all those goddamned cursed words that fill all those tiny little candy like sumptuous books with magnificently, neatly, brilliantly, beautifully ordered and structured sentences creating, creating, creating... always creating, commentaries, explanations, diatribes, elucidations, definitions, clarifications, renunciations, commiserations, accusations, attacks, denouncements, proclamations and eviscerations!... I need them... I NEED THEM ALL!... Pacing the alleyway next to the store, an insatiable hunger for words gnawing at my screaming soul!... I will bust down the fucking door of Shakespeare & Co. and I will elbow to the floor everyone of those damn foreign tourists and smash their annoying gawking cameras underfoot as I fill my tent sized hobo sack with book after book after glorious fucking book. Then I will grab the typewriter that sits waiting for me upstairs like a forlorn and horny love and I will jump from the second story window like the crazed methhead and I will run shrieking mad as I dash across the bridge over the Seine to the safety and seclusion of Notre Dame where I will read and write forever in glorious peace and deliciously quiet solitude rearranging all those magnificent motherfucking words into my beautiful forms, ringing the bell and yelling at God above whenever I come upon or put down a particularly stunning, wondrous, astonishing verse, then throw the finished copy down at the waiting slovenly mobs below...