Impotent Rage

2003-03-12T11:24:00.000-05:00

Right.
Eric has made me move my blogging over to his higher profile Yankthechain site.
I don't know if that means this site is done with. I'm thinking of doing double duty. How prolific would that make me?
Anyway, go over there to see what's up. I think it looks good...

2003-03-08T10:11:00.000-05:00

I haven't been sleeping well, but in a good way.
My days are filled. I try to get to work as early as possible (when you're paid by the hour and you like money, you try to collect as many hours as are available), which means waking up in the morning. Since I still go out at night, though, I've got candles burning all over the place, on all sides.
So I'm tired. But it's a good tired.
Unfortunately, for the last two weeks, it's amounted to my crashing much earlier than desired on Friday nights. Each of the beginning weekend evenings, I've had to go home with an activity or two unbegun, just so I could stop yawning and get to sleep. It's not the best way to be, but it'll do.
So I say...

2003-03-07T13:27:00.000-05:00

There is nothing in the world quite like free eats.
Somebody had a birthday here in the office, and there was pizza. I'm not even sure what was on it. Feta cheese and I think some meat, probably a pork product - but I can't be sure.
It was good. I had too much of it, as I usually do when there's free eats. All part of the Poverty Diet, see...
But since my weight loss, it's possible that what used to be too much food and what is now too much food are very different creatures. Maybe not. It's hard to tell. All I know is, today, I had some of the leftover pie from this birthday, and now I have cheese face.
Does anybody else know of this? I described it to people the last time I gorged on too much pizza, and they looked at me funny. Funnier than usual, I should say...
When you eat too much pizza (and you're me, I should say), you feel it in your face. There's a bloat, there's a grease, there's a smell that is uniquely pizza-ey, and particularly cheesey. Does anyone else know of this? Anyone? Anyone at all?
Maybe I'm alone in this, as I am so many other things.
Sigh...
I have cheese face.

2003-03-06T11:35:00.000-05:00

Aashish, the only person who reads this page religiously (I know others visit, but he contacts me regularly to ensure I update [GET A LIFE, AASHISH!}), calls me Fatman. I’m not sure if it applies anymore.
I’m not a thin man, not by any means. My bone structure’ll always leave me huskier than most, and my incredibly unhealthy eating habits will probably make the husk even greater, but I’m not the enormous individual I once was. I’ve lost thirty pounds lately, and this in the coldest winter I remember.
I hope to hit another ten or fifteen as the weather warms.
I had stopped eating in December, thanks to heartache, heartbreak and anxiety. That seems to be mostly over, so I’m eating better, and by better, I mean badly.
I think I need to rethink the Poverty Diet.
Maybe I should explain the Poverty Diet at some point…
Anyway, I'm not Fat. I might even be lighter than Aashish, who's added a little bit to his middle - as well as his fat head.

2003-03-06T11:27:00.000-05:00

At work, I wear a tie and a jacket. Since it’s office casual in the Documents Group, I’m severely over-dressed, but I find that it’s necessary. It’s necessary for a couple of reasons:
a) none of my clothes fit me. Well, there’s one pair of tan slacks I bought in ’98, back when I approached being thin, and they fit. But everything else swims on me. Shirts that I had to breathe carefully to button around the neck now are several sizes large. The jacket and tie cover up how the belt has new holes and the pants bunch in the back.
b) I can leave a paperback in my breast pocket, so when I’m bored, and I head to the bathroom, I don’t need to sneak any reading material. It’s with me all the time.
I look fairly snazzy in my overdressed way. I’ve been told over the years that suits become me, and by girls, but girls who are friends, who don’t really care if I wear a sexy suit or not. And these aren’t suits anyhow – just a jacket and tie, so I guess it’s not exactly the same thing.
The book I’m reading right now is Short Shorts, a collection of the shortest short stories. I have a collection of even shorter stories called Flash Fiction, and one even tinier, called World’s Shortest Fiction (55-word stories – sometimes shorter than my poetry!). I’d be reading these ADD collections if they could fit in my breast pocket; but they can’t. They’re trade paperbacks.
I don’t think there’s a lesson in that for anyone…

2003-02-21T15:07:00.000-05:00

So I'm working now.
Have been for two weeks. I'm doing data entry at a midtown law-firm.
It's good to be in an office again, good, particularly in this inclimate weather, to have something specific to do with my days.
It's bad having to wake up in the morning, lousy to be working with insufficient sleep.
It's good to have frequent internet access.
It's bad not being able to surf all my favorite porn sites.
It's good to get paid.
It's bad to not be paid enough, for enough hours.
It's good to have the chance to take lunch but bad to skip it, since a) I don't eat much these days; and b) I want to work more hours.
It's a mixed bag being back to work. But at least I'm thin and beautiful.

2003-02-20T10:48:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I had chocolate cake for lunch.
I didn't eat again until I got home at midnight. It was strange. I used to do that all the time - though maybe there was more food in-between.
Is this a sign that I'm eating better, treating myself better?
I dunno. All I know is I had cake for lunch. It was delicious.

2003-02-02T16:40:00.000-05:00

I've been bound up by the double-restrictions put upon me in the last submission.
Between Eric wanting me to do this higher-profile blog on Yankthechain.com, and my exceedingly limited internet time, I've been unable/unwilling to produce content. Which I really should, because things are happening.
I'm thin.
I'm poor.
I'm exceedingly less miserable.
I'm without an uncle.
I'm writing less well, but almost as often.
I'm in Brooklyn right now, but I don't how relevant that is.
The library's about to close. I better go.

2003-01-15T16:57:00.000-05:00

Aashish asks me why I haven't updated in a while.
Eric asks me when I'm going to start using the blog he created for me.
I have no good answers.
I have bad answers. I'm beginning to get out of my seasonal depression, thanks to events mostly outside of my control. When I get a better chance at a better computer I'll clarify.
But there's work in the future, and there's shows in the future, and at some point, there'll be a higher profile linked up website in the future, for EVERYONE's JonBerger needs.
I remember the days when Urfi and everyone at school would call be Jonberger! Jonberger! Then I'd smack Urfi and all the others around. Ah... Good times.
But I digress.

2003-01-04T15:52:00.000-05:00

Oh. Happy New Year.
And many more...

2002-12-31T14:59:00.000-05:00

I put on a damned good show on the Sidewalk last night, too. I had a couple of people buy books from me on-stage, I did a lot of new material and a selection of old... I think I feel better about performing again, after a couple of fairly rocky shifts. I'm back in, baby. I'm back in! Now if only the ladies would love me, as I so richly deserve...

2002-12-31T14:57:00.000-05:00

On Sunday the 29th, I finally got around to hitting John S Hall's open mic. I had to; it was the last one.
There were only maybe ten people in attendance, not all of them poets. I knew John, and this girl Christine, who these days, performs as Seven.
It surprises me to say this, but I think I was the best performer that day. Better even that John, who is consumate. I read and I ranted and I moved and I moved the audience. I was good. I did new bitter stuff, I did older stuff, I did things from memory and things now. I was good, dammit. It was my most satisfying performance in a while.

2002-12-27T13:14:00.000-05:00

Christmas was busy for this Jew.
I woke up early to walk the dog.
Did I not mention that? Patsy and Grey have offered me their dog Rrose while they're on the West Coast over the holiday time. Rrose is a much smaller creature than the beasts I'm used to sitting for, so I don't have to race with him, or worry about him tearing up the apartment. I do need to get him out of the house, though, and since I leave my home for huge number of hours at a time, I try to walk him as soon as I wake up and as soon as I get home. Sometimes, they're only a few hours apart.
Anyway, on Christmas, Rrose and I trotted around my neighborhood. The streets were empty and wet. I thought maybe I could bike around, seeing as how we'd skirted the threatened storm, but decided against it.
Done with Rrose, I hopped a train to go to my mother’s and open presents.
Yes, we’re kikes. And yes, we celebrate Christmas. Here’s the skinny: my mother’s parents were wed on Christmas day, and so, they opted to celebrate Christmas, and in a relatively traditional America way. Tree, tinsel, carols… I was brought up with this. We celebrate Christmas, Chanukah, and my birthday (though that, seemingly, less and less). I’ve been working on adding Kwanzaa to this mix, and frankly, Rammadan, what with its dieting, has much to recommend it.
At my mother’s house sat my father, who’d walked from his apartment, and Barbara, mom’s visiting best friend, who’d driven from Columbus.
We opened presents. But I couldn’t stay long, and so it makes the thing feel less festive. I’ve been somewhat depressed at my mother’s house lately, seeing as how it’s just about the only refuge I have these days. I’m thirty-three now, a grown man plus, nearing a potential mid-life era, and I still flee to my mommy’s arms. I do certainly suck.
Within an hour, I had to get out. I was expected downtown at Union Square.
I met Melle and the other NYCares volunteers in the Union Square train station, and we proceeded to go to St. Francis Xavier Church, where we’d be feeding hundreds of homeless.
Us, and, apparently, hundreds of other volunteers. Maybe it was the onslaught of rain, or maybe something else, but there weren’t that many homeless to feed. There was too little work for everyone to do. I was bored.
I do feel like I was somewhat useful when I got one guy the sparkling cider he requested. I was involved!
Melle and I fled afterwards, visiting Asya on sixth avenue, where we watched some old movie, until we all went separate ways: Asya and friend Karen to dinner party, Melle to the traditional Kosher Christmas of Chinese and a movie, and I to a Bionic party in Park Slope.
By then, the snows had hit.
I reached Pam and Christine’s place by seven thirty or so, braving the raising levels of white. I hung with them and theirs for hours, drinking what I could, eating what I could. My appetite is slowly returning to me. I’m still not up to speed, but I’m getting ready to return to gluttonous ways. I do look much slimmer now; it would be nice to keep up the pace.
Anyhow, I hung with the Bionic Finger alumna for a few hours, until the storm broke. I handed out flyers for my December 27th show, I was polite and nice, and… well, I got out of there by midnight, so I could get home to walk Rrose again.
I am such a responsible, busy boy.

2002-12-24T16:40:00.000-05:00

I wake up shaky, and I want to do something. It's cold, though, and I don't have high drive these days. But I've been off my bike for a couple of days, so getting to riding around, that's an excellent to expend energy. Drinking, too. I had a couple of ciders yesterday, and it helped me through an entertaining evening.
I need to find more things to do with my days. Yes I do.
Merry Christmas.

2002-12-23T15:18:00.000-05:00

Today, I am working, and there's nothing to do. I've been coming back for various one-day assignments at L-3 Communications, and I am bored bored bored.
I do like the idea of making money, but the first day I was on the job, I had people to talk to, use for regular internet access, things going on in my life.
Now, this nothing to do thing is just part and parcel of my complete malaise. I am not a happy camper.
I don't know if I wish I had something to do, but, at the moment, I wish I wasn't here...

2002-12-23T10:42:00.000-05:00

My birthday was yesterday. My thirty third. It wasn't so bad.
It wasn't so bad the bad the way Korea wasn't so bad.
It wasn't so bad the way the Crusades weren't so bad.
It wasn't so bad the way the dropping number of fatalities on 9/11 wasn't so bad.
Comparitively, many worse things could have happenned. In fact, something BAD could have happened, which was not the case.
But I've had better birthdays.
I spent most of the day with my parents, fielding sporadic phone calls and trimming the tree. Because my appetite is still down, when we went to Happy Burger (one my favorite growing-up eateries), I ate about half of my meal, while normally I would have gulped it down and finished everybody else's as well.
We saw a movie, which was good, and drove to Rockaway, which was nice. I opened presents, which were all right.
But when we did the Christmas tree, one of our goyish traditions, listening to Barbra Streisand sing about a holiday that was none of ours, I found myself overcome.
I am as old as Jesus was, I realized, and I am sitting in my mother's home on my birthday, celebrating my aging with them.
I had no peers to be with, no one I would rather celebrate this occasion with. Rather, those that I'd rather be with were unavailabe. It's not a dig on my parents; it's a dig on my general dissatisfaction.
Anyway, I was overcome.
Afterwards, I joined Melle at Steve Espinola's holiday eggnog fest, which was, again, all right. Familiar faces and finger foods which, suprisingly, I nibbled on. It was all good fun, I suppose.
And then I just read that Joe Strummer died yesterday, on my birthday.
Which makes me see that it all could have been a lot worse.

2002-12-20T15:54:00.000-05:00

Today, I am not so sad. Interesting, considering the weather and everything.
I slept well, enjoyed my final night as part of Jason's Wonderful (One Man Show) Life!, and avoided biking home, because of the rain. The rain's continued through today, which leaves me physically anxous, but...
I've been working. I continue at L-3 Communications, but now in my third office.On Friday, I'll be at my fourth. I guess I'm a regular temp here.
Because I've been at the computer all day, I've worked on correspondence, finances, and even sent out some resumes. I can be so much more productive in an office, especially when all that's expected of me is to answer a couple of phones.
Not a bad day. I mean, soul-draining and exhausting, just sitting here, doing nothing, but it's OK.
I could do this more.
I guess I will on Friday...

2002-12-19T12:15:00.000-05:00

It's strange.
Eating seems to be a thing of the past. At least, eating the way I'm used to. I've had fruit for the last three days. I'm surprised I'm sleeping as well as I am.
I seem to be depressed.
Luckily, I'm getting out of bed, biking around the City, sweating up a storm. I'm living a healthy lifestyle.
Maybe depression is good for me.
Maybe not.
I work again tomorrow...

2002-12-17T17:03:00.000-05:00

I'm not so happy.
My head aches, my nose runs, my bones are crinkly and I haven't eaten all day.
I don't want to.
I'm not sick, I just don't feel good.
Dammit.
My phone doesn't ring the way it's supposed to.
I got a cel phone so I could field calls far and wide. I've gotten very few.
Too few.
And the calls I get? Not the ones I'm looking for.
I'm not happy.
Oh well...

2002-12-16T14:06:00.000-05:00

So we played Finally Fred's a week plus ago. It was not a phenomenal show. Well, in many ways it WAS a phenomenal show, but...
Why don't I explain?
The turnout was small. Not a big deal, since the room is tiny. There is no such thing as a big turnout at Finally Fred's. But still, more than half the people there were not for us.
They were by the end. We rocked. The band was solid as usual and I got the audience listening, at least. Not dancing, not grooving along, but they were with us. They signed the list. It was good.
Of course, the microphones bailed out on me three quarters of the way through, and I couldn't hear myself screech over the band's din. And all of the lovely ladies there that night were taken. Ain't that always the way?
Still, it felt accomplished. We played to new people, who liked us, and made the best of an awkward club in an awkward, snowy situation.
Mission accomplished.
The next one will be even better...

2002-12-16T11:34:00.000-05:00

After working for Jason Grossman on his (It’s A Wonderful One Man Show) Life this weekend, as I have for the last three years, I thought it was about time to see the show again.
My parents, who came, saw, and enjoyed, wanted to review the film, too.
(“I never saw it,” my father lied. How could he be so old and have missed that classic? Liar.)
So last night, we dipped into mom’s old video of the Frank Capra film and we saw it, start to finish.
Now, having been alive in the 20th Century, I’m aware of the story. And having worked with Jason on his wonderful adaptation, I’m somewhat familiar with specific lines, too.
But I cried during the film. I cried on several occasions.
Now, it could be that I’m a pussy, or that I got little sleep, or that I’ve been feeling pretty damned emotional lately, and that movies tend to resonate more for me when I’m so lame, but I cried.
I cried I cried I cried.
You should probably go see It’s a Wonderful Life.

2002-12-14T18:06:00.000-05:00

Today, I am penitent.
Yesterday, in an unrelated note, I called Josh.
Josh is my oldest friend. I shouldn't say 'friend,' since I haven't heard from him in four years, and before that, perhaps, six. But I knew him in first grade, and, probably, for more years than not, we've been tight.
It was his birthday yesterday. His thirty third. He's entering his Jesus Year, and I thought that that warranted some attention.
He seemed pleased to hear from me, and I didn't feel like being cruel to him for being such a bad friend.
I'll get to that later.

2002-12-11T14:00:00.000-05:00

It's cold and it's wet and I took a train today and it got shunted past my stop taking me a couple miles out of my way and there's gonna be a transit strike in a couple of days and if it rains or it's cold or snowy or my back just doesn't feel like it I'll have to take the train only there won't be any train to take since they'll all be out of service and I've been paying four dollars for these day-long fun passes and if I'd bought a week-long fun pass I'd have saved some money and I don't know how much but it could have been as much as five dollars FIVE DOLLARS I know it's not much but I haven't worked in the last year and a half and five dollars is five dollars and I really wish I'd saved my money better earned money better I wish I were made of money (well except for the naughty bits which really should be made of flesh [and blood {and maybe some semen}]) because then I wouldn't have to be worried about these things now I could take a girl out and not have to use coupons I could go to a prostitute that costs more than a fiver MY GOD I'm going to the cheap prostitute one less time because of this cost and I wish I'd biked because then I would have saved a lot more money and my legs would be in better shape but then again my ass would be wet and nobody likes wet ass, least of all me.
That's it.

2002-12-06T13:01:00.000-05:00

And I'm back in an office again.
Again, it's a one-day assignment, but it seems that company has nothing against me. There is potential for the likes of me.
Well, who really knows if I want that - but it's good to be in an office, with internet, and a printer, and a computer to fiddle with.
It's all good, yo.
All good...

2002-12-04T15:19:00.000-05:00

I never knew how cold a witch's tit was before.
I have learned...
I biked as far North as Van Cortlandt Park, as far south as Northern Williamsburg. I was cold and unhappy, and feared frostbitten toes.
Those were not good times. It was below freezing, but not by much. I think it was the wind that was a real problem. And having to go to the bathroom.
No matter. Today, I'm on the train. Reading a book. Not sweating in subzero weather.
Bliss.

2002-11-29T15:43:00.000-05:00

For Thanksgiving, we had guests.
The Bergers were home for the holidays, and, like last year, we opened our doors to some of my loser friends. Numerous AntiFolk characters had nowhere to go for the holiday - most couldn't care less, but I tendered an invitation, and I got some live ones.
Sanjay, from my band, along with Dani, recent SF emigre, and Hogan, who puts all the websites together. Patsy and Grey also came around, leaving quite a community along with my parents and me. Patsy and Grey brought their little Julian, while Sanjay had his new Golden Retriever Gina join the mix.
The turkey was good.
The celebration lasted for hours.
The guitar got passed.
I received numerous phone calls.
It was an excellent time.

2002-11-27T15:57:00.000-05:00

Did I mention I saw Punch-Drunk Love? In the theaters? For ten dollars?
I like PT Anderson. Bigger fan of Magnolia than Boogie Nights than the first film - Hard Eight? No matter. I figured it was worth seeing, and I'd heard good things about Adam Sandler's ability in the film.
And it was good. It was quirky, powerful, but...
Well, maybe I'm in a vulnerable point around films right now, but it made me uncomfortable. Adam Sandler's character is a frustrated loser who can barely control his rage, his freakish tendencies, his general difficulties with the world. And he ends up in an exciting romantic affair that whirls beyond reason as soon as it begins. I was pretty jealous about that.
I mean, there are lots of us loser misanthropes who can never seem to get it together, and may never be able to. Why did Sandler's character have success with a lady? WHY?
I enjoyed the film, but it left me feeling pretty queasy. Jealous. Self-loathing. But then again, what doesn't?

2002-11-27T10:36:00.000-05:00

I'm at work.
Wow, those words. I'm at work.
It's a one-day assignment, from Merlin Temps, who have done right by me in these trying times. As right as I've let them. In the last few weeks, circumstances have kept me from a couple of assignments they'd offered me, leaving me alone by the phone for extended periods of time.
Not today, though. Today, I'm working in mid-town. It was a rainy morning, so I had to take the train, in my jacket and tie, like any normal working stiff.
I'm probably more nervous because I didn't bike well.
So far, I'm uncomfortable with my flunky responsibilities - not because they're hard, but because I don't know what to expect.
I'm at L-3 Communications.
Wow...

2002-11-22T15:39:00.000-05:00

Oh, and the show went well, too.

2002-11-21T11:13:00.000-05:00

The way I'll tell the story, I singlehandedly shut down Brer Brian's exciting new open mic.
Does this make me a pariah, in my own story? I think so...

2002-11-13T14:19:00.000-05:00

And the dogs are gone. Over the weekend, they helped me explore my neighborhood far more than I had previously. It's interesting how I don't have the interesting to look around without the excuse of the animals.
I explored the boundaries of my part of Hunt's Point. Over the weekend, it was awkward. Mostly industrial areas, many of which are abandoned, there's little population in my neck of the woods. So little population that there are no real threats to safety, but still, it was eerie and quiet, whether day or night. It's undoubtedly much worse over the weekend.
Nakai and Raven have been gone for a couple of days, but I really haven't had time to miss them, since I was busy working with Patsy. Out to Rockaway to help her with her faux finishing. I think I might have a job as a painter's assistant. How delightful! My lifetime career aspirations, already succeeded, and here I am only thirty two!
At the moment, I should get back to putting up flyers here at NYU. This week, I may actually make more money than I spend. Strange novelty...

2002-11-09T11:30:00.000-05:00

My apartment is going to the dogs.
They're here for the weekend; this is the first time they've been to my new South Bronx digs, and while the apartment is nicer for humans, I don't know if Nakai and Raven care so much. There are more doors, so Raven can't sleep with me (though why I'm keeping the bitches away from my bed is beyond me) but it's smaller.
Also, we can't run on over to Randall's Island for a gigantic unoccupied park. I mean, over the weekend, my industrial neighborhood is mostly empty, so the guys and I can roam, but it's not the same thing.
I think we're all coping. I hope we are.
The dogs are back in town.

2002-10-30T11:08:00.000-05:00

We've completed the demo.
Aashish used his productive hands, and we now have three completed songs, ready and raring to get us gigs.
Already, passing out the demo has gotten me hooked up at a fucking hole in the wall called Finally Fred's on the west side of town. I think I might have saved the effort.
No matter. I'm proud of the three songs, and, once I get off my ass, maybe I can get an exciting variety of gigs from this.
Hey! You never know...

2002-10-29T14:44:00.000-05:00

Defnitely the worst autobiography I've read was Stan Lee's Excelsior.
Stan Lee is the main brain behind Marvel Comics, creating (or, alleging to create) such vital characters as Spider-Man, the Hulk, the Fantastic Four, Daredevil and the X-Men. For such a creative man, with such experience in story-telling, you'd think he'd be able to tell his own life better. He even had a cowriter (he claims the guy wasn't a ghost. I believe him), and still it was for crap. Oi...

2002-10-27T14:30:00.000-05:00

Got Aashish!
Hoohah!

2002-10-25T16:28:00.000-04:00

You know, I had two shows in the last two weeks, sort of. I feel something like a rock star. If only I could perform every weekend...

2002-10-24T13:14:00.000-04:00

Elvis Costello on Tuesday was good, too, but I was really tired, and, somehow, still inappropriately angst-ridden over the Billy Bragg show. Now, I'm in a maddenly romantic mood, with no appropriate rationale.
I'm listening to Billy Bragg and Elvis Costello, and I sigh sweetly, saddened by the state of my existence. It's not all good. No sir.
After Elvis Costello, I slept many many hours, missing many many important phone calls. Now, I think, I'm back on track...

2002-10-24T13:12:00.000-04:00

It's interesting: I don't remember the girl, but I remember the occasion.
She'd upset me. She'd depressed me. She'd left me wandering the rainy streets.
This was back in college, when love meant something. Before it got devalued by… hell, I don't know what.
I was in Northampton, the biggest local town, and Billy Bragg was playing the Iron Horse.
Now back then, back in college, I had similar disposable income to what I do now, primarily because I remain as cheap as I am now.
I stood outside, in the rain, listening to Billy Bragg through the entire set.
Billy Bragg, in the eighties, was the best smart romantic troubadour the universe ever conceived. I ached over his words. All of them were for me – as well as I could understand them. There was a wall between him and me, and the rain beating down around me.
I think she was Kathie. Doesn't matter, really.
I think back, occasionally, to those early romantic days, standing outside the theater listening to true love spoken.
Part of the sense I get from Billy Bragg is that it doesn't matter so much who he's singing to. I don't understand all the of stories he tells, don't know if they're all to one girl who got away (or didn't. He's been married for like eighty years now). His work is about longing, it's about loss. It's about humor. It's about me.
Possibly, the girl was Laurie. Hard to say.
Anyway, Billy Bragg was great back then.
Still is.

2002-10-23T12:45:00.000-04:00

They made me check my bag at the Billy Bragg show. I anticipated the possibility, and thought about dragging out a pen and paper, but when the moment flew by, that's exactly what it did. Planning never works out, really.
So, throughout the show, I kept thinking, 'Damn, wish I could write.'
As I waited for the show to start, I said, 'Damn, wish I could write.'
In the intermission between the opener and Billy Bragg, I said, "Damn, I wish I could write.'
I started brainstorming how to get my hands on a pen.
Paper was easy. There were flyers on the walls, and napkins at the bar. The only pens I spied were at the concessions stand, where I would have bought more CDs if I'd only had more money in my pocket.

2002-10-22T14:42:00.000-04:00

I got Elvis Costello's new album last week. Just in time for his show. I got tickets to see him in July, I think, for tonight. It should be fun.
I like the new album. It's B-sides and remixes and live cuts – so it's not a real album, but it's fun to listen to. It's his second this year. I wonder if he'll do any of the B-sides.
I'm looking forward to the show, but don't know if it'll be as good as Billy Bragg on Sunday, which was great.

2002-10-22T14:41:00.000-04:00

So I was at this CD release party. It was for Jenn Lindsay, but that's got nothing to do with nothing (though there have been a series of CD (Dave's Place, Nan, Jeneen, Jenn, Grey Revell) releases lately…).
The important thing was, afterwards, I took this really nice umbrella.
I always take umbrellas, but usually, they're crap. Usually, they're totes. Usually, they're clearly abandoned.
This one might have been abandoned, but I made no effort to find out. When no one was looking, I took my new umbrella and quietly exited the club.
It was a very nice umbrella. Full length, long, it cover both me and my bag, which none of my little portables do. I have never bought an umbrella, and I guess you get what you pay for, but this time, I'd gotten something finer.
The next day, I was at Breadfoot's sho, and he complained about how someone took his umbrella the night before.
"Was it black?"
"A yep," he replied.
I took his umbrella.
I'm a very bad man.
A very very bad man.
He had no other umbrella, and I had another one in my bag. Breadfoot probably got pneumonia, or at least very soggy, which can't be good for a man whose feet are made of yeast.
Don't talk to me. I am ashamed.
God, I am bad…

2002-10-21T18:02:00.000-04:00

Saw Billy Bragg last night. I had a great time, but it was probably a bad idea. Not only is he one of the best writers/performers I've ever heard, but also the most romantic. It makes me yearn for things that are likely never to happen, or at, least no time soon...

2002-10-20T15:11:00.000-04:00

I played with the cats last night.
Well, sort of. I fed them; and watched them eat.
Dottie tells me one of the raccoons split open one of the kittens.
Look at my new neighborhood. It's so sweet...

2002-10-19T18:59:00.000-04:00

I rocked.
We rocked.
The audience, smaller than necessary, was appreciative - but not as much as we were. The band is really gelling. I'm beginning to get a sense of rhythm, after only doing the band for a year.
It's good stuff. We had new material. It's all good stuff...
Yea, me!

2002-10-18T13:26:00.000-04:00

I've got a show tonight. At the Sidewalk Cafe.
You should either:
a) go
or
b) have gone.
The choice is (was?) yours.

2002-10-17T17:35:00.000-04:00

Fowad's is going out of business.
It's been on 96th Street since the dawn of time. It's where I've bought a majority of my cheapass gear – my coats, some jackets, occasionally, shirts and ties.
It is not a store of quality merchandise. But it's where I shop. And it's going out of business.
I don't quite know how I feel about it.
Fowad's reminds me a lot of Woolworth's. Usually, there was nothing of merit to be found there, but I always would go in, looking, and sometimes, I'd end up with the goods. I wasn't too upset when Woolworth's closed, because of my primitive belief in economic Darwinism.
Still, this is where I shopped for my first suit. This is where I got my faux varsity-looking jacket. Fowad's is MY place.
I think I'm gonna miss it.

2002-10-17T17:00:00.000-04:00

A quick explanation about these placeholders.
I'm not aware of a way to backdate stories on blogger, and since I have maybe seven tales to tell, and I don't want them to appear on all the same day, I prefer, whenever I'm online, to put a space for a different story.
"That's all well and good, Jon, but why don't you just write the story in that space?"
Well, the stories have been written at home - where I have no internet access - and brought to a computer where there is internet access. I've had a bad run of being unable to access any computers with a disk drive. At the moment, I'm on an iBook. Fucking Apples...
So, I have a disk by my side with five little snippets of stories, but no way to get them to you at this machine. It sucks for all of us, I know.
Maybe tomorrow.
Tomorrow I have a show.
Maybe tomorrow...
(Like, twenty minutes later, and I've snuck on a computer at the library, and now I've updated all my stories. I still have a couple more in the bag, and then I have to start thinking about what to write. Poor pitiful me...)

2002-10-16T17:21:00.000-04:00

Jeneen Terranaasked me to play her CD release party. It was at a new club – well, new for me – well, new for me on stage. It was called Bar B, and it was a relatively small bar, but a relatively loud one.
"This isn't gonna work," I said Jeneen's sister Lisa, "I won't be able to get their attention."
"Sure you will!" She said, feeding me pizza, "Just do that 'Sucking Cock' piece, and they'll listen."
"Profanity is the opiate of the masses…" I said.
But as Peter and Jackie, the other two featured guests, did their thing, I knew it was hopeless.
Still, Jeneen gave me a warm introduction, and when I hit the stage, there was silence.
When I left the stage, there was rabid applause. I did really well. Sporadically, a mild amount of talking could be heard, but for maybe ten-fifteen minutes, I held the fuckers' attention, got great response, held the crowd.
I was an excellent lead-in for Jeneen, who wowed the crowd. I haven't listened to her CD yet, but I'll guessing it's good… Why else would I have been there?

2002-10-16T15:24:00.000-04:00

I remain unemployed. I had taken a mini course as to how to be a good legal secretary, all with the intent at testing at this downtown firm, where I did exceptionally well, and was told to start on September 30th.
Only a day or two before that, I discovered there was no job for me there.
That's fine, I suppose. As the thirtieth got closer and closer, I started thinking about how little I'd enjoyed the summer, and how I wouldn't mind having some time to bike around, read, enjoy. "I deserve some Me time," I said, somehow ignoring the last year and a quarter. I have a selective memory.
So here I am, with time on my hands, during a gigantic rainstorm.
And that's all right.

2002-10-15T14:00:00.000-04:00

Coming back from rehearsal, I was broached with a new and frustrating dilemna. Normally,. I bike to Sanjay's by way of the Triboro Bridge, but avoid it on the way back, since it's so poorly lit. Normally, I return by way of the 59th Street Bridge, which takes me a little out of my way, but, while living in Manhattan, it wasn't a big deal.
I calculated it out, though, and going by way of the 59th Street Bridge means I've biking perhaps seven miles to get home, while the Triboro Bridge makes it probably half of that.
So, for the first time in years, I broached the Triboro Bridge at night.
When last I did it, maybe in ninety four, I found it pitch-black, and I had to walk the bike home, which was really only a little bit less dangerous. Even the places there were lights, the shadows created by them kept the bikepath virtual invisible. Not the most fun ride.
This time, it was lit. I should have thought it over; the bridge has been under reconstruction pretty consistently since those heady early nineties, and much of it requires good lighting. Maybe the moon was out, but I found the entire trip very accessible, and cut many miles off of my trip home. All's well that ends well.
Of course, I'm not hitting myself for having avoided the bridge at night all those years I lived right next to it. That kinda hurts..

2002-10-14T17:01:00.000-04:00

One day, walking home from the train (it must have been a moist day, else I'd have been riding from the train), I saw a cat right past the Bruckner Expressway.
This was not an overwhelming surprise. Dottie, my upstairs neighbor, has been feeding some strays outside of our place. There're a pair of tiny kittens, one black and one white, both really adorable.
This one a block away, though, was bigger. Much bigger. Even in the dark, I could tell the coloration was different, too. This one was grey, with stripes of black and white. And it was huge.
When I got up to it, rooting through a garbage can, I realized it was a raccoon.
I've got 'coons in my neighborhood. I know it might not be PC to say, but I just like to call a spade a spade.
Truly, I have entered the frontier.

2002-10-12T10:50:00.000-04:00

For the first time in years, I have a bathroom – and a kitchen.
I am doing what I can not to get too used to this opulence. As a tried and true Spartan liver, I find it too easy to get used to these comforts of life.
So far, I have cooked nothing that I was unable to cook before these, my glory days, though I have stored a steak in my freezer for a couple of weeks, something I could never afford before – and I bought fruit. Fruit!
There's no showerhead in the bathroom, which is fine, and the drain takes a while to work, but I'm working on these things. I bought a shower curtain. I am so domestic!
Someday, I may be able to have visitors…

2002-10-12T10:40:00.000-04:00

Right after my show in September, I approached a cop, next to a barricade on Longwood Avenue, my new street. I asked why, each weekend, the entrance into Hunts Point was closed up.
"Drag racing," he said, "This serves as a deterrent."
"Oh," I said, "I'm new to the neighborhood, and was just wondering."
"You from out of state?" he asked me.
"Oh, no. I came up from East Harlem. I figured it was a good deal and all – if I don't wind up dead!" I laughed.
He looked at me seriously.
"Yeah," he said, "I wouldn't be out of doors after dark…"
"OK, office," I said, "Thanks."
I rushed home.
Sobering.
My cousin did some web research, and she says that Hunts Point has the lowest murder rate in the Bronx, which is a relief – though I have seem prostitutes wandering around the neighborhood, and, anyway, since it's mostly industrial, I figure most of the bodies just haven't been found yet. Maybe that's what I could do while waiting for work!

2002-10-11T17:46:00.000-04:00

Oh, I moved.
I ended up getting out the deal with my Hassidic landlord – he gave Tom and me three checks to repay us our deposit over a month and a half – it was not the best deal we ever made, but at least we got out from under that jew-bastard.
Tom and I continued looking ,and it was getting closer and closer to September, and the leads were coming less and less often, and my landlord, who wanted me out August first, was breathing down my neck.
There had been less tense times.
I'd discovered a couple of promising leads – a fairly expensive place in the perfect part of Williamsburg and a couple of places in East Harlem – but Tom seemed to be balking, and I needed more room, and my landlord Mark was threatening legal action to get me out even though I had nowhere to go, and it was getting tough.
It was all coming to a head when Mark called and said, "I think I might have a solution to our difficulties."
He told me to bike up to the South Bronx, right over the bridge, to look at this apartment he had available.
I went over the Willis Avenue Bridge, up maybe a mile or two, and Mark showed me a clean, safe, two bedroom apartment that he'd offer me for a hundred dollars more than my old place.
Now, understand, this apartment is less than half the size of what I'm used to, but it's still big enough for all my stuff – and a room-mate, if necessary.
I called Tom and told him the good news.
"I don't think I'm interested," Tom said.
"But…" I said, and stopped. I could still live alone! And in a shady neighborhood! I could still have my much-desired street cred, so I could keep it real, yo!
"Fine," I said to Tom, and took my uptown apartment.
It took me a few weeks to get the crew together to move me out of East Harlem and into the South Bronx, and it took a little longer to get the utilities up. Apparently, there's no hi-speed internet access in Hunts Point. But the train's two blocks away, the police station one, there's a supermarket and a couple of laundry's within walking distance, and a library just four blocks away.
The only real problem up front was the biking around. I'm not close to nine miles from the East Village, which adds some work for my legs, but now I know how to do it.
All's good in housing, or, will be, as soon as I unpack.

2002-10-10T17:34:00.000-04:00

For the longest time, I was afraid to bike home to my new apartment.
Biking out was no problem. Each day, when I'd want to get moving, I'd bump my bike downstairs, pedal to Bruckner Boulevard, then head into Manhattan from my new Hunts Point home.
But by the end of the day, in the middle of the night, I found the trip too exhausting, too difficult, too intimidating... too scary.
I was afraid to bike home.
"What have I done?" I said, "How can I live in a place where I can't travel under my own steam?"
It wasn't so bad. The local train station is so much closer than I'm used. And the trains to my stop run fairly frequently. And since I live further North now, I'm doing more biking to get where I want to go. I had myriad justifications for not riding home.
But I don't like being afraid.
The problem is, the ride is longer.
The problem is, I have to cross over a bridge.
The problem is, I have to ride under a tunnel, with freeway drivers, that curves, that isn't lit well, that could get me killed any time.
The problem is, I was scared.
For weeks, I couldn't handle the ride.
Finally, though, I found that you don't have to cross four lanes of traffic on the bridge. You don't have to ride in that tunnel of the death. You don't have to add miles to your trip to find a safer route.
I've discovered, through exploration, tricks and turns that add virtually no time to my already lengthy voyage, and get me home only a few minutes past when I would have otherwise arrived.
Hip hip hurray.

2002-08-15T14:10:00.000-04:00

Did I mention the Spoken Word contest?
It was a month ago – July fifteenth. I left the AntiHoot to bike to Williamsburg for a poetry contest hosted by America’s Favorite News Source, the Onion. The prize was a bike. It was taking place at The Pourhouse.
I was nervous. I’ve done slams, but not poetry contests. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know where I rated in the skill hierarchy. I was nervous.
I had nothing to worry about.
In my own estimation, there was one person of the twenty five contestants who was better than me. And he was better than me. And he was clearly a performance art poet. His name was John.
There was a girl who had good delivery – and was way cute – but her poem was inane, and so much of her performance style was using beat rhythms to get her point across. She was obviously an actress.
I felt like I might win, if the judges – all part of the team that puts out the Onion – were on the same page as me as to what was good.
They weren’t. The winner was not someone I would have ranked. His piece was a short story, not a poem., and his delivery was lame.
Still, he won the contest, he won the prize – a new bike, supplied by Budweiser. I could have used another bike.
All I got was this lousy T-shirt – and some buttons – and a pen
and the chance to hold my own in a competition.
I was a contender.

2002-08-15T10:55:00.000-04:00

This morning, the landlord called to say that he went to sleep early, and I should stop making threatening phone calls to him. He’s been honest with us, and –
“Honest with us?” I said, “You offered us an apartment on August first. That’s not available. You offered us an apartment on the August fifth. That’s not available. You said we could move on the first floor, then the fifth. You said you’d call Tom back at seven yesterday, you said you’d give us our money back. If these aren’t lies, what are they?”
I was yelling, but I’m really only so upset. I’m not desperate about the situation. I just don’t like how the future landlord’s been pushing us around, and I want him to live in fear of me.
If I have to take the apartment (and, considering the time to look for something else, it seems likely), I fully expect to make the man suffer for the calendar year. Every possible infraction will be complained about to him, and to the housing authority. His rent will be late. His home will be called.
This could be ugly. But it can also be fun.

2002-08-14T17:17:00.000-04:00

Apartment difficulties carry on.
Tom, back from his vacation, called to get the keys that we rented for August first.
“It’s not available.”
“It’s not available?” I said.
“The tenant hasn’t moved out. I want my money back.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Numerous late night phone calls, with the landlord, with the tenant, with Tom, all have left me with nothing. I need to talk to a lawyer, I need to find his apartment on a late night, I need to call him again after midnight.
It will get ugly. And soon.

2002-08-14T09:49:00.000-04:00

Nicely cool.
My friend and master of disaster Eric Rosenfield at Yank The Chain just put up some of my poetry. It's nothing that isn't already out there, but in an exciting and powerful new medium. Now his fanbase of ten and my fanbase of five can be combined, and who knows how much force we can muster.
Bwahahahahaha.
Here.

2002-08-12T17:39:00.000-04:00

My show this weekend was pretty astonishing. Not in terms of the material, or in terms of the performance, but in terms of the audience. Or, one audience member in particular.
Hamell on Trial finally saw me perform.
This is the first time my mentor guy has been available to catch a show, as he was playing later on in the night. Even though it was a half-hour show, I was incredibly nervous. What if I didn’t perform properly? What then?
I did all right…

2002-08-12T10:17:00.000-04:00

I have been blazingly busy for the last two weeks, which is the latest in a long line of excuses as to why I don’t write. And not just hear; my poetry page has been virtually abandoned of late. I’ll get back on track, but it might take some time.
I’ve been working.
The day I got my apartment settled, I also got a job. It’s a temp assignment, but it’s been solid for a couple weeks now, and I finally have some time to sit at the computer, waiting for work to come in.
I’m doing desktop publishing at a presently undisclosed legal press, where I’m helping generate paperwork for the Supreme Court. All the time I’ve been here, we’ve been working on this three thousand plus-page document. The work is speedy, and kinda fun – not something that any trained monkey could do; you’d need a specially trained monkey.
The big thing is, there’s been overtime. Last week, I put in fifty hours, and this week, sixty. On top of the class I’ve been taking, learning Legal Secretarial skills, I’ve been busy. On top of the AntiFolk Festival and my show this last weekend, I’ve been really busy.
Really really busy.
Really.

2002-08-12T10:06:00.000-04:00

August seventeenth has not occurred, I’m still living in my old place, and I haven’t done a thing about the move. I have more crap that Crassus (well, certainly, higher quality crap), and I’ve barely begun to box it. I need some organizational help.
I also need to focus on the move. I haven’t. I’ve been a little busy with other stuff.
Luckily, my housemate is no more on the ball than I. After arranging our apartment-hood, he fled the coast for a vacation, no doubt expecting me to take responsibility for everything in the interim. He’s a fool. I take responsibility for no man, including myself!
When last I moved, it was a great day. It was a great day because I had a team of eight who worked hard and made it a smooth, albeit all day, process. It was such a relief after the prior move, months before, when I had to lift everything I owned, alone, with no one but my heart-patient father for support. No more! I will have an army of assistant to help my weak-ass back to get myself from my third floor apartment to my new fourth floor apartment!
After all, who can resist me, when I put on the charm?

2002-07-30T15:58:00.000-04:00

I’d been looking with Tom Warnick for an apartment. It wasn’t my only direction to find housing. In an example of cosmic karma, my last temporary tenant Melle offered me space in her apartment. She doesn’t live in the best sort of neighborhood for me – no crack dens in sight.
That’s why Tom and I were looking in Williamsburg and Sunnyside.
Out of borough was the only reasonable way to expect any space to speak of, and, as an unemployed boy, I couldn’t imagine a rent hike as desirable.
So we looked in Williamsburg, through brokers. We were going to do the do the same with Sunnyside when we met Thomas, an Orthodox Jew who had properties in Williamsburg and Long Island City. He showed us a fairly nice place just a block or two from the river, a block or two from a Costco, a block or two from Sanjay and a mile to two from the 59th Street Bridge.
The trains weren’t too near; the space wasn’t that great; the neighborhood was… familiar to me.
But the rent was cheap, and Thomas was a hoot.
So we signed on. There was no broker’s fee, which is impossible to find in the City. We had to do it.
I regretted it later on that day.
“The place is too small!” I said, “The train’s a mile away! It’s no more convenient than my last apartment!”
“Buyers’ remorse,” Melle said, when I bitched to her, “You’ll be fine when you move in.”
It wasn’t to be, of course.
Thomas called a couple days later, telling us that the apartment we’d signed a lease for wasn’t available.
“I have a nicer one,” he explained, “Upstairs. Bigger. For only a little bit more money.”
We’d already given him the first few months’ rent, so we decided to look at it.
It was nicer. Bigger, better lit, more storage capacities, easy roof and bike access.
This was the apartment.
Still, Tom and I had our doubts. Like me, Tom regretted his decision to sign on almost immediately. We talked it over, and decided to start fresh, looking for something else.
Thomas would have none of it. He threatened to bind us to our lease, despite the absence of the apartment, and we mildly threatened litigation.
I had to go to a job interview, so Tom worked it out for us.
We got the nicer apartment, for a much better price than we’d expected. A better apartment, a nicer view, and it was VERY near the locations I interviewed for work.
So all’s well that ends well.
I move on August seventeenth.

2002-07-15T10:14:00.000-04:00

SaturNIGHT was my show. It was good.

2002-07-15T10:13:00.000-04:00

I spent SaturDAY looking for an apartment in Williamsburg. Found some good things. Today, I'll be looking in Long Island City, which seemed to make more sense a few days ago.
Tom Warnick and I are looking for a share, though we're each considering a couple other things. For example, bass-playing Sanjay had an apartment in his building, but it's been filled.
And Melle, my recent former room-mate had space in her apartment, and a strong urge to help me out, but since I couldn't commit, she had to offer it to someone else - someone who could guarantee s/he was moving in.
So now I guess I don't have too many options.
It'll work out. Or I'll be living with YOU!

2002-07-12T17:04:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I've been told my building's becoming a Wal-Mart, or a Price Club or something. The limo company downstairs told me we all have to vacate the building in a month because it's to be torn down. I think I have more time than that. Legal Aid and my legal eagle uncle tell me so, so it must be true. It must.
So I'm looking for places, but nothing's gonna be as cheap, or as big, as what I've got. I have some leads. I hope they pan out. They have to. They do...

2002-07-12T01:00:00.000-04:00

Unemployment's over. I have a sneaking suspicion that my last check got lost in the mail, but I could have miscalculated how/when I was getting money.
I have enough savings to tide me over, and with my enthusiasm about finding work, I think I'll be back in the market fairly quickly. It's all good, yo. I got an interview for a half-time job at Columbia, which, considering my present location, would be perfect.
If only I could keep my present location...

2002-07-09T16:32:00.000-04:00

I felt a lot more responsible - a lot more adult - in my process of looking for work, like I really belonged, again, to civilization.
Lazy as I am, I like working. I feel like I'm contributing, and, more importantly, I feel productive in my own creativity. It's important for me to be employed. So working towards a real job, it makes me feel better about myself.
I thought about the janitor position, thought about how elitist it was for me to skip out on that chance, especially when it was just handed to me. But then I thought some more: I wouldn't mind being a bike messenger, or a construction worker, or a driver. There's physical work that seems romantically appealing to me. Being a janitor just doesn't apply.
So I think I made the right choice in not taking the job. Sure...

2002-07-09T10:55:00.000-04:00

Working with Dad, I was offered an exciting, interesting opportunity.
"You work hard," Mark said, watching me carry the umpteenth box of books downstairs, "if you want to join my team for the summer, let me know."
"I'll do that!" I said, laughing.
He was serious.
Mark is the head custodian at Joan of Arc, the school where my dad's office is situated. While trying to help dad extricate himself from his employed life, Mark saw that I would be good at doing menial labor, and realized that, as a former teacher, I could ease through some of the paperword to make me a janitor for the summer.
"I don't want to be a janitor," I said, "I'm better than that."
"There there," my mother said, "There there."
I've done lots of hard work in my years. It was hard work that made Mark tender an offer of employment. But I was busting my hump for Dad and Garo. The idea of being a clean-up guy, at a school, somehow seemed very degrading. Joan of Arc, after all, was a school I'd elected not to attend twenty years ago.
"If I don't take this job, though, I'll just sit around on my ass. I haven't been looking for work, and unemployment's running out, and I should be looking for work."
"You don't think you'll rise to the occasion and get a job?" Mom asked.
"I haven't yet."
I knew that if someone came to me with a desire to take a job they didn't want, when they hadn't earned the right not to take it, I'd advise them vocifierously to become a custodian. I knew what I had to do.
Still, I wavered.
"I don't know what to do," I said. "I really don't want to take the job."
"Would it help if I sat with you as you applied to companies, made offers, did what you had to do?"
"I think so," I sniffled.
"Monday," he said.
Finally, I had an excuse to refuse my custodian opportunity.

I began to get excited by the job search, and, in anticipation of meeting Dad on Monday, I again signed up with Monster.com, applied at Columbia and NYU, revised my resume... I did some of the legwork.
When I met with Dad, we sat around his computer, and I sent out numerous other applications. I felt functional. Dammit, I was functional. With my new looking-for-work ethic, I would get a job in no time.
Just in time for unemployment to run out.

2002-06-25T04:46:00.000-04:00

I love Vanilla Coke. Both the ad campaign and the actual item.
I just love Vanilla Coke.

2002-06-24T21:56:00.000-04:00

My tummy hurts.
I think I got sick after seeing Prepare to Meet Your Maker (That's Peter Dizozza's psychotic work about necrophilia and polygamy). After the performance, a chaotic, riotous affair, there was food and cake, which I ate, only being told afterwards it had been sitting for a day.
"Oh, well," I shrugged, "My cast-iron stomach will handle this."
It didn't.
My tummy hurts.

2002-06-23T01:52:00.000-04:00

Well, I no longer feel I've lost my critical capacity about my shows. I think I can tell when I am less than perfect.
My last-minute Friday night show was not particularly strong. The audience was not in my pocket, busy talking... the band was too loud for me, and my decision to have Drew Blood come up and and perform with us, unrehearsed, was ill-conceived.
All in all, the worst JUANBURGUESA show yet.
Luckily, I saw an inordinate mistakes in the performance, and can imagine numerous ways to improve next time. So there is still learning to be done, and I am ready to do it.
Before the show, I took part in an internet open mic at pseudo.com. That solo performance was much better than what I'd done with the band. Go figure.

2002-06-20T09:46:00.000-04:00

Ah, a last-minute addition to my performing life. A cancellation at the Sidewalk leaves me performing with the band this Friday. I will not have proper time to promote the show, but, luckily, with the band, we can generate energy with complete strangers.
I do hope I can get people to come. The reason to do this rock and roll this is to be loved by the public. An excellent way to present that is to get people to want to see me do my thing with little or no notice.
Interesting how this exciting opportunity, so recently after the last exciting opportunity, leaves me anxious.
Well, I find it interesting...

2002-06-19T08:13:00.000-04:00

Andrew was not overwhelmed with the show. He thought that Elvis' new material sounded like an old man trying to sound relevant. I was not transported by the show, either. I think my problems were more environmental, though, than the actual show.
For one thing, the seats were lousy. We were far up. Because I'm cheap, I usually get bad tickets, but if I'm alone, I think and scheme and try to find ways to improve my station. It's a bit more difficult when you're in a group of four, so I gave up on any hopes of change. Also nobody else seemed terribly upset by the nosebleed location.
Nonetheless, we were distant from the show, and the audience wasn't particularly into it, and I don't doubt we would have been out of our seats rocking had we been in the orchestra.
More importantly, though, I felt like a host. I'd gotten these seats for everyone, and wanted the party to enjoy the show, enjoy Elvis, as much as I wanted to. Particularly this girl I brought along.
To effect the enjoyment, I started with a running commentary through the show, one that was entertaining and cute, but that I probably wouldn't have wanted to hear were I there.
Selma had problems with people smoking around her, and told them to stop, which impressed me to no end. She was uncomfortable throughout the night, though, and I kept fearing that she was going to have to leave.
The show was extensive, with three encores. The only song I know was lacking was 'Alison,' but the night closed with a brilliant version of 'I Want You,' which is the reason Elvis is Elvis. Everyone was impressed by the number.
I think I might have enjoyed the performance more had I gone solo. Might have become more involved, might have spent less time worrying about other people. This is why it's bad to share. You begin to stare caring about others.

2002-06-18T18:05:00.000-04:00

Elvis Costello is tonight. Elvis Costello!
He's playing the Beacon. I'm going. Yippie!

2002-06-17T23:49:00.000-04:00

I am amazed and impressed that people have said, "Write in your blog. Where is your blogger stuff?"
Real people; not in my imagination.
At the same time, this really cute girl I was talking to at my last show said how she finds the weblog boring.
So, in my estimate, I need to weigh the opinions and desires of maybe half a dozen loyal readers against some hot chick that I barely know.
Despite the obvious conclusion, I'm gonna write some more.
I've had two performances in the last three days, each very different from the other in execution, and very similar in results.
The band and I hit the Sidewalk again on Saturday night. It wasn't exactly the band, though. Aashish, my perennial drummer, was out of town, so Sanjay, my bass player, replaced him, and Andrew's brother Brian came in on bass.
Brian, along with Andrew, had offered to back me in a band years ago, before Sanjay forced me to put this project together. I always felt a little guilty not following through with the Hellers. If they want to perform with me, how could I justly deny them? So I was glad to have an opportunity to hit the stage with the Heller twins, though a little anxious about organizing this different amalgamation of performers.
I needn't have worried. The performance, I'm told, was good. My only complaint was I did two numbers out of breath, and the numbers required close to pinpoint phrasing to keep in time with the music (one was a cover of Elvis Costello's 'Radio Radio') So I fucked up, but no one else has commented on it. Otherwise, I thought the show went fine, I got some additional names on my mailing list, made some money, and had the biggest draw at the club of the evening. So I guess it worked out.
I feel a lot less critical of my performances lately. I don't know if I'm living up to my own expectations, or that I just am taking it easier on myself. I hope it's the former. She show seemed fine.
Tonight, I performed at my father's retirement party. After working in Community School District #3 for as long as I've been alive, he's leaving his position and moving on to lazier pastures. He asked me to introduce him before he made his farewell address.
The retirement party was a big affair. Seating was for about one sixty, which included many people I'd met in my years helping dad out on special projects. Some of them even knew I wrote. But very few of them had seen me in action.
There were six retirees, and my father was the last listed, so I was going to be the last introducer.
Garo, my dad's coworker, and I shared our speeches during the day. He said mine was good. I said his was like Henny Youngman. "But there's a reason that one-liners exist…" I said, and he starting jotting down new notes.
Garo, who is also retiring, was introduced just before dad. David introduced him. David has written novels. David was well known by the entire body of the audience. David was very funny, and very good.
I honestly don't know if I was better.
Certainly, I was impressive – funny, clever, charming, sweet – but I don't know if I was appreciated as much as David was. He was damned good.
Half a dozen people came up to me afterward and told me how great I was. One asked me to do her party next week. She was joking, unfortunately.
It was a good show. I was doing dinner theater.
Yea, me.

2002-05-30T17:43:00.000-04:00

I've been sick for over a week now.
I've been working for over a week now.
Coincidence? I think so.
My father asked me to help out at the MultiCultural Fair in his District, which started last Wednesday. On Tuesday night, I felt sick. I was at a Drew Blood show, though, so that seemed par for the course. But I still felt sick when I went over to the see Julia Douglass, so that couldn't be right.
When I biked over to help put up tables the following day, I left a trail of phlegm from my apartment to the upper west side. Not a pretty picture. Luckily, it helped me get home at the end of the day, so tired was I that I couldn't trust my senses.
I worked through the week, and am now feeling still a little phlegmy, but otherwise pretty damn keen. I had to call off a family trip to Ohio, which devastated my mother, but then again, what doesn't?
I've gotten good stuff done. Working with Garo, my father's colleague, always is a valuable experience, and I took a much-needed tutorial in PowerPoint, thus increasing my marketability a thousandfold. Still haven't found any jobs, but whatever.
What else?
The dogs are here. I'm loving it.
I need a bike.
That's all.

2002-05-21T14:08:00.000-04:00

My glasses broke today. I was biking on 86th Street, sweating too much for my own good, so I put my glasses in my jacket pocket.
Only I missed.
I recognized it pretty quickly, though, and found the glasses on the street, but not before something had ridden over it. One of the lenses is gone. The other might make a good monocle.
Luckily, I stopped wearing prescription glasses about a year ago, so my pharmacy-bought (a giant leap from my previous, pharmacy-attained) glasses were easily replaced with another pair waiting in my apartment.
I've had a series of biking adventures lately. Get me loaded enough, and I may share them...

2002-05-19T10:38:00.000-04:00

JUANBURGUESA had a gig yesterday. As ever, I was anxious. I was anxious because I was afraid of my energy levels, frightened, based on our last rehearsal, that I would be slothful on stage, just standing around, reciting my words.
I needn't have worried. I was brilliant. Astonishing. Dynamic. Brilliant.
Apparently, I am a good performer.
We really need to get the demo done, so I can get more gigs...

2002-05-17T17:36:00.000-04:00

Wednesday night at the Raven had its ups and downs.
On the upside, this NYU guy, a regular, Dan, asked me if I ever wanted to party with him.
"You know I'm like seventy years older than you, right?"
"Yeah, whatever," he said.
I gave him another flier, reminding him that my contact information was on it.
As he often does, he brought his really hot girlfriend. This time, though, Dan had in tow a series of other hot college girls. I didn't really talk to them (the road to hell…), but gave out copious number of fliers. Actually, I did talk to them after a while. That was good…
My performance to promote for the weekend's show was only good. Not great. A little disappointing.
Very disappointing, of course, was the birth of a whole new AntiFolk fanzine, one I had nothing to do with.
AU Base has arrived. It's the new antifok fanzine, with any number of people buying it, reading it, appreciating it.
I bought a copy. I was not given one. I had nothing to do with it. I was not involved.
I haven't looked at it yet.
So, all told, a strange afternoon…

2002-05-16T13:13:00.000-04:00

Elvis Costello has a new album out.
I love it.
I'm not even sure if I can say anything that isn't part of his canonical press. It's a return to visceral music, though, and no more of this pansy-ass 'sophisticated stuff.'
Strangely, my favorite cuts are probably the most dissimilar from the body of the album. The sampledelic track 'When I Was Cruel No. 2' is… I don't know what it is. When he did it live, it was all backing tracks except for the vocals. The story is an extended 'Tangled Up in Blue' adventure, which is usually bloated and offensive. But there are great vocal hooks, great music… great shit. 'Things were so much easier… when I was cruel...'
The other outstanding cut is 'Episode of Blonde,' which is also, I think, an extended story, and the musical character is more traditional dancehall – I think. I don't really know. It, too, is wonderful. I haven't taken it off the turntable for the better part of a week – which is rare. No doubt, I'll soon be sick of it.
But not yet.

2002-05-16T12:53:00.000-04:00

THE WEEKEND (part 3 – Sunday)
Brunch was again at nine thirty, for all those who stayed over after the wedding. Mike, Esmilda, Liam, all of their friends and family, were gone.
Matt and Kathy, Kirsten and her new husband, Rob and I, were all there. Rob and I had our continental meal with some of Rick's college friends.
"So George has finally gotten married," one of them said, referring to Rick as a Seinfeld character.
God only knows what that meant.
I spoke for a while to one of Kirsten's sisters, Ruth. I'd met her in college and again a couple of years ago. She's cute. I also spoke to Rob, who is not particularly cute.

I went for another bagel, when Kirsten flagged me.
"Come, sit."
"Great wedding," I said, "Did you enjoy?"
She nodded slowly. "This," she introduced, "Is my new niece, Laura."
It was my teenaged hottie, naturally.
"Pleasure," I smiled, shaking.
"I really liked your dancing," she enthused.
Apparently, she did. While talking to Kirsten, Laura, in sweats and now seeming as old as her fifteen-year-old friend, cut in, as far as I could tell, to get my attention.
Her mom was nowhere in sight.
"Where's Rob?" Kirsten asked.
I pointed. "Have you touched base with him?"
They went out for a short while in college.
"I really should," Kiri said, and got up.
Laura leaned in on the couch to talk further with me.
"Come," Kirsten bade me, so, begrudgingly, I followed.

We began driving back to New York by ten thirty.
We took winding roads, somehow missing an important interstate. The weather was nice, and, though we both had places to go, we weren't in any particular rush.
As we climbed a mountain, I muttered to Rob one particular phrase: "Going to Hell..."

I dropped Rob off on the upper west side, so he could get a bus to Atlantic City. Then I went over to my mother's, for May 12th.
Before I reached her house, though, I stopped off at the Wiz, picked something up, and brought it over.
"What's that?" My mother's asked.
"Got a good deal," I replied, unleashing the DVD player.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Don't worry about it. It was a good deal."
She thanked me, while I hooked up the new equipment. We didn't have a DVD, so I put in a CD to test the sound.
"I don't know if this is new material or not," I said, presenting the disc, "but maybe you'll enjoy it."
"Thanks," she said, "But this isn't a Mother's Day present."
"Of course not," I said.
Mom does not want to celebrate Mother 's Day. She says that she's been disappointed by my and my father's behavior on such days too much to allow herself to get her hopes up. We may hang out on Mother's Day, but it won't be for Mother's Day.
Yeah, right.
She denies that this is a shame-building tactic, but it doesn't stop it from raising expectations on the holiday. That's fine. I'm much more sensitive now than I was when she put a blockade on Mother's Day. I'm ready for it now.
Dad arrived, and we spent the day watching videos.

By the time the evening came, it was raining hard, so I took the car downtown to watch Tony and Peggy's Recording Angels' extravaganza at the Fort. Lots of acts that I like were on-stage. I was not one of them. That's OK. I had enough to do over the weekend. I didn't mind taking a rest.

2002-05-15T23:33:00.000-04:00

THE WEEKEND (part 2 – Saturday)
"Hey, Rob, you know what I forgot?" I asked as we headed out the door.
He looked me over. "The suit?"
"The suit," I nodded.
There was a Salvation Army in Northampton. We could hit it before leaving town. Before that, though, there must be a meeting of the minds. We were getting together for brunch.
Joe met us soon after we arrived at Sylvester's, which is where Rob works as his and Joe's business goes through growing pains. Jon joined us soon afterwards.
"Gentlemen," Jon said, as he sat down.
The four of us lived together immediately after college. Well, it was only immediately after college for me. They were all either already graduates or still undergrads at the time. I guess that makes me the proselytizer for living together. Like always, I am the leader.
We touched base on the important things in our lives. We flirted, in our own varied ways with the waitress. We had fun.
Personalities are different, I guess, in different groupings. I find myself more excited, more excitable, with my college friends, than I feel in my more recent dealings. Am I too jaded as a New Yorker to build up the energy I have with them? Dunno. Eventually, we parted ways.

Rob and I got into the car and drove half a mile to the Salvation Army. For twenty dollars, I found a suit in my size – sort of. I also discovered a T-shirt with Mickey Mouse showing his ass. I say it's subversive. Everyone else who's looked thinks it's just a regular Disney T. Philistines.

So we began driving south again. Our next destination was Bear Mountain, a little over an hour North of NYC.
"You sure you want to do the hotel?" I suggested to Rob for the four hundredth time, "We could crash at my place…"
"Not if we want to get lucky," Rob replied, "Besides, I hate your apartment."
I laughed, but it's true. Rob hates my home. I can't really blame him. At least he didn't run screaming like Molly did.
We drove with the radio on, then lowered to increase conversation. As is often the case with Rob, the conversation was light. Finally, I opted for a story-starter. "Tell me something you've never told anyone before."
Rob kept his counsel, until he told me something he'd never told anyone.
Then it was my turn. I chose a story I'd presented to my weblog on April 8th.
"But that was on your log." Rob complained.
"Yeah? Did you read it?"
"I'm too busy to read your log."
"OK, then."

Rob asked, "Why do you think Joe wasn't invited?"
"Not enough room?" I said, "But really, if they invited you, they had to be scraping the bottom of the barrel."
"There is that."
"Maybe his and Kirsten's last break-up was more resounding than we thought?" I suggested.
"See if you can ask at the wedding," Rob said.

The invite said the wedding was to start promptly at four thirty, which happens to be when we arrived. Since we'd driven in our civilian clothes, we needed some set-up time, to make ourselves beautiful. Rob got the keys to the hotel room, and told me, "It's a false start. Things don't get going until five."
Exactly the window of opportunity we needed.
My pants were too long. My pants were too tight. I could suck in my stomach for a couple of hours, but I couldn't stretch my legs quite enough – so I pinned them up with the packaging from my new shirt. I knew the slacks wouldn't bear up to close inspection, but really, who'd be checking my inseams.
"Rob, check my inseams."
He had none of it.
In fact, we arrived at the wedding hall with minutes to spare.
Mike, one of our college buds, held his newly born son at the front entrance.
"Great," he said, "NOW we can start.
"This little boy gets his dancing from you," he said to me.
"There will be dancing later?" I asked.
"There will."
Rob and I sat down in the back.

We had more time to spare than we'd imagined.
"Do you recognize anyone?"
Looking up the aisle to a hot girl in strapped-up shoes, I said, "Not really. I mean, some of Kirsten's family, but otherwise…"
We compared names on the different family members we remembered, who was part of Kirsten's family, who was part of Esmilda's, and who was part of Mike's. Meanwhile, I stared up at this sweet sophisticated young thing, probably just out of college, but looking very mature in her angled skirt… and those shoes.
Wow.
Finally, at about five fifteen, the procession began. Esmilda, Kirsten's housemate and another Hampshire grad, was Maid of Honor. She was pretty.
As the various people walked up, I wondered who was Rick, the groom. I guessed I'd figure it out by "I do."
I did recognize Kirsten as she and her gigantic train approached the minister. I guess it's hard for a bride not to look gorgeous on her wedding day. Clearly, she wasn't up to that difficult challenge.
I nudged Rob. "Not bad," I said to her former boyfriend.
"Yep."

The ceremony was short. And the minister didn't leave any opportunity for anyone who saw any reason for them not to get married to speak now or forever hold their peace, so Rob and I kept our respective counsels.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
They kissed.
"Champagne?" I asked Rob.
"Champagne makes me sick."
We headed down to the lake and the reception hall.

"How're your pants holding up?" Rob asked.
"Fine, thanks for asking. You don't ask about my pants enough."
"Just doing my job."
I met the groom, Rick. He seemed nice enough – younger than I'd imagined. Apparently, he already knew of me. I suppose that was reciprocal. The only other Hampsters there were Matt and Kathy, so we conversed, as well as some strangers we picked up along the way. We talked with Mike and Esmilda, looked at their toddler Liam, ate hors d'oeuvres.
Matt asked me whether Joe was invited, and I said no. He asked me why and I asked Mike.
"Let's just say there weren't enough seats," Mike replied.
Our table for dinner had an empty seat, right next to Rob. Both he and I sporadically looked at it.

Before dinner, there was a little dancing. Liam Hornbostel, Esmilda and Mike's 18-month-er, was in the center of the floor. Having heard of his moves, I opted to groove with him – faking his moves, then amping them a little bit. I could beat him in a dance-off, I decided, and took it easy on him.
Still, it was quite charming, me dancing with the young one. I noticed numerous cameras trained upon me. Perfect. I had successfully shown off again.
Dancing for me, is, of course, a form of showing off. So are my performances. So, in fact, am I, in any situation where I consider myself 'on.'
'On' is the state I aim to be in, when I'm the center of attention, when I'm focused upon, so that the people – particularly, the ladies – will look at me, realize how wonderful I am, then approach me. It is important they approach me, since I won't do that legwork. On the dancefloor, of it's all about legwork.
After dinner, the real dancing began.
I joined Esmilda and some of her family on the floor, and got suitably excited swiftly.
I jumped, I shimmied, I swerved… for those who have never seen me dance – lucky you – I should explain that when I say 'dance,' you should perhaps replace with 'spaz out' or 'incompetently aerobicize.' Still, it's quite a sight. People enjoy. People try to talk to me afterwards. Anyway…
I was dancing with the group to the wedding band rock, when Esmilda's cousin approached. She's hot. She also got me hot, as she, foolishly enough, tried to keep up with me. We danced together, pairing off to energetic effect. It was kind of absurd, though, that she thought she could maintain my energy level. No one can.
Except for her.
Five minutes into this jam version of some ridiculous Van Morrison-sounding number, I panted, "I think I'm going to die."
I slowed down, jumping less, prancing slower, moving more minimally.
"I got it all on film," Julian told me, "Amazing."
"Wow," I said, bewildered.
People regularly stared at me, obviously impressed.
I sat down, and saw the hot college girl in the fine shoes.
The shoes were off, though, and she was giggling with what looked like a fifteen-year-old. And even under my sweat and exhaustion, I began to recognize that this hottie was perhaps not a college girl, but probably in high school.
Then I saw her with her mother, and suspected I had to again downsize my estimate.
The mother glanced my way, and heralded the girl away.
Despite the fact that Kirsten's about my age, there did not seem to be many people of my generation. Some, but not many. I continued dancing, but with less and less dynamism. I was feeling nauseous. My body can no longer truly sustain my level of kinetic output.
I was tired.
"I'm getting old," I told Rob, looking with shamed yearning at the girl, "And, I think I'm going to hell.":
"You certainly are," Rob said, hand on my shoulder, before taking it off rapidly. "Maybe you should go to the bathroom."
I did, allowing the sweat to drip off, I got my second wind and came back out on the floor.
Esmilda's cousin was still there. We returned to our nasty acts on stage. People made room for us. I do remember bending over so she could mock-whip me. That was fun.
"Oh," I panted, back in my seat, wishing there was someone in particular that I really wanted to impress, someone past the age of consent. Of course, I probably wouldn't be able to approach her even then, what with my own… issues.
No matter.
The party winded down at eleven fifteen, with a much-diminished audience. My teenaged crush was still out, associated with the younger assortment of party guests. I danced a little near the bride, sometimes with her sisters.
I had a great time. My pants held up remarkably well.

Rob and I were in our hotel room by quarter of twelve.
"You know," I said, "All things considered, we could have gone home."
"I hate your place, Jon."
"Well, whatever. … Rob?"
"Yes, Jon?"
"I think I'm going to hell."
We went to bed.

2002-05-13T18:40:00.000-04:00

THE WEEKEND (part 1 - Friday)
"Does THIS look all right?" I asked, wearing yet another jacket and slacks combination.
"Yes, Jon," Rob said.
"You're not even looking," I said.
Rob glanced up from the computer, where he was playing pool with some girl in NYC.
"It's fine, I think," he said.
"Let me try one more."
He'd been waiting around for maybe an hour as I hustled about the apartment, putting myself together. We had places to go.
"I think this is better," I said, approaching with looser pants.
"Let me look in better light," Rob said, and we went closer to the windows, where he could judge me.
Finally, he gave me his assessment. "Looks good."
"Great. Now what tie?"
Rob groaned.

By one thirty, we were in the car, on the road. My parents had generously lent me the family vehicle for the weekend, for what amounted to my Third Annual Road Trip with Rob (est. 1993). After going cross-country in '93, then barnstorming through the Northeast in '00, this was our least noteworthy venture. We were going to Northampton. Rob lives there now, after some two plus decades in Hawaii, he decided a cold climate where women wear layers was more to his liking. Of course, I'm in no position to judge. Having a free crash pad in Hawaii for ten years, I took advantage of it not once.
So we drove up North, to his new home and my old college town. We had times ahead of us.
"Are we there yet?" I asked, behind the wheel.
"Almost there…" Rob replied.
We listened to the radio. Rob likes that.

When we arrived up North, we had some hours to kill, so I forced us to trek to a couple of places that hold memories for me. One of them, naturally, had food.
We dined at Peking Garden, the first Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet I ever discovered. It had seen better days.
"I swear, Rob, this place was much better back then."
"It's better than the one in Belchertown," Rob said, "Remember when Joe tried to pick up Debbie there?"
I grimaced. "Good times," I said.
After dinner, with more time available before our evening adventures, we went for some more schoolin'.
Back to Hampshire College, where I wasted four of the best years of my life on too few classes, too few creative projects, and too many good friends.
We walked the campus, where the students were just wrapping up, a week away from graduation.
I couldn't help but look at the college girls.
"Oh, this is just wrong," I said, "We're going to hell."
"Who 'we,' white man?" Rob asked.
We played some bocce, looked at some of my old rooms on campus. Clearly, Rob was humoring me by being here. He had no need to refresh his old college memories; he could come here whenever he wanted. Of course, I don't often go and pass my old high school, despite hanging out in its vicinity for these last ten years in the City.
Everywhere we walked, there were women I knew full well I shouldn't be looking at.
I looked at them.
"Going to hell," I said. It proved to be quite the evocative refrain.

Around nine o'clock, we got back into the car and headed into Northampton, where our final destination awaited us.
Parking the car near Rob's place, we walked to Packards, a pub off of the main drag. There Rob led me up the stairs to the special room that was the housing for Jon Reed's birthday party.
Jon was near the door, preparing to meet and greet. When he saw me, his jaw dropped, and he jumped all over me - in a good way.
"Holy shit," he said, "I can't believe it."
I guess I haven't been up Northampton way for a while.
"Happy birthday," I said, "You're old! Just thought you should know."
With my presence, the party could truly come into full effect.

Of course, I only knew a couple people in the room: my traveling companion, Rob, obviously, Jon Reed, the birthday boy, his girlfriend Rachel, the birthday girl, Joe Minton and his fiancé Kelly… and that was about it.
Still, I found people to talk to. Strangers, apparently, were amazed at the number of words I could put into a sentence, and the number of sentences I could put into a conversation. I was quite the talkative boy.
"Jon," Jon said, "I have to walk back to my place. Come with me?"
"Sure," I said, "That's why I'm here."
We walked the streets of Northampton, catching up. He's between jobs, too, but he's busy. Jon's always busy. Me, I live in the best place on earth to visit, and he's come by once that I know of in the last ten years (undoubtedly, he's been there more, but only told me about that one time).
I told him about my… projects, which I guess amounts to watching movies and reading the occasional non-fiction text. He seemed duly impressed.
On our way back, we passed the Iron Horse, where I saw my New York friends the Moldy Peaches were playing.
"Oh look," I said, "The Moldy Peaches are playing."
"Oh," Jon replied.
We returned to the party.

I found myself negotiating the people very smoothly. No unattached women that I could see, but then, I don't live in Massachusetts, so what does it matter? Rob left the party. Kelly left the party. Rachel got drunker. Joe was bald. I dealt with the people and, at one o'clock, the party was stopped. Apparently, bars - even with restaurants - had to close by one.
The remaining partiers landed on the street and debated where to go next. I wasn't having SUCH a good time that I needed to continue it, so I walked back towards Rob's place, where I would crash.
"Walk you home?" Joe said.
"Sure."
We ended up on his porch, talking about the intervening years.
"How you doing?" he asked.
"Good," I said, "Not great, but good."
He waited for more.
"Well, everything's all right. I'm making enough money, and I'm writing, and I'm doing shows, and I'm meeting people, and I'm biking, but I'm not doing any of them much past the minimum.
"I'm writing a Poem a day, and I'm biking almost exclusively for transportation. I don't have a job. And I meet people within the same environment I've met people for like eight years. It's all pretty much the same."
Joe talked about his work, which keeps him busy as his wedding day approaches. He wondered why he wasn't invited to Kirsten's wedding. I said I had no idea.
"Maybe it's really filled up," I said. I didn't know what I was talking about, but that's hardly the first time…
It was well after two when I shuffled off from his doorstep, saying we'd meet at nine thirty for breakfast, before Rob and I hit the road.
I found my way up the stairs to Rob's large apartment, pulled up some carpet, and got some hours' sleep.

2002-05-10T09:50:00.000-04:00

In preparation for Episode II, I just saw Phantom Menace again. It was the first time since its theatrical release I saw the film, and, since my memories of the movie softened since '99, I thought I could re-examine, re-enjoy, appreciate on a higher level than when I was so offended by the West Indian Lizard Jar Jar Binks.
So I saw it again.
God, it's awful.
Some of the problem is the obvious difficulties of watching a children's film when you're an adult, but I can't imagine how an adult could make such a poorly constructed, inconsistent, derivative story.
The characters are racist. Not only is Jar Jar a lazy clumsy Mr. Bojangles, he speaks clearly in some patois. The Trade Federation guys are all from parts of the East in garb and voice.
The characters speak ridiculously. Anakin Skywalker, a long time ago in a galaxy far far away, says things like "Oops" and "neat-o!"
The characters are not introduced - Liam Neeson's name is not mentioned until half-way through the film.
The characters have no motivation other than what the plot requires.
Important facts are mentioned long after effectively storytelling would require.
Over and over again, I saw the cracks, the lines, the embarrassing faults in such a big project.
It was shameful, embarrassing, ridiculous.
I can't wait for Attack fo the Clones.

2002-05-08T23:48:00.000-04:00

It was an especially good night at the Raven. Was it because old friend Dani was in town, or that Sanjay came out, or that oldest friend Rob popped in? No, I don't believe so. I think it was because I stole the show three times, during three different acts.
One of them was me. I started out reading my own stuff, just two pieces, but I think they were powerfully done. I got the appropriate response, at least.
Soon after, I helped enact a song for Dave of the cable TV Show Dave's Place. I played the part of the Monkey in "Monkey & The Clown." Also in the skit were Peter Dizozza and Kim Mossel, but she doesn't have a website. Anyhow, jumping around stage as a monkey, I stole the show.
Later, as Brer Brian sang a new song, he asked me to back him up with the words, "I feel so happy."
I did, then I stomped all over the club. I rocked the joint.
I was a hero to the masses.
Yea me.

2002-05-08T16:50:00.000-04:00

So I just read a couple of children's books: The Great Brain and Wrinkle in Time. One's a memoir, and the other's a fantasy. They really have nothing in common, other than being in my home collection, and that they're classics. I don't care if no one's heard about the Great Brain... Thing is, they have one other thing in common: they're both crap.
I didn't enjoy either one. They seemed irresponsible in their story-telling. Neither bothered to set their scenes appropriately. I don't care how many people love them; they were crap.
That's it.

2002-05-08T10:16:00.000-04:00

So Melissa Rothstein is here. Old college friend – not as old as Molly, but still – one of my older companions. She's been here close to two weeks, as she's looking for a new apartment or to fix up her old one or something.
Since Melle's a responsible adult, having her stay with me is a demonstrably different experience than my last several housemates. She leaves in the morning. By the time I come home, she's asleep. The only inconvenience so far is that the computer is near her bed, so I don't type much before going to bed (part of why I've been contributing less lately – but only part of it). I don't worry that Melle will be able to find a place, since she has money, and can leave at any point. She also has other friends she can stay with. It's been two weeks, and there's really no friction whatsoever.
This isn't bad.
Of course, she's probably silently tolerating a lot of crap from me, but so long as it's a silent toleration, I don't really care.

2002-05-04T11:51:00.000-04:00

Well, Molly just left. She was not the latest housemate I referred to, but rather a guest who came for the weekend. An old college friend who last stayed with me six years ago, Molly was not prepared for the chaotic splendor that is my house. She was horrified by the appearance of my neighborhood, my home, and, soon after arriving on Wednesday, was looking for alternate accommodations. She found them yesterday, with a newer vintage friend named Jesse. Anything to get away from me.
It's interesting. After the series of invaders I've taken on these last few months, I'd forgotten just how repulsive my home can be – or, I should say, always is. I'm used to people being so desperate for a place to stay that I didn't realize how frightening my place is to normal citizens.
Now Molly's gone, off to Jesse's, and I feel better informed.
Luckily, I still have Melle.

2002-05-04T11:25:00.000-04:00

Ironically, I discovered, at Border's the latest David Macaulay book, Angelo, all about an old man and the pigeon he cares for. It's a children's book. Art imitatng my life? Not the first time.

2002-05-03T14:08:00.000-04:00

A bird got stuck in the apartment. I was busy watching friends, and heard a whole bunch of flapping around.
It was a bird. Not a pigeon. A smaller bird.
There was an open window; I'm guessing that's how it got in.
Unfortunately, it wasn't too interested in going out the same window. I had to scare it up the stairs and out onto the roof.
Now, I have accomplished something - getting yet another creature out of my house...

2002-04-30T22:49:00.000-04:00

I did almost nothing today. Because I stayed up so late at the AntiHoot hosted by James Broughel last night, I got a late start on the day. Finally, I was out of the house by noon, to have lunch with Nan. I biked there, which was good. Since I took all of last week off from biking, I was afraid, Monday morning, I would no longer have my pedaling legs. Luckily, there were no worries, and I got around fine.
After Mexican and Nan returned to work, I went to a small park to read for a bit. Afterwards, I rode up to my mother's house, to pick up some stuff, like hard-boiled eggs (ain't nothin' bettah) and some flyers for University Flights.
Then I took a nap.
Then I read some more.
Then mom came home, and I spent hours more, waiting for the rains to pass. They never really did.
I watched TV, and got well into the book that I've been slowly perusing for days.
So I did do something.
What I didn't do was put up posters, write the poetry I was supposed to, compose anecdotes on John S Hall, my newest room-mate, my upcoming guest, and my fascinating interaction with Charles Herold last night.
I did shave, though, and cut myself severely.
So, like I said, I did do something...

2002-04-29T10:26:00.000-04:00

Last night, I saw John S Hall, and King Missile, which is always an epiphinal experience.

2002-04-24T23:25:00.000-04:00

So I have a new room-mate.

2002-04-24T00:22:00.000-04:00

Why I should discover this so late in life is beyond me...
It seems the collected greatest works of mankind are available on one site on the web. Apparently, classic literature is available on .txt files for anyone to peruse. While most of the stuff is far too sophisticated for me, the Guttenberg library has O. Henry and Mark Twain, as well as more obvious choices like William Shakespeare, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Herman Melville.
Will I actually take advantage of all these great words, available on my computer? Perhaps. I got a whole of other reading to do, first...

2002-04-22T16:34:00.000-04:00

So my chiropractor tells me that, what with the weather (fifty degree discrepancies and vast amounts of humidty), many people's back conditions are temporarily atrophying. He's not at all concerned.
Luckily, this period of cripplehood has granted me an opportunity to avoid carrying around my heavy heavy book. It's really not that big, just text-book sized. But I don't think I've carried textbooks around with me since high school. I wonder if that's part of why I've become a cripple.

2002-04-20T22:43:00.000-04:00

My back hurts.
It appears I have wholeheartedly again taken on the role of the cripple.
My back hurts some fair amount. I've taken it easy most of the day, but when I get up, I don't feel better. I feel pretty crappy. And when I look in the mirror, I am slanting pretty far to the left.
That's not right.
My back hurts...

2002-04-19T23:33:00.000-04:00

I just saw an ad for the latest Woody Allen movie. The catch? It didn't mention it was a Woody Allen movie. I mean, he was featured as an actor, but it didn't present itself as a Woody Allen picture. It was just a picture.
How the mighty have fallen.

2002-04-19T22:54:00.000-04:00

Today was something of an Elvis Costello day.
After hitting the chiropractor (ow!), I rushed over to the Beacon Theater, to pick up tickets for Elvis on June 18th. There were only crap seats left, but I got 'em.
Then, quick as a whip, I pedaled to FAO Schwartz, where Elvis was performing live, with the new band, the Imposters. It was all for a CBS Saturday morning show.
The space was crowded, but I wheedled my way far enough in to get a good view of the proceeds. I heard the Imposters jamming out on an extended version of 'Watching the Detectives,' and was quite pleased.
The Imposters are EC's old backing back, the Attractions, with one change - bassist Bruce Thomas is replaced by someone who won't write incendiary novels about his boss.
Upon Elvis' arrival, the band alternated between soundchecking a song and actually playing it. They included a couple of early cuts, like 'Alison,' 'Pump it Up,' and the aforementioned 'Watching the Detectives.' But there was also new material from the upcoming release, arriving in less than a week. The single, 'Tear Off Your Own Head' was there, as was the sampledelic title track, 'When I Was Cruel.'
I think that was my favorite.
It's strange. This was the least sincere I think I've seen Elvis, seeing as how he had to pander to the TV show questions and the daylight, and typical un-rockesque conditions. Still, I think I enjoyed this performance more than any other time I've seen him.
Maybe it's just because it's been a while.
Anyway, today was an Elvis day.

2002-04-17T23:02:00.000-04:00

So, word on the street is that they're shooting a Jennifer Lopez video.
If Drew Blood were still here, he'd plotz. Every time NYPD Blue came to the neighborhood, he'd follow them around for hours. That Drew...
I wonder what he's doing right now.