a New paint job

It's the end of the year and the habits are performing their familiar, high-arching return. Lately, the act of Living has felt like a perpetual battle to break free from the rip-tides of habit. As the road signs of my twenties slowly dissolve into the horizon of my rearview mirror, I am struggling to keep my eyes on the Road. Manic depression has begun to swing me further and further onto the gravely shoulders of the road. The Fear grows that one bad winter could send me into the ditch or wrapped around cement-anchored, telephone pole in the median. It's apparent that preemptive action Must be taken.

Last week, a new gym membership was secured with plastic promises to my debtors. The next step is the purchase of another Thing to add to my collection - a laptop. The dream of a quiet office space will have to be saved for the next Move, either from the Big City or to another tier of wealth alien to my existence. It is time to recognize that my cave is no kind of place to write and the only Hope lies in cafes and bars of Manhattan.

So, after scouring the pages of lenovo.com, toshiba.com, fujitsu.com, dell.com, mobilityguru.com, apple.com, notebookreview.com, laptoplogic.com and numerous forums, I've come the the conclusion that everything is Too Expensive and Utterly Baffling. Whoever is in charge of the numbering scheme for Intel laptop processors should be shot. Years ago, a laptop purchase was made from Dell by yours truly and from that Incident I have learned the two things that I MUST have in this new machine: 1) A decently-sized keyboard, 2) a weight that will NOT render the idea of Portability to a joking quip.

It appears that a Lenovo Thinkpad will be the way to go. A Z60T or T42, perhaps. It certainly isn't the cheapest model on the market today, but it looks like a workhorse. I'm praying that there are some New Year deals to be had in the next week so I don't have to make too many more promises I can't keep.

Then, let the Magic begin...

fixing a hole

I feel that I have lost track of an old friend. I have gone nowhere, yet I've become lost in the sea of my Twitch. Such are the lands I travel when winter approaches and I feel the tightening grip of shorter days around my neck. I have a half-dozen projects at my fingertips- none of them close to completion.

Must get back into the thick of things... human contact so I can get it Out.

touching my Inner Pretzel

Last Saturday, I showed up for my third yoga class... ever. In the distant wilds of Upper Manhattan, there is a yoga center nestled amongst the caves, old trees and baseball fields choked with Dominicans. I don't know how or why such a center came to be in the Land of Inwood, but I'm not gonna ask- it might disappear. Until a month ago, I'd never considered taking yoga. Sure, the pursuit is dominated by thin, flexible women and this is a Very Good incentive for a heterosexual male, but I'm Taken and besides, I'm serious about my fitness. The idea of stretching and chanting mantras to a religion I didn't practice has always felt like just the sort of New Age, hippie fad that I loved to hate. I am a rock n' roll/heavy weights kinda guy that prefers to See his accursed enemy - 300 pounds on an olympic, bench-press bar, for instance. You Mount the weight bench, growl at it menacingly, burst forth a few puffs of breath to pump myself up then 'Wham!'.

On the other hand, I can't afford $50-70 a month for the honor of standing on a treadmill or lifting weights. The center offers 6 classes (1 per week) for $65 bucks and I'd be setting myself up for an activity I can perform back in the cave. Plus, if I don't start doing some sort of regular exercise, my mental state is going to be veddy, veddy bad, veddy, veddy soon. I don't handle the winter months very well (or the other months, actually).

So... 3 weeks and, I think I like it. Really. No, really. Never have I sweated so much and moved so little. Who knew that shifting your hips an inch could immediately induce your thigh to say, "I don't think so."? The day after my first session, I'd soaked through my T-shirt, flannel pajamas (I don't have workout clothes) and was only capable of about a third of my normal movement. Last week was better and this week, I'm starting to feel better! Of course, I still tip over with any yoga move that requires balance. I also have this amazing ability to vibrate. Leave me in that 'Warrior 2' position for too long, and you'll soon have a Bouncing Deckard toy on your hands. Breathing can be a bit of a chore, also. That yoga instructor breathes a helluva lot slower than my body's willing to do. Apparently, I also have some tension in my shoulders- steel girder grade.

And hell, I'm starting to kinda dig the chanting too!

a night at the Art Dance

"Which one," asked the fat, middle-aged man in the business suit. He leaned back in the plush office chair.

"That one down there," his wife aswered. She waved to the wall of boxy paintings, staggered along the wall. Each canvas had a clear sky but conveyed with various colors of daylight. Taken as a whole, they gave the wall an arching sense of a passing day. At the center of each sky floated an immaculate, painted feather. I was hovering along the deep purples of twilight as Kat lingered among the pinks and baby blues of dawn.

"I know what 'down there' means. You just said 'down there'-"

The blonde-streaked helmet head swiveled back to her husband.

"Then what are you askin' for," she asked with an arched, Long Island/Jersey drawl.

"Which one?" The suit tried to lean back further in the office chair to punctuate his statement, but he had reached the limits of the chair. Sandwiched between the couple was a 30-something, Japanese woman, perched upon a swiveling art stool. Her Smile of Humoring was in full plumage.

"The one on the end- any of 'em. They're all so gore-juss" she exclaimed with a flush enthusiasm fueled by red wine. She waved and gestured with a hand that appeared to have a junebug clasping for dear life upon her ring finger. Only when she paused for dramatic effect could I make out the cartoon-sized, wedding ring mounted on her hand.

I glanced about the worktables for any sign of the free wine we'd been sampling all evening, but resources were running slim at this late hour. It was time to call it a night anyway. The excitement of wielding plastic cups of free, red wine amongst an open house of art studios, choked with expensive art and their antsy creators had lost it's allure... and the threat of spillage had become a treacherous possibility.

It was time to go.

lesson in Thai cooking... wear gloves

Less than a block from the infamous 5-Points section of Lower Manhattan lies a jewel of grocery store called Bangkok Center Grocery. It's a hole-in-the-wall place that's smaller than my living room, but packs enough Thai goodness to keep my mouth burning all year round. I go there whenever the travel bug hits and I need some nostalgic nourishment to placate the fact that I ain't going anywhere anytime soon. The days are shortening and with the 1-year anniversary of my Thailand trip looming on the horizon, I was jonesin' bad.

I had taken a few Thai cooking classes when I was in Chiang Mai and immediately fell in love with the food. New York is woefully lacking in quality, Thai restaurants. We're hip-deep in Chinese, Italian, Indian and sushi, but authentic Thai and Mexican are rare-if-ever sightings. If I wanted some Thai, then I was going to have to do it myself. The four hardest, quality ingredients to come by are fish sauce, shrimp paste, palm sugar and kaffir lime rind/leaves. The first two smell awful the first time you try them. Palm sugar is a great not-so-sweet sugar. Kaffir lime isn't nearly as tangy and sour as conventional limes. It has a great taste that instantly takes me back to Thailand whenever I smell it and it's the secret weapon of really good Thai cooking. If I lived somewhere warm and I had a yard, I would plant myself a kaffir lime tree. It's that frigging good.

Even with the ingredients and the know-how, it takes a lot of practice to get a food dish into the Rotation- eaten on a regular basis. The key is ease-of-preparation. Even in my neighborhood, delivery food is quick and ideal for a tired S.O.B. who's just returned home after a 45-minute commute. I'm not, generally, in the mood to heat up my kitchen and cook for an hour. It's gotta be simple. Pad thai is the first Thai food that I've gotten down pat. It's easy, tastes awesome, and soaking the rice noodles for 12 minutes is half the prep time. Still, it's not a particularly exciting meal. It's mild and frankly, my favorite Thai foods have a little kick. That's where the curry paste comes in.

The cornerstone of hot, Thai cooking is a good curry. Curry paste is the barbecue sauce or marinara of Thai food. If you can nail down a good curry paste, you can stick it in the freezer and pull it out whenever you need it. Cook it with chicken or pork or duck or tofu (all organic, of course) and you will be able to quickly assemble a couple dozen fantastic meals. I made a few curry pastes when I first got back from Thailand, but with middling success. I made a red paste, a paenang paste and a sweeter, milder curry paste called Chiang Mai paste (my favorite). I discovered two keys to a good paste- smoothness and heat. On my first attempt, I got impatient with the food processor and ended up with a bunch of paste that wasn't smooth enough. In addition, it had a good flavor, but didn't give the kind of nasal-clearing heat I'd come to expect from a good curry dish. This time around, I wasn't going to fuck around with the peppers. This time, we were going to have some Serious pepper action in the kitchen.

On Monday, I decided to make some yellow curry paste and a double-batch of red curry paste. I soaked 3-dozen dried, red peppers then added another 10 tiny, green peppers to the mix. I cut and I cleaned the seeds out and I soaked them and when I was done- Success! I busted out my wok, added some coconut milk, 4 tablespoons of red curry paste, palm sugar, tofu. Man! It was like I was back in Southeast Asia. Even Kat, who had been eyeing me nervously all through the prep had to give me props.

Pumped on adrenaline and intense enthusiasm all afternoon, I was finally starting to come down when I noticed my hands- what was that... that burning? My hands began to get warmer and warmer until suddenly they were in full-blown pain. The oils from all the peppers I'd been handling made me feel like I could light a candle with my fingertip. Ho-ly Je-sus. I scrubbed and I scrubbed. I held them in front of fans, I poured milk on them, I scrubbed them some more, but they kept burning and burning. This is what happens when coddled, office hands meet hot peppers. Yow. Five hours later, the burning subsided enough for me to fall asleep.

Last week, my glasses broke. One of those little nose bridges snapped off as I was putting my yogurt in the fridge at work. With no money to buy a new pair, I've started wearing my contact lenses again. They've taken some getting used to, but I was beginning to adjust. Mercifully, I was lazy on Monday and never bothered to put them in. The morning after my Flaming Hands performance, I woke up and stumbled to the bathroom- completely forgetting that my hands were burning just hours earlier. Now, they felt fine. I'd like to think that I'd have been a little smarter if I'd waited another 10 minutes to wake up but, alas, I will never know for sure, for it was with infinite stupidity that I ambled up to the bathroom sink and popped in my right contact. The next 15 minutes were spent trying to get it out. You know you're in a bad way when you start negotiating with yourself. Out Loud. Kat, one of the most squeamish human beings when it comes to eyes, actually offered to use Her fingers to get it out. Finally, the contact abandoned ship and I managed to lurch through my daily prep. Unfortunately, I was left to wear my broken glasses the rest of the day... and again today.

Good curry paste, though.

Sons and Daughters at Northsix

Seeing a musician at the top of his/her game is a fantastic experience. It reminds me why I see bands play live and why people pursue an artistic career. A mediocre band can show flashes of brilliance that make me want to embrace them and root for their development and future success. Bad bands instill a stronger belief in myself by illustrating that, despite their tremendous ability to suck, they're out there, putting it together, getting gigs, recording music and doing what they believe in. If the ongoing duties of computer repair/software installation hadn't absorbed my entire, 3-day weekend, I would have been a guitar-playing motherfucker come Sunday morning 'cause I was hip-deep in inspiration.

Kat and I crawled out of the cave on a rainy Saturday afternoon, propelled ourselves through the subway for an hour, all for a little music-lovin' in Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg. For the non-native, Williamsburg is a perfect example of what might have been and what is so very Wrong with New York. Earlier last century, Williamsburg was an Italian-American neighborhood full of Brooklyn Dodgers fans and mafiosos. Later, Poles and orthodox Jews huddled together in tight-knit communities. Recently, it has been embalmed by overeager developers and deep-pocketed hipsters who were eager to gut a neighborhood and build a SoHo to call their own. When Kat and I moved to New York in 2001, Williamsburg was already in the process of transmogrifying from an artist-friendly neighborhood of lofts and cheap apartments into an over-priced community of perfo-kitsch and clubs outlined by Beemers and Benzes. Still, some cool venues have held on. Galapagos still has great, free burlesque shows on Monday nights and Northsix has managed to consistently book some great, up-and-coming indie bands. I'd been wanting to go for years and on this night, the stars finally aligned and suddenly, there we were.

In the typical plumage of urban-chic, Northsix didn't have a sign. Only a large black man on a barstool hinted that there was a bar behind those doors. We flashed our ID's and slipped into the high-ceiling foyer(?) that had a bar with the only beer on-tap (Heineken). We checked in through Will Call and entered the performance space where a flock of tittering Hispanic girls fluttered about the unmanned, sales table. They ogled $15 T-shirts and debated whether the buttons and stickers were free or not, despite the sign in the middle of the table that told them. I excused myself, plunged my hand into the mass of stunned ladies (completely non-sexually, of course) and snagged a Sons & Daughters sticker.

A long, light-wood bar undulated from the entrance, down toward the stage. No barstools, plastic cups stacked behind the bar for mixed drinks, yet $5 for a bottle of Red Stripe beer? What the hell kind of Cosmo-drinking, indie crowd was this? A narrow stairway and a few, bleacher-style seats stood facing the wide stage. The drink prices were disappointing but still, I live for these sorts of spaces where you can talk to the band as they're loading in/out their gear. The usual suspects of music geeks had already secured their seats. Cute, vaguely-nerdy female groupies were paired up and claiming nosebleed seats while the intense, Übermusik geeks carefully scoped out the Ideal seat that stood just above the heads of the standing crowd yet offered the perfect balance of comfort, acoustic fidelity, and eye-lines. I, on the other hand, am of the genre who has to be there nice and early so I don't miss Anything. I went to see Stars at the Mercury Lounge about a year ago and it still bugs me that I missed most of the opening set featuring I Am Kloot. Yep, I'm That Guy.

Kat spotted a row of wooden seats against a side wall so we snagged them. It gave us seats and a good vantage point to people-watch and ruthlessly judge others... that being the only alternative to drinking. Besides, my standing endurance was running low and even with my steel-tipped, Doc Martens with heel supports, I was gonna be struggling by the end of the night. It sucks getting older, sometimes. Kat and I baby-sipped our beers and entertained ourselves by making sweeping generalizations of everyone who passed. The flock of Hispanic senoritas swept from one end of the performance space to another, searching for a land where they could see the band, be seen by everyone in the club, and find butt accommodations for the entire group. It was hypnotic.

The first band of the night was a 5-piece group called Eiffel Tower. I vaguely recognized the name from my perusal of KEXP playlists (the no-streaming policy at my day job has effectively eliminated my morning dose of online radio). I was eager to check them out. Well, I am eager no more. It's always a bad sign when the opening band is really loud. It's like guys who drive jacked pickups - you just know the dick has gotta be small. Screeching loud generally means that they're making up for other insecurities. It's not like Eiffel Tower was lacking in the indie cred- they had the nerd-savant on rhythm guitar, the T-Rex backup wannabe on bass and a wry, blond keyboardist who was affable and humble. Had the band been tight, the singing been consistently in tune or the hooks solid, this might have been a solid band. Maybe it was an off night. Maybe the lead singer had been rooting for his alma mater during an afternoon football game, but this was not their night. It's a tough career they've chosen and tonight, they inspired me with their tenacity and ability to get gigs!

There is a chance that I was getting a bit jaded by this time. I'm not a newbie to the scene. I'm not floored simply by the ability of the band to vibrate the air around me with a great half-stack. With no beer buzz to propel me through the evening, I only had a pair of earplugs to separate me from suck and I was starting to feel bad for dragging Kat's beloved ass to some vacuous corner of New York. Just then, I noticed a willowy fellow take to the stage. He looked like a member of the 1930's worker party or a roadie for Woody Guthrie, if such a thing were possible. He was soon joined by a platinum blonde that Kat had earlier pegged as an A&R exec. A ripped jeans guy who I'd mockingly pronounced to be a spoiled-rich producer type turned out to be the drummer. I have no future as a detective. The band was 'The Rosebuds'.

There are two things I'm a sucker for when it comes to bands - solid drumming and a guitarist who can play an entire show with ONE guitar. Nothing can kill a show quicker than sloppy drumming or a guitarist who has to swipe out and re-tune his/her guitar between every. single. song. If you're playing power chords through a distortion pedal and your low 'E' is a half step off, I'm probably not going to be put out. Making me sit through a couple minutes of you staring at a BOSS tuning pedal, trying to get it just right, well just shoot me now. Either learn to play an entire set in drop D tuning or learn to fret it standard. The Rosebuds had a good drummer, a good guitarist and what resulted was a rousing set of unmemorable songs. The blonde beauty was, unfortunately, completely mixed out of the set. The brief flashes from her keyboard and mic gave me cause for hope, however. The band showed hints of The White Stripes and they had some fun hooks, but they never quite seemed to take a full bite from what they wanted. Of course, not every one would agree with me. The best entertainment of the night might have been a cute, young woman who knew all The Rosebuds's lyrics and had a natural, rhythmic dance going that was just fun to watch- and not in that creepy, sexual way. In New York, such dancing is a notable anomaly. NYC is mostly known for white-boy nodding or stilted, cooler-than-thou posing. Even Kat was taken aback by this lady's inappropriate display of enjoyment. If only other New Yorkers could learn to enjoy a night out...

The Rosebuds finished their set and our free-spirited dancer consummated the evening by proclaiming, to the lead guitarist, that he was awesome. I love small venues like this. Kat and I rose and shuffled towards center stage. A short, young man with a greaser's pompadour raced about the stage. He tuned his guitars, set up the mic stands and fitted windsocks on the microphones before whisking himself offstage. I would later discover that his name was (and probably still is) Scott Paterson and he is the best reason to go see the band Sons and Daughters. When the four-member band finally launched into their opening song, it took all of two seconds to see that Scott was the Real Deal. From the opening power chords through the final crescendo, he was On Task, cranking out with an intensity normally reserved for drummers on coke. He immediately reminded me of a Joe Strummer-type of player. Sons and Daughters are not, however, anything like The Clash. Adele Bethel was the vocal engine of the band, providing a solid performance and a hypnotic, to-and-fro rocking motion. Ailidh Lennon, the bass player, blew something on her amp stack on the second song and spent the rest of evening being the World's Poutiest Cute Irish Woman in a Red Dress.

The band had opened for The Decemberists at Webster Hall on Tuesday and although I wanted to go, my boycott of Webster Hall remains in effect. I didn't expect Sons and Daughters to play at a particularly high level on this night but I was pleasantly surprised. The band really shone when Scott was cut loose and allowed to run. Their rendition of "Johnny Cash" was particularly strong. There was a disturbing moment during song that required audience participation. The whole band suddenly swapped out from performing to hand clapping. Parts of the audience joined in. Kat, however chose to sit this clap-fest out. The drummer, seemingly put out by the fact that a cute, blonde woman in the audience was not dying to participate, attempted to Will her to clap through an extended, intense stare that elicited raised eyebrows and an uncomfortable laugh from Kat. Having never seen another man attempt to hypnotize my girlfriend in the midst of a concert, I was momentarily taken aback. Fortunately, Kat's laugh ended Rasputin's seduction as quickly as it had begun. The band did a one-song encore after promising us that they had to go. It was just as well. Kat and I were at least hour of subway riding away from home.

murder by BIOS

My computer died yesterday, and I killed it. I've spent a lot of time in front of a computer monitor and I've read more than a fair number of hardware and software guides. I took BASIC and Pascal programming classes in high school, taught myself SQL 4 years ago, but I always feel like I don't know enough. Murder always feels a step outside my tunnel vision of knowledge- there's always something that I could miss. I killed partially out of ignorance. I was playing with a gun I didn't know I was loaded called a system BIOS. Unfortunately, the manufacturer of my motherboard neglected to tell me that they were handing me a loaded firearm.

I built my computer three years ago. I'm very proud of it. I had never built a computer before. I did the researh. I studied a number of techie websites, including the fantastic Tom's Hardware Guide and My Super PC. I picked out the components and, for less than a thousand bucks, built a smokin'-yet-affordable system:

Intel P4 - 2.4GHz Processor
ASUS P4PE motherboard
Corsair 512MB memory
Western Digital 120MB 7200RPM hard drive
Gainward GeForce4 Ti4200

Looks great and technical, doesn't it? I went from a crap-ass Dell 'laptop' with a failed battery and floppy drive to an unbelievably fast and stable system completely of my own creation. I could cruise through Battlefield 1942 or Medal of Honor smooth as silk... not counting the occassional dirty look from Kat.

The Achilles heel of the system, however, was the O.S.. Eight months ago, Windows 2000 started giving me error messages. It had developed a glitch wherein Explorer would crash after closing file folders. I lived with it for a while, tried Googling the problem, performed a few tweeks, then endured a little more. Finally, I decided that it was time to start anew. I had a new, 160 GB hard drive to hold my new media files and now was a good time to format the new drive and re-install my system software.

The last 2 weeks have been spent on backup. On Saturday, I unplugged the Beast, hauled it out from under my desk, wrangled the dust bunnies from its innards, then carefully installed the new drive. I'd been dreading the whole process of formatting and re-installing Windows, but by that evening, I had a renewed system with a new, formatted hard drive, and an internet connection. Life was good. It was the easiest installation I'd ever done... then I made the foolish mistake of speaking out loud and telling Kat.

Sunday morning, I was up early and eager to go. I was convinced that I could have my Adobe Creative Suite and iTunes fully installed before Kat even knew the bed was getting cold. I peformed the Dance with Windows Updater and re-booted the system a few times, without incident. I went to ASUS's website to find the newest drivers for my motherboard. As I clicked through, I noticed that there was this convenient, new utility that proudly told me that it could perform a BIOS update without the aid of flash disks.

'Fantastic,' I thought, ' I can update the BIOS, reboot then install Adobe. I ran the utility, chose the newest BIOS, then started the update. The meters filled, telling me that my old BIOS was removed, that the new BIOS was being entered then the install was confirmed- no, wait a sec.

Error.

Did I want to RETRY the installation or EXIT and cancel the installation?

I clicked RETRY, watched the meters do their thing then... another error.

'Ah well,' I thought, fuck it. Best not get too greedy. I'll do the BIOS update some other time.

I EXIT from the utility, then Restart Windows to... a blank screen.

Huh.

I hold down the RESET button on my PC case.

Blank screen. The machine is running, the fans are turning, but nothing is loading. Nothing. Blank.

RESTART.

Nothing.

Oh shit.

RESTART.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh-

Nothing.

I scrambled into the bedroom where my Flintstone-era laptop lies. It was slow, but I had a simple ethernet connection going and right then, it was all the technology I had in the world. I went to ASUS's website. Troubleshooting. I swore. Forums. More swearing. I'm Googling.

Kat peered over the rim of the covers at the tall, sweaty boyfriend who's swearing like a sailor under his breath.

"Are you all right, sweetie," she asked from somewhere between a dream and the adrenaline-fueled reality where I was living.

I dragged my computer out from under my desk. With the motherboard instructions in my hand, I'm threading my hand through the maze of wires, carefully extracting the pin jumper from one set of pegs, and sliding them onto another. Supposedly, I am clearing the CMOS from my drive, but I felt like I was about to turn into one of the apes from 2001: A Space Odyssey and start hopping around hysterically around the Monolith.

I plug the monitor and keyboard back in and turn on the power.

Nothing.

I take it apart. Try it again. I plug it in, turn it on.

Nothing.

I try removing the motherboard battery - the power supply that keeps the BIOS alive in the motherboard. I plug it back in.

Nothing.

I have a boot disk. I install a floppy drive, enter the boot disk. I plug it back in.

Nothing.

CD-ROM boot disk.

Nothing.

I'm pleading, negotiating, offering my first born for the return of functionality.

Nothing.

I'm telling Kat all about the CMOS. I show her the directions and explain what I'm doing and ask her to read the directions and tell me I'm doing it right. She even holds the flashlight as I try to reset the CMOS for the upteenth time.

Nothing.

Kat Googles. Can't find anything new.

Finally, I had to Admit that... I did it. I had killed my computer with a poisonous BIOS.

Well, what's a credit line if you can't use it, right? I haven't ordered from Newegg in so long... maybe it's time to catch up on old times.

rockin' our World

"An object at rest will remain at rest until an unbalanced force acts on it.
An object in motion will remain in motion until an unbalanced force acts on it."
-Newton's First Law of Motion

One of the easiest selling points of Conservatism is comfort. Societies are always changing, whether we like it or not, and there is a fantasy held by many that things can (and should) remain 'As Is'. This often arises from an erroneous belief that there was a 'Good Old Days' where things were simpler (meaning better) and that Things are getting Worse because people (insert caption of 'Liberal') keep trying to change things. Not all conservatives are inert, but it is a core belief that lies beneath many conservative talking points.

Why am I rambling on about this? No reason.

A couple weeks ago, a friend e-mailed me an invite to a global warming lecture. It was with this guy named Andy Revkin, a noted (or so I've been Told) science journalist for the New York Times and was being hosted by the Rainforest Alliance. Kat and I showed up in our eco-friendly garb - denim, concert T-shirts, steel-tipped Doc Martens, and nice, vaguely-hippie clothes. Our first cue that we might be swimming in strange waters was when we stepped off the elevator and were greeted with a sea of nametags. Kat had been listed as my guest so she was relegated to pencilling in her name. I hadn't a suitable pocket to attach my tag so I clipped it to my belt buckle and headed inside.

The room was stuffed with khakis, business shirts and dress-pants. Kat and my nametags looked woefully inadequate beside the corporate names and titles that began with the words Vice President. Many looked as if they had just shared a taxi from the East Side where they had just attended a U.N. summit on deforestation. Fortunately, awkwardness can be overcome with an adequate dose of alcohol and/or pills and the Rainforest Alliance provided free wine and beer exclusively for that purpose... that's what I choose to believe, anyway. Kat and I huddled near one another for comfort. Our previous notion of an environmental meeting involved refreshments provided by a vending machine accessed "down the hall and to the right". If it wasn't for a diorama-style room of glossy testimonials to fighting deforestation and supporting self-sustaining businesses, I'd have thought I was standing outside a board meeting for an Upper East Side non-profit group (also known as the 'Thing To Do When You're Rich and Bored').

I stared at the shiny, bright handouts and my first thought was 'This doesn't look like recycled paper'. Fortunately, my friends arrived and bailed me out of further observation. I had more primal needs to attend. The lecture was going to start and the gravy train of foccachia snacks, chocolate-dipped strawberries and free wine would soon dry up. I had to make my move. I approached the dour woman who manned the bar. I smiled pleasantly and offered my wine glass and a nonchallant play for a refill. The woman offered a "eat hot death, deadbeat" glare, then begrudgingly offered me 1 inch of red wine... somebody was a little bitter about working overtime.

Kat and I scored a pair of fold-out chairs in the back and set our paper-plate booty on our laps. Despite our spoils, now was the moment I secretly dreaded. Although I am passionate about the environment and do my best to spend my money as eco-friendly as possible, I am gun-shy about environmental lectures. They tend to make me feel ineffectual and angry. Lecturers often talk about atrocities of such scale and in lands so far away, I feel like I've been trying to piss on a forest fire. When I go to an environmental discussion, I want it to be focused and, preferably, local. I want to be able to wrap my hands around it and affect it and mobilize myself against it. It's not that I don't want to affect international issues, but I believe that the best way to get others to change is to live as an example and do it first in your own back yard.

So... how was the lecturer?

Over the years, my tolerance for bullshit has dropped to zero. I have even less patience for politicians and corporate PR. They wield masks that present me well-crafted lies and dreamy appraisals of how they want me to think as they prey that I'm not intellectually curious enough to learn any more than they have fed me. Political/scientific journalists are, sadly, cut from much of the same cloth. In order to stay on the Inside and, hopefully, find an opportunity to break the Big Story, reporters must convince the Public, and the Insiders, that they're probably (wink wink) on the Right side while maintaining the facade that reporting is a non-partisan act. It's the same delusion that documentaries are non-fiction. We all hope that the responsible reporter will convey the 'truth' of a moment, but these things cannot always be found without pointing a few fingers and making a few enemies.

Mr. Revkin offered no finger-pointing on this evening. Before he began his lecture, he had to read a disclaimer that anything he said did not represent the opinion of The New York Times. Thank God for that, otherwise I'd think that he was speaking the opinions of an inanimate, corporation and not speaking as a regular human being. He told us about how busy and tired he was from following hurricane news over the last 3 weeks. He told us how journalism isn't good for environmental reporting because it happens slowly instead of in big, catastrophic bangs. He told us that we need to educate our children better if we are going to have any hope of properly addressing global, environmental issues. Basically, he showed us that he was burnt out, frustrated, world weary and needed some sleep. He was a notch off of completely cynical, but I'd give that a couple years. I didn't find myself pissed off at the end of the lecture, but I wasn't exactly raring to get out there and have babies so I could educate them, either.

The wine and snacks were good, though.

my 'seven things' answers

My blogs are running thin, so I am happy to accommodate Muse's blogging questions...

Seven Things Quiz

SEVEN THINGS

Seven things you plan to do before you die

1. Travel around the world.
2. Publish a novel.
3. Live abroad.
4. See my abs again.
5. Sustain a living through my art.
6. Let 'it' go.
7. Have a kid. (those two thumps were Kat and my mother hitting the floor)


Seven things you can do

1. Write
2. Talk movies
3. draw
4. vent my frustration
5. worry
6. play guitar
7. cook


Seven things you can't do

1. Give myself a break
2. Work a 9-to-5 office job
3. Work on an oil rig
4. Dance to techno or rock music
(unless pogoing, tapping my foot, or moshing counts)
5. Conduct a non-emotional discussion on the environment
6. Keep it to myself
7. Sing


Seven things that attract you to the opposite sex

1. Challenging (punky) attitude
2. Intelligence
3. Wit
4. Adventurous nature
5. Gothy or Hippie style
6. Butt (not big, just perky)
7. Piercing eyes


Seven things you say most

1. "You know what I can't stand?!" (the answer is usually yes)
2. "What the fuck was that?!" (when I'm watching the news)
3. "What? What?! What do you want from me?!" (directed at Pippin (one of our cats) when he meows then flops down next to my computer desk for the umpteenth time, soliciting another petting session. Immediately followed by perfunctory petting.)
4. "I am Switzerland. I have no opinion." (when I refuse to answer a loaded question)
5. "Cool as the other side of the pillow." (when I'm stoned or have reached the sweet spot of drunkenness)
6. "God-dammit!" (When I have gotten my ass soundly kicked in a computer game. Usually requires a cooling off period of 5 minutes. With no context, this usually makes Kat and our two cats, jump.)
7. "I need a drink!" (Normally presented in an e-mail to Kat after I've emerged from another mind-numbing meeting with incompetent co-workers.)


Seven celebrity crushes

1. Cate Blanchett
2. Lauren Bacall
3. Audrey Hepburn
4. Allison Mosshart (singer for The Kills)
5. Helena Bonham Carter (in Fight Club)
6. Karen Allen (in Raiders of the Lost Ark)
7. Gwyneth Paltrow (in The Royal Tenenbaums)

the blue birthday

Last Wednesday, I celebrated my 34th birthday. It was a mellow affair. We ate sushi and wine then, later in the evening, Kat presented me with a lemon-blueberry cake that was fantastic... and it got me to thinking about my blue, birthday cake. (cue hazy, flashback sequence)

It was an old war in my family.

"What color cake do you want," my mother would ask... but she knew what I wanted.

"Blue," came the swift reply.

"Ugh," she would groan in that cataclysmic way that drives a refuted child into madness. "I'm not making a blue cake."

"Why not?"

"It's unnatural," she answered. It was as if I'd asked a Southern Baptist minister what was wrong with being gay. "Nothing in nature is blue."

"The sky is blue."

"The sky isn't a thing," she would proclaim as if it made perfect sense.

Thus began The Exchange wherein I would offer evidence of all the blue things in the world and she would condemn them to some off-shade of purple or lavender. Inevitably, my single-digit experience would lose to Mom's debating skills and a chocolate or yellow box cake would arrive on the 7th, clad in yellow or green frosting. Sometimes, a blue candle or piece of rock-hard cake candy would be added to placate my wounded ego (or mock my frustration).

But then, my 11th birthday arrived and Mom decided that she'd had enough and it was time to Prove how hideous a blue cake would look. We were enjoying a front-yard birthday/barbecue bash with the neighbors. Mom emerged from the front door, cleared the bags of hot dog buns and potato chips from the picnic table and presented a brilliant, blue cake.

"There you are," she said as if she were absolving herself for having constructed a biological weapon.

I approached it like Roy Neary in Close Encounters of the Third Kind as he cautiously ascended a hill at the side of the road and beheld Devil's Tower for the first time- wonder and awe. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Mom was right. Nothing in nature could quite achieve the hue of blue that stood before me in the guise of a confectionary spread. It was a swirly monolith of anti-matter that defied the label of ''food' and Dared us to eat it.

It was perfect.

The mad gleam in my eye told my mother instantly that she had lost. Rather than greet this pulsating mass of radioactive buttercream, I had fallen in love. Mom refused to cut the cake or even eat a slice. In fact, none of the adults had apparently saved enough room for dessert that day. So much the more for me.

After running family and neighbors ragged from a already-manic kid now hopped up on 'blue cake', sugar shock, I slept well that night, with a brilliant, blue tongue.

I was never again asked what color cake I wanted, but I was cool with that... I'd got mine.

looking for the Cure

The last few weeks have felt like a year. That happens when you're going through a growth spurt and things are really Happening. On Saturday, the Study Abroad on the Bowery program wrapped up our three week workshop with a final performance and 'graduation ceremony'. Names were called out while workshop students whistled a heinous rendition of "Pomp and Circumstance". I met some really cool people over the last few weeks and was sad to see them go, but I'm ready for a break. By a break, I mean that I have to start applying all the shit I've been absorbing over the last few weeks. It's like I've spent too much time in a good art museum. After a while, I overload on the visual stimulation and just start mindlessly looking at blotches of color mounted on walls.

I've been obsessed with Spalding Gray over the last few weeks. Actually, I have been a huge fan of Spalding Gray for years. I have always been a huge fan of The Killing Fields and when I heard that a performance artist had done a monologue of his experiences in making the film, I immediately went out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. The movie was incredible. Here was a guy who sat at a desk with a glass of water and a microphone and delivered a stunning, storytelling display that effortlessly blew away 90 percent of the acting I'd seen. I immediately went out and rented Monster in a Box and Gray's Anatomy which proved to be equally-fulfilling. When he committed suicide early last year, I was crushed. His style of performance was referred to as a 'talking cure' and his neuroses, insecurities, and discoveries often seemed to mirror my own. Spalding felt like a passive-aggressive member of my unspoken club where We all struggled to Keep It Together through our art. I had never met the man nor had an opportunity to see one of his live performances, but I felt a kinship. It's hard not to when the work you love is of such a personal nature.

After I'd graduated with my MFA in playwriting, one of my professors told me that my writing style was similar to Spalding's work. He suggested that I rent out a theater and put on a one-man show. Of course, I was flattered to have my writing compared to Spalding's, but the idea of memorizing and performing anything over 10 minutes was laughable and the suggestion that I do it solo was a double-decker sandwich of Laughable and Horrifying. After 3 weeks of performance poetry though... I've been watching my copy of Swimming to Cambodia and thinking that, maybe, the sandwich has become more of a Snort and Grimace affair... and not so ludicrous an idea.

NPR did a very good retrospective on Spalding and his work.

Volunteering at the Howl Festival

The last weekend was the final Movement in the 3rd Annual Howl Festival. "Howl", for those of you non-poetics, is the poem that Allen Ginsberg wrote that happened to revolutionize the poetic world and embolden the a whole generation of writers who would later be known as The Beats (and a few generations beyond). Even today it is a powerful piece and very appropriately named. There is no underestimating the profound effect "Howl" had on so many artists.

Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:

1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.

The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.

The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.

Yesterday, I sat through an extended lecture from Hettie Jones, one of the self-labelled 'beat chicks' from the Beat Era. I had read an autobiography by Diane DiPrima called Recollections of My Life as a Woman. It was an ingriguing piece and gave me an interesting perspective on the NYC art scene of the mid-50's to mid 60's. DiPrima hadn't painted a very flattering portrait of the times but, like anyone speaking of their childhood, she still managed to give it that nostalgic, sepia lighting.

Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.

Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.

I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but

three-drink minimum Before performing

I have had exactly One positive performance experience in my life. I was drunk and I had three hot, extroverted actresses who were eager to be my backup singers. I did a late-night karaoke performance of "Love Shack" (I didn't pick it). My success that night hinged upon a complete disintegration of restraint and an ability to channel blinding terror into one of the loudest, gayest Fred Schneider impersonations ever witnessed by humankind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime performance that I remember fondly. I am certain that such a feat couldn't be repeated for all the vodka in Russia.

This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.

My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.

Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.

shakin' it at the Bowery Poetry Club

The only shot I've got of getting blog entries out over the next three weeks is to do it fast-and-dirty, so hang with me.

In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.

I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.

On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.

I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.

I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.

One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.

M.I.A. in Central Park - as viewed by an angry man

I haven't willingly listened to a commercial radio station in years. I have been held captive in offices where bitter, heavy-set secretaries voice their Displeasure with the world by cranking up a scratchy, transistor radio to piercing levels so we can all enjoy "On the Dock of the Bay" for the eight billionth time (this song also finds heavy rotation among hobo crooners on the subway). Abrasive commercials, pseudo-DJs, the heavy rotation of 10 songs, Over and Over and Over- how could I NOT miss it? Nearly as punishing as their broadcasts, commercial radio stations love to promote/sponsor concerts while displaying a staggering lack of understanding of both entertaining or their core audience. On Sunday, Kat and I subjected ourselves to the laminated sheen of commercial concert bliss at a Central Park Summerstage show featuring M.I.A.

Kat's theme music for the last few months has been M.I.A. If you don't know what M.I.A. is, I forgive you. 'It' is a Sri Lankan/Brit woman who raps world issues over fantastic Indian/techno style beats. She completely rocks and is on the verge of being consumed by the American Hipster Hype Machine who loves to worship it's God, then dismantle It at the first sign of national attention. Kat has been using M.I.A.'s debut album, Arular, as her personal theme music for the last few months and had this date circled on her calendar for weeks. Getting me out of the cave was no easy task. I was in the midst of a Hate-The-World phases wherein mania strikes and I cannot write or focus on anything. Eventually, I become irritated by everyone and am reduced to performing cross-hatch, pen drawings for hours on end or picking off Nazis with a sniper rifle from the comfort of my computer chair. Kat has seen plenty of these episodes and quickly dismissed my protestations - she wouldn't be denied. So, at 1pm we boarded the subway and hauled our asses down to Central Park.

Central Park really is an amazing place. It's easy to forget that when you have to cross it twice a day, 3-5 days a week. The park is Huge and on any given day, there are thousands of people from dozens of nationalities doing thousands of different things. Impromptu roller skating rinks shared spaces with jazz bands, frisbee games, pot smokers and crazy people - it is one of the best places in the world to people-watch. On Sunday, there also happened to be thousands of people standing in line to see M.I.A.. Kat and I immediately abandoned all hope of getting into the small, outdoor theater and staked out a spot on a woodchip-as-lawn area with the growing mass of eager fans. It was a people-watching smorgasbord. Hula-hoop dancers enjoyed the Indian-techno tunes while a bearded, dreadlocked soul danced solo for a good hour before an atractive pair of pretty, Indian women joined him. Soon, there were 15-20 people spinning and hip-swinging -hula-hoops and frisbees were flying everywhere.

Then the radio station DJs took the stage. They asked the crowd a half dozen times who they were there to see (M.I.A.) and were they ready to go crazy (yes). They turned over the DJing duties to DJ Rekha who did her best to destroy all momentum for dancing fun. Can someone explain to me how these people get their jobs? It's always a relief to have DJs play something different but I have two words for you - beat matching. If people are grooving out to a song, then you'd better have something that they can fold their rhythm into when it ends. Playing an energeitic groove then following it with a slow, disjointed beat Kills the Momentum. Could you Please quit turning the music down every 30 seconds to complain that the audience isn't as enthusiastic as you want them to be? Last note - quit explaining what kind of music you are going to play next. I don't care if you think that you're gonna 'get hardcore, now'. This DJ must've told us she was 'getting hardcore' three times as if she kept loosing her hardcore and was trying to re-start the engine.

Have I mentioned that I've been having some anger issues, lately?

All right... fine. I'm complaining about the opening act. The real reason Kat and I were bruising our asses on tree roots was to hear M.I.A., right? So, how was she?

Well, you'll have to find someone else to answer that. Two and a half hours after the concert started, we were still waiting for M.I.A. We had endured DJ Rekha, Mr. Vegas (a reggae DJ who equally sucked) and Diplo. This was interspersed with a cavalcade of radio jockeys who would not stop asking us who we wanted to see (M.I.A) and were we ready to go crazy (yes). Kat's ass was hurting, the cute, Indian women had abandoned the dancing an hour into the concert and our people-watching had morphed into a lot of people looking around at one another and wondering 'Can I go now?'.

I had a writing workshop back in Inwood at 7, Kat had lost her groupie zeal and we figured that we'd endured enough.

Alas, I believe that Kat and I will have to wait for the Hype to fade before we see the Experience that is M.I.A.

the Indignity of cat accessories

Being broke in a city blows.

Let me start again. Being broke sucks. When you're spending a fortune to live in a place full of things to do, it becomes that much more Vivid because you can't do Any of It. This weekend, Kat and I were reduced to people watching and park wandering for thrills. When it became too hot and bothersome to stand outdoors any longer, we retreated to the apartment and undertook our other cheap thrill - cat harnessing.

Kat has a dream. It is a dream of one day taking our cats with us on camping and road trips instead of leaving them stuck at home. We agreed that the best, first step was to get them to use a leash. That way, we wouldn't have to keep them trapped in a cat carrier or tent all the time. Plus, there was no better time to introduce our cats to harnesses than when they're still kittens. I was not, however, prepared for the ordeal that lay upon the horizon.

My pet experience has been generally limited to dogs. With a dog, you put on a collar (or harness), they scratch at it, bite at it, rub it against the floor and furniture, then accept it. Sam and Pippin, however, look upon the harness as The Humiliation Too Great to Endure. The first time we wrapped these light, loose-fitting straps around their necks and bodies, it caused a complete rewiring of all cat motor control - kittens were flying everywhere. They were moonwalking across the floor, jumping 2 feet vertically in the air, and sprinting sideways down the hall until crashing into walls and my bike. No cats were physically injured, although Kat suffered some lingering abdominal pain from the laughter.

The second time we strapped them in, we got the Slithering and Abject Humiliation Show. Pippin crawled on his belly across the living room carpet and eventually found a corner where he could die peacefully. Sam's harness had the unique effect of rendering his rear legs completely useless. He was willing to play with his favorite balls of paper, but only if he could reach them by dragging himself across the floor with his front claws. I was ready to throw in the towel, but Kat had remembered a kitten book we'd purchased last December - Amy Shojai's Complete Kitten Care. The book is a bit cutsey and I find the author's association with Purina to be unsavory, but she did help a dog-centric being (me) understand the psychology of cats a little better. In the book, Amy assured us that we could readily-train our cats to wear harnesses, but it would require three, 5-minute sessions, for three straight days, with loads of play, petting and followed by treats (bribery) to seal the deal.

Well, we've done two days of harness therapy, and I am happy to report that the cats Love the salmon-flavored, organic treats... but not the harnesses. Sam likes to play, but only within a one foot radius and only if he can perform such actions from a stretched-out, prone position. Pippin lies on his side like a fallen martyr, waiting for his 5 minutes to expire.

I have no future as a cult brainwasher.

...but the dream lives on, much to their dismay.

vacation... or comeuppance?

Every so often I'll catch myself doing it and groan. Kat looks at me and says, "What?" I confess that It has happened agan and she knowingly pats me on the shoulder and says, "I know." I'd like to think of myself as this dynamic, distinct individual whose voyage through life has made him a completely New sort of human being, but Then I cross my arms while I'm talking to somebody or tug at the little soul-patch under my chin and I see... my dad. I don't find my father's mannerisms to be offensive - it's the Recognition that they are now On Me. I haven't seen my father on a regular basis in nearly 8 years but they've been bubbling out of me, as naturally as breathing or growing my hair. I'm dealing with it, however. 'Things like this happen,' I tell myself, 'so you've just gotta accept it and move on.'

But, then there's this:

Everyone in my family knows that I am The City Kid. I am the family member who never liked camping or living in the country or hunting for deer or reaping the benefits of Mother Earth (gardening). I wanted to go to the movies or hang out with the neighborhood kids or see a basketball game while my parents planned week-long excursions to remote corners of Alaska for salmon fishing and hiking. From Denali National Park in Alaska to the remote campgrounds along the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, I've been a personal food reservoir for mosquitoes and deerflies all across this country and abroad. It wasn't enough to camp in the Great Outdoors. Oh no. It had to be done in the Remote Great Outdoors. K.O.A. campgrounds were for wimps. Hot water? Electrical hookups? Flushing toilets? Hell, you'd might as well stay in a Day's Inn and eat at the Waffle House. As I lay in my sleeping bag with rocks jabbing in my back and the persistent itch of mosquito bites on my ass from my last outhouse Debacle, I fantasized of the day when I would be the Master of my Own Destiny, when I would never again be forced to endure another second of Camping Torture. So, when Kat and I found a few days in July when we could relax from the daily grind of Work, what did we do?

We went camping... and it was... fun.

You can run, but you cannot hide, my friend.

Living in big cities has made me appreciate the beauty of silence. All those things I thought to be a tedious, cruel punishment from my parents for a hyperactive demeanor have since been twisted into perverse notion of idyllic bliss. My fantasies have flipped like a hippie-turned-neocon. I daydream of the wind through the trees instead of car alarms. I contemplate canoeing down a meandering brook in place of the choking cluster-fuck of a subway at 8 in the morning.

What have I become? Dear GOD, What Have I Become?!

...need... decadent night... on the town... now!

Freakin at the Siren Festival

I want to join a freak show. I don't really know what my skill would be. I never honed my gross-out skills in middle school. My skill was paper football games and pencil snapping and although I might have ruled the school in those days, I don't see the general public ponying up the cash to make my dream a viable reality. I used to be a cutter, but I've weaned myself away from that lifestyle (much to Kat's relief) and the fact is that real, physical pain is a turn off in a live, theatrical setting. If there is ever a manic-depressive freakshow, sign me up, otherwise I'm destined to be a dreamer, not a practitioner. Fortunately, there were four practitioners at Coney Island this last weekend and for $8 on a hot afternoon, Kat and I partook of all that is Good and Joyous about a nice, wholesome Freak Show... particularly ones that serve Coronas.

The Real Reason that Kat and I subjected ourselves to one and a half hours of subway bliss was to attend the our third Coney Island Siren Festival. I had one of my 'Holy Shit' moments at my first Siren Festival when I watched a pissed-off Jamie Hince (a.k.a. Hotel) and Allison Mosshart (a.k.a. VV) perform an disjointed-yet-amazing set of music. The sound was terrible and they had a drum machine that couldn't work for-shit, but there was something there that made me hunt down one of the band lineups to find out their name - The Kills. A few months later, they returned to NYC and played at the Bowery Ballroom and confirmed themselves as my Favorite Band.

Frankly, the idea of the Siren Festival is a lot better than the reality. The bands play from 1pm-9pm and it's at the height of the summer with no relief from the heat except oversized cups of Rheingold beer. The crowds are fun and casual for the first couple bands, but as the day wears on, the crush to See gets unbearable. This year seemed exceptionally underwhelming. We arrived just as Ambulance LTD was taking the stage. They had some fun, catchy tunes for the first few songs, but their stuff fell a little too close to Nickelback by the end. The Dears took to the stage and after a short setup... kept setting up. Tell me, truthfully, does one band REALLY need 5 keyboards to get through a 45 minute set? Does everything REALLY have.to.be.just.so. for a steaming-hot afternoon where you're performing next to a rollercoaster?! Two songs into it, I knew that The Dears have been spending too much of their career working on setup and not enough time on songs. "Oh, I promise not to cry" as a climactic refrain? Somebody, shoot me.

By the time Q and Not U took the stage, I was ready for a break. Fortunately, Coney Island is a great place to visit once a year. In 2003, we sampled the Boardwalk hustlers and carney-style food. Last year it was the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster (though Kat wouldn't call that her high-point of entertainment). This year, it was The Coney Island Circus Sideshow. This was my first freak show since my Nine Inch Nails days when Trent was touring with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. This show wasn't on the same scale, but it was welcome respite from dull alt bands and a hot, rainy day that turned sweltering-sunny.

There must be a shortage of reliable freaks in New York City (or I swim in the same circles) because I've seen at least two, possibly three, of these freaks elsewhere in the City. It's hard to forget a dreadlocked woman with facial tattoos so I'm sure that Insectavoria is the same lovely lady I spotted handing out fliers in front of Andromeda's on St. Mark's Place. I wonder if she's related to Mikel Monkeymeat, the dreadlocked, facial-tattooed, body piercing specialist in said-establishment? I interviewed Mikel my first month in New York for a Playgirl article on genital piercings (that's another story), but I digress. Insectavoria put on an impressive display of fireball blowing and sword walking. If she'd been putting on that show when she was handing out fliers, I mighta strolled right in and got myself an apadravya... or not.

Eak the Geek was a frequent rider of the 'F' line when I lived in Brooklyn and, in hindsight, must have been headed home from work about the same time Kat and I set out for the City's evening entertainment. One evening, a friend of mine, smitten by his bodyfull of blue tattoos, spontaneously lept from her subway seat to talk to him. He's much angrier-looking when he's not talking. At the sideshow, he insulted hipsters for ignoring the 'No Photos' signs and had a hefty couple from Suburb,USA stand on his stomach as he was sandwiched between a pair of nail-filled boards. Not the most impressive feat I've seen, but he had some good carney-energy and kept the enthusiasm level up.

Heather Holiday looked very familiar to me. I don't know where I've seen her but... There's nothing that would suggest that she's a sword swallower and contortionist on the Outside, but that's just what she did for us this afternoon.Despite the fact that she was cute, dressed in a little sexpot number and had the obvious double-entendre skills, I kept getting the feeling that a date with her would be a lot of heavy petting, giggles, and coy grins, but little else. Alas, she had all the stage presence of a middle-school recital. Her bits desperately called for a burlesque touch, but this sideshow seemed a little desperate to keep everything 'G' rated.

Diamond Donny V was the host of this escapade. He sported a derby hat, pork chop sideburns and a placid demeanor. His bits were a little weak, but he had good comic timing and kept the show rolling along. He did succeed in grossing out Kat when he successfully threaded a long nail through his nose. A good emcee for the show, but I'd have preferred a little onstage contrast with him and Eek the Geek. Ahh... if I ran the circus...

The Sideshow was great, but I knew it was time to go when we finally emerged into the sweltering late afternoon. The crowds had begun to choke the streets and it was still a couple hours until home. Thank you Coney Island, it was Real.

Son Volt at South Street Seaport

It was at Gabe's Oasis in Iowa City, Iowa where I had my first 'Holy Shit' moment. My best friend, Eliot, dragged me from the bowels of my cramped, one-bedroom apartment and introduced me to a band that wasn't quite country, wasn't quite punk, and featured a half dozen musicians who appeared to be touring with 30 instruments in tow. They had two lead singers-- one, a sad crooner with long, brown hair, the other, a droning, lilting singer with a bowl haircut nearly as bad as mine. The band was called Uncle Tupelo and they frigging rocked my world. I had no idea that country music could rock that hard or that a country-style band could do a kick-ass cover of "I Wanna Destroy You".

A couple years later, the band had split and the lead singers had built two, equally-strong bands with completely different sounds. The floppy-haired one, Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco and Ascended to alt.pop heaven with the fantastic album Being There. The second singer with the dork haircut, Jay Farrar, embraced the country side of Uncle Tupelo's sound and formed Son Volt and put out a debut album, Trace. Three years ago, I finally caught Wilco live at NYC's Roseland Ballroom and had a blast. Last Thursday, I finally consummated my ongoing infatuation with that 'Holy Shit' moment by heading down to the South Street Seaport and catching a free concert featuring a much-hipper haircut singing lead for Son Volt.

Free concerts are always a mixed bag in a big city. They're outdoors, free and usually a fantastic opportunity to check out obscure bands. On the other hand, these venues provide a wonderful opportunity for every ass-clown with a few hours to kill to exchange office gossip with co-workers as if he's hanging out in his own living room, holding court with people who actually give a flying fuck. Nothing says Kill Me like listening to some shmuck on a cell phone during a concert, endlessly repeating "I Can't Hear You!" to the poor soul at the other end of the line...

South Street Seaport provides a stunning backdrop - the Brooklyn Bridge, downtown Brooklyn, the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street, and a small collection of early 20th Century sailing ships. The forecast had been threatening rain all day, but it was a picture-perfect evening. Kat and I were running late (having enjoyed a couple rounds of happy hour magic in the East Village) and missed the opening band, Dr. Dog, but Son Volt had just begun their set as we finally reached the end of Fulton Street. The show was solid, but a bit tepid. When you're playing for both fans and passers-by it's gotta be a bitch to engage an audience. Also, many of Son Volt's newer songs sounded much like one another and I frequently found myself staring off at a swingin' old guy in the audience who was laying into his air guitar harder than anyone onstage. It wasn't until Son Volt started laying into their older tracks that the show finally found a stride.

It wasn't anything close to a 'Holy Shit' moment but it was a respectable set and the price was right. I'm not terribly psyched of picking up Son Volt's newest album, Okemah and the Melody of Riot, but any fans of alt.country should still check out Son Volt's Trace, Wilco's sophomore effort Being There, and anything from Uncle Tupelo's first 4 albums. You won't be disappointed.

tap... tap... tap...

Summer is hitting NYC hot-and-heavy today. I'm camped out in front of a fan with shades drawn, windows closed, and my air conditioner lying dormant. People bitch and moan about hot weather, but it's just a matter of getting used to it. When I was laboring in 100° F (37° Celsius) heat among the ruins of Ayutthaya, Thailand, I watched groundskeeping women go about their work wearing heavily-layered, dark clothing from head-to-toe while Kat looked like her head was about to spontaneously combust. Hell, even an anglo fella like me has gotten used to it. I spent a summer in the San Fernando Valley, enjoying 95° F (35° C) temps in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Of course, I was unemployed for that summer so I had a LOT of time to get used to the weather along with far too many vodka and orange juice libations. Working in an office makes it hard, though. You spend the day in overly-cooled environments then try to go without when you get home. It's a vicious cycle. Vicious, I tell you. Fortunately, I have the advantage of only working three days a week.

Actually, it Would be fortunate if someone were willing to pay me to endure heat.

Can you tell that I'm trying to avoid work? It feels like people can tell. I've already done all the dishes in the apartment. I've scoured Craigslist for writing jobs in search of gigs that don't involve writing for somebody who has a 'great idea' and wants somebody to ghost-write it for him/her. I've read my bookmarked blogs, scanned the New York Times, checked the Fed Ex tracking site for the umpteenth time in search of minute-by-minute progress on the 160GB hard drive that I'm expecting Any Moment Now. I've even tapped out on my circuit of porn websites and when THAT happens, buster, you know that it is Time to get started. If I start playing Call of Duty, then I'll know that I've completely given up on the day.

Last night, I vowed to Kat that I would start sending out my poetry to contests and publications. Today was to be Poetry Day wherein I would cease the word-fucking of poems I wrote 3 years ago and finally get a few of the sons-o-bitches out the door.

Yep. Just about ready to get to work on that.

I wonder if the Bowery Ballroom has booked anybody new in the last 6 hours...

Good to be - *COUGH*

My pilgrimage to the land of the midnight sun has been completed and I am glad to be

*cough*...

Excuse me... where was I? Ah yes, I am glad to be back in my beloved

*COUGH*

... maybe I need a glass of water. It's just that this frigging-

*COUGH-COUGH*

air in New York-

*HACK-HACK-COUGH-WHEEZE*

I arrived at JFK airport on Wednesday, flush with relief at my return home. The sliding doors swished and parted and I stepped into the great outdoors- then we wavered in our tracks. The air was thick with moisture and the stain of stale oil and exhaust. It was as if the air was hostile. After spending a couple of weeks abroad, I'd forgotten how Third-World the cities of America have become regarding air quality. Based on what I saw in Stockholm, if it takes a little socialism in a democracy to make corporations improve their water and air quality, I'd take it over this tepid mess any day.

I am happy to be home. Really.

Sweden was amazing, the wedding was cool and the breadth of egos on display was grossly-disappointing.

Is that obtuse enough? I got to visit with an old friend, befriend some amazing Swedes and revisit old friendships that helped me to find closure in ways I'd never expect.

Yep. Got the cryptic, scrambling device running full-bore here.

There will be much, much more to talk about. My paperwork is everywhere and I've gotta sort this shit out before I start applying digits-to-keyboards.

I need some sleep.

the Archipelagos of Sweden

I have retreated into the wilds of Sweden. I hope to offer some blogging insights to my attendance at a Swedish wedding on July 2nd, but they might have to wait until my return on July 6th.

If you have any dire advice to offer in the days ahead, please feel free to offer a comment or two.

Take care,
Deckard

Answers for ~JeR~

I'm normally not a big fan of these, but it's a good way to get to know some fellow-bloggers that I admire and vice-versa.

First, the rules:

Rules of the game:
1. Leave a comment saying "interview me"
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions.
3. You will update your blog with the questions and your answers.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview some else in same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed you ask them 5 questions.

All righty then. Let's get to it!

1. If you could choose one song as your personal theme song, which one would it be and why?
That's a hefty question to ask of a rock music fan. There are so many that represent who I was, but what represents me now?

Somehow, the first song that popped into my head was "Sunken Treasure" by Wilco. The words and chords have always rung true for me.

2. Who's your hero? (interpret this any way you want)
Hero... well, first it was Han Solo, then it was Indiana Jones, then I grew up. As inspiring as Obi Wan Kenobi was, negotiating the lava flows and kicking Anakin's ass, I'd have to say that it was my grandmother - my mom's mom. She was the wife of a farmer and survived the depression, took care of 7 children under hard conditions, lost 3 of them before she passed away, and never complained until the last couple years when she couldn't see (she loved to make quilts and knit). She had this unshakable view that beautiful and terrible things could and would happen in life and you dealt with it, then moved on. The amazing thing was that she wasn't callous or in-denial about it either. It was just that she didn't expect life to be fair or give her things simply because she wanted them and cared about them. She was the mold that made me coin the phrase 'a closet optimist'. She was rarely what I would call positive, but if she saw you started getting down on yourself, she'd sneak you a glimpse of hope that'd get you through.

And that frigging woman visited my family and me in every city the U.S. Army stuck us. In the late 70's she braved her first airplane ride to see us in Alaska and in her mid-80's, flew to Germany to visit us. She lived simply on Corn Flakes and green beans whenever she was at home then enjoyed the last laugh by leaving hundreds of thousands of dollars to her children that nobody knew she had.

3. What's your most embarrassing moment? (I know, cliche question, but the answers can be funny)
Oh, ~JeR~.... where should I begin?

Well, I don't know how funny it is, but the most embarrassed I've ever felt In The Moment would have to be the gala party that I attended a year and a half ago with my girlfriend.

Kat works at a not-for-profit organization that has a huge, fundraising gala at the Essex House along Central Park South. It was the first year that the organization was allowing significant-others to attend and Kat was excited because they had an open bar (always a great way to bribe me), a swanky, multi-course meal, and petit fours (tiny cakes and chocolates... Kat's into cute, little chocolatey things). I even performed the incredibly Un-Deckard act of purchasing a suit (my first) for this event. Kat was smitten by the sight of her stylin' boyfriend (I think it was the Cosmos talking) and we had a great evening... until the end.

I have always had a little problem with my feet. If I don't have good arch support, they can start to hurt. Back in 2003, we had a big blackout in NYC, Kat and I were in Queens, and it took 7 hours to walk home. My feet were hurting so bad, I couldn't walk for 2 days. A week before the big gala, I finally broke down and visited a podiatrist. The guy fitted me for a pair of arch supports and a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication.

When I popped my pills, between the open bar course and the dinner course, I had forgotten that one of the warnings that come with my medication was to not drink alcohol when I take the medication. After the dinner and speech-making, I stepped outside with Kat and her co-workers to enjoy my one-per-year cigarette habit.

Then, I woke up on the living room couch. I had NO idea how I got there. My suit was off and covered in puke. I smelled like puke. And Kat was furious - wait, I'm sorry, let me try that again. And Kat was FURIOUS. I had gotten sick on the subway, puked into the petit fours leftovers Kat had meticulously-saved from the gala. Through some miracle, Kat managed to guide me home (NOTE: I am 9 inches taller and 80 pounds heavier than her). She was sure that I had gotten drop-down drunk and was ready to kill me. I got sick at home. Sick in the tub. Then, after sitting up with me for a couple hours to make sure that I didn't pass out or perform some kind of Elvis Presley offing, she undressed me and dumped me on the couch. In retrospect, Kat said that if she'd known that I'd taken the medication, she would have immediately called an ambulance and had me taken to the hospital. I have never appreciated and loved anybody so much as the moment I realized how much Kat had withstood and done for me.

I had never felt so terrible in my life. I thought that I must have been guilty of drinking too much even though I didn't feel like I'd really drank very much. I have never been in a state where I couldn't remember things, much less 6 hours of my life. Midway through the day, I remembered the medication, looked up the warning on my medication sheet and realized exactly how stupid I was.

So, there it is.

4. If you had the opportunity to travel back in time to kill little baby Hitler, could / would / should you do it? (Hey, one weird question out of five ain't bad...)
No, I wouldn't. I've never ascribed to the idea that history could (or should) have gone another way. Even the most heinous acts in history are evolutionary steps for humanity. I don't believe in fate, but there is something about the momentum of a society. Hitler was terrible, but it was a symptom of something much larger. I wish that I point to a person or event and say "That is pure evil!" and remove the problem, but it's a game of Jenga - sometimes you can't know which piece will come out clean and which will bring the whole thing down.
5. What's your biggest guilty pleasure?
Tater tots and aspartame (Diet Crack - I mean, Coke). Time, space and logic warp whenever I get too close to these things. 'Enough' loses all meaning.

reaping just What we sow

Why do people willingly suffer so much compromise in their lives, then Demand that their wedding day be Perfect? Can any soul recall a moment, planned months in advance, that went Just the Way they wanted it and was Perfect? If so, please e-mail me immediately. I went to a wedding last Friday that was Easily the most entertaining, free event that I've ever witnessed. For the bride and groom, it was considered a disaster. Human fallibility, once again, Conspired to bring the best-laid plans to ruin.

A year ago, poor Kat was roped into being a bridesmaid when a close friend and co-worker eagerly announced her engagement with her boyfriend. Kat hadn't been a bridesmaid and knew nothing of wedding culture so she eagerly accepted the invitation. Soon after, Kat's friend got another job and left, then came the familiar progression:

MONTH 1: 'We'll be best friends forever!'
MONTH 3: Oh, we need to do this-and-this-and-this together.'
MONTH 5: 'Ohhh... I'd love to but I've got this thing - but I'll call you!'
MONTH 8: 'Sorry I didn't get back to you in time, but I Miss You!'
MONTH 10: 'Things are crazy. Will send you an update SOON...'
MONTH 13: 'I never got that e-mail.'

Kat had a hard time watching the relationship dissolve away, as all such things do when only one person is available. As her friend became increasingly-invested in buying the Perfect Day, the process only exacerbated the situation. I am an Army brat and have endured these progressions all my life, but you never get used to it - you get clearer at spotting the stages. Kat's situation worsened as bridesmaid duties (expenses) began to mount - the dress she will never wear again, the dowdy shoes that go with nothing else she owns. Kat earnestly tried to keep positive, but when it was announced that the bachelorette party was taking place in Florida, she hesitated. When she was told that it was for only one night and the maid-of-honor tried to solicit her for group-gift money, she pulled out (working part-time and painting doesn't pay the big bucks like it used to).

On Friday afternoon, I left work early, took the 4 line down to Wall Street (the least holy site in Manhattan) and scrambled up and down side streets in search of a church. Only the wedding bells and the white silhouette of an anxious bride preparing for the big walk, pointed me in the right direction. I ducked into a side door, found an empty pew and planted myself at the end furthest from the center aisle.

The details of this wedding are incriminating-enough that I feel compelled to bury them in a piece of fiction far in the future. The previous night's festivities carried over to the wedding day festivities. Let's just say that the following events might have occurred:

groom (hung over from night before) puked During an extended, Catholic ceremony
bride swore blue fire for the next 5 hours
I enjoyed an open bar, salacious gossip, a beautiful view of Brooklyn, and a fantastic meal
bride got revenge by puking at reception
home by 11:30

Ahh... sounds perfect to me!

here's Metal in your Eye

Last Wednesday, on the day of my Arlo Guthrie concert, I awoke with a nagging discomfort in my left eye. This wasn't a complete surprise to me as I had suffered a close encounter with a flying object at on Friday. My Saturday was spent on the beach, burning my skin to the consistency of bacon while performing an impersonation of Popeye with my contorted face. That night, I held my eye under the showerhead and Declared Victory when the large, black dot was replaced by a small, red dot and the pain toned down to a dull roar. The War Against Astronomical Medical Bills had been won by yours truly. By Monday, the pain subsided and I was soon telling war stories from my grey cubicle and basking in my homeopathic Genius.

Half-way through my Wednesday exercise in paid alphabetizing (my job), I noticed that the world around me was strobing. My left eye was fluttering in a frustrated attempt to alleviate my scratchy, dried-out eye. Irritation spiraled steadily upward into the second-tier of Oww and I was reduced to holding my eye shut with one hand. The return of Popeye was imminent. Even if I had successfully Conquered the flying debris, it was time to see a health professional. But where does a writer and part-time temp with no health insurance go to alleviate eye-pain? Well, if that writer is in New York City (and he is), then he heads on down to the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary where, for $97.00, you too can have your eyes poked and prodded.

At 8:30 in the following morning, I emerged from the 'L' subway at 14th and 1st Ave. I was confident that this eye issue would be over in an hour and I'd be back to work, perfecting my ABC's and watching my computer clock slowly tick away my life at an hourly rate. From a block away, I spotted the red and blue banners of the infirmary. The architecture was in the style of public buildings thrown up circa 1968 where the first floor is all brick with small, blocky windows and interiors filled with wood panelling, pallid green and cornflower yellow. Inside, three security guards were debating over who-should-say-what during a fire emergency. A caption explained their conversation from a corner of the desk - a sign warning patients that a Fire Drill was being conducted that morning and requested that nobody Panic and accidentally leave whatever line he/or she was stuck in. One of them stepped into my path and, with his Best professional voice of Authority, asked, "Where are you goin'?"

I rambled something about looking for outpatient registration and pointed to my left eye, just in case he needed proof.

"Go straight back and turn to your left." Of course, these directions didn't come with any visual aids so I picked a direction that indicated 'straight back' to the security guard, then proceeded.

"No," he barked, "That way." Again, no visual aid. I picked another direction and was immediately ignored by the guard.

I entered a long hallway, choked with Hispanic and Chinese faces that stood along a snaking path, ending at a wall of 8 bank-teller-style, registration desks. Bullet-proof glass... hmm... okay, Why?

I joined the line and stood patiently. For the next hour. No posters. No intermingling among prospective patients. Not even a protruding wound to hypnotize the bored. What did I do for that hour? I watched the perfectly-coifed hair of FOX News anchors as they laughed and chatted and talked about things that I could not hear or understand. My Bliss was momentarily interrupted when a security guard got into a shouting match with a patient who claimed that he was an emergency case and couldn't stand in line. The security guard told him that he wasn't an emergency case and continued to hold that line even when the doctor appeared and explained to the security guard that the patient was, indeed, an emergency patient. The guard finally relented, though not without a few parting volleys to the patient for being such a 'jerk'. Good times.

I registered, received my red, medical card, and was pointed to a staircase wherein I discovered another room where I could wait for another hour and a half. Fortunately, I could sit and the air conditioning was set to 'Freezing' so I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep and missing my appointment. Elderly, angry men paced in front of corridor doorways where nurses and ophthalmologists would emerge to call patients. Unlike the 60 other people sitting in this refrigerator, these gentlemen need to Get Somewhere and had Obviously been Forgotten. Finally, after a round of vision and glaucoma tests, a tall, willowy ophthalmologist called my name.

"You definitely have a piece of metal in your eye," he said the instant he peered into my left eye, "and I'll need to give you a dilation test." The ophthalmologist glided to a row of boxes and began snatching a bewildering array of bottles and began drop liquid into my eyes. Fifteen minutes (and many high-intensity squirms) later, he had pulled the metal out of my eye, applied a humming device to my eye ("to cover up the hole where the metal was") and written me a prescription for eye drops. I staggered downstairs to the pharmacy, picked up my prescription and headed for the subway.

But there was that little detail about my dilated eyes.

I stepped outside. A quick meeting was held between my eyes and the rest of my motor functions. A vote was held. It was unanimous. My body quickly retreated to the nearest shade and halted all forward progress. I covered my face with my hands and created a tiny slit with one of my fingers. With my hand over my face, I began the lurching steps towards home. I was heading in the opposite direction that I'd intended. Rather than swing around and retrace my steps (thus appearing even more crazed and demented than I was already displaying), I decided to make a break for the 3rd Avenue stop. Walking with dilated eyes on a sunny day is much like walking blind, with brief glimpses of a world that looks like a Monet painting. I finally reached 3rd Avenue, staggered across the street to the 8th Avenue line, and descended into the concrete hole like a 6 foot 3, Mister Hyde.

Then, somewhere between 42nd and 59th Street, my eye anesthesia wore off.

Good God - go tell it on the mountain - did that mutherfuckinsonofabitchin' eye begin to hurt. It might seem difficult to believe that an eye Without a piece of metal in it would hurt More than an eye With a piece of metal, but then again I hadn't been granted an opportunity to compare the two side-by-side as I was now. My walk from 207th Street to my cave was an experience that I will not soon forget. Nor, for that matter, will anyone who happened to watch a tall, ambling figure take a dozen steps with his eyes closed. Stop. Reach for something to brace himself. Cover his eyes with one hand. Make a slit between two fingers. Turn his head from one side to another to find his bearings. Then another dozen steps. Stop...

Four Tylenol, two Cosmopolitans and 3 beers later, I was better. I lay on the couch, listening to Woodstock (the movie) and daydreaming of better times.

this land is Our land?

"You don't understand, man. I am nowhere near the threat I'd hoped I'd be!"
-Arlo Guthrie

For most of my life, hippie culture was limited to clichéd Hollywood portrayals of stoned, slow-witted adults who rambled cryptically about wheat germ, pseudo-asian philosophy and some ass-backward idea about saving Mother Earth. I never smoked enough pot to understand The Grateful Dead and Joan Baez's warbled rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" was enough to put me off of hippie, folk music altogether. The best hippie-themed song I heard until my mid-twenties was Mucky Pup's "Hippies Hate Water". I occasionally spotted a hippie here and there, but for the most part I assumed that they all disappeared into rural communes or cleaned up their act and got a real job.

Did I mention that I grew up in a U.S. Army culture until I was 18?

I've grown up a little since those days and my view of hippies improved significantly when I met Kat. Although not a hardcore hippie by trade, Kat is a direct descendent of the lifestyle. I soon found myself hip deep in astrological charts, organic eggs and forwarded e-mails from PETA and Greenpeace. I've befriended quite a few hippies over the years and I discovered that many of my preconceptions of hippies were true (except that most hippies do, in fact, like water but detest aluminum-based deodorant). Like all cultural stereotyping, however, it was over-reductive, and simplified to the point of condescension. Joan Baez DOES suck and I was never able to get into Bob Dylan outside a few of his earlier hits, but there are tons of fantastic, psychedelic, hippie bands that kicked ass (in a peaceful, loving way, of course) and quickly became my favorites: Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, Blue Cheer, 13th Floor Elevators, Country Joe and the Fish, Ritchie Havens, Canned Heat, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. In addition, I gained a great deal of respect and admiration for a lifestyle that engages everyone as individuals and actively questions the esoteric rules and institutions that govern (and regulate) most people's lives. I am, however, secure in the knowledge that I am FAR too high-strung and obsessive to ever maintain such a benevolent demeanor and there is not enough pot in all of Meigs County, Ohio that could get me there. So, when I saw that Arlo Guthrie was kicking off his 40th Anniversary tour since the release of "Alice's Restaurant", I knew where Kat and I had to be on Wednesday night.

Battery Park City is a jut of land on the west end of Lower Manhattan built from the landfill used to excavate for the building of the World Trade Center. It also happens to be the site of shady, real estate deals that were intended to build affordable housing for low income families. They did build the low income housing but they put in Queens. The apartment towers that live in Battery Park City today are high-end apartments with sweeping views of the Hudson Bay, including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and New Jersey. The neighborhoods have that pre-fabbed, soulless feeling, though. At the northern tip of Battery Park City rests an actual park called Rockefeller Park (not enough things named after that family). It was a strange setting for a hippie, folk icon and son of a social-activist musician to stage a concert.

Kat and I have a hard time going out. The best way to trick ourselves into doing anything is to not go home. We took our time getting down there but still showed up over an hour before the start. There was already a crowd starting to gather and onstage there was a rousing folk jam/sound check with The Man Himself at center, manning an acoustic guitar. The whole area had a great, relaxed vibe that instantly took me back to the small-town festivals and bandshell concerts that dominated my Midwestern summers as a kid. It's easy to forget that the hippie/folk music revival of the 60's got it's start in New York City where Ritchie Havens and Bob Dylan plucked their guitars in Tompkins Square Park and small dives in Greenwich Village. Middle-aged women with long, braided hair and tie-dyed skirts danced beside hacky-sack circles and frisbee games. Arlo jammed for 15-20 minutes then retreated to a modest-sized bus.

At 7pm, a folksy group called The Mammals took the stage. Their music wasn't particularly trailblazing, but they set an old-timey, toe-tapping tone and held their own. I recognized a tune from my Buena Vista Social Club CD, a couple of old, folk numbers and some original tunes that echoed 60's folk pieces. For two people who have spent the last 4 years wading through hipsters and scenesters, the crowd was refreshing, and perhaps even more entertaining than the act. A white-hair-and-beard man with oversized sunglass danced a non-stop jig that left me gasping for air. Young and old women twirled and swayed to the rousing banjo-and-fiddle numbers. A short, bearded man in baseball hat and bandana performed a virtual MC act as he bounced to the music then clapped and turned to the audience with a look of 'Aren't they fucking great?! I told you they were fucking great!'

Between sets, a middle-aged guy (sounding like a stoned version of Kramer) gushed about a commune town in Ohio where he planned on living. His friends, long-haired and mellow, gently suggested that a 9 to 5 job might put some much-needed structure in his life. Kat and I glanced about and marveled at the volume of sack lunches that dominated the scene. Most of the audience actually preferred to sit on the grass versus snagging a fold-out chair... and there wasn't a Red Bull or clove cigarette in sight.

I was shocked when Arlo took to the stage, only minutes after the Mammals had left. Where was the diva-like lateness or 30-minute guitar tunings that I had grown grown to expect? Was this legal? Wasn't some form of passive-aggressive behavior Required within city limits? Then, Arlo nearly knocked me out of my seat when he began his set with "Alice's Restaurant". What kind of madness was going on here?! That's supposed to be the Rousing finale! We were supposed to Suffer and Pine for the opening chords so we could Roar and Cheer the release of anticipation! What kind of frigging Performer was this anyway?! Had he ever even Played in front of a live audience?! How could could he possibly go Up after playing his most famous song?!

Arlo didn't kick the tension up and he didn't knock it down, either. This was a loose, casual evening of Music and as the performance rolled from one rise to another, it became apparent that Arlo might know a thing or two about performing and maybe, a little more about what his audience needed than I. Arlo kicked through his better-known songs, played a couple ones from his dad and a Leadbelly classic "Goodnight Irene". He didn't play with coiled urgency that I love in so much of my music, but with a sense of timelessness and quiet observation. For a couple of hours, I was reminded of how important it was to get to know people and not look at the world with an 'Us vs. Them' mentality. I felt better about people and our potential for good and rising to meet challenges.

Then, on Thursday I stood in line for 2 and a half hours so that I could have a piece of metal pulled out of my eye.

I need a mosh pit.