Monthly Archives: August 2010

The Nines

The Nines. Is the only thing that accurately depictes the manner in which I was once completely unaware. …I am, the author, afterall.

It’s a movie, by the way.

Incidentally, or maybe not so incidentally, it’s sad I think, that I will probably never see jasen again.

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a stranger in strange times…

aka ‘the text, the livingroom on ludlow & the homeless-penn-station-shuffle’.

14 Aug 2010
A Stranger in Strange Times: This is what I am.

To begin:

Late in the week: My friend E texts me…. doesn’t know where I am. Nobody really knows where I am these days. This is not metaphorical, mind you. There are literally a handful of people that actually know my physical location. And this, simply because I’d neglected to mention the fact. Where ever I may be, the aforementioned text also says that, where ever I am, he would be in both of the potential places that I would be, at certain times and invites me to 2 separate soirees in two separate cities on two separate coasts… you guessed it, approximately two weeks apart.

  1. That Saturday (three days?), he will be downtown at the Living Room on Ludlow playing with his band.
  2. The aforementioned some later time, he will be in that opposite coast place, at his apartment/duplexy home, co-hosting a barbecue.

In keeping with the adult theme (not like dirty adult… just like actual ‘taking responsibility for your person and your actions and thinking beyond the next 2 seconds-adult), I want to be where the barbecue is. I want to go to the semi-domestic-type barbecue that I’ve been invited to with his girlfriend and young-adult chatter. I want to pretend, again, that I already am something that I’m, currently, half-commited to be. I really really really kind of want this.

Alas, I am 0 for 1. I am not in that opposite coast place now; far away only in space… but space counts, I suppose as much as time as far as practicality goes. So…

Going back to number 1, I will be downtown and available to see a friend on Ludlow Street on that Saturday. No substitute for the adult-soaked Mid-Wilshire barbecue and/or a growing semblance of evolution, but as good as I can get at this point? Sooooo, I go.

Annnndddd…. ACTION!

It’s really not like that, however. I decided to tell E where I was and actually go and not just surprisingly show up somewhere a la kiko of years past because I was rockin’ the adult thing. And because I thought that I may be able to transcend location (space, whatever). With my friend E, I feel that I had started this sort of thing. Respect and general relatively mundane adult behaviour. …I say ‘relatively’ mundane …to syringes and speed and benders that went on for days. In any event, I kind of really didn’t have any sort of business going at all, what with my no-money and no-job and no-actual anything and all. I went because it seemed like an adult thing to do. Or atleast, it resembled the closest thing that I could grasp as adult. Sooooo….

Subway downtown.

And this is where “action” should really be called.

For routine’s sake, I suppose… subway downtown, wine in a Coke cup with a straw. Didn’t need to get my drink-on… just thought: It’s wine in a cup with a straw. It’s also around 9:30pm and I’m completely sober… these things somehow = ‘this behaviour is okay, makes sense and therefore, I don’t really have to think about what I’m doing, ergo… learn and adjust potential behaviour’. Really, it’s embedded routine and a taste of autonomy vs. chill the fuck out (this is not five years ago, you’re not going to W 4th to see the guys play The Bitter End, you don’t care about being fleetingly fun and cute and… whatever).

Anyway, in the end, as traced from the beginning “fleetingly fun and cute and whatever” wins out… routine, man… it’s fuckin’ routine, man. And now, I can’t say that I don’t know how it happened, all wide-eyed because I’ve just told you.

*The rest is mostly written LIVE-like on a blackberry wordpad as I progressively get drunk. (that’s why it reads like I’m on crack)

Later…
I walk up the stairs from the subway… somewhere downtown. …somewhere downtown east, even. hmm… Disoriented (as exiting any subway station, for anyone… even the most embedded of denizens of this city are), I am ‘between’… among, a sea of others. …must ….manage ….energy of ‘winning the stairs’.  Must go up as fast as humanly possible. However, vertically, horizontally, everything-ly, I am between… among and possibly burdened by the external. …however, it’s not a burden; it’s a sea of people that move. One adjusts their speed or pace and ‘winning the stairs’ in one’s real-time, becomes, a concept though so singularly focused, comfortably adjustable here-and-there. In that way, I might, leg-half-lift’d, wait a millisecond more for the person in front of me that might also wait for the person in front of them in the same manner as I  (or conversely struggle just a bit with the pace). But the sea of people move but we all adjust and somehow become one. But somehow, we all remain intensely individual.

So now, I slo-mo clop up the stairs in the intensely individual pseudo-socialistic adjustment bureau that I find myself in. It smells like NY… late summer. This is comforting. This is something familiar; something familiar that strikes one over the head like an all-engulfing mallet (smashing an entire hemisphere of one’s brain to absolute minutiae) with no effort on the part of any party on any side of this ill-conceived metaphor/simile.

I stare, though. A wide-eyed stare that I once rocked as ‘my thing’. …a million years ago. Similar-to anyway. …the stare. Familiar again in a displaced manner; a displaced tone. The same low energy. This low-energy concerns me, however. I know its not the same… Its not as naïve and sweet and pure.

I may have depleted all of my dopamine or actually, it seems, serotonin receptors yesterday…. at T‘s place. I forget that I’m not the severe, ritualistic alcoholic that I was just a few months ago… Physically. And physically, I handle it in the way that only a novice/born-again-whatever can.

Everything is up for grabs now. This is grand without saying. But the ritualistic and unfamiliar just catches one sometimes… Off-guard and all. …when they are presented in such a stringent and spontaneous-like manner. I’ve spun so many things in so many directions too many times, most likely. And now, when I can ‘check myself’ for a second… Even the most familiar is based on this spin. The familiarity is incongruent, discontinuous, piecey… and dizzying as a result.

And I know enough to know better (atleast I’d like to think so), but its still a jarring prospect that nothing can remain the same.

Drinkdrinkdrink… watch the band. Hug people. Say hello to others. drinkdrinkdrink. Say hi to E, talk as much as we can above the music; but there is something going on. Something that doesn’t involve me, probably. I sense this, so I go… (he tells me that he is kind of offended, though, that I hadn’t mentioned the whole picking up and definitively moving to the other coast)

Even later…
And so, some cute-kiko version of the beast has been unleashed… Moremoremore. And walking on ludow, I need to focus on getting to the F or something. I am not hungry… But I needneedneed, somehow now. And need equals hunger? Then… Katz’s… Yeah-yah! I don’t but I do… Want roast beefish things inbetween bread… Even though I actuaLly can’t fathom chewing and esophageal southward movement of ‘stuff’ to eventually fester in my stomach. Then food pregnancy. But for some reason… I want for anything. More alcohol; consumption of food…. Something… Moremoremore… Something, please. I go in… it’s all confusing… and really all I really want is more drink.

This is not drink. And so, finally, I end up at the Egyptian boy.

Oh, I hadn’t mentioned the Egyptian boy? There is an egyptian guy. Or boy. I am again in penn station and again, I am confronted with time. Slow… Fast… Passage, time. What-the-fuck-ever. The egyptian boy works the place that sells the french fries (grave fuckin yard style… the working of the boy; not the style of the fries). I see this as I pass (off of the uptown a,c,e… Whatever) I am as drunk as my body can accept (abnormally… Incongruently)… I am also poor as fuck.

The rest of the night/day goes:
1. sleeping in the transitional place between penn station, nj transit and armtrack? or whatever that other thing is.
2. major headache hungover, can’t deal.
3. sitting miserably downstairs against a penn pole
4. weird child molester-looking guy talks to me. he is not a child molester… but I feel that he is autistic. I say this multiple times. He says that he is in sports. Um-hmm, sports. He rarely speaks, but when something is awesome to him, he prefers the term “fantastic”.

I don’t fuck him or anything. I mean, this is all just too mundane. and, yes, Leon, I am a stranger in a strange land… in strange-ass times.

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Very Special K

Indeed!

Secrets of “Magic” Anti-Depressant

…Science Daily says so…

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Cancer is Funny

It really is.

Watch this. “The Big C”, they call it now… Showtime renamed it from “The C Word” (What it was originally titled in the version they showed to the network)… and appropriately so. I know this, of course, because this is the kind of stuff that I just happen to know…. like carpenters know how to hang stuff up on walls. ..don’t know if I’d call this a perk, but living and working in the location and business of Hollywood for five and a half years, one has to retain something.

The Big C on Showtime

It’s also different in tone from the unaired pilot. (…that I happen to have on my person… if by person, one means computer). The doctor is older and British for one and like a completely different actor (this class, is what we call re-casting the role; ‘going in a different direction’.)

In addition, the recasting brings to the forefront, to an even larger degree, Laura Linney’s subtle MILFiousity. Which would explode the cap off of a certain friend’s MILF-ecta*

*specific category of “Trifecta”… “Trifecta” itself, short, or an informal version, of “Ultimate Trifecta (Top 3) Chicks to Fuck”… though, to be honest, I may have taken liberty there with the completed, formal title of the informal Trifecta. eh… I tend to do that.

You’ll see the difference when and if I decide to post it. I’ll decide to post it, when and if, someone reads this and decides that this what they would like to have happen. I’ll never know unless someone comments, though. …which may never happen because no one reads this. Then, class, we can have a discussion.

Thank you, drive thru.

What does this have to do with drug addiction?

like… everything.

P.S. okay, no one reads this thing, so: The Big C (pre-air)

discuss…

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You Are Not So Smart: A Celebration of Self-Delusion

The Moment

Yet another awesome post from yet another awesome web page.

yet, even.

I will finish “Three and a Half Years Out...” …really. Just stay with me here.

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saturday. sleeeeepy.: GO!

click

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Three and a Half Years Out…

I thought that it’d be appropriate to come semi-circle, if you will and write a bit about what this whole thing… this whole like, 23rd Street Chronicles… this whole, okay… Blooooog or something… started as in the first place.

Three and a half years out… I feel that this is a safe landmark of sorts.

I’ve always been a proponent of cognitive behavioural-ish approaches to things. Aaron Beck, ‘fake it ’til you make it*’, ‘‘just do it’, etc. And for the most part (including all of the destructive drug usage) these are the tenants that have, for me, been most effective in my blind-eyed, flailing-armed experience of the world.

In so saying, I discontinued a behaviour. I stopped using meth.

…this. last. time, anyway.

As an action, I ceased this behavior. I discontinued an habitual action in the same manner that I had ever begun one. …multiple times and ceased multiple times in various colours in spades.

See, it’s all the same. It’s all behaviour. If you do, if you don’t. That’s it.

Mouse, maze, cheese. Flowers for Algernon.

I’m not saying injecting street drugs is the same as just not injecting street drugs. I’m not saying that I am the same as you because I do the same things as you nor am I the same as you because it doesn’t matter what we do at all.

This is nihilism.

But behaviour is behaviour. And we should recognize the potential in which it can be abused. Yes, in a certain sense it is ‘better’ that I’m not injecting street speed into my veins. …I guess…

But this secession is exactly the thing that has placed me in this limbo for this entire time. Things obviously change, once one changes behavior (especially behavior as extreme as this). Furthermore, increasing time in itself, does alter experience.

But alteration or secession of behaviour alone does not a ‘cure’ make. It fucks you all-the-more. Yes, alot of extraneousness is stripped away creating something more clear. …like a tumble-weeded out Western perhaps.

But, i guess, this whole thing… I’m here to tell you… limbo is limbo for a reason. No one is supposed to stay here. I discontinued the behaviour… but I’m still here.

And I know… as I’ve known all along, I suppose… that something is still awry.

None of this is really about drugs…

I’m sleepy. Shout out to the J-man: sleepy-dance.

Don’t even think about it.

…not done. NOT even.

NOT EVEN FUCKIN’ CLOSE.
…if you’ve read any of this ghey-ass blog, any of it.. one post… you can do me the favor of staying with me here, for this one.
because sometimes, it’s important.

And, so, one again: To be Continued…

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Speed Demons

Speed Demons

Article by: Karl Taro Greenfeld
Source: Time Magazine
Date: Sunday, March 25th, 2001

Instructions: READ IT because it’s awesome. please. Also, it has a cultural component that this blog is De-void of. I mean, people get hooked on speed in other countries and all. It’s not just mememememe! Speed and ghetto Asian culture to me is like… well, Speed and ghetto Asian culture. My metaphors are awesome. However, it does tap into trendy early ninties money Japanese culture… mmmmm, that’s like Murray’s everything Bagels with Olive cream cheese. Or alternately, Frank-Meth, needles and the dirtiest of dirtiest Grey Goose Martini’s in a random party somewhere on the UWS and/or UES.

droooooooooooooooooooooooooool…….

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Free Samples

08.02.2010…
The black chick in the green shirt stands just outside Planet Smoothie in Penn Station. She holds a brown-ish tray of tiny tiny plastic cups filled with something salmon-colored and fruity and pseudo healthy. She yells ‘free samples’ at jagged intervals with all the desperation (semi-aggressive, at that) that a chick that works in a planet smoothie in penn station can. This is New York, afterall. The internal desperation painted on the faces and glowing in the action of its denizens. Penn Station being an in-between place… Limbo or purgatory. I neither loathe nor love the place. It is just a relative constant recurring in equally jagged intervals of my existence.

WordPress for BlackBerry.

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StoryTime…Yay! (part II)

…see, it’s possible.

my most recent ‘to be continued’ is not a lie of an optimistically well-intentioned egg fertilized by the sperm of bad memory, apathy and drunken lethargy.

I swallow (and never spit… even during a calorie-free obsessive period) the cute little white swimmy-tads contained in the opalescent jizz that regardless of boy, seems consistently infused with the essence of brie… cheese. glug, glug, glug, gag, glug… deepthroat. Hey, if one can’t be a natural bulimic, why not work the gag reflex to… advantage… I don’t even fuckin’ know.

I’ve totally digressed. Metaphor has become literal and distraction has become… a crutch.

So, without further adieu:

STORYTIME… YAY! (PART II)

Again, I do not know if I’m tired. But after an unknown amount of time in the cold cold holding cell, I decide that I will sleep until I am freed… which shouldn’t be longer than a couple of hours, the guard assures me. Yeah, okay… people that work for the government, in public facilities [ie DMV, prison, healthcare clinics] never know what they are talking about. But naive, new-to-this-whole-jail-thing, me, I do not know this just yet. So, by this time, a couple of additional people are put into the holding cell, including a chick in what seems to be a prom dress-like apparatus who is a completely entitled drunk bitch that belittles the guards. The guards tell us that this is the only opportunity for us to make local calls for free. As my phone was sitting snuggly in my apartment; the only local numbers I have memorized are the cell #’s of the producers that I work for & the office. Not a good idea.

Most of the people I know, myself included, that live out here have some sort of out-of-state number. This is not free. And Jasen, my sort of friend that has vowed to protect me in any situation [without my asking or real wanting], ironically lives pretty close in Glendale … but I do not know his number off-hand. Oh well, I should be released in maybe seven hours, at the most. At this point, we are lined up, released from the holding cell and told to walk down the hall, and around corners. We are separated into two groups; by felony and misdemeanor. There are two guards. I move to the felony line. The guard that told me that I would be released in a few short hours tells me to go back to the other line. I feel better. This is when I start to realize that people don’t know what they are talking about. Because I say something about, “Um I think I’m charged with a felony”. The guard looks at the pink slip that I was given and is all, “well, look at that.” Then looks at me. “She right” she says to the other guard in her high-level Ebonics.

And so, we pick up our scratchy blankets and useless sheets. The jail cell sliiiides open and we enter. It is somewhat dark… this is both positive and negative. We walk down the middle of two rows of horizontally and much too closely positioned bunk-style beds with vinyl/plastic-y gym-mat mattresses. This is sort of cool. But the coolness of the bunk bed can in no way, this time, trump the fact that there are no cool ladders to climb or child-like colors but rather an exposed toilet and an arsenal of middle-aged women already in there. I take the second to last high bunk stage-right, contacts positively stuck like transparent colorforms to my eyeballs. Hoisting myself up with just my arms makes me feel youthful, lithe and childlike. So, I win for a second.

Before the guard sliiiides the cell shut, she asks if we would like the large television on. We do not have control of the channels as it is mounted somehow outside of the cell. Though I still do not know if I’m tired, as mentioned before, I’ve decided that I would sleep until this whole thing was over… so I assertively, though kindly say no… everyone else assertively though also somewhat kindly says, “yes”. So, I lose for the moment but I wouldn’t know just how severely until after I’ve seen all the current commercials for soy products, osteoporosis, motherhood, Pantene and all things celebratory of woman-hood 50x over. Estrogen-Nation exists in the Van Nuys prison.

Again, To Be Continued…

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