Tag Archives: wine

American Idiot, Universal & the Big Leap

Contrary to appearance, this is not a Green Day and/or American Idiot blog, by any means. The folks at 23rd street merely happen to become a bit specifically obsessive at times. Though, it must be stated that this… blog (in it’s earliest incarnation) did start out as an experiment by a would-be/was writer trying out this blog game after one last hurrah in meth-wine-country. At this time, it was an unfocused voyage into the land that would meet at the intersection of drugs + various art/psychology/culture/hollywood/new york/whatever-avenue and all.

Currently, the folks at 23rd Street have decided to focus with the dexedrine and make this primarily a drug abuse-ish blog. However, aforementioned folks would be remiss if they didn’t mention, again; American Idiot.

I work in ‘the industry’… as cheese-tastic and sell-out-ish as that makes me. So, I know that Universal is in negotiations with Playtone and Michael Mayer is to direct with Dustin Lance Black writing. This can go many different ways. But I am hopeful rather than frightened. And don’t worry, I’m currently on my knees on the floor, picking up all the names that I’ve just dropped.

Billie fuckin’ Joe as St Jimmy kicks ass. As for other casting news, I got nothing. Original cast would be nice… the best choice. I make an exception for Lou Pucci. I love… though, I have reason to believe he cannot sing… either that or he cannot do an Irish brogue. But I digress. Or Ezra Miller. NY talent, bitches!

This has quickly become about nothing that has to do with drugs.

Thank you, drive thru.

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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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This took a bit more planning…

Date: 27 May 2007

Location: Los Angeles, CA 

This took a bit more planning, I realize.

Bottle between my legs… wrist twists and twists a wine key drills further and further, pierces the foil seal then take no mercy on the cork revealed…

Thank you, unmentioned restaurants, for the fledgling wine keys in my bag, car… everywhere! One must always be prepared! And furthermore, the skill. Constant opening of similar wine bottles with speed and accuracy. For this, if nothing else, a shout out, peace, props.

Well, of course, there is something else…

Head pops up… leftright… left right… never down…

…where my right wrist twists and twists and twists. Determined, automatic but somehow careful not to pierce the black leggings with the lace mid-calf.

Man, its fuckin’ hot!

…in the driver seat… of the Celica. Where my wrist twists and the sun basks in prime-time, ninety degree angle and bakes me, through the glass of the windshield of the sunroof, oven-style, squeezing every last drop of water in my body into a chemical bead on my forehead. Lick me… you’d probably catch a buzz. Dehydration city, baby!

Sometime in the vicinity of 2pm… possibly later… but as long as my eyes did not catch a glimpse of the digital glow, nothing was ever definite, I perfect the skill of the blind wine-cork-pop.

A parked car in a random, dead-end, side-street. miracle mile. ha!

Wait!

…stop!

okay, now…

I am a drug addict! I know this.

But what the fuck is this?

Where do my hands desperately twist toward? What is this cork?

Some kind of car-ass wino? In Los Angeles? …California?!

Um, okay… NO.

Pokey-poke Chelsea junkie, train-track smile, bopping across 23rd… yes.

But… what the fuck is this?

But my wrist twists and…

…POP!

… I remember ‘what the fuck this is’.

In an effort to keep the scales more-or-less aligned… manage, maintain the buzz or more appropriately, myself… I have found that a liquid lunch is much to my advantage. Nicely timed. Liquid lunch. Ahhh—-!

During the morning period [say 9am – 1pm] I would work the opposite angle [alongside my actual job, of course… which I love, don’t get me wrong… and is, for me, categorically the best job/occupation I’ve ever had, hands down!… but that’s another story].

Preceding this morning period… up at 6:30am, a shower and sit ups, push ups… all sorts of ‘ups’ came makeup alongside a glass or two of cheap white [where ever my threshold lay that day] in the form of what others have called, “2 buck chuck” from Trader Joes on Santa Monica… followed by a bump or three of cheap white…. in the form of… in the west, they call it methamphetamine. In the west, it’s also pretty much a crap-shoot. But, oh so, lovely. A cousin, brother, some distant relative of it’s sophisticated eastern counterpart [also another story].

I can dig it.

Off to the aforementioned job. The Celica; a perfect, though somehow indescribable blue. Heads out of the garage in East West Hollywood toward Gardner [where there is a traffic light] and heads down… down… down… the meth straightens and focuses and brings a wonderful glint to my train-track smile. But, most importantly, creates a synthesis with the alcohol.

I am SUPERB!

I am what I always should be.

And down, down… the same path… the same mix on the CD [at the same point everyday… the same song hits]… on Gardner, I hit 3rd? maybe [where the Grove is, whatever]… and the light is always LLOOOOONNGG. Exquisitely long enough for me to finish the cute metallic thermos of the remainder of aforementioned liquid white. I mean, there’s that park just passed that library and a 7-11 and the long long light…. oh, and that Washington Mutual that is not the user-friendly bank it’s said to be.

Not so much a ‘grimace’… just a ‘probably not water in that cute metallic Urban Outfitters‘ blue-pink thermos’**… as the last drops trickle down onto my dry tongue.

**UPDATE… 26 May 2011**

Scrounging around the Celica that no longer turns on, but still looks awesome as hell… the author finds under the driver seat (where she left it, after she threw it, when the cops decided to search the car, in the time that took place just before the events details in the “Story ’bout a Girl…” post) the exact cute metallic Urban Outfitters’ blue-pink thermos that she so often imbibed from… and some would say, saved her life (in a balance sort of way)… and by ‘some’, the author means… the author herself. It will always have a place in her heart. Click >>here<< for the picture. Yes, it did used to have a pink dome cap that was connected to what can only be described as shredded connector-thing. And yes, when opened, much of the top was corroded and all of the bottom was a petry dish housing for the bastard child of wine, metal, and oxygen. And it reeked. But, then again, alot of things are different now.

Down… down… just passed Miracle Mile… I arrive to the house on Cloverdale… park… and enter.

After a morning of bumps here and there [maybe two, three at the most] in the unlockable bathroom in the exquisitely covert house where we conduct hardcore mainstream business… I tip the scales a bit too far left and a liquid lunch in the pretty kick ass car… sweltering, but pretty kick ass was welcomed with open arms to reset, in essence… the balance.

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