tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51667122683904695952009-10-24T07:26:18.562-04:00After an 18-month exile Just Left of Nowhere, The Ruler's Back in Brooklyn. The kid was born a Beta, but accidentally got cool somewhere along the way and is still figuring out what the hell's going on. If nothing else, he makes a great wingman. Holla atcha (Brooklyn) Boy.The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.comBlogger332125justleftofnowherehttp://feedburner.google.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-28958272000940326592009-10-16T09:20:00.003-04:002009-10-16T09:36:04.247-04:002009-10-16T09:36:04.247-04:00It's fun to pretend I'm an adult when I still wake up sometimes at 6:17 a.m., half-sitting/half-lying on my futon next to a box of melted ice cream with a spoon sticking out.<br /><br />At least I remembered to turn the TV off.<br /><br />Intangible Slam 1, Brooklyn Boy 0<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-2895827200094032659?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com1http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/10/aging.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-53203335552833243182009-10-02T00:17:00.003-04:002009-10-02T00:30:02.354-04:002009-10-02T00:30:02.354-04:00Spit at the slam tonight. Probably a poem I shouldn't have performed, more because it was off-myTouch than anything else, though it felt fucking good to get it up in front of an audience.<br /><br />It propelled me into the top-five, though I went over time in the second round and ended up settling for fifth, despite a performance that was probably one of my best til the final moments. Post-show, several cats came up to me afterword to drop love into our shared space (best comment: "You broke my heart with a poem.") That sequence quite possibly sums up my entire slam career.<br /><br />Can't hate. I was writing before slam, and I continue to write outside of it. The ridiculous lack of time I'm left by work -- whutup 55-hour first week of training camp? -- has something to do with that. I wouldn't be at work so long if I didn't have standards. Even yesterday, when I mailed it in, earned a complimentary e-mail from a co-worker who hadn't ever indicated they noticed.<br /><br />I'm finding time for life, but it's been an adventure. Luckily The Lady is sociable, and she can handle my people and the crazy situations I've subjected her to from what amounts to the jump (see: her attending a slam early on; see also: her meeting second cousins before the end of month No. 2.).<br /><br />There's a point to this post. It's burrowing between layers. All told, it's been a good week. A great one even. I just have to remember to relax. Might even happen, one day.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-5320333555283324318?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/10/fifth-place-finish.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-51428308008229388522009-09-29T23:30:00.004-04:002009-09-30T00:02:33.725-04:002009-09-30T00:02:33.725-04:00I should be at open mike.<br /><br />But I completely bombed my ability to process interviews on the first day of training camp, and ended up at work until 9 p.m., having finally finished updating the Web site to reflect the reality of my new "blog" entry, exhaustion overwhelming me save for the knowledge that eating two slices of cold pizza leftovers from lunch meant I wouldn't have to make dinner.<br /><br />There remains one week for me to avoid the self-pitying punch in the nose my emotions will offer if I fail to make it to Penny's within the month's time I promised after Murdock's show a few Sundays back. This post is tired. It might be from fasting yesterday. I was a good Jew, sort of. I fasted and took the day off work and limited myself to as much non-screen activity as possible. There was a lot of reading involved: three issues of TIME, two Entertainment Weekly, two alumni newsletters, a Rolling Stone and a bunch of team/sport-related ish (when I did briefly access the interwebs). I put Playboy on the "hold" pile out of respect.<br /><br />It's a funny thing, my kind of Jewish. Had female rabbis growing up, the most influential of whom was a lesbian, which means biblical literalism was pretty much out from the jump. And then they -- and others in the Reform movement -- fostered twin ideals of "choice through knowledge" and "Israel = struggle with God," with the latter meaning the natural waxing and waning of spiritual connectivity and faith were normal and to be dealt with at their own speed; not avoided or forced, but simply something to acknowledge, then process -- whatever that might mean.<br /><br />I haven't been to temple in three years, unless you count my buddy's wedding in 2007 or the time in February I ran a poetry workshop for a former rabbi's confirmation class. That was on a Wednesday. In Cobble Hill. I don't think I'd ever been there before. I revisited that 'hood two weeks back for a Friday night dinner with my girl and four of her people. She's not a member of the tribe. About the Southern opposite of that - the Baptist kind.<br /><br />That feels like it should matter, and it might, one day. But just because it matters doesn't mean there isn't middle ground. Quick quiz hotshot: Who's your favorite goy?<br /><br />Mine's my dad.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-5142830800822938852?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com2http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/09/awake-at-11-and-home.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-41245778686266632302009-09-21T17:54:00.009-04:002009-09-22T22:54:49.289-04:002009-09-22T22:54:49.289-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/Srf2R5nZ3PI/AAAAAAAABkc/26tdI9Q-piM/s1600-h/tbb_6yo_booze.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384042666929020146" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/Srf2R5nZ3PI/AAAAAAAABkc/26tdI9Q-piM/s400/tbb_6yo_booze.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />My father is a funny character. In the ha-ha sense, as in: an entertaining individual. He does things like wait 40 minutes into a Rosh Hashana dinner before whipping out an assorted pile of crap that has gone unseen by other eyes for more than a decade, chock full of mortifying content that would embarrass my brother and I were we not steely souls.<br /><br />The above image is a colorful mish-mash of my own making, one that over time has become a legendary, myth-quality piece of amazing for my family. It made its magical return to the physical realm this weekend, prompting its appearance here.<br /><br />If you reference the date in the top-right corner (yellow circle), you'll see that this master work was created on Jan. 22, 1990, thusly placing the artist at the age of 6 years old. The assignment was to recreate the contents of a drawer at home.<br /><br />Which brings us to the awesome. That red circle highlights, in my then-unable-to-appropriate-scale mid-word line breaks, the red-hued words "Johnee Walker." Yes, among what appears to be a rainbow quilted Gatorade, a burned earthworm and a canister of Wilson tennis balls, I faithfully recreated a bottle of <strike>single-malt</strike>* blended scotch.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*Word to The Loveseat.</span><br /><br />You see, each day after returning from work, my mother would take a tall water glass, stack ice cubes to the brim and drizzle a bit of Johnny in the bottom before filling the remaining 4/5ths with water. A routine that repeats five times a week is enough to make an impression on a six-year-old.<br /><br />So we can imagine how surprised Mama BK might have been when Mrs. Willoughby called midafternoon, asking whether there was anything they needed to talk about, because one little Brooklyn Boy had handed in a most interesting assignment that morning.<br /><br />Whoops.<br /><br />She's never let me live this down, though we laugh about it. Yet we each thought the picture long forgotten ... until my old man came through in the clutch. It exists, and it is spectacular still.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-4124577868626663230?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com3http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/09/6-year-old-booze.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-26078861241336918542009-09-15T11:08:00.001-04:002009-09-16T11:10:35.991-04:002009-09-16T11:10:35.991-04:00Sitting up in bed, back against the wall, snotty and overwhelmed, caught between laughing at myself, crying and not being able to breathe, I finally let loose.<br /><br />"I FEEL FUCKING RIDICULOUS!!"<br /><br />She takes this placidly, allows it to roll out the open window and fall away into 5 a.m., lost admist the street cleaners and garbage pickup, the morning rush and the Monday making its presence known at least an hour too early.<br /><br />"You're so shouty," she says, cute lilt letting me know she thinks this is okay, and will not hold the previous exhortation against me. I breathe, and smile.<br /><br />"You would be, too, if you knew how much mucous was about to end up in your hair."<br /><br />I laugh, half-heartedly, wanting to feel funny, feel fine, feel fucking anything else except miserable, and reach around her for a tissue, evacuating my nostrils of more sludge than should be possible.<br /><br />"You're allowed to feel ridiculous -- I'm your people." She smiles as she says this, and it's over. I still feel like ass, and would continue to worsen as the day progressed. (Note to self: Next time you know the cold is coming, stay home.) And yet, as we wind down the wackness, wrapped up in each other, discussing things that make more sense than they should, finally beginning to ready for work, I can control my breathing.<br /><br />It's going to be okay. For real for real. Because this is good. This is very good. And it scares me. It scares us. But that's okay, too. Promise.<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-2607886124133691854?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/09/snotty-starts-to-day.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-81097597327883728692009-09-10T23:46:00.001-04:002009-09-11T12:19:25.331-04:002009-09-11T12:19:25.331-04:00<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Admit it. You want to travel. See the world. See the sights. See everything you've never gotten the chance to. It will change you. That <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0143038419?ie=UTF8&amp;tag=thbcba-20&amp;linkCode=as2&amp;camp=1789&amp;creative=390957&amp;creativeASIN=0143038419">Eat, Pray, Love</a><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; MARGIN: 0px; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BORDER-RIGHT: medium none" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thbcba-20&amp;l=as2&amp;o=1&amp;a=0143038419" width="1" height="1" />book has become <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">a phenomenon</span> ... or so you hear. It worked for her, it can work for you. That's how these things go.<br /><br />Except it isn't. There are parasites and half-day bus rides and no part of your path that feels uninfluenced by Lonely Planet. The native girls challenge your once-bulletproof advances and the backpackers that don't seem every bit as vapid as the stateside ones who bored you. You will get robbed. And you will return to a hometown that seems locked in step with six-month old footprints.<br /><br />Roosh Vörek's "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1442136367?ie=UTF8&amp;tag=thbcba-20&amp;linkCode=as2&amp;camp=1789&amp;creative=390957&amp;creativeASIN=1442136367">A Dead Bat In Paraguay: One Man's Peculiar Journey Through South America</a><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: medium none; BORDER-LEFT: medium none; MARGIN: 0px; BORDER-TOP: medium none; BORDER-RIGHT: medium none" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thbcba-20&amp;l=as2&amp;o=1&amp;a=1442136367" width="1" height="1" />" is an honest look at the adventure of travel. It starts the same way as many a modern American tale, with a protagonist feeling trapped by circumstance, suffering ennui born of a life that's only proving to be ordinary:<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><blockquote><p><span style="font-size:85%;">I wanted to travel for a long time, abuse my liver, and meet exotic women. Then after I tire of boozing I wanted to find some answers to what I should do for the rest of my life. Time off would help put me on a fulfilling path, because the answer obviously wasn't working as a microbiologist. Only a long trip could lead go my eventual happiness. (Page 17)</span> </p></blockquote></div><p align="justify">So Roosh locks himself on a budget, moves in with his old man, saves up 35 G's and sets off with the intention of hitting every country in South America. Allowing for a loose timeframe of 6-12 months, Roosh planned to begin in Ecuador, traveling southeast through Argentina and Brazil, back up north through the "three countries no one visits," then Venezuela and a final stop in Brazil.<br /><br />By Peru -- country No. 2 -- Roosh has suffered multiple rejections of the type that would leave a less secure man dejected and wandering, from being stood up for an admittedly tenuous coffee date to being told to "wait outside" for a change of venue that would next be coming. And he has been stricken with debilitating parasites, which leave him suffering throughout a 10-hour bus ride as he enters Huaraz. With only a urinal on the bus and contractions threatening to flush his system every 20 minutes, the author's "shirt was soaked in sweat from the straining" and he "clenched (his) jaw every time (his) stomach announced its intentions to get rid of the poison it was swimming in." Roosh manages to hold off the squirts temporarily, but never fully shakes the bug, which tortures him throughout the remainder of his six months abroad.<br /><br />As he continues along, Roosh deals with the transient nature of travel; sightseeing loses its luster, beginning to be replaced by a focus on the friendships he's making -- and remaking -- as he bounces in-and-out of the third-world lives existing on the fringes of a tourism industry fueled by privilege. Roosh easily links up with male travelers, sometimes dispensing girl advise: "You can say, 'You look like you're having the most fun here out of anyone.' It's generic enough that you can use it most places, but it doesn't come off across as a line." Other times he marvels at the game of the Canadian "Predator" or Beppe, the Italian who turns notoriously difficult Argentinian girls mad for him with an effervescence that "got girls by allowing them to get aggressive ... It was his personality that did all the heavy lifting. It was potent and could not be reproduced. All (Roosh) could hope for was to take one little piece of it."<br /><br />But for all the good times bonding -- over alcohol, interesting experiences and chasing tail; same as single guys stateside -- there is the nagging reality of the lives that aren't free of the land. Roosh becomes a hardened traveler, passing advice on how to avoid being pickpocketed, scammed or robbed to those he meets. And yet even moments of empathy are grounded in a realism some might call cynical until they realize he's likely right. After seeing a destitute man in Paraguay languidly raising his arm in a ridiculously ineffective attempt to sell bingo cards to passersby, Roosh breaks down in his hotel room:<br /></p><blockquote><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="font-size:85%;">I cried like a baby. It's not fair they're dealt such hands. I wanted to help them and make a difference, but eventually the same petty bullshit that worries me will return, and I won't do a damn thing, and nothing will change. (Page 221)<br /></div></span></blockquote><p align="justify">By the book's end, things <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">have </span>changed for Roosh. Or they haven't. He lets the reader decide, not caring about the answer -- he's off on the next adventure, perhaps damned if he does, but damn well sure he didn't.</p><ul><li><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">For more on "</span>A Dead Bat in Paraguay<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">," which will be released Sept. 15, visit </span><a href="http://www.adeadbatinparaguay.com/">adeadbatinparaguay.com</a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">.</span></li><li><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">For more by Roosh, visit his blog at</span> <a href="http://www.rooshv.com/">rooshv.com</a>.</li></ul><hr align="left" width="30"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-8109759732788372869?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com1http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/09/dead-bat-in-paraguay.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-81767440093312232772009-09-01T09:53:00.008-04:002009-09-01T15:40:13.866-04:002009-09-01T15:40:13.866-04:00<div align="center"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/inktea/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376499954411154946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/Sp0qOP2UrgI/AAAAAAAABkU/lgCyMqH9J2U/s400/tbb_sierra.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/inktea/"><span style="font-size:78%;">Ink Tea</span></a></div><br />Our lil Si-Si's all growed up. Blowin up like we thought she would. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/inktea/sets/72157622186781026/">Photo shoots</a> and shit. Sheeeit. =D<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-8176744009331223277?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/09/so-much-sierra.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-90488644024962871902009-08-31T21:43:00.005-04:002009-08-31T21:50:33.320-04:002009-08-31T21:50:33.320-04:00Someone please tell<br />Jordin Sparks<br />that love isn't<br />"<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WusW7JfPCis">always like a battlefield</a><br />a battlefield<br />a battlefield."<br /><br />Sometimes it's like<br />struggling to get out of bed<br />because someone's pouting<br />and they feel<br />so smooth.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-9048864402496287190?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/sandman.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-21114509897423639452009-08-30T23:02:00.000-04:002009-09-01T00:19:05.178-04:002009-09-01T00:19:05.178-04:00Two invitations<br />to hang with the same crowd<br />in a single week<br />and it no longer becomes an option.<br /><br />Instead, a love letter<br />trying to get your attention<br />like a child who knows you're occupied<br />but might be distracted if<br />they tug hard enough,<br />are cute enough,<br />can even be<br />convincing.<br /><br />Do not put them off long enough<br />such that next time<br />they do not think<br /><br />to try.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-2111450989742363945?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/09/tired-too-bad.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-86919164799307820602009-08-29T20:34:00.000-04:002009-08-30T22:39:30.878-04:002009-08-30T22:39:30.878-04:00Saw two full floors of<br />Natural History, thus<br />time for cupcake break.<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">NOTE: </span>Go to <a href="http://butterlane.com/">Butter Lane</a> and ask for "The Elvis," then come find me and say, "Thank you!!" Yes, it will be dual exclamation worthy.)<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-8691916479930782060?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com1http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/mmsnacks.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-77458552142305887042009-08-28T19:18:00.001-04:002009-08-30T22:10:03.602-04:002009-08-30T22:10:03.602-04:00Stop-and-go is so stupid<br />I'll go 20 minutes out of the way<br />to feel like I'm getting somewhere.<br /><br />Fuck you, Friday traffic.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-7745855214230588704?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/reverse-commute.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-31383356462357546102009-08-27T22:32:00.004-04:002009-08-27T22:44:42.872-04:002009-08-27T22:44:42.872-04:001995.<br />Eastern Conference Semis.<br />Finger roll shot short.<br /><br />12-year-old sits, cries<br />Thinks this is the end for the<br />Knicks as he knows them.<br /><br />Sports are fucking dumb<br />until your team wins titles.<br />Why didn't that fall?<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-3138335646235754610?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/fanatic.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-10781966744469972562009-08-26T23:49:00.001-04:002009-08-30T22:30:42.964-04:002009-08-30T22:30:42.964-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">Sean Michaels<br />once superkicked Marty Jannetty<br />through a plate-glass window<br />shattering their tag team into<br />fragmented units.<br /><br />It figures he would go solo<br />from a group called the Rockers. <hr width="200" align="center"><br />Also,<br />I once saw Wrestlemania X<br />from 10th seat in the 10th row.<br />But I was 11.<br />It was so close<br />to being perfect.<br /></div><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-1078196674446997256?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/wwe-classic.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-24588688838283834542009-08-25T22:40:00.001-04:002009-08-27T22:11:53.117-04:002009-08-27T22:11:53.117-04:00Back to me as I entered,<br />thirsty for the citrus punch<br />she always had on hand,<br />his mother washed dishes<br />singing softly something like beautiful.<br /><br />My footfalls ticked off the tiles<br />and her head lilted left.<br /><br />She said, "Hello,"<br />chiding my unannounced presence with<br />a scrunch of the eyes and a smile over her shoulder<br />uncovered by a tank top<br />empty airspace where locks had lived<br />for my lifetime.<br />I noticed earrings<br />dangling like razor slash<br />and wondered why she'd shaved her head.<br /><br />The clarity of hindsight<br />means missing the meaning of that moment<br />until the e-mail<br /><br />from her son.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-2458868883828383454?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/swmbo.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-51089229472872471802009-08-24T23:27:00.001-04:002009-08-25T14:31:22.414-04:002009-08-25T14:31:22.414-04:00<div align="center">Gas station grand opening<br />ends three months into existence.<br /><br />Now they punch clocks<br />and it's just another day. <hr align="center" width="200"><br />The CD comes in cardboard<br />white and unadorned<br />until she presses ink upon it<br />autographed inscription<br />to honor the quick conversation<br />after her set.<br /><br />She'd left me a ticket<br />to ensure one fan<br />was for her. <hr align="center" width="200"><br />Unedited book<br />tangible spectre of all<br />my unfinished (works? plans?)</div><br /><hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-5108922947287247180?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/les-trilogy.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-42958285796980893072009-08-23T11:15:00.002-04:002009-08-24T09:33:12.947-04:002009-08-24T09:33:12.947-04:00This isn't just morning sex --<br /><br />it's <em>mourning</em> sex:<br />elegaic melody in which we lament the memory<br />of every encounter we liked,<br />but now know<br />didn't measure up.<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><font size="2"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></font></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-4295828579698089307?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/awakening.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-61998999037546841132009-08-22T16:35:00.002-04:002009-08-24T09:34:31.708-04:002009-08-24T09:34:31.708-04:00Relaxed in my seat,<br />I grab my belly with both hands<br />just because it's there.<br />She places her palms upon splayed fingers,<br />says she likes me fat<br />then pauses<br />and adds, "Because then I always stay skinny!"<br /><br />She is smiling<br />and laughing<br />because this is a funny joke.<br />She knows that neither of us is worried<br /><br />or cares.<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-6199899903754684113?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/good-eats.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-73402884665776373622009-08-21T22:04:00.000-04:002009-08-24T09:29:57.116-04:002009-08-24T09:29:57.116-04:00Answering the door in a party dress,<br />hair pinned in place and barefoot,<br />she had planned a picnic in the air conditioning.<br />Cooked a chicken for me to cut<br />though she doesn't eat meat.<br /><br />Southern girls are a special breed.<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><br /><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-7340288466577637362?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com2http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/birthday-dinner-pt-2.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-18693105914965334862009-08-20T09:33:00.008-04:002009-08-20T10:00:07.388-04:002009-08-20T10:00:07.388-04:00Sooo I realized I haven't posted anything in week, and since starting small is the best way to get back on the hobby horse, here's a photo the alumni association so kindly sent me:<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372038982521112658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 323px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/So1Q_gi4yFI/AAAAAAAABj0/wfLZJAgz3xQ/s400/RamBDayHatSept99web_Sears.jpg" border="0" /><br />Also, here's a photo of the cake my super-talented girlfriend made:<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372042771811272002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 356px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/So1UcEwEBUI/AAAAAAAABkE/W52HyxvnFh4/s400/tbb_cake.jpg" border="0" /><br />And here's the first poem in a month-long poem-a-day <a href="http://www.intangiblecollective.com/">Intangible Collective</a> challenge I'm calling "period." Word to <a href="http://raptorinside.tumblr.com/">Diabolical</a> and <a href="http://thegardenofe.blogspot.com/">Eden</a>.<br /><p align="center"><em>Haven't been writing<br />So time to try something new:<br />Poems daily. Yup.</em></p>Haha. Here's to hoping getting started was the hardest part. Can only go up from that sucker. <hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><br /><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-1869310591496533486?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com6http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/new-year-new-beginnings-in-theory.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-35008985178587934212009-08-12T09:25:00.004-04:002009-08-12T10:11:55.153-04:002009-08-12T10:11:55.153-04:00Standing in the deli below my apartment, we are unsure if we're anything close to "in line" for the sandwich my lady's ready to order. Having made a pit stop on the way back from work, I realize I have yet to change, and that cooking dinner is going to take the same amount of time, regardless of when I start. I tell her I'm going to go upstairs and get started while she goes through the sandwich process. She says, "Okay," kisses me, and turns back to the counter.<br /><br />... And it's that simple. Girl in relationship being 100-percent rational. My head spins, and I smile.<br /><br />HeyPS For the record, I'm fully aware I'm gross. With one of these: G.<br /><br />PPS Four months? Really? Wow. I'm impressed. You can be, too, if you'd like.<br /><br />PPPS<br />I should probably be mentioning things I didn't post about like going to see <a href="http://www.officialbigdaddykane.com/">Big Daddy Kane</a> with my brother or <a href="http://www.myspace.com/leliabroussard">Lelia Broussard</a> or watching <a href="http://kneepits.tumblr.com/">Megan</a> get robbed at <a href="http://www.nuyorican.org/Poetry/poetry.html">the NuYo</a>, but I can either do all those things or write about ish. Sometimes the kid's gotta live. Tryin, though.<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><br /><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-3500898517858793421?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com1http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/dizzy-spells.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-27526321205506895182009-08-08T18:27:00.004-04:002009-08-08T18:50:03.590-04:002009-08-08T18:50:03.590-04:00Sitting on a bench in a quaint park on the UES, I remove the wrapper to her straw before placing it in her drink. Half of the wrapper sloughs off and flutters down and away from my slow-to-reach hand.<br /><br />"You're such a litterer."<br /><br />"Or I maybe just like throwing trash on my girlfriend."<br /><br />"Really?"<br /><br />"Well, no. Only if it was wonderful things."<br /><br />"[BB]. If they were wonderful things, they wouldn't be trash."<br /><br />"... ... Shit."<br /><br />She got me. She always does.<br /><hr width="200" align="center"><br />The first exchange 100 percent happened. The final two could've. Or did. They have, anyway. About other things, perhaps. She's as attentive to words as I am for others, and it's nice to know someone can actually keep me in check. I like it.<br /><br />Enough that I did about the opposite of duck-and-cover when she dropped a three-word bomb on me:<br /><br />I caught it gently, caressed it, and handed it back to her. She smiled, then set it aside with no explosion. No timer ticking. No more <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mutual_assured_destruction">MAD</a>.<br /><br />She defuses me. Adeptly, and often.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-2752632120550689518?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com1http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/nuclear-non-proliferation.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-67831405847292864252009-08-06T13:31:00.007-04:002009-08-06T13:51:42.369-04:002009-08-06T13:51:42.369-04:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/SnsUQTHB9iI/AAAAAAAABjU/upsk-ugbxpU/s1600-h/hesta_merc_090805.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366905651182302754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/SnsUQTHB9iI/AAAAAAAABjU/upsk-ugbxpU/s400/hesta_merc_090805.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />You can almost tell that's <a href="http://www.myspace.com/hestaprynn">Hesta Prynn</a>.<br /><br />I saw her perform with Civil Shepherd at the <a href="http://www.mercuryloungenyc.com/">Mercury Lounge</a> last night, because she was a dear and put me on her "pay list" of 10 b/c I twatted <a href="http://twitter.com/HestaPrynnMusic">@hestaprynnmusic</a> about <a href="http://twitter.com/bkboy/status/3115667879">not realizing</a> the show required advance ticketing. The set was good stuff ("Seven Sisters" is my jam. Well, either that or "Le Coq aux Folles.") and I caught up with Hesta afterward. We chatted, she signed my CD, I went home to watch <a href="http://www.fox.com/hellskitchen/">Hell's Kitchen</a>. "<a href="http://bennyhollywood.com/blog/fight-in-hells-kitchen-joseph-vs-ramsey.html">I'm not no <em>bitch</em></a>" is quickly becoming my favorite phrase of the summer. Anger management anyone? Bueller?<br /><br />Also, if one were ... you know ... perhaps ... possibly hypothetically, even, to have fornicated in a stairwell and on a rooftop, does that leave "broom closet" as the only remaining in-building-but-outside-the-apartment option on the checklist? Just curious. You know ... for a friend. Right.<br /><hr align="left" width="30"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-6783140584729286425?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com2http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/twatting-to-terrificness.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-16403557590341482632009-08-04T02:06:00.007-04:002009-08-04T18:18:06.776-04:002009-08-04T18:18:06.776-04:00<div align="justify">Today, my roommate convinces me to run.<br /><br />It didn't take much. The air is brisk. I struggle early, but finish strong. I'll be sore tomorrow, and that's okay. He made a good call.<br /></div><div align="justify"><hr align="center" width="220"></div><div align="justify"><br />At the <a href="http://www.mercuryloungenyc.com/">Mercury Lounge</a>, I meet up with Stef (formerly of <a href="http://big-exit.blogspot.com/">Big Exit</a>, RIP), who's running merch for Normandie/<a href="http://www.thisisthestart.com/">theSTART</a>. I interrupt a conversation, but make friends with her friends because that's what I do. I stretch the truth and tell them we met through mutual friends, and this makes sense, because that's how New Yorkers meet each other.<br /><br />Usually it's not over the Internet. That still strikes people as odd.<br /></div><div align="justify"><hr align="center" width="220"></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/SnixCmwgmmI/AAAAAAAABjM/fzkoTicFEhE/s1600-h/theSTART_echo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366233614333811298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tjYM4gFa-WM/SnixCmwgmmI/AAAAAAAABjM/fzkoTicFEhE/s400/theSTART_echo.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>theSTART does two sets: first as a side project (<a href="http://myspace.com/lanormandieband">Normandie</a>) and then again as themselves. The side project is them, but the heavy, goth rock version. Their own stuff is danceable and incredibly catchy. I find myself singing along to hooks I didn't know I knew.<br /><br />In sum, Normandie is probably more interesting musically, but theSTART is just fucking fun. <hr align="center" width="220"><br /><p></p><p align="justify">Stef is talking to a cute blonde. I take advantage of Twitter and DM her that this one's a winner. She says this is a friend. I joke that it's too bad she has no chance and I have a lady. She shakes her fist at me after reading that. I text back that I'm a nuisance, and she should learn to love it. She already has. <hr align="center" width="220"><br /><p></p><p align="justify">My girl texts. It's something of a challenge. I'm pretty sure we passed this one. <hr align="center" width="220"><br /><p></p><p align="justify">I meet up with <a href="http://brianomnidillon.tumblr.com/">Omni</a>, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/homelessryank">Homeless Ryan K</a>, Ryan's girl, Ryan's friend, and Ryan's friend's girl. Homeless is here from Minneapolis, and there are few hours for this interaction. I end up deep in conversation with his girl, jumping from careers you care about to roommate drama and relationships, sometimes diverging wildly to discuss basketball with the boys. She is a keeper. I later tell him to keep her.<br /><br />Ryan refuses money for his CD until I press it in his palm. She should keep him, too. <hr align="center" width="220"><br /><p></p><p align="justify">I walk away from their cab to go home. I reach Kenmare and turn right, away from Bowery. That decision stops making sense very soon. I backtrack to Spring and head up to Houston, making sure not to stumble into traffic. I arrive home to type this. I needed to know it happened. <hr align="left" width="30"><br /><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><br /><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;" href="http://del.icio.us/post">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-1640355759034148263?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/08/one-night-many-moments.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-19551742471054757852009-07-30T00:01:00.005-04:002009-07-30T00:14:25.455-04:002009-07-30T00:14:25.455-04:00<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This is the piece I mentioned in <a href="http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/07/excuses-retroactive-reasons-you-didnt.html">the previous post</a>. My chapbook-to-be, "Relationships I Might Have Had," will consist of poems grounded by prose passages that introduce thematic series. "Tomorrow's Not Too Likely" opens a two-piece section dealing with unexpected intimacy. Consider this something of a preview.</span><br /><br />Jew camp. The second one I attended, where I spent two years on staff, separated my shoulder playing a field game with 8-year-olds, first had my penis touched with no protection (she was eight-<i>teen </i>... promise!), and met a NFTY legend with a third testicle that glowed in the dark. This same cat once had the opportunity to watch porn with Jessica Biel and passed because he was too high; I'd be mad at him, but he already hates himself. It was where my best friend was a basketball-loving rap aficionado from Larchmont with an affinity for Buddy Holly glasses and his strawberry-blond Jew-fro, and where I developed an inexplicably mutually unrequited crush on a girl because we both loved Newsies and she once let me explain the baseball box score without letting on that she knew everything I was talking about. If I die famous enough for anyone to care, she's got the single-biggest collection of letters I've handwritten.<br /><br />You meet people that matter -- none moreso than Rachel, who I've only known for two summers and two weeks, but have loved all along. I know this because I care. From every bad decision she's made or considered to her now being married with a munchkin, I miss her. Every female character, every unnamed "you," has elements of her traced into the sketch.<br /><br />By December 2005, I was seven months out of school, working at Barnes &amp; Noble, unable to get on anywhere as a sports journalist, and Rachel and I hadn't seen each other in person for more than two years. She made me join MySpace. Our phone and IM connection was furious, often daily, though there would be lapses of maybe a month, when life got in the way on either end. During one of these protracted pauses, I purged. Spewed every inkling of a thought about why she never went away and why it would matter to me if she did. I projected multiple pages of poetry across blank paper, left with two distinct pieces: one, the raw, unfiltered, unprintable, raggedy translation of unfinished thought; the other, a nearly complete, crystallized recapturing of our entire relationship. Something in the length of the latter caught my eye, and I discovered that aloud, it was three minutes long, with a distinct rhythm and occasional rhyme. "Committing Coolness" was my first piece to fit the conventions of slam.</div> <div style="text-align: left;"> </div> Two years later, I was mentally preparing for a move from Oneonta, a college town that you could call sleepy if the bar scene wasn't so hardcore. Saved by spoken word, I had spent the summer hanging out with Sierra five days a week and sometimes seven. I'd call her when I got off work, and we'd pretend other options existed before agreeing that yes, we'd be down to play pool at the Oak, that diviest of dive bars we only loved because they hosted our slams and hired our poets. Or at least TJ and Joe. Si would order cranberry vodka by the glass, and I'd trade a tenner for a pitcher of Hennepin, locally brewed Belgian-style wheat beer heavy enough to fill you and -- at 7.7-percent alcohol by volume -- ensure an early night.<br /><br />Saturdays I'd drop by the coffeeshop in the morning and grab some combination of a bagel with flavored cream cheese and a large cup of coffee deliciousness that tangoed in opposition to the weather; hot during those frozen upstate winters, and iced in the summer. Set up in a corner, preferably by the window even if it meant taking up more space than I should've, I wrote letters. To my Jew camp Newsies crush, to my one friend in the Army and to whoever else took the time to take up mine during that 19-month exile upstate. We'd chat whenever Sierra made a round, though if I got bored early I'd flirt with her co-workers because that's how I roll. Trading compliments for discounts never did no damage to any tip jar I was around.<br /><br />Eventually, I'd leave them the afternoon and roam a roundabout route back to my one-bedroom apartment, twice the size and half the cost of the 2-BR fourth-floor walkup I write this in, making sure to pass the library and scout for something new, pretending this would be the time I'd actually follow through on checking out the French and German books to hammer home the language education I dropped out on early; never quite conversational, but always able to get around. Time ticked off 'til Si was done, and I'd amble around the corner, four houses down and two blocks over to her second-story sectional, fingers wrapped around the soggy cardboard handle to a 30-rack of something a step above Schlitz. (When I pre-emptively e-mailed a mentor for advice about surviving as a 20-something city kid in small town America, his two-word reply was: "Drink ... heavily.")<br /><br />After greeting her and a co-worker or two, sometimes our friend Dan and occasionally Si's cousin, we'd each take one in hand, put four in the freezer and the rest in the fridge, snagging the plastic Solo cups from atop it as we headed out to her porch. There, overlooking a street that only occasionally featured cars, across from a meathead frathouse-that-wasn't, we played beer pong using a table I'd salvaged from a neighbor's front yard. It extended from the doorway, adjacent to the wall, leaving just enough space for a person to stand on the far side; she hung a curtain to curtail the number of balls that began to litter the yard below. Swirled circles of paint marked the setup, and six cups up meant starting. The sun would set on the far side of the house and we'd switch to cards, never a soul sober enough to remember every rule to Kings.<br /><br />But with friends dwindling as they explored other options and my job stagnating, I knew my time in town wasn't long. Having been through this before, it struck me that the hardest goodbye was going to be the one I was most accustomed to making. So I started writing to Sierra. And as though the poem took its own leap into broader context, it never stopped being for her. "Leaving" is a love letter to every connection we've ever made with someone we weren't expecting to. You don't always get to keep the contact, but the memories forged are rarely forgotten. "Committing Coolness" is a testament to the latter, and for that reason, it follows "Leaving" here.<hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-1955174247105475785?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com2http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/07/tomorrows-not-too-likely.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5166712268390469595.post-58754136641548680512009-07-28T23:30:00.004-04:002009-07-29T00:27:49.769-04:002009-07-29T00:27:49.769-04:00I haven't been writing much.<br /><br />Weird thing to say considering I get paid to put pen to page (finger to keyboard just doesn't have the same ring, accurate though it may be), but that statement should be clarified: "I haven't been writing much <span style="font-style: italic;">for myself.</span>" There exist only four poems written since January that are in any kind of state to be shown or read; one of those I prepared for a workshop I ran, two others came closely packed because I <span style="font-weight: bold;">absolutelyhadto </span>relieve myself of the crazy, and the third floated idly down the idea pipeline and snagged, yet it comes together even still. For someone who has drafted the crux of short stories in a day, that constitutes a slump.<br /><br />My creative writing teeth are sharp -- work keeps me on top of that; I've done a few pieces I'm truly proud of -- but I have been neglectful away from the office. The active commute (driving to work) is an excuse, as is the greatly lessened use of the New York City subways, as was my team's season, as are offseason events, as is traveling, as was moving, as is ... everything. And that's all they are: excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses. Seeing it in print as self-motivation. The one inspired moment I had all summer was an insomniac one.<br /><br />I used to have trouble sleeping; it's easier now. Work makes me tired and socializing isn't so simple Turn No. 26 around the sun. Emergen-C is no longer enough. But a few weeks back, in bed on my back, watching my girlfriend breathe deeper and deeper, I realized the familiar feeling was fermenting under my skin. Matchstick gooseflesh ignited with every attempt to lay still, and I finally threw off the covers; shedding them felt like brushing cobwebs from my face, sweet relief from phantom presence.<br /><br />A quick reassurance that I was fine, though unable to sleep, kept The Lady sleepy-eyed enough to pass back out. I tiptoed to a glass of water in the kitchen, before returning to flip open the laptop and tap myself into submission. At that point, anything else hurts my eyes too much to help.<br /><br />Deciding to take advantage and tackle a missing prose chunk of <a href="http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/04/thought-but-just-one.html">my chapbook</a> (end-of-summer release?) I blazed through it, fingers finding every metaphor and self-editing forcing better ones to appear elsewhere. The section would be way too long if it weren't perfect. You can let me know otherwise when I post it. Because I'd like to see how you react. It'd be awesome if my instincts were on, but better if they were off. Make me strive. Make me better. Make me.<br /><hr width="30" align="left"><p><script type="text/javascript">digg_skin = 'compact';</script><script src="http://digg.com/tools/diggthis.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://del.icio.us/post" onclick="window.open('http://del.icio.us/post?v=4&amp;noui&amp;jump=close&amp;url='+encodeURIComponent(location.href)+'&amp;title='+encodeURIComponent(document.title), 'delicious','toolbar=no,width=700,height=400'); return false;">Save to del.icio.us</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5166712268390469595-5875413664154868051?l=blog.thebrooklynboy.net'/></div>The Brooklyn Boyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12948928776452062001thebrooklynboy@gmail.com0http://blog.thebrooklynboy.net/2009/07/excuses-retroactive-reasons-you-didnt.html