Holiday Rants in NYC

I watched a rat run uptown from union square today. Its fat furry body raced along the cold steel rail before he dipped and dodged through railroad spikes. Only a handful of us noticed. Calm and swift, he knew the underground better than the subway drivers themselves. His nose twitched and he bid me no mind as he scurried by. He had some shopping to do I’m sure.

The drugstores sell trees at this time of year. Healthy full-bodied beasts from some distant forest all suffering the same fate. They wait and watch the cabs roll by nodding only when noticed. Their salesmen smoke cigarettes, as limbs lay tight in string nets. A mean market minus the flesh. These seasonal pimps sell two weeks of cheer for 10 minuets of back-and-fourth and a few 20’s. The pine gets no vote. Strung up by the stressed out, a chosen trunk gets strapped to a roof and feels an honest breeze for maybe an hour. It gets groped into a tree dish, you know the red things with screw holders, before getting dressed by a family drunk on nothing more than each other. It sleeps warm despite the lights and the tacky tinsel lining. The 26th comes but the restless needles still pepper the floor and adjacent rugs. A tree never completely leaves a home, as a Christmas is never completely forgotten.

Clef notes and Nor Cal

For some reason whenever I’m in San Fransisco with my dad we go music shopping. We’d rummage through endless piles of misplaced talent and cast away dreams salvaging only the best we could find in a whole half hour. We were maniacs and it showed. We used to go to the Tower Records not too far from the marina. The seagulls squawked and pacific mists would dissolve with California sun. We always seemed to go in the afternoon. The place was great, layers and layers of world and local tunes. Rock and Pop for days with whispers of bluegrass in the back. I’d chase names I knew, covers I liked, and radio tunes. My dad went straight for the classical. Back then there were two tower records stores. One massive house of music accompanied but a smaller more digestible store offering orchestras and opera. He always started there and joined me next door to do the heavy lifting. We’d fill a grocery store sized hand basket to the brim and cruise the isles. Checkouts were great. Cashiers earning their wages and a satisfied but impatient pops taking his time to listen to each and every sales pitch. He’d always wind up with a shirt neither of us would ever wear. He would laugh and I would shake my head approvingly. We would share songs on the way home and talk about old time greats. Alas all good times change. The internet got a hold of the music industry and soon our sacred Tower Records feel into bankruptcy. Both Stores.

So we adapted and starting going to Amoeba Records in the Height Ashbury region. The streets are lined with the crazy and the carefree. Hippie history and laid back dogs. Kids laughing and parents remembering. It’s a cool vibe down there. The store only makes it better. Huge and less organized it starts out with a row of check out counters and opens up with an enormous foreground of shiny cd’s. The ceilings are high and the corners sport big fisheye mirrors. With those things you can see the whole place with your back to it. A sight my ears can enjoy. It’s a different spot but the same game with the same rules. “Go until your hands are full, see you in a half hour.” The blues section is real deep there. All the way to the right you’ll find the rocking chairs and whiskey drinkers. The heavy hearts and the badass smiles. On the upper level there’s sizeable room where they still sell vinyls. I don’t have a record player so I don’t bother. I bet I’d have fun in there. The people always seem stoked. After a ride through the reggae and the peek at the jazz I’ll meet up with a struggling but happy father. I do the lifting these days. We glance at some new releases and have a gander at the gadgets before confronting an innocent cashier. He still listens to the promotions and we still get a shirt.

Our retail aftermath sounds like the rolling stones and storytelling. Rides home are painted orange and glow strong from the sea. We sing the afternoon to sleep.

I want to write something beautiful

I want to write something beautiful tonight. Something that will take your feet off of your socks and throw away your perceptions of what earnest and real. I want to author one of those wow factors, those head scratching, mind altering, knee weakening moments. A collection of words so powerful they shake the very foundation of our souls. The type of writing that captivates, motivates and propels the singular human condition in such a robust and sincere way that my thoughts echo in your head. A dream on paper. A heart scribbled and undone but perfectly displayed. A hope. My fingers ache for it. My mind is at the cusp of it and I can feel it in my bones. I want architect a mountain of language so serene that birds cry when they see it. I want to make babies laugh. I want to make old women realize that every mistake was worth it. I want to make my father proud. I want to collect and spew all those feelings in your heart when you clap for no reason at all. When you sing when nobody is listening and when you cook for your legs. I want to shake the hands of immortality and tell them that they got it wrong. I want to show them that temporary breeds the relentless and reckless spirit of untamed joy. The freedom of death, the ignorance of birth and the purity of everything in-between. I feel so fucking GOOD! I want this on paper, I want this on my conscience. I want to create a memory so vivid, so clean, so rare, that books crumble in distain. A moment on a shelf and a lifetime on the ground. I want to capture a friendship between man and feet. The type of unnoticed but undeniable love that breathes the light of the morning and dances with the drunks at night. I want to tell my family I love them without telling them that I love them. I want to show them. I want to write something beautiful tonight. I will. I know I will.

Rant on monday the 8th

Butterscotch haze,
You’d be amazed by the friends I have
Buck wild cherries, no pits
Tempered humors, and goofy delights.
The kind that make your teeth shine,
The surface of your soul starts with plaque
Days taste, unshaven face,
I’m happily grizzled.
I need to iron out the rest of the moon
With a session from my fingers.

I turn the strum up strong and let it rattle my grin. I seriously love this song. My volume reaches 26 and my bass plays along. Im going to drive slow. Roll down my window and do the same for my front seat. I laugh and give my books some air. Cool cracks of autumn ride through my memory. Those breezes bounce along. Vibrations and mutations, a sentence gets spilled in my smile as I sing along. Feels so good my bones got a chuckle. inside and out, flows of fun, the cool and the carefree. I dip and roll my wheels grip tight. Pavement rivers and front yards empty with Monday night. My voice relays my brian. I think out of my face when get to sing to this song. Track two, unnamed cd. Just a simple burned mix of greats and wierdos that would surely share a drink. This song sets up the party for the ensuing tracks. A cocktail mixer for everybody tracks 2 and up! That would be a sight. Brubeck plays a game of cards with m.ward, and Robert glasper dances with the broad from She & Him. She wears her real eyes well. Zac gill just waits his turn. B.B. king shares a laugh with chuck berry by the bar. They drink Smokey whiskey and laugh from the gut. Jokers and stories, maybe a cigarette or two. They won’t play for pennies, but smiles count big. I’d shake their hands and buy them a round. I scan the room and sip down slow. A hickory sour bite and I notice OMCS still plays its steady tune, and I’ve hit every word. One last turn and I touch home base. Crack the gate, roll up 3 levels and kiss the stars. Windows up, gear in park, lights go off, and I sit. I steady the volume and rest on the key. Song dies in whispers and widows a lonesome guitar. String strung out, their glow dims and passes away, my engine promptly follows. I seriously love that song.

Morning Session

It’s been a long time since I’ve written in the morning and it feels good. My slumber still fresh on my eyes and my mind as clear as the cool gray air. Legs aren’t weary, arms are nimble and my phone just itching to wake me up. Its teatime for sure. There is truly something serene about this hour of day. The first of the kids are awake, thumbing remotes for a glimpse of cartoons and spilling milk from their cereal bowls. Everybody else sleeps, dead in their beds; the world is for the young even if only for a little while. I am a half-breed, my chin grows fur, but I still like marshmallows in my hot chocolate. I woke up for no reason at all today. No hangover of REM, no drag from my limbs, just wide eyes and a fulfilling sense of fresh. The shower can wait, my toothbrush lies idle, this morning is for my mind. I want to stretch it out, let neurons take a deep breath and smile, give my brain a moments rest (it never gets any sleep).

It’s raining, but I like it. It’s cold, but cozy and my kettle is boiling. I laugh every time it does. The only kitchen device that tells you when it hurts. You’d think it’d get tougher, but it still whines when it wants off. Water in my cup, bag in my hand, I make a match and they make out. Love you can watch. A love you can taste, a love that will burn if you don’t let it chill out. Coffee seriously isn’t for me.

The drops fall harder, the day struggles to get brighter and I’m tired of waiting around. I turn on a light and watch the trees just soak it all in. My apartment is quiet, my clothes are still off, and the TV has no purpose. Just blank stares. I have a strange urge to play the trumpet. Break the silence so abrasively that it’s funny. My roommate would get pissed and I’d eventually feel like a douche. Maybe the unexpected isn’t as happy cool as it seems. The thought is funny enough.

I wonder what birds do to keep dry? I’d offer them some tea, but they’d shit on my floor. I like the way my face feels today. Its completely alive and breathing. Function meets joy and a new day unfolds.

Muffins (this one kinda sucks)

The lackadaisical security guard bid me no harm with a mere nod as I slid through the door on this cold Monday night. I was missing the colts game but work needed to be done. My flip flops bounced off the floor and slapped the face of my heels as I made the left down workman’s row (its not really called that but I like to). Three familiar faces all bright and new lined the avenue to the glow board that I needed for tracing. Some hellos, some handshakes but business as usual. The assignment was simple yet it was thought provoking. Find alluring forms of typography and traces their skin. I took an easy road but soon grew bored. The serifs, the leading letter body build, the swoop of a “J” all combined to make my wrist a little less interested and my mind a little more distant. I thought of muffins. I have no idea why, but the sweet soft caresses of its dough coupled with surprising nuggets of tangy fruit enticed and allured me. I was stuck molding ink into dances of language. Why is a muffin a morning snack? Dough and fruit taste great at all stages of the sun, but yet it remains an a.m. treat. Somebody needs to make a dinner muffin. One packed with beef, vegetables and other staples of a family meal, yet still having that humble and loveable shape. Starbucks could make a fortune, so could I. Taste meets practicality and muffins can finally know the wit of a steak knife. I don’t even know how to make bread.

311 on Halloween

The concert was fucking loud. I’m talking 1,000 plus rock coinsures banging their lungs to their genetic capacity. Indoor venues make your ribs shake. The dark lighting and the overwhelming stench of joy stretching from speaker to back door ripped the airwaves into a new sensation. I couldn’t hear myself pee when I went between sets. My lobes throbbed and my smile screamed. Incandescent characters dressed in holiday garb lined the bars and the beer never stopped flowing. People don’t give a shit on Halloween and it shows. The one time of year you get to wear your great idea and laugh at the others. Its reckless and loose and everybody gets it. I actually felt bad for the plainly dressed clowns who let their inner child pass away. Standard street clothes displaying blank slates of the creativity. BOOOO! Weird is king on the 31st! Somewhere in-between the maniacs and the methodical thump of the bass, glow sticks exploded against the dim background of the chicly lit stage. Hoards of them blooming in schools and raining joy. Cluster bombs of light and streaks fantasy falling on unsuspecting dancers. Nobody gets pissed when a concert comes to you. I bopped my head, snapped my fingers and watch the stars fall from the sky. I closed my eyes and absorbed the echoes of awesome.