origins vol 7...an act of contrition...

let's talk about kool...

that's kool as in a state of being, the undefinable aesthetic, not cool as in temperature...

smoking is kool. Cut the shit, it is. Are you trying to tell me Kojak is kooler than Bogart? Who loves ya' baby?, Kojak maybe slick, but Bogie he ain't. Now, to be clear, smoking doesn't make you kool. you can't just pick up a pack Tarrytown 120's, light up and expect for the world to kneel to your every whim. No. You're not kool because you smoke. In fact, right now, there are hundreds of thousands of unkool individuals outside of a bar, in their kitchen, on the pitch, off the pitch, in their car, on a train platform, banging their girlfriend etc, all doing their best to look kool by smoking cigarettes. Its not happening. Some people can hang with the cigarette, Rik, in between renditions of his monologue on the virtues of sex and TANG, used to tell me that he couldn't imagine me in any other way but walking across the Country Glen Center sans coat but scarfed and topped with a winter hat, with a cup of coffee in one hand and cigarette in another. Thrilla has said that my smoking was an extension of my personality, controlled pyromania. Point is, whether i'm kool or not, smoking enhanced my wardrobe, i looked the part. My brother who smoke for a short time, did not. Bless his lungs, he was drawn unwittingly to the nicotine but the ritual never did suit him, as much as he liked to think it did. He's better off. Smoking can kill you...

i started smoking with my childhood best friend Dave, a tallish, quiet type worthy of his northern Euro ancestry and upbringing. We used to split a box of Reds over time walking to junior high school. My father smoked, and i liked the scent of a freshly lit cigarette, i liked the look of it as my father would leave one burning a stain on the counter when he needed both hands to do whatever it was he was up to. It looked kool, and i was eager to join the club. When i first took my first real drag, the one where the smoke truly filled my lungs for the first time without incident of cough, that was it. The taste, my virgin lungs absorbing the nicotine through the smoke, distributing it through the blood stream, creating that lovely head rush, the fore bearer of the high, the relaxation, the release of, seemingly, all stress and tension of the moment. The ritual, the exhale, the vietnam hold, the proper flick, tossing them into your lips, properly packing a pack or carton (a special technique i invented), having that Chesterfield moment—all of these things would come, wrapped up in a three inch cylinder. With that first inhale of tobacco i was hooked on a feeling and over time i would be well on my way to experience the aforementioned rituals. By the time i was in my mid-teens i was alternating between Parliaments and Reds, $1.75 a pack...

After being diagnosed with leukemia i had stopped. It had been only a year or so of habitual smoking up to this point and chemotherapy and radiation has a way of helping you quit. The nurses didn't care for it, either. That next New Years, getting back into shape and well on my way to remission i had a few a la Binkley at Buglione's. Astonishingly enough i picked up the habit where i left off in less than year from diagnosis at $2 a pack. Astonishingly enough i never grubbed another from Binkley, although he would make an art of grubbing from me and others, but that and Binkley, for sure, are stories for another time...

by the time i was sitting on the ledge of the Tower Records front window i was well into puffing Camel Lights, which would remain my brand. i held court there for many hours per shift, street philosophy and cigarettes. i always talked my way out register shifts in order to fulfill my shifts outdoors, kvetching as it were, people watching and of course smoking. i do fondly recall the days watching the sunset behind the LIRR tracks on those brisk evenings in late September. There was never anything like a butt when the hawk first came out, nothing. i used to ride home after closing, toking a roach if i had one tucked in the top of the pack before strapping the head phones on and taking the midnight ride. i would arrive home, high and ready for a cigarette on the stoop. Shrouded by the two maples in front of my folks' (RIP to both), the night sky above, i could sit there, unnoticed amongst the streaks of black and orbs of light, enjoying the silence; nothing but the sound of burning tobacco and paper to keep me company. And it was welcome company...

i continued my smoking through my bar tending, and NTC days up until my date with the knife for a torn aorta. I recuperated well, rebuilding myself like the $6 million man for a second time, only to start picking strays out of Missy's pack of Marlboro Lights two months later. i was back with Camel Lights within three months, $5+ a pack and rising. I recall warming Missy's car up and revealing the pilfered cigarette to my lips, smoking in secret as i drove myslef home. Sitting on the steps of Arthur Ashe as the sun bent towards Manhattan taking in a avant-garde trio basking in the beams of the mighty light, while they plied their trade in the distance across the empty plaza, cleared of the nonsense of the day session, and not yet engulfed by the evening's card. Jamie Foxx, entourage in tow, would approve as he passed, so would i, over a Camel...

onto Florida, and a story (or stories) for another day, late in my tenure i began to have trouble breathing. It felt sort of like an asthma attack would feel and given my history I broke down and went to the doctor. diagnosed with bronchitis and no relief through antibiotics, i finally gave up the ghost. i bought my last pack of cigarettes in September of 2006, $3.25 a pack. (!!!!) i smoked my last cigarette Thanksgiving night, courtesy of Hurricane Danny (not really a nickname of his, although he is a fan of the U, i'm just being topical)...

i always knew smokers could be assholes, smoking in crowded areas and the like; being generally inconsiderate I always looked for a quiet spot away from others, partly because of my hatred for people and my wish not to disturb my surroundings. i still gravitate to those spots, haunts indeed, to keep cover from the rat-race.i always knew smoking could kill you. Its smoke—carbon monoxide—that shit kills! i have ever felt an ounce of compassion for someone who sued the tobacco companies for killing them. You killed yourself. What it is I didn't realize was the stench of stale smoke that followed you everywhere. You don't get that whilst smoking. Your taste buds are shot and you can't smell anything, so who cares, but when you stop and you get a whiff off of a smokers clothes, or, Odin-forbid, a wisp of smoker-breath, you wonder how you ever had any friends...

all of the above is to explain the empty space here the last few days. i've been quiet since the end of last week with not much to say or no motivation to tap into in order to put thoughts together. You see, that bronchitis from, now three years, is more chronic than anything else and from time to time i feel the malaise that come with the lack of oxygen to my brain—constricted bronchus and all. i force coughing fits in my steam filled bathroom to expectorate what i can to loosen me up and allow me to feel better. Its my penance. Although i would rate myself a considerate smoker, there is no way that i didn't annoy someone, somewhere with my breath, stench, stray butt or exhale of smoke, so i do my penance. Every bunch of months or so i do time in the shower coughing up a lung, so i can breathe easier. One of these days i'll see a pulmonologist—maybe after the novel comes out and goes Times best-seller, maybe. i'll get myself all fixed up, this way i can get back on the wagon. i don't crave cigarettes anymore, but occasionally i'll find myself in a moment where a Camel would set the place right. Not wanting, just reminiscing. You see, i won't retract my original statement, smoking is kool. If there was a way to avoid the odor, the bad breath and the health detriment, everybody would do it...

so, how much is pack going for these days?...

old haunts...

it was good to get out of the heat. This apartment can consume me like the feeling of a sauna in the afternoon. If you're not careful it can choke you. It was a change in the weather too, with the Hurricane passing on to the right, it sucked the hot air out of the city. A day like this called for a walkabout...

for me, taking the trip into Manhattan is like Heston riding the beach at the end of the Planet of the Apes. 'They've done it, they've really done it!' Anything you need, desire, or revile can be found there at any given time. But you already know that. i've become less inclined to visit Manhattan since i stopped working there, now i see it more as a distraction for the transparent, then the capital of the world—if you can even call it that anymore; maybe a world gone by is more

apt. Progress has stalled here, even regressed. And if its regressing here, then in time it will be here, there and everywhere...

progress is a funny thing. A human being discovers fire. A lightning bolt strikes a bush and sets it aflame, dumb luck. Thousands of years later professional football player shoots himself in the leg, dumb luck. How the fuck did we get from here to there? That's progress.

i got off the E where i usually would and made my way up the staircase in front of St. Pauls; past the placards of biblical quotes and the Africans selling the knock-off handbags. i continued on in front of the throng, jostling for the perfect photos that doesn't exist. i used to tell folk the best place to stand was away from me. They never understood, i doubt they do now. Crossing the street with the help of a pedestrian aid (what they call traffic cops these days downtown), and in fairness, the morning at Church and Washington can be the most convoluted choreography of man and machine on the planet, but this was the afternoon, and they are just in the way. A veritable melting pot of Euro-trash posing for Italian Vogue and senseless shots of granite, yokels who aren't so yokel, but act as if they are walking behind a tour guide, construction workers doing the union thing, transients in transition, and brokers selling your soul to highest bidder, or anyone willing buy, all making their way through the day as i pass. i used to call it the gauntlet; the walk between 61 Broadway and Gate 10. It was and still is a parade of fools and the foolhardy. Gate 10 is long since closed. They are solving the Rubik's cube down there. Progress...

i ducked into the courtyard at Trinity Church, home of Alexander Hamilton's resting place. Its interesting that he is buried in the center of the place that he, more than any other person, helped create. Hamilton is the father of the Federal Reserve, and the New York Post. Thanks for that Al. Its a funny place to have a church, on Broadway a block from Wall Street. Which came first the chicken or the egg? Sure, the church was there first, but the devil has been taking up residence for quite some time. But that's progress...

i took a seat at my regular perch, that is when i was a regular. i think it might be one of the most serene places in this city; the world is ending around it but the dead don't care, and the vegetation, lush as it is this time of year, it looks on in disinterest...

i came here to rustle up some old inspiration i had one dreary, grey morning, before the sidewalks were hosed down and the streets crawled with life. i was struck by the way the spire pierced the sky, even though it was dwarfed by the conglomerates of living, business and education around it, and how at it's peak it looks below at what that living, business and education have wrought. The hole in its soul...

the old inspiration escaped me, some things are meant for the morning, i moved on to other things, and wrote a little piece of another idea i had clunking around. Better than nothing. Progress, nonetheless...

afterwards i took the tourist trail past the firehouse, and over the burgeoning highway for a look. My passport there is long revoked and all that is left of those days is some mud on some shoes and a piece of slag. As i passed i didn't recognize it. The ramp is gone, like they said it would be, and you can't see the sub-basement they took a year putting together. It now looks like a succession of platforms leading to platforms, there is truly nothing to see in this hole in the ground, there hasn't been for almost 8 years. i wish people would get that. But one thing at a time; people will see. Progress...

walked the Hudson later on. Did some work on '...the derelict', a short i've been working on. Then the malaise set in. Dog days, they are almost over. Although those who know me may say that they are just beginning...

progress...

i'm gonna go outside, in the rain...

it may sound crazy...

sometimes the most free you can feel is when the downpour falls...

nothing to lose, nowhere to go, no shelter—you and the rain...

let it soak in every pore, its the only thing that seems real anymore...

sure, it can wash it all away, pain and dreams, your better off without them...

the rain is here and now, and doesn't tell time...

when your life is on an oval, your bound to have a run in...

let yourself soak, let yourself give in...

crooked ain't the word...

by now you may have heard of Them Crooked Vultures, a super-group formed by Josh Homme, Dave Grohl and John Paul Jones...

while i'm excited by the prospect of these three musicians putting together a sound, and the little clip they sent those of us who have registered with them has not quelled the excitement that this could be one of the better things to come along in music in some time, I think I have to call them out on selling $30 t-shirts...

what are we?, paying for JP's social security?...

to the bone...

i'm exhausted...

this heat is exhausting...

its August and August brings the heat, but man-o-man...

the running at the beach and at victory in this heat is exhausting...

trying to do to much to keep from dying. Live to die, die to live, is that 'Flash of the Blade'?...

riding the glacier is exhausting...

but i do still love riding the old horse, even if it isn't a horse. i bet the mutt never thought it would see this kind of action when it was hanging up on some bike rack in California...

waiting for the developments to develop is exhausting...

time is running, running and passing—but i wait, either for the break or the other shoe to drop, either way...

panic attacks are exhausting...

once had one driving my uncle's van to a job in Punta Gorda sometimes its the weather and sometimes its just eating a bad breakfast, in my case you wouldn't understand unless you've been under the knife, but the stress don't help...

filtering myself in my own blog is exhausting...

if i have to censor myself i might as well give it up. Life is hard, you bes' wear your helmet...

getting my CD-burner to actually burn CDs is exhausting...

yeah, right...

chores are exhausting...

yeah, its my laundry and mess in the kitchen, and its even my filth when i forgo dusting or sweeping for bejeweled blitz, or break dancing in my living room, but its not my mail—pick it up god-damn it!...

this is exhausting—i'm going to take a nap...

origins vol 6...bonus top 20 movies list...

my time at St. John's University (NY)—(there is a St. John's in Minnesota) was like a hostage crisis. Still under the shackles of radioactive material and visits to my P.O my otherwise pleasant experience at Jamaica High School was coming to an end. My choices for continuing education were short, due to the P.O. and all, and my interest in it was bordering on non-existence, but i lived in a household where college was the next move, even if you didn't think it was the right idea. At least not right away...

i had become interested in journalism while at Jamaica and had always felt a knack for writing. i used to write stories in 5th grade off of creative writing flash cards that would be in excess of 7 or 8 pages, epic tales, complete with sound effects. i wrote song lyrics for three different friend or brother related bands or projects. So when i was introduced to journalism i took a liking to it. As i approached the time to pick a school i stood at a crossroads. One direction was telling my father that i thought i would be better off taking a year off, really honing in on what it was i wanted to study then work the year, making some cash for tuition and living expenses, taking the SATs several more times (i took it once) and finding the perfect school for me. The other was choosing the best of the bunch from the local fare, within price range. That was St. John's and i went into the journalism program. i just didn't have the hair on my balls yet to challenge the parental authority, and was in no shape to try...

i spent five years at SJU, changed majors—hence the extra year, worked on the staff of The TORCH, the official student newspaper of St. John's, as well as smaller roles with other SJU publications such as Spectator and the Yearbook. Working at the newspaper i found my love for commentary and distaste for actual journalism. i found myself beginning to find my voice as a screenwriter and would go on in later years to continue to feed that beast. As i have written before, my time at Tower Records was more of a college experience to me then SJU was, but that's not to say it wasn't an experience worth recalling fondly. There are plenty of stories to tell about The TORCH office and darkroom, the sports we created, the games of three man in the darkroom, the show mes, the late nights what have you, and i may end up getting to them in one or another, whether it is here in this forum or tucked away in a novel or a short story somewhere, waiting to be flush out. But i'll spend this space writing of my time in the Yearbook/Spectator/Sequoia office next door to The TORCH office and the games, nay, tournaments of Spades (where i recorded two Bostons with Chris McTigue, and we called one of them—we dug graves in Spades) and my getting to know among others, one Gus Sanchez...

When Gus isn't fulfilling the quota of Hispanics for the state of North Carolina or perfecting the art of rolling up his sleeves so he looks like a disaffected college professor, he writes insightful pieces on all manner of pop culture, politics and being lost in space. i awoke today to find his newest work, his Top 20 Films Since 1992 on Facebook. The piece was inspired by a YouTube link he included showing Quentin Tarantino announcing his favorites from the last 17 years, seeing as though it has been 17 years since his debut—Reservoir Dogs. I left a few comments under his note that stoked a deep discussion on the value of Paul Thomas Anderson's 'There Will Be Blood', and then jetted to the beach for a run, some time in Mother Ocean, hit some golf balls because i suck and need the work, and then had a run in with a shirtless derelict entering a library (more below), all the while trying to compile my own list. A daunting task to say the least, but my love of film and my desire to create a working screenplay and film at least once, informs me a bit on this subject...

first off, i'm under the assumption that the list can include films from 1992, and secondly it should be said that i am very much behind in films that i should have seen over the past two or three years. Lastly, i have found it very difficult to narrow down the list to 20 so i will start with a list of films that definitely make the list without a bat of an eye...

The Player—Here is a film that is on my all time list, and yet almost never ends up in discussion as such in most circles. Robert Altman is considered one the greatest American Directors of all time. I think that is overstating things drastically. Other than MASH, I have never been floored by one of his film, except this one. A perfect noir set in Hollywood starring Tim Robbins and Hollywood...

Reservoir Dogs—This film created the American interest in Hong Kong films and the copycatting of the genre. This was an homage, and it is perfect. Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill 1 & 2 could be on this list, but this one is a lock...

Fight Club—

Boogie Nights—The movie that took Marc Walberg from joke, to big Hollywood swinging dick—literally. This film brims with incredible performances from John C. to PS Hoffman to Julianne Moore, Melora Walters, Burt Reynolds, Cheadle, Baker, Molina, etc and packs a tale of yay and woe for the ages. All discussion of PT Anderson aside, this is his best work...

Glengarry Glen Ross—i have never heard the expression 'fuck or walk' before the Mamet inspired Alec Baldwin soliloquy. What a writer and what a group of actors. Another all-time lister, no doubt...

Fargo—My favorite Coen Brother film is Miller's Crossing, but this one will always do. My only other comment regarding Gus' list was lost by some mysterious deletion, only to say that 'The Big Lebowski' has raised it status due to a growing cult status, but it just doesn't meet the standard of Macy banging on his steering wheel in a downright tizzy and then going about the business of de-icing his windshield...

Requiem For a Dream—i will never do drugs, never, i promise.

Being John Malchovich— i just want to know how Charlie Kaufman feels about raising the bar so high you might as well take up needlepoint...

Royal Tennenbaums—Life Aquatic could be here, but this is the one you use to describe Wes Anderson's style...

Brick—Great noir set in a modern day high school with Joseph Gordon Levitt shedding every bad thing he ever did prior. Stop what you are doing and see this movie...

Memento—Incredible debut by Christopher Nolan and a new respect for Guy Pearce. Killer story, killer set up, killer twist...

this is where it gets complex 9 spots but too many films. In no order and with the aforementioned Pulp, Kill and Life Aquatic included; Mulholland Drive, Bottle Rocket, Magnolia, There Will Be Blood, The Game, Wonder Boys, Rushmore, Snatch, Shawshank Redemption, The Departed, What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, American Splendor, Babel, Syriana, Usual Suspects, Dazed and Confused, Big Night, Out of Sight, Traffic, Layer Cake, You Can Count On Me, Slums of Beverly Hills, American Beauty, Half Nelson, Usual Suspects, Saving Private Ryan, Munich, Trainspotting, and The Hangover...

i'm probably missing some here too, its all subjective, but there you go, rip into it...

more evidence of the decline of man...

when did it become OK to walk into a library with no shirt on? You can't walk into a 7-11 without a shirt, so why would anyone think that it is acceptable to do your best 50-Cent impression walking into a house of learning and repose? Show some fucking respect for the laws of civilized society...

i was shirtless as I drove up to the library this steamy afternoon, after a run at the beach and 220 golf balls at the range. somehow I still had the foresight to dress myself accordingly before returning books. Now, i was in and out in 15 seconds. When got back to the car i took my shirt off. I'm a viking, i sweat in January, but i realize there is code of decorum we must share in order to keep up the appearance that we are not savages so i put on a shirt. i would have thought it was innate, but time and time again i am treated to just how wrong i am about our fellow Earth people, and yes sometimes i do feel like i was born on Jupiter and that my 7XL has not yet been invented. Its becoming more and more difficult to deride the rage...

i should be overjoyed that a young man of that age would even enter a library in the middle of the Summer, for whatever reason. I didn't want to put a shirt on either, its fucking hot out, but things are the way they are, and in this case, maybe its the way it should stay...

i put it simply, if Spicoli has to wear a shirt, we all do...

the 36 chambers of...

the kid down the street and i couldn't get on the links, yesterday. We were despondent. We decided to pull the old double dip today. The gauntlet, 9 hours, 12,000 yards, 54 golf balls, 36-holes of golf—on each fork of Long Island...

first was the Links at Shirley. Shirley is best known for being the one time home of Lt Dan. My old boos and uncle in FLA.

the course was well groomed and difficult, to say the least. The sun was just beginning to heat itself up like a toaster oven. We were certainly toast.

We were rushed to start and things didn't go well for our hero. It never got much better either...

then came a the twilight round at Long Island National, a sprawling north shore course in one of the 'ogue's. The Kid's sister got married out there a year ago, and his stepfather hit some balls with us out there, so we were familiar. Surrounded by sod and corn farms, it played a little better than the Links, and even though it ate us up we got a screaming deal, met a nice kid named Brian, a sugar broker—he actually trades sugar on the commodities market, and we got a thrilling vista to boot...

but frustration got the best of me and the exhaustion took its toll on the Kid. As a quick aside, the Cat Mom has taken to calling him the mistress and i'm still very taken with the Cat Mom...

for the record, its the kid finally got me into golf, which i thank and hate him for. in my time of need he has been my benefactor for golf weekends and dinners as well as other intangibles. He can be testy, and terse, he is ultra competitive and has a Napoleon complex. He can also be a creative scorer from time to time. But he is my cousin, and we have had a bond for many years, he is like the third brother, the younger one i didn't get, and i appreciate his generosity beyond bounds....

let's also be clear about my golf game, now a little over a year old. It has regressed. As challenging as these two courses were, my game, while never stellar hasn't been right since early July. i've played my share of rounds and done my share of work at the driving range but i'm having real trouble getting my head out of the way. Golf is an excruciatingly masochistic activity. It attracts you in a flash, stealing your heart quicker than winking vixen at the end of a bar, and then proceeds to slowly bleed the lifeblood away from from its unwitting victims. i spent most of my day miss-hitting irons, slicing and shanking. There was a ton of three-putts and and plenty of self loathing. i've effectively lost the ability to make shots i made a mere month ago. i had said to Brian, during our round that this had been one of the worst days of my life. Brian, who was quite a good player and good-natured enough to deal with two shankapatomuses, commented, that it couldn't be that bad, we got to play golf twice today. Very wise...

three hours later i made a killer putt to finish the round—the only one-putt all day. That's the one i take home with me, the one that makes it all worth it...

that and the car fire on the way home...

bonus car fire. That's how things go in the 36 chambers...

Wu-Tang, Wu-Tang!...

doing the world a favor...Vol 1

here's a how to manual to avoiding bad movies...

the film(s) star Ashton Kutcher...

i know, he's soooooo cute but, really, he's been out-done by Tommy Chong...

the rest of the cast have the salary of soap opera actors...

Hart Bochner?!

the first trailer you see for the film is two nights before its release date...

Really, i've been watching the Final Destination trailer for the last moth and a half, begging for the film to come out so I don't have to see it anymore, ditto for The Time Traveler's Wife. This thing shows up Wednesday, comes out on Friday. Now that's sneaking it in under the wire...

the release date is in the middle of August...

usually, high profile summer movies are released in June or around holidays, usually, i mean; i could be wrong and all...

the tag line of the trailer is the narration of Kutcher—who sounds absolutely thrilled to be reading this script, "I thought life would be like a Van Halen video. Damn Van Halen."...

note to the writer; Van Halen hasn't made a video for over a decade. Kutcher wasn't born when Van Halen I came out. Script girl? We need to make a change here...

ashton's beau Demi Moore is said to be very proud of her man's work...

she's still alive?...

while you are at it, you should avoid Final Destination and the Time Travelers Wife as well. Go see The Hangover again, if its still out, or stare at a brick wall—the entertainment level will be comparable...

you're welcome...

ocean size...

some days have odd textures...

august is volatile, it is brutal in its oven-like manner. Short on air, long on haze. It can melt men. Its been melting me, i have been feeling like a Zan—form of a puddle, things have been slow in the constellation. August is for the beach. With that in mind i made my way to the sands of Jones—Robert Moses great esplanade, because when in doubt, a dip in mother ocean will cure all that ails you...

i took a run though the back-reeds of the park, off the boardwalk and onto the sand. Around the hidden police hut and up over to the ocean's edge to meet a stiff east to west wind along the beach back to Field 2, where i dropped the sneakers and the keys and walked into the waiting Atlantic. The sea was unsettled, heaving short, choppy salvos at itself, as the tide made its way in. i quickly duck dived to feel its refreshment. Its coolness enveloped me like a walk in cooler, leaving no pore wanting...

i allowed myself to be washed away from the stress that has become my days of late. Idleness, or shall i say lack of financial idleness is beginning to take its toll. Life as a guerrilla can be lean and mean, that's why i run, got to fight it out everyday. i find a myriad of ways to spend a day—i've been writing here a lot, and making notes on new fiction, keeping up the apartment, staying on top of fantasy sports leagues, running regularly, biking, golfing and generally being, but its not paying and just avoiding the inevitable...

i left my mom's car at the house after its day of use to keep the dreck away as my folks enjoy their yearly jaunt to Greenport. i rode back, because three days of running wasn't enough, i had to put my legs through the gauntlet. I had planned to forage for food in the folks' frig, but thought better of it after noticing the small window i had to stay out of the weather. i packed up supplies—an onion, a tomato off pop's vine, hot dogs, a Tupperware of beans, a roll of paper towel and toilet paper—like i said, things have been tight in the constellation of late. i made my way back to the FHills. Back to the grind, as it were...

i usually take days like this, time and again, to stir up a little spark in the routine, but even the rare has become routine. i was hoping the ocean would motivate me today, instead it made me comatose, the bright grey sky above me did nothing more than put me in a trance, the sea was green holding me up, the only thing that stirred me was the impending doom of the afternoon showers that were to come. A fractured day indeed, 9 holes in the rain, a Met win in Arizona, how bizarre. There would be no pen to paper, just a bike ride home on a another tricky day...

i had a lead on a writing gig. Shilling woe for a political site, dry as bone, but cash in hand. Apparently my style was too abrasive, and i didn't fit their profile. This is the constellation, there is no profile, only logic, no matter how i come around to it, in the end there's always logic. Too bad i don't get dime-one from it. Or readers it seems. I get more hits on Facebook by throwing an innocuous comment about Yankee fans on my profile and i'm being celebrated and vilified for the next 12 hours, but a piece about how we're going to hell in a hand-basket and not a comment—nan one. Well, it just goes to show, i spit diamonds on the daily but world loves its horse-apple pie. Luck, circumstance—a shift in the time continuum, something will shake out and i'll be sipping champagne and high on boardwalk...

until it does shake, i wish i was ocean size...

leonard bernstein!!...

its funny what you can run into on Facebook, these days. Its become multi-generational, and has linked people together who probably want nothing to do with each other. I recently found out, after taking a 'what kind of bitch are you?' quiz, that my 11 year-old cousin is rated as a 'classy bitch'. Well, that's good, I'd to think that she was a 'raging bitch' or 'lazy bitch' or 'bitch-on-wheels or...

through Facebook i have found that Yankee fans do not have the capacity to remember even a 45 days in the past and that my best friend's wife is just getting around to the fact that the people who go on Judge Judy are stupid. Really?—Really?!! The sad fact is that my cousin from Texas once appeared on that show, which was awfully embarrassing, especially after she lost the case—:/ gasface given...

through Facebook i have been brought up to date on softball teams, and parents hanging out with their kids, the unusual hi-jinks of other cousins, my brother and his never ending battle with coffee and meh and Rod being an asshole. Lately, i've been using Facebook more to play Bejeweled 2 than for any other reason, but occasionally i come across something of interest...

a former mentor and advisor to The TORCH, the Official Student Newspaper of St. John's University—for which I wrote and served on the Editorial Board of proudly for four years, passed an item along on her page—'How America is Going to End: Choose You Own Apocalypse'. She offered a link to a story written by Josh Levin for Slate. The piece presupposes the end of American Society and offers the reader a way to map out how this end will take place. Levin offers that the American Apocalypse could be caused by any series of factors featured in the 'Map Your Own Apocalypse' segment of the article. Routes include forecasting the decline, a dictatorship, a secession, a Mormon takeover, along with paths you can create yourself, there are 144 options listed in all. One factor, however is missing. Intellectual Inferiority...

I happened to catch a film a few weekends back called 'Idiocracy,' starring Luke Wilson and Maya Rudolph. It was a poorly made film, but its point was valid. Wilson travels in time (via government hiccups) and wakes up hundreds of years in the future to find out that he is the smartest person in the America—hi jinks ensue. Are we as a nation becoming too stupid to live? Here is a quick quiz:

1. Do you believe that your god is better than their god?

2. Do you believe that our government is a democracy?

3. Do you believe using stereotypes is racist and/or politically incorrect?

4. Have you seen Elvis in a gas Station?

5. Do you think i care if you and little Suzie had a great time at the park today?

answers: 1. I don't believe in ghosts and neither should you. 2. Its a Republic ruled by industrial magnates. i mean, they won the civil war, and all—and you thought we fought that war to free slaves. 3. i am a white male who went to public school and i have an ass. i do not speak like a Dave Chappelle impersonation and i too enjoy grape soda and watermelon—doesn't everybody?! Point is, hate people for the right reasons, like i do, not because race, creed or religion. There is nothing correct about being politically correct. Say what you mean and mean what you say. 4. The man is dead. 5. I don't. I really don't.

this is but a sample quiz, maybe i'll spend some time creating a larger scale quiz that asks if you use your turn signal or if you think its ok that you can buy a firearm in Virginia with nothing more than a driver's license, or what the quadratic formula is, we'll see if i have the time. You know what they say though—'ask a stupid question'...

aaron Sorkin once wrote that education is the silver bullet. It is. Education eliminates the questions above. It relieves the pain and rage caused by the answers. Of the 144 routes to the apocalypse that Levin offers up in his piece, the majority, if not all of them, can be solve by having a more intelligent population. A population that asks the right questions, demands positive action, and motivates its leaders to be true to the ideals that are America—not the distorted view from penthouse offices and lobbies in the Capitol—can thwart such an end. Without education this nation will eat itself. We will be buying our education, filled with a history of deceit of the war-mongers and snake-oil salesmen who wrote it. It will be stocked with enough mathematics so you can count the last pennies in your pocket correctly. Enough science to heal the sick, and create a strong defense but not enough to cure disease or find alternative energies to fuel our greed. Is there any other business better to be in right now then the health industry and defense contracting? Music will be taught by hitchhikers and homeless in the streets, art class will be graffiti on the walls—physical education will be the walk to McDonald's...

teach your children well, avoid an American Apocalypse, so we can get ready for the real one in on 12/21/12. Just like Prince in the 1999, Rush stands to make a ton in a few years, get that voice loose Geddy...

its the end of the world as we know it...

and after getting that off my chest, i feel fine...

casey kasem's top 40....

its my Mom's birthday, today. i just got home from a BBQ meal full of plots of TV shows I don't watch and '80s music that she has accrued since my pops got her a laptop. Yes, she has melded seamlessly into the new millennium...

it turns out she has more zeal and zest for life than anyone I know. She'll probably out-live me, but if i ever have to hear another plot-line from NCIS i may have to cut her off...

i already had to warn her that i would de—friend her from facebook—and i would...

i love you, Mom, happy birthday...

are you listening? vol 3...the late lunch

i've been beaten myself up lately. Basketball, running, golf, and biking as usual. Writing a lot more and there's more to come. it becomes exhausting. i ran a few errands and did my monthly business at my landlords across (pay the rent and complain about the roof), but I plan on taking it easy today seeing as this weekend will be another gauntlet. But before I settle in to a grilled cheese sandwich, potato pancake and carrot-apple-spinach-beet-blueberry juice—all homemade 'cause i've got it like that—i figured i'd share the late lunch soundtrack spinning on the 6-cd changer...

BLACKsummers Night—Maxwell

Vitalogy—Pearl Jam

Fly or Die—NERD

Lettuce Prey—Six and Violence

Peace Beyond Passion—Me'Shell Ndegeocello

Reggae Ambassadors, 20th Century Collection—Third World

what are listening to?...

probably the hum of the fluorescent light above you—enjoy...

mackle...

this is Mackle...

you want to be him, you know it...

shit, if i wasn't already me, i would want to be him...

mackle lives a life of leisure in Wilmington, NC with his wife Betsy. He is a provocative thinker and top-notch idea man as well as being a co-creator of Throwball...

what is paramount and of most important in Mackle's dossier is that he is a Sunnyside, Queens native and a lifelong Mets fan...

before we go any further down this rabbit hole, i'd like to

point out that this piece is not about the better team—Mets or Yankees. Currently the Yankees lead their division and the Mets are slowly metamorphosing into a Triple A team...

now in fairness let's be clear, if the Yankees lost Derek Jeter, Mark Texeira and since your outfield is about as good as Pony League baseball team, and neither Brett Gardner nor Melky Cabrera and, for that matter, a combination of the two could equal Carlos Beltran i'll add in Alex Rodriguez and you lost a set-up man in your bullpen, your #3 starting pitcher for the season and your #4 starting pitcher for two months (although i'm not sure Ollie Perez was ever with the team, even now) do you think they would be battling for first place in the American League East? The answer is no, and for those of you who would like to point out that A-Rod was out for the first month or so of the season, shelve, the Yanks were middle of the road at best without ONE of their best players let alone 3 out of their best 4. Yes, on August 5, 2009, the Yankees are better than the Mets...

all that said, the Yankees suck...

they do, everybody knows it, i'm not breaking any new ground here. Now I could give you the pad answer i give to most Yankee fans for why i don't root for their team, like the growing up in the late '70s and early '80s and the being antagonized by the constant drone about how the Yankees had their 20 some odd world championships and they've sucked cock better than any other team in baseball and so forth. And then when the Mets were good in the late '80s all the Yankee fans disappeared and they disappeared well into the '90s except for a select few die-hards who continued into the '90s droning the same old tune. Fine, great history. The Yankees have been around 60 years more than the Mets, they should have more championships. That doesn't mean they don't suck...

the Yankees are killing the game of baseball, and they have for some time. Their ownership has been feeding the greed of sub-par players through free agency longer than any other and with steadfast fervor. The only time they didn't is when they were leading the charge in collusion from 1985-87. I'm not saying they shouldn't try to get the best players for their team, but if they are going to do so they should play by the rules. There is a luxury tax in baseball, the higher revenue teams are required to pay the lower revenue teams a percentage of their revenue to offset big market advertising money and what not, and the Yankees, at the top of the list, pay their share—at least that's what they would have you think. Pepsi has been the official soft drink of Major League Baseball since 1997. The Yankees cut a deal with Coke for their old stadium. None of the money from that deal counted towards the luxury tax. Nor did the money from their deal with Addidas, an endorsement no other club has. Yes, because of their history they are a prime market for these corporations, but what the Yankees did was circumnavigate the rules. Its this attitude that the Yanks are able to do whatever they like and get away with it and then be able to brag about it. Its insane behavior. By a baseball team and by their fans and after ll this money they still asked the people of New York to pay for their stadium, and even threaten to move to New Jersey if they didn't get our cash. Our cash, not Yankee fans cash, all of our cash. That takes balls the size of the Empire State. And yes they are an empire onto themselves, steamrolling through game and leaving a dreck in their wake...

i love baseball, and the Yankees are killing it. That sucks and they suck and that doesn't change because they are in first place...

i root for the Mets, i am no fanatic. My viewing of baseball is done from a keen and learned eye of watching, playing, umpiring and coaching for a large portion of my life. I know the Mets are the red-headed step child here in New York, I embrace it. There's honor here in Queens. i wouldn't root for the Yankees is they were the only show in town. Ask old Dodger and Giant fans about the Yankees, they'll tell you the same story...

this whole post was inspired after Mackle posted his disdain and disappointment about how the Mets lost the other night on facebook. Mackle, ever the pragmatic Met fan needed to release the demons of a poor season and let his feelings be known. Apparently that rolled the red carpet for Yankee fans to tell him to change allegiance, to switch to the dark side if you will. i chimed in with my pat comment for all Yankee fans—Yanks Suck. And they do, and it makes the Yankee fans get all riled up. They are so easy...

and as for history, the Yankees are about to demolish it. i plan on pissing on the ashes. The desperate signings will come, like when they signed Danny Tartabull and Jesse Barfield. They'll start over-running each other on the base-paths and blow a 3-0 lead in an LCS again. How are all those Yankee fans going to explain the losing, year after year, that is in the cards for them? That curse—long gone. You have your own curse now and he wears the #13.

bring up the history. Their history is gone, it happened...

and Rod, its going to take more than two pitchers. Enjoy the suck...

white trash unite!...

well, its on, apparently...

the conservative right has rolled out its battle plan...

the powers that be in the republican party have decided to appeal to their lowest common denominator—white people. They hope to gain ground in the 2010 mid-terms by getting white voters in an outrage about social programs...

are you ready for some ignorance!?...

origins vol 5...the making of an old school brother...

a bunch of year's back, tired of the nicknames of my past, i decided to create one of my own. i christened myself the old school brother #1—OSB1 for short. It fit, my sensibilities are a much better fit for a era gone by. It also identified a style of my own, an individuality culled from distinct experiences in an ever changing society that somewhere began to miss the point. i've been dubbed any number of analogies to an old soul—from crotchety old man to budha on the mountain top. i've never shied from this depiction. i like to be thought of this way—hard to approach, yet, a oasis of wisdom. Sure, i'm as lost as any of you are, but the difference is that i freely admit it...

the meaning of life, the philosopher's ultimate quest. Bullshit. This why dudes with PHDs in philosophy end up working produce at DansKey. i've never spent a moment yearning for the meaning of life. Simply put, the meaning life is the search for the meaning of life, the ultimate practical joke. That's not to say there is no meaning, its just to say that there's nan one of us on this satellite that have intellectual fortitude to come up with the slightest idea of what it is. And you know what, to think you could possibly have the understanding is an insult to life. Life just is. It was long before we showed up and will be long after we've shat the bed, so give up the ghost. The best you can hope for is to pick a few nuggets of truth here and there, tuck 'em in your pocket, and make your journey a little bit easier...

my father is 63 today. i gave him a call, it was short and succinct, as it has been a lot lately. i asked him if he was going to join us for a camping trip we have planned for early September, he said it doesn't look good. Slowly, he has settled into his spot. He's involved in his church more than he ever was and is more preoccupied with everyone else's problems to realize that he should be preoccupied with himself. He's five years past his 30 year button with the City, sort of paying the city to keep him on the payroll, with the interest from his dormant pension sitting in the City's coffers until he finally decides to give up the ghost and start taking his share. i along with anyone else in the know can't understand what he's waiting for, a second heart attack?, a gold watch? a proper pat on the back? None of that will change the fact that to me, he will always be the smartest guy in the room, even without the college education. That he is the toughest man in the room even after i have rebuilt my body from scratch—twice. That he is more deserving of a fruitful retirement than most. Yet he waits. Maybe he doesn't know what to do next. Maybe he spent so much time with his head to grindstone, being ground, that he has felt left behind without a clue of how to spend the remainder of his days—after all, he is the original old school brother and the reason i put the #1 suffix on my title...

i guess its normal to have this sort trepidation when heading into one's retirement years. The days are getting shorter and mortality is becoming more apparent. i guess i don't really understand hitting the brakes because my mortality has been tested twice in the span of half of his life, let alone the entirety of my own. i guess he's still searching for meaning. Maybe he's figured it out. If he did, he's not telling. Instead I get 45 second conversations on the phone...

what can you say, dude's old school...

happy birthday, old man...