That Old Itch

It surfaces again.
A snippet, perhaps the start of something.
Cut me down to size.

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“Enrique Fuentes. Fuentes. Enrique Fuentes.”
The voice chanted over the hospital loudspeaker.

A frail old man made his way to the triage window and was directed down the hall by the silent, extended finger of the nurse. He walked slowly and with a slight hunch, his right hand trembling. A doctor waited at the end of the hall; holding open the thick, bulletproof glass door and tapping his feet. I watched the old man disappear through the glass door and looked over at the triage nurse. She filed her nails in a tiny room full of stethoscopes, thermometers and blood pressure devices. The man next to me coughed a loud, hacking cough and pressed a clenched fist to his chest. I scratched at the hard pink plastic of my chair. The television suspended in the corner played a "Taxi" rerun. A woman paced across the black and white tiled floor. She pushed a granny cart containing a tiny television set and a box of cereal. Her left arm hung loose at her side at a strange angle. She smacked her lips loudly and occasionally stood very still with her eyes rolling back in her head. The TV let out a roar of canned laughter.

“Alright amigo, time to go.”

A stocky, bow-legged cop strutted in and rousted a lanky Hispanic man from his seat. The cop did this every hour and a half or so, dutifully kicking the man out. When the cop was gone the man would come back to sit and eat and watch television until the cop returned and put him back on the street. They seemed to have some silent understanding about this routine, and went about it in the manner of co-workers – calmly, wearily, not making a show of it.

The cop flirted with the triage nurse. The limp-armed woman rattled her granny cart and muttered to herself. Someone stood up and changed the channel on the television. I glanced down the hall and saw Olivia coming through the glass door with a female doctor at her side gently gripping her arm.

She was wearing clothes that were not her own. I stood up and took an awkward step forward then stopped. She was delayed at the triage window, the doctor was talking to her quietly and a pair of cops came up from behind, waiting their turn. The doctor handed her some papers and pill bottles. Olivia leaned against the counter and put pen to the papers then handed them back to the doctor who turned away with a final squeeze of Olivia’s shoulder. The cops handed over another group of papers, which Olivia also signed, and spoke to her for a minute. I couldn’t hear what they said but I was struck by the difference in manner between these two figures of authority, doctor and policeman – the one deferential and pitying, the other affecting an air of stern reassurance. I just stood there, with the television chattering and the sick man hacking in the background, waiting for the cops to finish saying whatever it was they were saying.

Olivia came over.

“They kept my clothes for evidence.” She wore a pair of baggy sweats and an oversized v-neck sweater.

“Is there anything you need?” I asked. It was a stupid thing to say.

“Just home.”

I reached into my pocket for my phone and dialed a cab.

"The time of life is short, and if we live, we live to tread on kings"

Recent topic of discussion: the need to do away with this world of organized boredom.

The setting: Camp Bar, Smith St. & Warren, sipping perhaps the purest expression of insular escape, the crowd most likely richer than I. (charity drink from a friend) counting change. ticking down minutes till payday. ones and zeroes. a unified field theory of longing. and don't forget the hatred. it can be pure, and there are those who deserve no sympathy, and no forgiveness. (we just want to be in the right so desperately)

The question: are my life's ambitions so completely and utterly selfish as to render me the worst kind of hypocrite? or do we fight the battles where we can, in the ways we're best suited?

another drink, please. & i'll be in love with everything in an hour.

Night and Day and Then Night Again

"Now without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it."

The curves and angles come into focus

Received the master in the post yesterday from Mr. Mark Berlin. It's incredible. The man is a genius. My heart broke listening back to it for the 1st time as a complete entity, and as an exterior, objective listener. It's very odd to hear your own songs from that objective position, but I liked it, and everything sounds great and flows great. I'm gonna cry because this has been 6 months of hard work and sore troats and late nights and bloody fingers and panic attacks and tons of money burned, and I can say, honestly, that is was worth it, and it feels good. I hope people like it. We'll have copies available for purchase next week, via some online arrangement, and will be making a trip up to Pittsburgh to play a show on Saturday April 1st - Fool's Day, and we are nothing if not blind, raging fools, but hey, we love what we do.

Next up in NY is the Record Release Extravaganza, which I can exclusively reveal to you (being one who is in the know about these things) right now as going something like this:

On Saturday May 6th at Pianos, ourselves and Liberated Matter will be hosting a record release for the ages, featuring a host of great artists handpicked by us and Liberated Matter. The lineup is as follows:

Kinetic
Undisputed Heavyweights
Hula
Wynn Walent
El Jezel

Wynn Walent will also be celebrating his record release that night, and all the other bands are fantastic, so mark your calendars, it will be one to remember. More details as they arrive.

Be well and don't let the bastards get you down.

The Minor Horrors of the Modern World

So my boss(es) have finally started cracking the whip over my constant lateness. Yet even when I try to get here on time, something thwarts me, usually the trains. The R should be renamed the 5 MPH Train, and today's ride was greatly enhanced by the screaming maniacal child in my car. Pity the poor father but he seemed like a moron and this kid just wouldn't quit: "NO! NOOO! NO NO! NOOO!!!" over and over and over, red in the face, squirming all over the seat. It was hideous.

In other news, my fantasy baseball drafts are complete and I am quite pleased with my teams, it's still fucking cold, and the creditor wolves are pounding on my door, but I won't let them get to me, oh no no no.

I don't understand the appeal of AC/DC.