Damn the Rain

Was supposed to see TV on the Radio in Brooklyn today. Was pretty fucking stoked. Late July thunderstorms decided to put the damper on that idea. It's really fucking dark outside and its only 3:00 in the afternoon. Constant thunder reverberating bomblike off the buildings. So I'm going to go to the market, buy a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese, some fruit, and call it a day.

Sentimentality

I've never been accused of being an overly sentimental man. Indeed, cute is not a word I throw around, and I am wont to be heard offering ahhhhs or other pregnent sighs. Nevertheless, there are times when some instance of suffering or pain penetrates my Stoic armor and strikes my inner sentimentalist. Such was the case when, about a two months ago, I emerged from a local cafe, coffee in hand, change jingling in my pocket, and was confronted by a distressed woman. She was crying. She was pushing a stroller. She asked for a penny. Now, generally when I find myself in such a situation I politely nod, offer a grimace/smile, and continue on my way. But this woman was bawling. She was fucking despondent. So I reached into my pockets, I reached deep, and with much ceremony offered her all I had. Something like 22 cents. Regardless, I cared, and I felt like maybe my caring would be the event that would turn her life around. Maybe her baby wouldn't die. Maybe she would recover from cancer. Maybe now she could bail her baby's daddy out of jail, where he is doing time for stealing formula. My inner sentimentalist smiled.
But then last weekend I'm walking out of work and I run smack dab into a crying woman, so upset she couldn't hardly get her words out, tears soaking the top of the stroller she was pushing, and asking only for a penny. WHAT THE FUCK!? Of course, it's the same woman. And I look closer and there's not even a goddamn baby in the stroller. I brusquely walk past. I'm upset. I mean, I understand having to have a schtick, but to play on the sympathies some people have for women and babies? Is this going to far? And to call into question my own self-righteousness. Now this is an offense beyond pardon. I declare here and now - No more change from my pockets into the hands of women or babies. My sentimentality is broke.

Poverty is Good for the Soul

See, these last 10 days I have survived on no more than $50.00. Five dollars a day. Five dollars to cover subway/bus fare (unless I decide to walk to work and back - not a bad option if it wasn't so fucking hot and I didn't always have to be somewhere). Five dollars to cover all my dietary needs (water and fresh fruit and vegetables bought from sidewalk vendors have proven to be the best for my buck). Five dollars to cover any grooming/health/style needs (style is superfluous for the poor; i haven't washed my hair in nearly 7 days because I figure if its dirty it will be more manageable and I don't have any gel right now; prescription medications must be overcome). Thing is, I've survived. Really, I've thrived. Since I can't afford alcohol, cigarettes, whores, etc. I really feel better, certainly leaner, than I have in quite a while. Thing is, I will soon be getting some cash. And I'm afraid that the lifestyle changes necessitated by poverty, which are positive changes (better diet, no drugs, drinking or cigarettes, etc.), will be endangered by my newfound (relative) wealth.

Crisis

He looked at me questioningly and asked, "Well, what happened to your passion?" I can't answer. Maybe one day I woke up and it was gone. Maybe it had been slowly leaving me for a long time. But when you realize it's gone, or when you allow yourself to admit that it's gone, it's gone. So I find myself sitting at a table, surrounded by my colleagues, my friends, and listening to them talk - words - about various interpretations of Marx while sipping on Pinot Grigio. "It just strikes me as so goddamn lame." That's all I got. Crisis - When your dreams, your ideals, the goals you have set, the very things you have strove for appear to you empty and meaningless.

Yet without obscurity
or needless explanation
the true prophet signifies.

Heraclitus, Fragment 11

Cheap Thrills, Big City

Let me begin by stating that I am broke beyond that funny, "I am broke, can you by me a drink" stage. I have officially, according to my own declaration, entered the "I am broke, do you have a tortilla I can eat" stage. That being said, I along with some friends, both old and new, set upon the city last night seeking some cheap thrills. So to the Seaport, where we introduced my new roommate Seth (20 yrs. old, J.C. student, from mid-Illinois, pretty chill guy) to the expansive world of free progressive indie rock. Such music only being listenable in small doses, we struck out for Battery Park and a quiet, dark place to enjoy some of the Northern California bounty. Carrie, a man, a man who had been on the road for six weeks, touring this great land, and having just entered NYC, suggested we take a ferry ride. Brilliant! We all concur. Beautiful night. Wind. The lights receding. The smell of the sea. Staten Island. But there's a ballgame. And look, it's the ninth inning and they're letting people in for free. And when the game ends, disappointingly for the home team, there is going to be a fireworks display. But what fireworks!! It was almost as if they lost control, as if the whole fireworks arsenal, the whole cache, was exploding before our bewildered eyes. And so close to the ground. And so close to our seats. And when will it end?! A raw, unexpected show of light and sound. Thrilling, frightening. Hilarious. We cannot stop laughing. We feel like children, laughing, grinning wildly at the explosions, no longer above our heads but right before us, embers landing in center field. And then it's over; finally over. And so we take the boat home, and walk through the deserted streets of lower Manhattan. And we walk down Wall Street. I am envisioning stupidly finding some money, some real Wall Street money. But alas. Home. Peanut Butter. Sleep.

The Wisdom of Neil Young

"It's hard to make that change, when life and love turns strange. And old." How many times have I heard Neil's plaintive cry, "A man needs a maid?" How many times before now have I heard this desperate refrain without 'getting it,' without being a 'part of?' But now I am part of, and now the longing in my body matches the longing in Neil's voice, and now I have experienced the wisdom of Neil Young. A man needs a maid. A man, indeed.

I've Stopped Smoking

Well, I haven't had a cigarette in nearly half a week. A small step, certainly, but I feel good about it. I've also made the decision to "watch" my drinking and diet. Why, you ask? Could it be the fact that I've just had a birthday (28)? Could it be that I've just returned from a wedding, where I mingled with all my healthier, wealthier and if not happier, at least more sexually satisfied friends? Well, yeah. You bet. That's right. I've decided that little Chris needs to grow up. I've decided that someday I might like to have a job, a wife, maybe even a kid. Furthermore, I've decided that I might like to be able to take care of them and, dare say, be a fucking role model. So I've decided to stop smoking, to drink less - maybe only red wine, and to eat a little bit better. I've spent many years indirectly trying to kill myself, only to fail. Now it's time for plan B.

Going Back to Cali

That's right. I'll be getting on a plane destined for the West Coast first thing tomorrow morning. I must admit: I'm a bit nervous. Not because of the newest security scare. That shit doesn't bother me. My anxiety is not existential, but ontological. I'm afraid that upon returning home, I'll find that I no longer have a home. Indeed, I resist even saying that I'm going home. But if my beloved Nor-Cal is no longer my home, as I always thought it was, then does this mean that NYC is home? And if NYC is my home, then why do I feel like such a stranger? It was Thomas Wolfe who said, "You can't go home again." But must homelessness be the fate of all those who leave?