Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Relapse. Rinse. Repeat.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Premature to speak of fall fishing with a pic like this...
100 foot waves. Wow. Can't even imagine the thoughts that are going through this guy's head right now.
Link goes to the article on a very cool pub's website.
http://surfingthemag.com/pulse/08_20_04_freak_waves
Running Blues
Almost that time of year again...saw some telltale diving birds 50 yards past the breakers on Sunday.
Link goes to a pretty funny take on the fish's perspective.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Saturday Six Virgin
1.) What was the last thing you lied about? Told the Mehican restaurant waitress that I was a Bazooka Bubble Gum talent scout and that she had “talent.”
2.) What do you most hope to accomplish by the end of the year? Win a game seven pitching for the Red Sox. And to finish this damn bottle of tequila. And to have congruent goals.
3.) If you could see a film of any moment of your childhood so that you could relive it, what event would you like to see? First time I touched the ocean.
4.) What talent do you wish you had but don't? Math. I’m a flat out idiot once something boils down to numbers.
5.) What are you wearing as you answer these questions? If someone wanted to take your picture right now, would you duck out of sight? White Gap oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up, Levi’s and work boots. I smile for pics, but my zit will be a camera hog.
6.) Readers choice question #20 from Danielle- Have you ever found ajournal that interested you so much that you read back from the begining? Why & Whose? Never from start to end. Never even thought about that. Too narcissistic, medicated and preoccupado. But that’s a good idea. Looks like I got some work to do.
Dum Dum De Dum Dum Dum Dum, Dum Da Da Dum, Da Da Dum De De Dum Da Da Dum Da Dum
Watched some Olympic-astic events on the tele tonight. Saw the US men lose the 4x100. Saw some incredibly beautiful Russian woman bust a great first lap in the women’s 4x400. Saw some wrestlers wrestle. Then we watched “Jackass, the Movie” for some real athletic agony of defeat. By the way, how is it possible to have more limes than tequila? I’m eatin limes like a limey. At least I won’t be getting scurvy anytime soon.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Everything’s legal in Mehico. It’s the American way.
My friend Dave just got back from Mehico, so he came over tonight with a bottle of tequila. Not just any tequila—agave tequila, 500 pesos a bottle (I think that’s like $50). It was in a big fancy jug sealed with wax and had a cork stopper. He peeled off the wax, uncorked it (allowing me to smell the cork, as all fine tequila aficionados obviously do) and poured two shots. I put the Mehico music channel on the digital cable so we could recreate the magical south of the border atmosphere in my central Jersey living room. It was perfect—a mariachi band playing, expensive booze and me and Dave rrrrrrolling our “r”’s just like they do in Mehico. All we needed were a couple of sombreros and a burro to complete the picture. As I brought the glass to my lips, my brain swirled with anticipation at what this premium agave would taste like.
Guess what. It tasted like friggin tequila. He could have saved 40 bucks and brought over a bottle of Pepe Lopez.
However, in addition to tasting like tequila, it acted like tequila. I got buzzed pretty quickly. I was Super Hero Tequila man brimming with wonderful anecdotes about my zit. All my talking must have made Dave hungry, because he suggested that we “get out of this fuckin house and get some fuckin food”. So we did. In the spirit of the night we decided to get some Mehican food. But first, we needed beer. Red Bank is one of those towns where you walk to wherever you need to go. We walked to the liquor store. It must have been Street Fest night or something, cause there were people singing songs and playing guitars all over the place. We listened to some dude butcher Oasis’ “Champagne Supernova” then came to a group of old ladies singing old lady songs. They were all wearing white shirts and jeans—the exact same thing I had on—so Dave suggested that I join them. I did not, for I have always believed that nothing positive can happen when a man drunk on tequila crashes an old lady choir.
We got our beer (six of Red Stripe, six of Corona) and headed over to Carlos O’Connors, the restaurant where Carlos himself once told my friend Kenny that it was OK to spark up a joint before dinner. I ate my weight in guacamole and chimichangas. I was so buzzed after the meal that I asked the waitress where our fortune cookies were. She got a hoot out of that one. So did the rest of the place, because the air conditioning unit clicked off right before I said it, leaving a gaping pause of silence for me to be an idiot.
We paid the check, making sure to leave our non-fortune-cookie-bearing waitress a generous tip, and bolted. There was a line of people outside waiting to get in to the place and as we passed them every single person stared in disgusted horror at my zit. We got back to my house relatively unscathed and promptly began drinking more tequila. I mean agave. Viva los Mehico.
Side note, 8/30 - Must have been pretty good tequila. Not even a whisper of a hangover on Sunday. Or maybe it was the spacing of the shots over an eight-hour period...
Less than I think, more than she thought
In February of 2004 , six months ago to the moment, I was hospitalized for likin’ a girl more than she wanted me to, yet far less than I’ve loved others. It was, is and always will be bullshit. Four days against my will. They can pretty much shoot you up with anything while you’re there. You’re at their will.
Fromthen2nowrollercoasterisnottheword. Falling up a mountain is more apt.
Should have seen the signs in 1994. Listening to Greenberry Woods one minute, Nine Inch Nails the next.
I press the import button as authoritatively as I have in history while my iTunes considers the seven tracks on Dire Straits, Making Movies.
I seen a girl on a one way corridor
stealing down a wrong way street
for all the world like an urban toreador
she had wheels on on her feet
well the cars do the usual dances
same old cruise and the curbside crawl
but the rollergirl she's taking chances
they just love to see her take them all
Nance preformed triage upon me tonight. I realized, then, that when you rely upon people you fall into traps. But not in a bad way. The key is...
...compassion. I had told her of a wound. She responded with analysis and rubber gloves and needles and stinging fluids and ice and hold still and priceless bedside manor and the power to make me drag out lawn chairs onto the front lawn late at night and to accelerate into a smiling mood. All with a band-aid on my face more humongous than I was pre her. And stories that would make me slay a huge farm animal just to hear again.
Nance thought I was an AOL actor. In a way she was right. After three bong hits, I couldn’t decide whether to talk like Jed Clampet or Chico Marx. Jed Clampet wun.
Matt, my neighbor, was there and he saw me break it downand and make all consistently indisciplined.
The deeper I talked the worse I got in. Thela Hun Ginjeet.
The better this story gets, the less I write. Wandering stories and thoughts dripping with Quisp influence. Way to be continued.Friday, August 27, 2004
Volcano
I am not fit to be seen in public, for I have a zit. Not just any zit. I have a zit that looks as if it’s in its third trimester and ready to give birth to zitlets. I have a zit that would be comfortable on the underside of a cow. I have a zit that could star in a porno movie. I have a zit that seemingly wants to star in a porno movie. It, the zit, is triangulated perfectly between my cheekbone, nose and right dimple. This thing is showing up on GPS devices. When I look down, I become disoriented, for it interferes with my vision. I might as well tape the Liberty Bell to my face and imagine that no one will notice. I’ve had a few black eyes over the years—this thing clouds my vision like none of them could. It, the zit, is sucking blood from my brain. Alien is going to explode from my zit. Sorry to be so emetic, but I am preoccupied with this huge nipple growing on my FACE. It has a direct line to some wayward sebaceous gland. I want to mainline Accutane. I want to freebase Clearisil. I am a walking freak. I am an animal. Please don’t look at me, I’m hideous. This isn’t the kind of zit that you go to a dermatologist to get fixed. It’s the kind you go to Planned Parenthood to have taken care of. You can take my pulse just by looking at it. I have to suppress the urge to mutilate myself in order to obliterate it, the zit. It has its own incandescence. The lower the light, the bigger it grows. This is one hung zit. This zit needs a bra. Please pray for the death of my zit.
Funniest. Real estate photo. Ever.
OK, I'm not exactly house hunting in Napa Valley, CA. Yet. This photo is from a real estate listing. Look closely. Can you spot the faux pas? Hint: Faux paw. Nice house. I'd hope to lead a dog's life there...
http://www.mlsb.com/mls/property_morephotos.cfm?ClientID=384&LIST_NUMB=40033129&list=2&ht=1&type=SFR
Dang - they blurred out the pic on the link. Good thing your ol' bud PK was here to capture it for, um, posterity.
PK (7:11 PM E.S.T.)
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Monday, August 23, 2004
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Humid
1985
Woah. This is total synchronicity. I'm thinking about 1985 and I have 85 emails. BRB. I'm gonna go feather my hair and put on my parachute pants.
Blasts from the Past
MyPod on repeat
Either my Ipod is malfunctioning or I have programmed it wrong. The end result is indisputable. I keep hearing a-Ha singing Take On Me. It was ok the first 11 times. Now it's getting me frustrated. Mostly because I can't hit the falsetto notes. After 11 tries.
I remember the girl who gave me the 33 RPM vinyl album with this song on it. Her name was Collette. She stole it from the college radio station. I still have it. She helped me carry my stereo out from the dorm to my car one winter. It was cold and she kept talking about her headlights being on. Indeed they were, and it was magnificent. Her nipples were evidently erect in her bra-less T-shirt. Mom had a field day with that incident. Collette was the one who taught me to sprinkle parmesian cheese on pizza and popcorn.
Rumor has it she committed suicide.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Play by the book
I want to get noticed, yet I am encouraged by the keepers of this forum to suppress myself. Ugh. Do I really? No. I just can't use the cuss words I want to use to descrbe my day. I am vocalizing them now. ####. That was a relatively tame one.####. That was THE bad one. ####. I think I invented that one. ######. ####### ###### ####. That felt good. ### ### ####### ### #### ###### #####. Ahhhhhhhhhh. The keepers of this forum are keenly aware of my penchant to lay a fat 4-letter word to summarize the day. The keepers of this forum are wise to keep me out in moments like this. The keepers of this forum are saving you from my sometimes dark, wicked invective. Praise them. Curse me.
There was a splinter of blindingly beautiful white light, however. We sat and had a chat late in the day and she lifted me with her eyes.
Scars in common
Bitter sour week, here. My Uncle John died early Sunday morning. I hadn’t seen him in 25 years. Our families were estranged. My father and he had a disagreement that dissolved the paternal side of my family tree.
I received a phone call three weeks ago from a man who looked me up in the phone book. He was tasked by my injured and dying Uncle John to find a lost brother, my father. Instead he found me. I was listed. I was in the book. The man left a message on my answering machine. He said, “John’s in intensive care and he wants to see his brother; your father. He wants to mend old wounds.”
I called the man back and listened to him tell me of Uncle John’s specific and not so specific injuries. Indeed, he was in intensive care. And indeed that is what he needed. I thanked the man and the man asked God to bless me. Lightening hasn’t yet struck.
I proceeded to call dad. Tough phone call. Caught him off guard. There was a lot of silence and decision making going on his end. I could tell. In a soft voice he said, “I’ll call you back later this week, PK.”
My father spent the next two weeks with his long lost brother John. The time they had lost. The love they had not.
My Uncle John died early Sunday morning. I had spent that Saturday evening talking with Nancy about him while we smoked and drank innocent cocktails on my front steps. We were amazed at the speed of the clouds sheening the blue moon. She had only come by to talk, and that’s what we did. We spent the evening exposing various scars.
My Uncle John had two children. Boys. My cousins. I was estranged from them for 25 years.
We met again at Uncle John’s viewing. We touched upon the seam of needless estrangement and gathered all we not so strangely had in common. We talked of girls and high school and sports and wooden toy trains.
Uncle John was just laying there. Bearded wearing a handsome bolo tie. In a coffin.
I cannot imagine how difficult and strange it was for my cousins. For it was their dad in the bolo tie. The tie that he had worn for 25 years, at least. I reentered their life through the door of a funeral home. How difficult and strange.
We talked with ease and stood in staring silence with comfort. As it’s been said, “Nothing feels better than blood on blood.”
For as difficult as this year has been, it is nothing compared to that of my cousins. Perhaps this is the turnstrap that whips us back into family. Or at least brothers with scar tissue not of our own making.
Written by pkbeachbum (Link to this entry)
This entry has 6 comments: (Add your own)
-
what a wonderful entry, i too lost a whole side of my family when my mother and father divorced, so i understand, kind of......i am sorry for your loss
tawnya
Comment from ttwstdangl - 8/13/04 9:25 PM
A beautiful and touching entry. You and your family have my kindest thoughts.Comment from sistercdr - 8/13/04 7:20 PM
This is the first time I've read your journal, but I just wanted to tell you that I was deeply moved by your entry. You definitely have the gift of creating visuals with your words. I'm so sorry for your loss, but it seems that you and your family have been able to get some closure. Be blessed...Trina
http://journals.aol.com/trinainmobile/reflections
Comment from trinainmobile - 8/13/04 5:12 PM
Sorry about your loss. Maybe you can get a friendship with your cousins. Family is the best thing to have in times of need and they are better to even know as the years go on so you can have people to grow old together with.Comment from sugar1337 - 8/13/04 3:26 PM
Wow, again I'm overwhelmed at your incredible talent for expression. You've really captured the emotions at play here. I'd be curious to know if your father resolved issues or what he's feeling about his brother now. Amazing entry! ¤HollyComment from quroboros - 8/12/04 10:49 AM
Powerful and moving writing PK. I'm sorry about your loss.Comment from lulu2929 - 8/7/04 2:54 AM
Passport
I write post cards from places I’ve only been. NY, Boston, LA, Philly, San Fran, Chicago, LONDON, Denver, Montreal, St. Louis, Miami, Toronto, Tampa, Phoenix, Dallas, San Diego, Ensinada, Asbury Park...The Jersey Shore
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Shower
Are you a shower singer? I am, but only when no life forms but Lefty are around. And the window is shut.
I found this article today and was floored by the inclusion of one of my all time faves, "Suspicious Minds". Sometimes I do the classic Elvis version. Other times, when chipper and sure of foot, I do the FYC version. Either way, it's better than subjecting the world to me doing karaoke.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/5696858/
Creep
If you like Radiohead and its particular brand of aesthetik, and you have broadband, and you need to make a sandwich or do some laundry or take out the garbage or have a moment in the loo while this downloads (I can't get it to stream - the link, not the loo), then I highly recommend this flash file.
http://www.kalantan.com/creep.swf
Yet again, surfer saves the day
Link to a great story in Britain's infamous newspaper "The Sun" about a surfer who saved nine lives in a flood. Includes a WBFIIWATT (would be funny if it weren't a tad tragic) pic of a young lady being winched up to a helicopter.
http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2-2004381690,00.html
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Asleep among skyscrapers - a year gone by
NYC Blackout:
Part 1:
We will take such events as an excuse to get physically close to our brethren, To other New Yorkers; to mingle and migrate with them, us, I, by the million. To be centered on our two great common denominating thoughts: one of being a New Yorker in a New York transient moment, and one of being a spark in a city of 4 million plugs. We focus forward and accelerate, we actively celebrate those with whom we are joining, rather than passively blink at who might be joining us.
We traverse the great famous bridges on foot. We split apples with strangers. We offer ideas on how to get from Washington heights to Red Bank using human contacts and a thumb. (Hoboken, ask for Dave, he’ll take you to Slabby’s, $40 for a cab to New Brunswick, catch a bus there.) We casually glean the intricate meaning of details in strangers’ lives.
We drink beer and wine and are ever more careful when playing darts ina dark bar. We smile at the policeman, who smiles back while suggesting that we keep to the left of his imaginary pedestrian/traffic boundary. We keep left, and conspire to swing right somewhere in the unfurling distance.
We walk from upper east to upper west and swing downtown along Central Park, We sweat in metro-humidity. We curb crawl the neighborhoods for fresh bodega boxers and cold water and oranges.
Darkness brings an adrenalin rush. The stranded search for sleep on 42nd and Broadway, in Battery Park, in Central Park. We sleep on marble steps, park benches and grand green lawns.
For the first time on this tiny island we have no light but the stars. The constellations confuse us, so we invent our own.
Part 2:
Inventing Constellations
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Yes, I wear pajamas - but only the pants
OK, this is how I know I'm still stoned: I went to put my PJ bottoms on and one leg was inside out. The ensuing effort to rectify the situation was like trying to turn a mobius strip outside in with one's feet.
PJ's: 1
PK: 0
Rock Concert!
Just got back from the Rush concert at the Arts Center. What a strange scene. I used to be a fan back in high school, but haven’t been too into them since. But I was offered a ticket and had a free night, so I decided to go. I’ve never smelled so much weed in my life. And I’ve never had to park in lot 8 before. It took me 10 minutes to drive there and an hour to walk across New Jersey to find my tail gaiting friends, Alan and Glenn. My journey was like one of those Family Circus cartoons where you see everywhere the kid has been meandering with a dotted line. Found them in time to have a couple of beers and catch up on stuff. Then Bob showed up armed with a joint. I had an ear-to-ear grin for the next…well let’s just say I still have an ear-to-ear grin. I was the only dude there who looked like Sid Vicious. (Either him or Ed Grimley – rain does strange things to those with spiky hair.)
When it was time to go see the show we had to take a school bus to the arena – that’s how far away we were. Still got there late. They were opening with “Spirit of Radio” when we got there. By then we were so discombobulated that we decided to get beers and chill before looking for our seats. That was a fiasco in itself. Here is the rest of the night in summary:
A fight broke out right next to me in our seats. A fight at a Rush concert is like an elephant ice skating. It just doesn’t happen. It was entertaining, though
Took a pic of my crotch (balls) by accident when I was calling Marc on my cell phone. Total camel toe. I’d post it, but I’m sure it would violate AOL TOS
All you drum solo fans out there would not have been disappointed
Bob and I left to get pizza and a have a cigarette (respectively) while they played 2112
We hung out in the concession area sitting at a picnic table and laughing at God knows what all the way into La Villa Strangiato
Bob and I were about to leave because we were bored, then they played Limelight. We hung until just before the last chorus and got a jump on the mass exodus
I got a case of major déjà vu while walking under the Parkway overpass back to my car. I mean major
Bob and I said good bye in the middle of the road. He went to lot 10, I went to lot 8
When I found my car there was a guy peeing next to it. From 20 feet away I told him that he better not be peeing on my car. He turned to look and ran away with his zipper down
I drove home with tinnitus – my hearing is forever damaged from seeing so many shows like this. Thanks Ramones and Afghan Whigs
Now I have to read over 100 pages on brain shunts to be ready for work next week
I had a hell of a good time
Friday, August 13, 2004
Expression as a salute
I offer up to you major chords and minor incidents.
To be honest with you, I have no idea where I'm going with this. I seemed like such a grand intro to a thought. Then I fed my cat, Lefty. I forgot what my humongously profound idea was after that. Sorry.
Slice
Sometimes there ain't water in the pool. Then you try to gracefully move on and distinguish the bloody smash of yourself.
Not me
I feel smiles yet unsent. This is my revolution. You will feel my smile at an unexpected moment at a random luggage carousel somewhere between now and dammit. It will heave you toward a compass point. We will share an imagined laugh of exactly .05 seconds and be done forgot to unstep jujube on my shoe why am I at the airport I hate it here I hope my ride home gets here soon.
Waiting for a scab
Bloody tail bone
Imagine blood leaking from the bottom of this pic. Something ain't right here in PK land.
Red
If there weren't blood leaking out of my tailbone, I might feel more indifferent about these Olympics.
International Fan
Other than America, my fave teams are Ireland and Greece. And Spain. And Holland. And the Red Sox.
5 Rings
In spite of the state of the world, the games will go on. As a man who ran a 4:26 mile as a sophomore in high school, I am delighted by the table cloth of athleticism and human endeavor. I friggin love the Olympics.
In my heart I root for the swimmers. Cause I know I would beat them to the shore every time. I know the tide.
Saturday, August 7, 2004
Techno well
Love techno Bjork and have never been bitten by an alligator or shark. Cat, yes, many times. I’m hunted. The one I am thinking of, she is breath-takingly beautiful.
Coffee house poetry, courtesy of PK
Friday, August 6, 2004
Weekend assignment #18...
For a tattoo, I would seek an artist who could depict a “Magic Eye” image upon my bod. You know, one of those ultrascopic, 3-D, 10-yard stare images that were all the rage at the mall a few Christmases ago?
Yes, that’s what I’d want.
On the surface it would be a discombobulated repeat of an idyllic warm ocean wave curling back into itself in an innocent effort of renewal, reenergizing and rebirth. To the eye focused and trained, it would be the illumination of my very soul. In dimensions yet unbound. On the plane of witness, it would seem worthy of distraction to some, worthy of focus to select few, and invisible to me.
Ultimately, through depths of vision, this is what it would come to. Inconceivably, it is a desert image. Born of sand sans beloved ocean. It would be my desire to spring to life in my heart the star of New Mexico. Four compass points, cross, circle and wicked contrast. Native symbol to this continent. And simple if you look hard enough.
Blood on Blood
Scars in common
Bitter sour week, here. My Uncle John died early Sunday morning. I hadn’t seen him in 25 years. Our families were estranged. My father and he had a disagreement that dissolved the paternal side of my family tree.
I received a phone call three weeks ago from a man who looked me up in the phone book. He was tasked by my injured and dying Uncle John to find a lost brother, my father. Instead he found me. I was listed. I was in the book. The man left a message on my answering machine. He said, “John’s in intensive care and he wants to see his brother; your father. He wants to mend old wounds.”
I called the man back and listened to him tell me of Uncle John’s specific and not so specific injuries. Indeed, he was in intensive care. And indeed that is what he needed. I thanked the man and the man asked God to bless me. Lightening hasn’t yet struck.
I proceeded to call dad. Tough phone call. Caught him off guard. There was a lot of silence and decision making going on his end. I could tell. In a soft voice he said, “I’ll call you back later this week, PK.”
My father spent the next two weeks with his long lost brother John. The time they had lost. The love they had not.
My Uncle John died early Sunday morning. I had spent that Saturday evening talking with Nancy about him while we smoked and drank innocent cocktails on my front steps. We were amazed at the speed of the clouds sheening the blue moon. She had only come by to talk, and that’s what we did. We spent the evening exposing various scars.
My Uncle John had two children. Boys. My cousins. I was estranged from them for 25 years.
We met again at Uncle John’s viewing. We touched upon the seam of needless estrangement and gathered all we not so strangely had in common. We talked of girls and high school and sports and wooden toy trains.
Uncle John was just laying there. Bearded wearing a handsome bolo tie. In a coffin.
I cannot imagine how difficult and strange it was for my cousins. For it was their dad in the bolo tie. The tie that he had worn for 25 years, at least. I reentered their life through the door of a funeral home. How difficult and strange.
We talked with ease and stood in staring silence with comfort. As it’s been said, “Nothing feels better than blood on blood.”
For as difficult as this year has been, it is nothing compared to that of my cousins. Perhaps this is the turnstrap that whips us back into family. Or at least brothers with scar tissue not of our own making.
Tuesday, August 3, 2004
The voice on the radio under my pillow is gone
Bob Murphy, Mets broadcaster from their inception in 1962 until his retirement last season, has passed away.