Bruce

Bruce is on Leno tonight.

Conan on June 23.

So I get a little excited when Bruce is to be seen. I've never lived in the same neighborhood as a rock god before, let alone one I've always liked.

 

Let me smile for a moment

There's nothing like eating an almond Hershey's Bar in one's boxers with the A/C on while watching baseball and having just cashed a check for $21,000. With a dozen off/on site freelance offers for the summer at 4 grand a pop. Over a 2.5 month period. But then what?

Ultra-love tentatively, with a secret escape tunnel

xxxxxxxxxx,

You asked me to read it all, I ask the same. If you have any questions, please dial xxx-xxx-xxxxx.

If you’re looking for a simpering Nancy-boy or equivalent breed of kiss-girl’s-ass dude, you’re looking at the wrong person. You’re not going to get it here. All you have to do is look at my history and talk to a couple of friends of mine to realize that I don’t succumb to that groveling bullshit. I don’t play by the rules that a gaggle of girls make up around the sewing circle. I go my own way, all else be damned. I trust in myself to win in the long run because I see through the stupid person/and or people who think they can pull the wool over my eyes. It’s an almost enchanting feeling knowing the methodology behind someone else’s actions. Especially when they creep through the sewers of emotion thinking they’re rising above said substance.

You admit to having personal problems. Welcome to the club of 20,000,000,000 of us. When will you ever learn that, no matter how hard you try, the world won’t revolve around you? Do you think you’re the only one with anxiety? Is that why you’re appalled that anyone would dare raise your level of anxiety? You do it to me, I do it right back. I don’t care. It happens to all of us every day. If you want to deal with it, love me back. I’ll love you back.

That e-mail you sent 8:00 last night did nothing but drive home my original point. You find fault in everything but yourself. Even when you do admit being a bitch, it doesn’t come without an itemized list of faults that don’t have much street cred other than the fact that they made you have a pity party for yourself. You’re 30-whatever going on 12. So am I, but I take it out on PlayStation, not humans. Doesn’t say much for me, but there is less violence in the world for it, psychologically and physically. (But you are probably more mature than me.)

I’ve spent the past 6 months apologizing for you lying to me. For my own sanity, I’ve decided that it’s no longer ok for people to lie to me. Simple as that.  You’re going to have to come up with a different strategy for me to be close to you in your life. I don’t want to be friends. I want to fuck. I want to fuck like the lovers we were. If that’s out of the cards today, don’t count on it being in the cards tomorrow. Simple as that. I’ll knock on the next door down. You think you’re going to find the Ft. Worth love again? One night in the distant future you will be walking back toward a bed and exhale. You will never inhale that dizzying, warm shiver of rush of love again. We had it. You prefer pain and angst to joy and celebration. That’s the difference between us. That’s so heartbreaking.

Love is the rush we had leading up to that trip. Love was that horrible airport hotel room and the awful room service. Not to mention our fun adventure of circling the airport trying to find our hotel. I don’t think I ever loved you more than I did during that 30 minutes of driving in a circle. I saw you keeping your cool. I loved that. We could have driven to Canada and back and I would have been warm and fuzzy about you. It was fun and we laughed.

Love is breaking glasses full of ice next to a bed.

Love is lying in a bed soaked in sweat and cum with the air conditioner blasting on us.

Love is watching a hurricane together—twice—and being confused at why our brothers and sisters are suffering.

Love is getting fired together, and telling your grandchildren about it.

Love is anything that might happen tomorrow.

I’m bad. You’re bad. Big deal. We were good together first.

Happy Birthday xxxxxxxx, work on your curve ball xxxxxxxx.

Remember xxxxxxx(me)  as he is. Not how he is threaded through txt messages and vm’s. The man who lived to kiss you. Everyday. Not once every 6 months. You are worthy of so much more than what you have. No penance allowed. I’m not a priest.

Love,

xxxxxx

My team is the best

As usual, the Red Sox rock.

Tanning booth

 

Shallowness as a means of consumption as a staple of techno-lust. Otherwise known as indulgence.

I have an iPod brimming with marvelous music, a cell phone that replicates that purpose while connecting me to 150 of my closest compadres, a 5-disc DVD player operating as one of three steros in my living room, 4 other kick ass music makers spread around the place, 600 CDs, over 1,000 books, a piano, drum set and pre-CBS Strat, 2 kick ass computers, custom golf clubs, a closet-full of Joseph Aboud, Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren suits, beach access, Manhattan velvet rope access, women who show up unannounced weekend nights, rare counter-computer surveillance knowledge, a dominating command over the English language, folk hero status in certain states, a curveball, a closet full of plaques and trophies, cool scars, cache in bars, and the confidence to not have to lie to teeter upon a shakey story of self-confidence. Plus, no one to answer to.

Those are the things I don't tell people, lest I lose my refined status as a man of excrutiatingly deep thought. Which is true.

Boo-boo, boo-hoo bitches vs. breath-takingly bold brain-building

This thought occurred to me late last night as I settled into sleep:
You made it through another day. How useful is your mind as a result?

I'm not one to go through the motions without thinking of good and bad ramifications. But I'm not shy about raising hell when someone else is going out of their way to bother me, ramifications be damned. That philosophy has carried me into some difficult situations and some fierce conflicts. I sleep better at night though because I'm not going to let anyone fuck me over without making them think twice about their own ramifications. Consequense alights my mind. I want to spread the gospel if for no other reason to shut up all the petulant, whiny, pain-in-the-ass, feel sorry for themselves bitches out there.

Are you smarter today than you were yesterday? Or just bitchier?

Quantum Love

“Instead of waiting for someone else to reveal love, you step forward as the embodiment of love. Instead of waiting for the other person to come to terms with her anger, you step forward and be the messenger of peace.”
-- Gurumayi Chidvilasananda

Empty Sign

There's this thing on the side street next to my house that looks like it used to be a sign for something. Now it serves as a frame for whatever is behind it. I think it's kind of cool.

Snug as a hug in a tug

Occasionally I disguard the boxers and choose to wear the brief/boxers. Why? Just because I need to feel my balls snugged up in an elastic sack. It feels weird, but when I look in the mirror with them on I look like a porn star race horse. Something about large nuts and an eight incher. It doesn't last for long. I bail for the boxers so I can swing free. But it is fun to be gargantuan for a few hours or so. And that's not even with a boner. Only a semi.

Second hand

We are slaves to the flurry of every tic of clock-worked, gear-split seconds, as if there were no other way of measuring human performance besides time. What ever happened to the graceful sweep of the scooping longhand?

How Can I Not Be Myself?

All I can do is write. Well, I can think, too, but in order to articulate these (what are by now) left of center thoughts, I must have a sensual outlet. Sensual as in of the senses, not necessarily of a sexual nature.  What to do? To what do I resort? I have a cat that I adore, so suicide is completely out of the question. And it’s not like I’m suffering like the Sudanese, so I can’t feel sorry for myself, though the temptation is as luscious as the ripest, reddest most succulent of fruit. I am in love with a lover who feels the need for penance so she parts from me, to inevitably and ironically, flirt with others.  She’s married to a man she is not in love with. Who’s a cop. In the next town over. Which amuses all to whom I tell this tale.

I should have listened to my dad, and pursued baseball. I was good. Made every all-star team and kicked ass to the 99%th percentile. Would have at least gotten a scholarship and made it to the minors.

Should not have listened to my mom and should have dyed my hair purple to become a Goth star. I was a rocking drummer and found out later in life that I have a powerful voice, propensity for the keyboard and a naturally slacker lackadaisical attraction to the temptations of rockstarism.

Instead I went to college like a good boy and how can I not be myself? I partied my ass off, got F’s and A’s and generally emerged as a beautiful bronzed blond brainiac barfly beachbum. Add businessman to those six and you have what I am now. Minus the barfly. Plus some bafflement.

Where do I go? What do I do? Is there a profession made for me? Or, heaven forbid, do I have to mold my own to hold my own?

nuances of pink

To my second fave mom, let's celebrate this week on you. You've been through hell and hot fire over the past year (not that I haven't) but you deserve a celebration if only for the the love you issue. You are are a remarkable human being. For all you've loved and lost.  And I do indeed love you. XXOO. Name the day. Name the town. I will be a nicely-lightly smelling close date.

You know I adore you, PK

The beauty of the sunrise is my fault

Sometimes I feel like I'm the scum of the earth, sometimes I feel like I'm the shine of the sky.

Why is it dependent upon CG? Is it a defiant avenue toward love? She had no problem with me, I think, from the start. But I shimmied an attitude to take a stand. I don't want to be trudged upon. I have no problem with her, other than time together.

I could flick an elbow and kill a rhino.

But I restrain. And my restraint is interpreted as attack by merely the shine in my eye.

Cops still follow me. Cowards. Sissies afraid of potential that will never happen. Because I am a gentleman.

Big deal, I'm fierce. Hear the words if you have eyes.

I am the bad guy. I groove temptation.

Advice to those of you in my boots:
Are you experienced?
If so, be like fire, be a progressive, devouring, emotive force.
Prey on the day.

Demand damned pleasure. Eat the day.  Memorized moments of frozen bliss hold keys to the future.
The past made you what you are now.
Time to cultivate feelings long plowed under.
Bring your dreams to life.

Do not judge harshly; you should not judge at all. Seduce, not over minutes or hours, but over weeks, months if necessary.

My blood is the color of a strong improvisational glance.
Match it, I assure you, we’ll soon someday dance.

Yours should be of similar hue.
Pray to the god of mega.
Be the god of you.

Periodically, I make a coordinated effort to resurface. I do not break the ice. I melt the ice. I breathe tonal fogs and dream of feathercats.

Our generation, despite rumors to the contrary, is not lost. We segue into newer kisses. We touch, figure, adapt, initiate, explore and relax. We can be slippery and be seen while being the scene.

We can go underground and dance with dozens, then alone. Then walk away.

I have hazy, hazy motives and project cool, convincing glances. A hip nature comes to mind.
Sometimes it’s time to be the savior, sometimes it’s time to recklessly accelerate with determination. Sometimes it’s time to listen to you whisper and breathe and imagine you four seasons into the future.

I refer to old chart pages of Rolling Stone for nostalgia. I burn memories like others burn dinner. I establish myself today, I live for tomorrow. I get serious about not getting serious.

Are you experienced?




Metaphysical movements and the compelling essence of a soft dilemma

The silence of a long wait, a wait too long. Blistering leaps into pathetic days and nights of insolence. Relinquish and extinguish thoughts of the exterior, the recent callings and the former pushes to powerful scenes. A long groove into a day spread upon a beaming savannah.
Sign on and sound off.

A cryptic myth, an essence of rhythm and sweet juice falls, crashes within. Bubbling in warm, wet logic, physical stimulation and simmering reactions. Ooze into the heart in hand and reclaim life as it may be. Disguised as countless other feelings with roots in eroticism, intelligence and mail line grunts.

Another essence, a time for addictions and a cleansing elixir. One, a sweet peace breeze, a naked warmth, a natal setting. The other dry, baking and stark. Clean and excellent. Two worlds of light and whispers unto their own. Regardless reflections into a central core, molten and forever illuminating.

Easing into position. Hissing, groaning in claustrophobic silent pleasure.
Openings into different savannahs, noises, sensations.
Settling into a soft dilemma. Settling deep into a bed of pleasures and warmth. Future recollections of pleasure assured. Settle deep, recline into bliss and security.
Be content and talk about it.
Heed all warnings and accelerate into the future clutching someone vital, new and possibly fulfilling. Open your eyes in the middle of this long kiss, smile, delighted, continue.
Touch, figure, adapt, initiate, explore, create.
A unique crash into self-reflection and submission to souvenirs of promise and perfume. Too late to feign, Naieve, stylish and commanding. Heed words suggesting nothing otherwise.
Daylight, perhaps, will not break soon enough. Do not drop the brittle. Clutch, rescue, save and comfort. Ignore the snarling factions. Push for space and territory. Expand.
Establish a situation of elation, bliss and agonizing want.
Just do it.

Counting out time while piercing vapor

Notice the word SYMPATHY here and in the previous entry. Sympathy is a child of empathy which is a relative of understanding. It takes a pro active step or two to come close to the latter, and dedication to the love of a fellow human's soul to breach the former two. I don't know if the girl I love can even comprehend this level of absolute dedication. She sacrificed her soul and body years before she was emotionally ready to, and now she is frustrated with mate, emboldended by offspring. How quaint, to have daddy a PO in the home town. How disrupting that will be when home town ain't college town. And Mom wants to move on. SYMPATHY. Sooner, the better, but not that soon. Not like, a year from now. Maybe 2 or 3. Then slowly add the writer who lives in Manhattan into the mix. Slowly. Lincoln Center. Broadway. Radio City. 30 Rock. Central Park Ice Skating. Penthouse views. Roof hot tubs in the winter. Spring Lake Mansions in the summer. Belmar boardwalk every late July. Goosebumps of happiness on the hottest nights. Brown tans that glow 'till the fireplace blasts the crisp in the cool autumn air signaling October, crunchy leaves and the scent of an eviscerated pumpkin alight on the steps of our front door.

Sympathy for the Lover

I've decided that since I have nothing else going on in terms of employment or relationship, I might as well invest in some ingestive recreational entertainment. If no one wants to talk turkey with me and no chicks want to make out, I might as well seek solace in contraband. People don't realize that they can--and have--saved me from the lure of a mild high. All I need is attention, an ear, a conversation a day. Instead I have to negotiate like a UN representative to get a sweatshirt back through back channels. At least I didn't come out as the dopey one on that exchange. US mail would have been fine, as would a drive by toss out of a Honda Mini Van window. If she's gonna involve CBS, I might as well involve SPD. It's the same personal betrayal. Of course I won't, because I'm cool. Point is made, however and joke is had between CBS and PK and probably 50 other people who love pathetic maneuvers in the context of gossip. Now wait until I ask for my beloved Wilco CD's back. Maybe I'll skip those and cut my losses. $25 worth of CDs are worth the spared misery-- as, ironically, lyrics on those disc might allude. Plus, I think I burned both already. And I gave them to her without worry of hearing them again. As long as she listens every now and then, they're her's. If not, she knows my mailbox is on the left of the doorway. If she returns them, I will reward her with a $1,000 shopping spree at the mall as soon as I reliquidate some of my 20 year holdings. And I won't even ask her to kiss me. Bump around, fuck around and wink here and there, and honest as the day is long. I'd make her pick out stuff for me, however, which would destroy her ego. I saw that develop in Ft. Worth. But I'd make it worth her while once my bag is full. I'll make her fuller. Then drink it out of her most intimate slit.

Moving

I’m watching a show about buying real estate in Manhattan. Looks like $1million will get me a dishwasher and a view. I need at least $5 mil. Ideally $10 for a townhouse. Someday $25, for a mansion with grass. Money under the proverbial mattress. Aspirations held from the proverbial girlfriend, lest I gain a leech and loose a lover. Downtown is noisy. Uptown is a whisper. East side is haughty. West side is escapism. Lower east? Brooklyn? Lower west, Hoboken? Thank God I’m single. Otherwise I’d be talking about tacky, eternally unglamorous suburbs. Like Monmouth County.

Fresh fast thoughts

I’ve had several cerebral encounters of mental acceleration fueled empathy and the singular momentum that carries all to this very point in time. How different we all are. How the slightest shade of difference can erase close relationships, and how vast incongruencies can join distant people, if not physically, then forever mentally.

Red Sox Rule

BTW, tried to cell in a blog entry from Fenway, but it obviously didn't work. Here's the skinny: Went to Fenway, sat on the RF line, cheered Damon initially to say thanks, then booed him as a traitor. (Seems to be a pattern in my life.) Sox won, I was the king of Boston for a few hours, then came back to dull as dishwater Monmouth County. There's a lot of money around here, and a lot of poverty. But very little excitement. Maybe that's why I try to stir the pot now and then. Just to make things un-quaint and un-hella-boring.

200 Napkins

Feels like I’ve spent more time in the city than I have in Red Bank, lately. So much so, that, Lefty, my cat, spends about 10 minutes sniffing me when I get home instead of clamoring for food. Guess he likes the leftover aroma of papaya dogs, diesel, hot pretzels, dirty water dogs and the incidental contact of walking amongst thousands of people a day. Not to mention Penn Station. Today was especially cool. Hot, actually. 80 degrees, so there was a mass of female estrogen punctuating the streets in the form of hot mini skirts, tight T’s, legs, boobs, cleavage, belly buttons, hip bones and ultra friendly smiles.

I caught the 7:34 out of Red Bank and walked out of Penn Station a tad after 9:00. When I hit the street, it was like walking into a blast furnace. I’m used to wearing one, if that, layer of clothing to cover my bod on hot days. Today I had a t-shirt, heavy cotton starched Brooks Brothers shirt (French fuckin blue), tie and jacket. And heavy cotton dress chinos. And, believe it or not, shoes and socks. I decided to walk, to gauge the commute again (3rd time to same building, building up a clinically-viable test time). By the time I got to the Empire State Building, the halfway point, I was awash in sweat. And when going on an interview, that sucks.

Got to the Daily News Building and decided to not rush to enter. Went to the coffee shop next door, bought a Gatorade and used about 200 napkins to mop my flop sweat. Having sufficiently chilled, I lurched head on into the soaring skyscraper. From there on, things went well. I hope.