Originally Aired: MySpace Blog, February 22nd, 2005 12:24pm

It became clear what the mission for the day would be sometime after the fog of the previous night's drinks lifted and just before I had gobbled down the last foul forkful of gooey greasy goodness at the Scorpion Diner. I had been fighting a creeping sadness all weekend, perhaps "nursing it" would be a more appropriate description. This sadness kind of blossomed early Monday morning after waking up groggy [again]; heading off to Jen's to feed our old cats... a creeping sadness, suckled on booze and left unchecked by self imposed immobility for the entire long weekend. 

The mission was indeed obvious. I had blown an opportunity to walk in the sun the day before. Spent that day cooking my special glop-n-dogfood and trying to convince myself I'd be more productive at some later point in the day, or the weekend. It snowed later that night, and today I was faced with a total gray bleakness and a six inch layer of slush covering the city. The mission would be more difficult, but perhaps, I thought, I'd be more rewarded for it. 

I gobbled down my breakfast of scorpions and headed for my Bridges. 

I had a thought of maybe recreating the epic seven bridge journey I'd made one Easter a few years back; from the 59th to the Roosevelt up n' over the Tri-boro then onto the 125th Street Bridge. The Brooklyn, Manhattan and then final, my old n' Wiley Williamsburg (the bridge of mere mortals)... na, thought better of it. I concluded that it being President's Day, my objective would be OK, ok, corny and obvious, I'd walk the George Washington Bridge... hey what the ho, maybe I could start a new holiday tradition. 

Like many of my bridge walks this one started with a hoof over the Pulaski Bridge on my way to the 7 train. As with many of these long weekend bridge walks, I got to the 7 only to find that, fuck, it was closed again! Luckily I caught a shuttle-bus right away and had a nice above ground bus trip through that beautifully ugly part of Long Island City on up to Queens Plaza. Being dumped immediately at the base of the 59th Street Bridge called out for a warm-up walk so off I went. Last time I'd done the 59th was late that same year's Christmas Eve. I had walked it at 2:30 in the morning after midnight mass at the Great Anglican (or as they call it, Episcopalian) Church in lower uptown. Now, the 59th Street is not my favorite, but probably the most meaningful, after all, it had been our means of escape a few falls back. You know, when that all happened one sunny day...

A grand old bridge, the last one built before the Ammann dynasty. Some think it ugly in it's overwhelming sturdiness, I prefer to enjoy the almost "added-on" ornamentation that tries desperately to decorate it's utilitarianism  Hey, it's MY escape bridge, the one I see out my window. A familiar old lady who has helped me out and given me a warm feeling when crossing her old crusty soul into or out of our beloved city. I only hope they don't paint the life out of the old rusty bitch over the course of her current restoration. 

As I usually do, I had ad a nice chat with the old gal as I crossed head long into a blustery sleety headwind. Exiting the 59th, on either end, is mostly un-ceremonial. The city side more so in so much as you are literally dumped into a tiny hole of an intersection with a gaggle of cars trying desperately to navigate what god himself would not have been able to design as an inner city through-fair into one that might have ever worked. [Of course, when I say god in reference to NY bridges and intersections, you do know that I am, of course referring to Moses]. 

I got the first soaker of the day stepping off the old lady and into one of the city's famous relocating pot holes. But I was undeterred and kept moving towards the President's Bridge. I half attempted to make it uptown to the GWB entirely above ground by bus. That objective came to an end when I crawled down into the hole and jumped the 1 train up to 181st street. I was bit wobbly from the 59th Street Bridge walk. I think the weekend had caught up to me and that, coupled with the miserable day, had left me a bit pooped. I think I was half hoping the GWB would be closed due to the miserably windy weather, hey at least a hole hearted attempt would have been made. As I approached the gate, it did almost looked closed, but it was just the angel (perhaps the angles), the bridge was indeed, open. SO, it had to be WALKED. 

Sometimes I do feel a little manic when in the midst of these pursuits. Other times I don't quite have that total overwhelming desire, the zeal: nor do I always get that rush of satisfaction after getting over one of these bridges. Indeed, crossing the old lady didn't whip me up n' ready for this next crossing. Maybe it was only because, of all the cities Bridges the GWB is the least personal to me; more a pursuit of triumph and conquest rather than a mystical metaphor for some fanciful moment of realization that the East River Bridges provide me. Maybe because the only thing you can really do once you cross the GWB is cross it back home again. Maybe because once crossed, you're in Jersey, an ugly bland part of Jersey at that. 

I decided on creating a rather pedestrian quest for this trip, I'd cross then go in search of a bar I could still smoke in. This pedestrian quest helped little to raise any spirituality in the moment, especially when I found out that the bridge had not been plowed. I had an almost miles walk across the damned thing through six inches of dirty brown slush while in constant fear of being blown over it's too low railing and off to my perilous death and into the Hudson. I walked hugging the roadside railing putting me on target for great globs of salty muck flying from the wheels of the cars and trucks zooming along I-95. Sleety rain had soaked my glasses and a crushing fog had all but buried the city, couldn't see a damned thing so I basically put my head down, walked in low large steps, keeping my center of gravity down and trudged my way to the Great State of New Jersey. 

I couldn't wait to get down off that Revolutionary be damned Presidential monstrosity and have that beer. 

I've already mentioned that the Jersey side of the GWB is kind of grim. I had forgotten and was totally unprepared for just how grim it would be. Fort Lee really is a frikin' wasteland. Under six inches of wet slush-n-snow, it's an annoying frikin' wasteland empty of any redeeming feature, or... bar. I found one that seemed closed, not just for the holiday, but forever. I walked through empty streets beholden of nothing more than these bleak 14 story mid rise apartment building, not built to house the poor, but rather built to house the almost poor who had no clue as to why they were alive, sad New Jersians (or is it Jersyites) who'd been given no warning that living in these lifeless slabs on this bleak side of the GWB would eventually suck the last ounce of interest in anything out of their souls. 

I finally found a renovated shopping area, unfortunately it was in a bizarrely manifested New Jersey version of Koreatown  and, unfortunately, and apparently so, Koreans in Fort Lee New Jersey don't seem to drink, hence didn't feel any responsibility to provide me a bar. I settled on the Plaza Diner, a place I'd passed earlier but moved on along on in hope I'd find a little familiar looking local. I settled for a wine at the Plaza instead of beer and was happy to see an ashtray on the counter. The waitress was nice, she showered me with the usual number of "huns", "sweeties" and the "are you going to order something now darling"'s you expect when being served at an old classic diner, in the snow, in Jersey, after walking over the damned slop-n-slush-soaked GWB. 

She even joined me in a glass of wine and gave me the heads up on how to catch a bus back to the city. 

Although I had entertained an inkling of an idea to end my day on my old buddy n pal of a good god damned good bridge, the ol' n' Willey Williamsburg; I had NO intension of walking back across the GWB. The bus ride back to the city included some nice new views I'd never seen, but after the first few miles it all started to look horribly the same. Miles and miles of busted down old discount stores peppered with the usual pizza shops, nail salons and Duane Reade drug stores. I guess I was more tired than I thought as after a time, I just stopped looking out the window, went into my head only to find my weekend companion, this sadness still hanging around, playing a game of solitaire waiting for me to get home so it could pound another shot into my stomach... 

Bridge walks are not specifically meant to lift one's spirits, they're just a nice thing to do when you have time to fill and things to think about and/or talk to yourself about. What one can think about while bridge walking is as varied as the weather one faces while making a crossing. They definitely aren't meant to cheer you up on a lonely day, AND for the most part they are a totally solo endeavor. OK, crossing with Dan has always been a pleasure, AND those very few times a special guest has followed through and joined me has been, well, special; but for the most part a bridge crossed alone, is a good bridge crossed. 

I probably did have certain expectations that a good bridge walk or two would have cleared some cobwebs and helped me deal. I guess I have just reminded myself not to have these expectation or risk diminishing a perfectly good bridge walk. Maybe I should dump a bunch of the other expectations I'm currently holding tight to, as well. Get comfy with the notion of settling in for a long bought of the "alones" with not much else to do. AND… indeed… maybe if it's nice tonight I'll walk home over the Williamsburg Bridge.

I've been up n' over and around this one so many times in the last almost 50 years... I've completely forgotten what lap of this great mad mad mad mad race I'm on... I can't recall, do I even like the "popular"? Am I drawn to the obscure? What's in it for the better of me... or is it for the better of the image of "me" I've tried so hard to put in front of you? This one curls quicker towards the back of the house; and certainly has been "hurried hard" more than once in this almost half-long life.

...with an open mind (he now demands of himself).

I mean, really all that nonsense... Did I "hate" it because so many of you loved it? Did I love it simply because no one else, or so few had ever heard it or of it... teenaged dreams of a mighty intelligence. Am I tired of cultural elitism hence riding the "so new it's beyond you" wave and really just exploring the pre-popular, again? Am I sick of this self-perceived trend towards stupidity and hiding amongst the esoterica... right in the middle of my own middle to darks ages... Am I sick of having to read the "instruction manual-esq" artistista come radical-rabid waskily-wabbit statement... or, just looking for a roly-poly jolly-good ol' belly laugh?

...and there's where one get's "closer to the heart"... I guess (who)?.

I recently attended an ART opening; and I do mean ART as in capital A. capital R. capital T. art opening. You know all installation-like and sublime? Well hung but utterly "off the mark". I certainly liked what the artist(s) had done "did to the room"... but matching their proposition, the "statement", to the images mounted and the various thingies littered around said, room; truly left me scratching my head. Sadly, the little talk given by one of the "artists" (indeed, it was art by collective, again, after all these years)... the explanation made it no easier not to be kinda, like... just a little unkind, oh well. 

Happily, as is and/or was often the case... the sub-show, the back-up room backup exhibition that these (still with us after all these years) artist-run spaces often mount, at least when the main show(man) doesn't demand the whole darned space, was... exceptional; well worth the walk in the rain to the gallery, the risk of bad-wine and oh-so so-so selection of cheeses. (note, my whine and cheesey elitism will most likely certainly be covered in future diatribe like missives)...

...hey and, scratching one's head ain't all that bad a nights out on the town at the galleries, now... is it!

...and then along came Banksy (again and again)... oh dear, oh dear ol' banksy. Many of your now thousands of images, so wonderful yet SO lost on me for one very simple reason. It's not your fucking property. Seriously, your self important image of yourself, thinking this provides you licence over someone else's "schtuff"... in oh so many ways points directly at the reason why our society is so swiftly-swirling in such quick circles to the bottom of this... guilden-aged-gold-fish-bowl. Sigh... I guess, it does make you think... no? (...of course defacing another's defacements is frowned upon by the defacer contingent so, rule out gut-reaction numero uno)

...ooops, there pops up my "grrrr" gene again.

As an aside... here's a triple side order of links to officially publicly sanctioned public art works that I feel quite equally have answered a Mr. Banksy like pursuits of novel-grandiosities; novel-juxtipositionesh and well even a sublime goofi-ness-like challenge to novelty itself AND our oh-so-scared cows... even... perhap?

Crikey, how I've failed to work the grand and sometimes wonderously grandiose works of Mr. Cristo and the likes of his lovely orange shower curtains into the mix of all of this, god himself only knows.

...oh heck.

It's all good-fun really. Sure I may sound all up-n-at my GRRRRR. Shaking my yet to be thoroughly broken in, nor even yet bought n paid for old man's cursin' and complaining cane (I've one pick out, brass tipped with a rain-forest mahogany shaft and a sadly no longer with us elephant's ivory tusk handle, "grandfathered" no less)....

For now, I'll just waggle my fickly finger of fret ...as I fully intend to keep on liking all the things I really DO like; and perhaps even more so like despising the things that make me blood run boiled for some dumb reason or another... regardless of whether they are anachronistically-new or avant-old... but, or is that and?

I guess, in the end... If you haven't so happily pissed me off while making me smile, or made me laugh while roiling in my own tears, OR simply kept me engagingly entertained through a moment of sheer and utter boredom... if any of you (yes, even you Mr. Bieber) stopped being you, stopped doing the things you do. Well, we'd have nothing but silver jumpsuits, flying cars and televised plot-lines only made-good when the Captain, makes it so and once again, skirts the oh-so-precious Prime Directive, do unto others and all that really worthwhile good stuff.

And with that... I'll lift the aforementioned blessed but not yet bought cussin' cursin' and complaining cane...  in a manner not yet, but soon to be expertised-like mystro of the orchastra-pit-esq - Damn - almost an I finally know I'm absolutely right like manner and say... meh. Here are three POP songs I'll "watch" over and over and any time over n' all... again.

...if we stop making this shit up. We just stop making... Shit, you know what I'm getting at; or at least I hope you do. In the end, or at least much closer to the end than I am to the beginning, it has finally sunk through my thickened skull that none of this matters more or less than anything else, really. What matters is that the makers amongst us keep on making, are encouraged to make... and are rewarded, thanked and or otherwise appreciated for making...

...our lives are better for the the making.

In conclusion... I love all this... (you know what) xo-GG

New York City... As it manifests itself, on a truck, potentially in motion in my memories this morning... I've been drawn, by a friend, to an inspiration of sorts... a conclusion perhaps recently. There is just far too much to miss of that greatest of cities, this glorious home of mine... While at the exact same moment so much to be happy about being back here, at home, moving on to the next, somewhere... 

I doubt anyone will ever truly understand my multilayered love affair with this darling of a place, that "city on the edge of tomorrow"... city at the moment of forever...

I'll just keep feeding you snapshot memories of the millions of little things that I saw... Stories of what I may (and never fully admit to) having done... If a feeling jumps out at you from one of these snap-memory moments of mine... Have at it, it's meant for your enjoyment... Whatever it is you get from it... That's not up to me.  

I (heart) NY... and simply, always will.

Originally posted to my MySpace Blog: the 16 March 2005 @ 7:52pm

(ORIGINAL: TO BE EDITED)

Have you figured it out yet? Determined where it is you are most likely to meet the best of your friends. Undoubtedly you've meet great friends at school, often life long friends. You've likely met good friends at work, sometimes you’ll even know these people for a year or two after you quit that damned-assed horrendous hell-hole of a job… Outside of these, unless of course you’re the church going type, or have another some such hobby; the best friends you meet will most probably be the peoples you meet at your local. 

I have always had a number of “locals” on the go at anyone time. Matter of fact, I have always had at least four or five locals on the go at any given time… just the other day, I realized I had become a regular at this bar at 23rd and 1st, O’Connels. I'd become "a regular" simply for the fact it’s right across from the NYU Dental Center. I’m there once a week these days, So, I have a Local for my trips to the Dentist (one might begin to wonder if I have a problem as well as a long list of locals)… O’Connels offers me up a free shot of Jamison when I pop in post-op condition; my face swollen and stuffed with cotton... I digress, the story of all my locals is likely due; keep your eyes and ears posted… I promise a serious slew of twisted tales… (tales of horror no doubt)

This little ditty isnt about locals; it is about one of my most favorite Irish-Bostonian's, a truly wonderful friend we all call, Doc. My local in Manhattan is a place called the Swan, it’s been my Manhattan local for over six years now. The original New York-ex introduced me to the place mere moments after I had met her. I’ve been hanging off their German taps at the Swan since, since well, before I even moved here. Sadly, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not twice a week like it once was… I frequent the Swan now… primarily to see Doc. 

Doc’s is an older gentleman. The term gentleman survives today specifically to describe gentlemen like Doc. He’s older, not that much older than the oldest fella I know, I believe he’s 69. AND… let’s get these facts and stats out of the way already... Doc is 69 he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart AND a Bronze Star [for my Canadian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired New York City plastic Surgeon, he’s gay, oh and, keep this to yourself, he is the best damned Republican I have ever had the pleasure to meet. 

Doc and I had struck up our ongoing conversation long before that "disastrous day in the City on the edge of tomorrow"… Doc and I became good friends on the basis of my some idiot might call it courageous, non-homophobic ability to kiss him directly on the lips each time I saw him before we'd say hello; and our ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic [non-partisan democratic mind you] enlightenment. Doc is a true American argument… 

I mean, c’mon, he’s not only gay, a decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican, he’s also from the Land that cursed family that tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that a bunch of booze running flaming wackos were… ooops, sorry; my bad... Doc is from Boston Massacheustis [a state I cannot not pronounce, cannot spell nor truly figure out]. The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he’ll talk about himself… He was born to a working class Irish family up in Boston, in other words, he's from Boston. He has the accent to prove it. Haven’t heard all much of his childhood story, we'll just assume it was everything we'd seen in the movies about, being from… Boston. He got himself through med-school in a peculiar way. It was back in the sixties, he somehow knew, he’d have to serve; an old prof who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned to the medical core, when that sheltered assignment was up… he could have been re-assigned to say infantry in Germany, or logistic in Korea, but he requested to go to Nam, specifically to continue is medical education… AND to serve a country he once loved more than he may do so now... 

He honestly hasn’t told me much about being a warrior-medic come doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me a bizarre story about setting up camp near this beautiful cove, he’d often swim… he'd alluded to how he rescued a small child from the currents and the sharks in this cove, how he stitched up the little boy after the boy had been bitten (or cut on the rocks, I was never clear which); I noticed he'd swell up a but each time he told and never finished this story. He has still yet to finish THAT story, nor how he was awarded the Bronze Star… But we do have an agreement that he will one day get to that, perhaps the end of this and stories yet started one day.... this is a date, I am very much looking forward to. 

Indeed, it's all a bit sketchy, but he returns from Nam… and skippity-skip-to-lou a whole whack of stories I have yet to any more than partially hear; he became a renowned plastic surgeon in the very one place outside of LA. where a plastic surgeons may be regarded as a being most close to god. Sketchy still, and I can report this to you on the proof of seeing his old apartment, he WAS living the 1960’s / 1970’s dream-Halston lifestyle… 

For those unclear, Halston was in many circles the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leap frog years above that silly white haired boy who lived in a loft he called the factory down in the heroin ridden dirty town they called… the "Art World". No ladies, Halston was NYC in the 60’s and 70’s AND Doc’s old apartment stank every inch n' detail of old Mr. Halston… mirrored walls, zebra print bed sheets, red shag deepest of the deep pilke carpets and 100’s of thousand little glass figurines… every where. Doc even had the prerequisite two cute as doodles little poodle doggie dogs who survive to this day all yellowed and mottled at 16 and 18 years of age. 

Doc told me stories of being pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold Roles Royce… He 'Fall's' with his pal Trudy [heir to the scientist who invented no more tears and sold it to Johnson and Johnson], he 'Falls' with Trudy at Villa Desta [along with Donettelo et al]… he’s a once a year Winter regular guest at the Bermuda Beach Club… He has introduced me these friends, good friends, others who own restaurant chains who get chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limos. He has told me all these stories, introduced me to his friends all in a manner (a true gentlemanly manner) where I never once felt belittled, or subrogated to another class. Doc, my good dear friend, more than many, knows the value of a friendship… I will leave it at that. 

Actually, no maybe I won’t… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas as I was, in a forgettable state, Doc gave me the greatest gifts a friend could give… and a compliment I've held dear, since. I had a whole big whakin’ pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through them with Doc… Gordon, he said, you don’t need to be in such a state, or seek therapy… you don’t have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take time off whenever you’re feeling out of control on… 

Gordon, he said, go to the NYU Dental center [across from the VET] on first Ave, they’re cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth… Gordon he said, you and my then now Original NYC ex will remain good friends… and, you’ll meet someone soon… that night we walked as we talked, up Park, him drinking, while me holding him upright as best I could, it was one of those true and utter beautiful moments in a friendship. His compliment came when he almost chided me (as gentlemen with manners sometimes do): Gordon, he said, my more Scottish name rolling and brolling through the now far more pronounced Boston Irish brogue... 'the nicest thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things you'd like to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have small issues; issues are so much more easily attended to". I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I would stick with this "manner" of addressing my "issues" with my dear friends until the day... I die… 

Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I may actually feel at the moment he describes them. I offer a fresh bit maybe even a full dollop of empathy, then I walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… nuff said about that. 

I now have only a vague memory of the things I wanted to get up in this piece when I started to write this stuff about my good friend Doc. I think I may have wanted to write about our non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union [over which Doc and I have buried hours!]. He’s a Republican, I’m a Canadian [and we’ll leave it at that]…  We see eye to eye on about 90% all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in a more Gomorrah-Interpretation of these United States of America  where as I still see a country, an empire, an epoch not yet even truly beginning to take it’s shape in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same point of view… friendship.

I wanted to write about these conversations, but as I got into writing this instead. I believe I may have began to realize, that although the stuff one “talks” about with his friends may be important. It really is the beautiful opportunity to just sit and talk WITH your friends, share the shit, the luck irish. Having someone close, dear and on your wavelength is what makes it all have it's own particularly special and spectacular meaning… 

So this is you craptastic Sap-Master, signing off from this story… I love all of you guys! 

[PS, I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of dare I say wisdom yet, AND I revel in the advise and examples of their lives, their bits of living they give me… My older friends, the Docs, the Paul, the Charlies to name but a few, I am honored, truly honored, blessed to have their friendship, and to have axcess to their most definatly appropriate to call wisdom… I am beholden to passing the wise advise they give me onto these younger friend of mine… 

Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like an Irish… Potatoe.

A sudden feeling of flush came across my furled brow on the drive into, just where is it I'm off to again these daze, oh right, the coffee shop-office, the place where all of us do our work ath this juncture of this 21st century. In my case, a sweet little barn of a room called The Grind. Off to the grind this morning, Bran Van 3000's Drinkin In LA comes across my oh-so-mixed up and happy Suzuki Areo Speedwagon play list. "Hi, my name is stereo Mike…"

"What the hell am I doin' drinking in LA at…" brought back a memory, not a best memory; certainly not the highlight of my life, drinking career, or career for that matter. Just a little an almost lost little memory. A bit of fun I once had, probably three lifetimes ago (if counting). Certainly well before LA became a defacto, must be arch rival enemy city-state of mine as I settled into my first, second, maybe it was my third and final attempt to nourish my inner New Yorker. It was my second trip to LA, I thought I'd had the place figured out by then.

We'd been given the opportunity to fly down to visit the ex-First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada) Kim Campbell in the LA home they'd given her as a big ol' thank you for being the First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada), and losing us (them, not me in any case), the election. Likely one of those, quick, get the guy/gal outta dodge before she get's lynched by the faithful moves. Anyhow, here in LA, I found myself, little ol' me, all suited up and ready to roll in his best Dick VanDyke goes to church in New Rochelle toggs, sipping wine (coolers?) and munching on canopé in the house of the Canadian atché to this or that cultural woo-ha-ha or something like that. The complete lack of "stars" was telling; I would learn later that night… there are more glorious stars in LA than originally counted.

Now, when your old pal GoGo ends up at a suaré, one of two many Go's is bound not to show; I'll either be you know, "that guy" standing over there, you know (all by himself), or the other guy, gob-handing and yickity-yacking with any and all everyones who'd be willing to listen to whatever gibberish is dripping out at any particular given moment. If I recall, at this particular do; I was somewhere in the middle of this guy and that... guy. Almost lost behind the ginormous girth of one, and the sheer stupidity of the other "new" business partners who'd dragged me across the country so they could canoodle with their inbred-industrial money-burnin' associates in the TV and film industry (oops, are my under-bitter-pants still showing)? - If I further recall, I was "on it" and generally having a good time.

Of course, having been recently un-married and singled, AND in LA and younger and almost as stupid as I'd ever be… I was indeed ogling the babes (as if I've ever had a single oggle-driven positive result). Sadly, Kim Campbell ex-First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada)'s parties didn't draw too great a bevy of, are they broads or dames? I found myself in a wonderfully pleasant conversation with, if I even further recall one of ol' Kimmy's personal aides. I have only a vague recollection of the young lady, her age, name and "number" escape me; all I recall is that the conversation was bright n' lively, she had a similar suspicion of the crowd we were in and… I'm pretty sure she was a Brunette.

I haven't a clue how it happened, but I guess I let it drop that I had later plans. Whether I asked her or she simply decided to tag along is beyond me; likely the latter as I'm dreadful at "the pick up" line… I think mine's worked out once. So, (for the sake of this story) let's call her Alice and I ended up in my car and off to you'll never guess where.

The first time I went to LA, I didn't have the slightest clue. My Eastern Seaboard / Midwestern Toronto upbringing left me to assume that all cities were the same and, if you simply looked hard enough you'd find a nice little neighbourhood, compacted with this restaurant and that bar and this little grouping of things you could do before sauntering off to the next neighbourhood right there next door. I think our cab driver was stunned when we asked him to drop us off on, in general, along somewhere on the sunset strip, anywhere, you know, where the action is, was or would be… he dropped us at something like 10,678; after wandering (quite) a bit, we found a place for a beer at, like, dude 8,456 Sunset Boulevard  This second trip, I rented a car.

Here's "Alice" and I cruising the freeways of LA, out of the city at super high speeds (for a Canadian). I'd pre-arranged and researched where all the "rave parties" would be held while I was in the city. What this recently singled early 30 sumpthin' bonehead was thinking… well that's a whole other story. I guess Alice had thought she might help this silly man drive out of the city to search for the third dry lake bed to the left of some place or other in search of his "the kids"… Quickly, here's a dry lake bed travel tip… Although dry lake beds are flat as flat can be and super fun to dry upon in the middle of a pitch black night under the stars… the roads leading up to them shouldn't really be considered when responsible for the condition upon returning your rented black, convertible Ford Mustang… BUT OH, those stars of LA, just outside the city.

It took us what felt like hours to find my kids, perhaps twenty of them dancing by their make-shift car stereo super-sound system, while juggling glow sticks and marvelling how this Dick VanDyke of a Canadian guy and some sweet woman named Alice had managed to maneuver themselves in such a manner as get a Mustang up and over the ruts on the roads leading to the dry lake so they could crash their little private party out in the pitch black middle of the night in the absolute middle of nowhere somewhere north of the City of LA. - We were kind of surprised ourselves I guess; and pretty much turned right around.

I recall quite fondly the quiet ride back to the City. A couple of lost "once were kids" in an open roofed car, laughing to themselves a wee little bit; not really talking likely totally exhausted and dying to get back to wherever it was they could simply shower and jump into bed. And, it's not what you're thinking… I dropped her in some lonely suburb out on the freeways, she pointed me in the direction of Santa Monica and thanked me for a wonderful evening. I sped away halfway tired and thinking how lucky I was to meet such a wonderfully nice person… thinking of the stars so damned close that you'd almost felt you might need to put up the top of your opened roofed car that you'd forgot now was rented. A now totally ruined black Ford Mustang covered in dry Lake Bed (with luckily no dents in the paint job). I'd likely forgotten how how close I'd come to ruining a moment by dropping the ecstasy I'd smuggle across the boarder on my way to Kim, the ex-First Woman Prime Minister's party… nope, just a nice drive back to my hotel room, to shower and sleep and then hit what was then the AOL chat boards to find out where best to look for "the kids" and find next night's wild, fun goofy little party…

…I found them. Or, perhaps… they found me.

Hmmm… thawed out of a western winter-peg icecube, laid out bared to be baked by the bay they call Quinte; sautéd and rapidly stirred-up in wee-little Brighton then tossed up the highway to be quick-fried on Queen street and stuffed into cannoli on College. Kneaded and pulled up and all over Toronto. Then put into the pan and flung down the freeway to be boiled in Brooklyn; simmered in juices of my own making in Greenpoint then poured softly and slowly into lower Manhattan. Tickled n' pickled on the playgrounds of Greenwich then mashed into mince meat in Dumbo under my bridges... I popped out of that toaster all of a sudden, and landed in… Trenton… Where I am from? Oh who only knows.. Southeastern Ontario, next to the rocks, water and trees over by that river, right over there, where I've been all along, served whole or raw, a little well done, sometimes fresh never frozen, sometimes rotten as cheese. ...you tell us; now how we're doing, as we aim to... to (be) easy.

Originally published to MySpace Blog: February 25th, 2005, 3:13pm - New York City

ORIGINAL - TO BE EDITED

This ol' story starts with small notice for the potential for evilness in small small town Ontario. Let me start this saying "yo Canada, get over yourself, and get off your high frikin' horse". 

I became really good friends with Ken on the weekend I realized that the whole black/white racism thing was not strictly the purview of these slave driving bastards down here in my newly adopted home. That weekend, Ken and I were assigned to the same group in our Urban Geography class that had been contracted by the local BDIA to canvas Brighton upon a survey of proposed improvements to this and/or that in town. 

Of course the first thing Ken and I did was to spark a great big fatty prior to setting out to knock on the doors of our assigned neighbourhood  Now, I guarantee you, it wasn't that we reeked of weed, as every door I knocked on offered someone who would answered the 15 or so questions I asked. Ken's doors on the other hand yielded nothing, well nothing but "no thank you's", "what are you doing heres" and a least one nigger reference that Ken would not expand on...  Hey, maybe it was the Combination of a nigger  AND HIS reeking of dope, who the heck knows. We ended up forging the rest of our surveys, our neighbourhood firmly apposed the improvements, drove to the beach and hung for the remainder of the day. 

In general circulation, even though he was only one of three black kids in the entire student population, in general circulation, Ken had very few problems. I guess showing up on these folks doorsteps was just a line he was not supposed to cross. I don't recall the subject ever coming up, but I assume him dating one of their daughters would have stretched the line as well. Hmmm... actually maybe I do recall something like this coming up once... 

Ken, entirely on his own, is probably the most talented musician, singer songwriter I've known personally, and I've known quite a few very talented musicians. One goofy little snippet memory I have of his being the cool daddy jack-assie smart-assed-dude we expect our musicians to be came during a school assembly. Ken, although his first talent being piano played what he might call his 15th talent, Bass, in our school band [I mean, c'mon, if the drums were fulled up, I guess the next place you're gonna stick the black kid is the bass]. 

Anyhow, Ken did get his kicks in, I remember making eye contact with Ken at during a break in the assembly, he gave me a little nod and proceeded to crack out the bass line to "Watching the Detectives", yet another small offensive in our ongoing attempts to be punk-dudes in our corn-paddy back-water high school come holding cell. Ken came from, rather, at the time I knew him, lived in the trailer park down the road from my place. It was probably that fact, more than the fact he was black that my folks were always a bit leery of our friendship, actually, I could guarantee you this. On the days when his bitch of a hard hittin' pill addicted mother let him out of the trailer, or on days were he'd just plain managed to escape, we'd usually just hang in my room. 

He'd strum the guitar I never did manage to learn how to play, usually cracklin' joke songs. I'd sit there, either drawing one of my silly fancifuls, or making lame-assed attempts to draw him. We'd talk politics and pop outside from time to time to smoke the spliffs [of course, this may also my have impacted my folks feelings about my friendship with Ken]. Ken was a manic writer. Back then he'd carry around note books full of songs. Prolific, he was probably knocking out two or three a day. I think he carried these books around more so that his mother would not find them or that his A.D.D. brother wouldn't rip them to shreds. 

Ken was the son of a Jazz musician from Montreal, a good friend of Oscar Peterson, but was living with a woman who hated the musician who had knocked her up and left her with nothing but two black kids living in a trailer park. The hatred of this musician ultimately soon applied to all musicians, Ken was in a bit of a jam. 

Ken and I drifted apart after I stopped smokin' dubes. The drift apart was formalized with my sudden bolting to Toronto [another story]. However, this separation was the start of a new form of relationship I would soon have with Ken. Like an angel, Ken drifts into and out of my life, usually drifting in at the exact moment I need him the most. Maybe I'll start calling him my "dark angel"... I probably will not. 

Ken's music is peppered with sardonic wit, he brings this wit and this music into my life at beautifully irregular interval. Our first happen-stance meeting after the high school days was when he found me living about five blocks from where he was living. He had been checked into some psychiatric out patient residence.. He was in pretty rough "out patient" shape. I think I learned some humility or at least found myself humiliated by my inability to help him out in any tangible way. I was down myself, busted and unable to offer him anything more than a few nights of reminiscence  

A few years later, quite a few actually, he came to me while I was yoggleing in some bar by myself, probably morning the loss of losing some this girl or that. He was flogging his first CD, carrying a baby in a papoose strapped to his chest. I bought two CDs and persisted in my assertion that I'd track him down... I didn't, but of course he found me again a few years after that, this time he invited me to hook up with him at his now regular gig. 

His regular gig turned out to be a "piano bar" night at some up town trendy spot. Ken not only played beautiful bar jazz, but had also tuned his sardonic wit into that in-between song patter that makes lounge singers famous. Of course fame continued to allude, regardless of how deserving he was. I caught that gig for a month or so. I was between "wives", so I had a whole big bunch of dates to fill on the calendar. This was a great way to fill them. 

We hung out a few times outside the gigs as well, I recall helping him set up his piano in some park to crank out some impromptu set, saw him at his usual yearly gig or two at the Toronto Jazz Festival, then poof, he was gone again. I've seen him, you know brief run ins on the street a few times since, obviously no times since moving down here to Brooklyn. I googled him the other day, last I read of him. Apparently he's living in Stratford, or at least was so back in 2000. I emailed him, and added him to my buddy list. It would be absolutely grand if he'd contact me and I could waggle him down for a visit. This would be the perfect time to have a visit from my dark-angel.

(to be edited)

Originally posted to Tumblr: June, 10th, 2013, from Trenton, Ontario, Canada

DEAR, (OH SO) PROGRESSIVE, WARM AND SENSITIVE TORONTO BUDDIES ‘N PALS OF MINE

I do hope you’re enjoying the final flaying of the evil despot of a man known to me simply as Mayor Bonehead. It’s been what now, three+ long years since his elevation to the exalted position of (he giggles) Lord ‘n Mayor of the MOST IMPORTANT city on this planet Earth! Three long years of gray dull doltish Don Cherry-esq skull-drudgery are behind you. Elation!

Lemme give you fair warning, loosely lifted from the pages of that book we all read back in grade school. As your orgy-istic bon fire of absolute delight subsides, watched out for the flies… I’m sure some of you may already be feeling a bit of a twinge as you so easily find yourself ripping & tearing and gorging upon the flesh of your slain PIG. - it’s just a little pig, In a round about way kind of a cute but not at all cuddly pig, but a sad little pig… really… 

Now, you’re all really nice people, I love you to death; your ideals and thoughts DO inspire me, make me listen and think (often twice). I watch you post warm and loving pictures of family and friend and take pleasure in the joy you share with me here.

It would be un-friend-like for me not to leave you beware - your PIG has been slain and is indeed laying as dead as dead meat. All I’ll say is… beware the next PIG. He/She may just be the fox you’ve all actually been dreading.

xo- Happy Long Long Weekend Hunter Warrior Pals!

Original:  March 1st, 2005, MySpace blog, Written IN: New York, New York, 3:08 PM

It has been pointed out to me recently that my wee stories have been becoming, well, just a bit to sappy. The Sacrin content has elevated these little dities to the point were one has to wash the sticky goo from their hands immediately upon reading. OK, I can take this, I mean, I guess I can drop my bid to be the Greenpoint representative at the upcoming city wide Sap-Master Sapptastic-Man competitions… 

I guess I could just up and stop trying to find my feminine side. I guess I could let my pubes grow out again, get ‘em stuck in my fly a few times and grow back the snarling angry-man that we all so knew and loved… Sure thing there bubs, I’ll start standing erect, stop mopin’ about in a constant state of maudlinistic despair. As of today, I’ll start eating my toast raw, drinking my beer warm and my whisky straight. I’ll dig out my old porn collection and start falling asleep to that rather than those documentaries by Ken Burns I’ve been falling asleep to recently. 

I’ll pay closer attention to Leni Briscoe and turn off Law and Order the minute Sam Waterson’s character opens his trap [even though we do see eye to eye on at least the death penalty]. You know, the best damned Cuban Sandwich is definitely being served up at a little place on 25th Street between 6th and Broadway. I believe the place is called “The Spanish Restaurant”, of course that could easily just be a sign telling you what it is. 

This place is a classic, a classic midtown lunch joint with a counter a small seating section in the back and take out and delivery flying out the door faster than you can say “there goes another illegal alien riding a shitty bike”. I prefer the counter where the dance of the 17 waitresses spins out of control inches from your food, the salsa blares only to be droned out by the near constant barking of orders in a Spanish so raunchy I’m assuming even they’re using it incorrectly. Now, this sandwich, this Cuban sandwich is the best I have had anywhere I’ve been in the world. AND, unlike all you Yankee-doodle wing-nuts, anywhere in the world for me includes Cuba. 


So listen up. This Cuban sandwich isn’t of the frilly willy variety, this bitch is 100% pure hardcore lunch-eating goodness, read, no frikin’ AVACADO! It’s got your pork, your ham, your cheese and pickle, BANG, that’s it, LUNCH. It’s made honestly, I mean the pork looks like it was carved off the roast with a hammer; the ham perhaps somewhat more delicately hacked off the bone with a dull tree-saw. The roll is an honest chunk of bread, crushed and burnt to perfection under the weight of the griller. And when I say weight of the griller, I mean the guy grilling the damn thing pretty near sits on top of it; these puppies are flat, fresh and filling. 

So, if you want a good Cuban Sandwich, I mean really want one, you’re a tard, a complete frikin’ tard if you go anywhere else. Myself, I doubt I’ll ever eat lunch anywhere else again. I mean, I’m what you call a super-regular… I fell in love with a steak sandwich at a little diner in Toronto one day, afterwhich I ate lunch at this place every workday for four and a half years. Hey, when I got a new job in a different ‘hood, I made a point of going to this one diner for that one sandwich at least once every weekend. Matter of fact, the first time I went back to Toronto after moving here, it’d been two years, I went into this place to order the sandwich, the ol’ broad at the counter looked at me, asked why I hadn’t been around for a while and asked me if I wanted my usual steak sandwich. Best damned Steak on a Kaiser, Best damned Cuban on earth, guaranteed no sappy content. 

My cheeks are clenched so tightly right now I’m afraid I’m going to suck a hole through my gitch just getting this damned thing out. 100% sap FREE content indeed.

POSTED: Dec 13, 2005, MySpace, Toronto, Ontario, Time of the day… 10:19 AM

Wont be there to watch four new Mark Bars open each summer. Wont be there to watch coffee prices rise and people laughing about it. I wont be there as one by one the cheaper apartments are vacated by long local families, painted and rented at twice the price. I wont be there to see Elvis for the last time; or watch Frankie’s mom get hosed. 

I wont be there to see Helen and Tommy, slowly and painfully squeezed out of the one last remaining local; Tommy’s fault perhaps, but Helen’s tanacity will only allow for a whithering, rather than a conversion… I hear they’re closing the “Crack Hotel”. 

I hear that they’ll be booting out Patrick, Elvis and Fozzie… I hear that Greenpoint is becoming another moment in time, a moment in time us vagabonds have seen over and over and over again. Where is Parkdale; Queen Street; The West and East Villages… Where is Williamsburg and Dumbo… Bedstuy, Harlem and the South Bronx on the verge… 

Where is the Northeastern inner city; where is North America? I hear that rents are cheap and the sunsets are lovely. I hear that the people are warm and friendly; and that they are eager to build their country. I hear that the jungle remains untouched, and that you can drink from every stream up stream of the last toilet on the hill. 

We’ll hear the blast of the steam whistle on this weeks arriving cruise ship… and we’ll hope we’ll be there at least ten years before the all-inclusive starbucks jungle island eco-resort lays waste another mini-paradise.

Just when you were all up and ready to chuck out the balance of what you at times foolishly felt was a somewhat abnormal life-time of sad little troubles; you're struck by an em-blazoned in a flash of greyed streak n' revelation that meh... It ain't much different than the shit the rest of "them" have had to face... day in... day...

Then...! one of these puppies flies overhead and... sigh... recalling the gripings heard last labor day over the noise the City of Toronto is subjected the too during the air circus... you lift n' shake your old man cursin' cane and cry out...

Personally, I LOVE the grinding roar of jets overhead; and am totally one-day-blessed that growing up in this little military berg, home to Canada's largest air force base, gave me an ear to distinguish, if not make and model, size and mission.

Now, where are my ben... er, I meant my danged reading glasses.