February 6, 2013
“Pardon me sir but just who in hot hell do you think you are?”
“Well. I figure I’m a lot like you, only I listen to death metal when I wake up.”
It was cold again as I swaggered down Hart St. and took an instinctive right on Irving. As I passed the Chinese Restaurant I heard an old Hasidic Jew yapping about how someone had lit them self on fire in Maria Hernandez Park. In the distance I could see what looked like faint smoke signals rising in puffs and understood immediately that they were an intended communication to me. I tried my best to decipher them but could only form a loose interpretation, something like “stay away” or “change direction” but I couldn’t be sure so I kept going the same route. As I approached the basketball courts I saw the small huddled crowd and a cop urging me to turn away and noticed how the snow had melted around the charred corpse, forming the shape of a brontosaurus, or maybe a giraffe. Some kind of long necked creature with a smoldering black heart. As I passed the crowd I asked a middle aged female cop who the victim was. “Victim? That’s no victim. That was Philip Glass.”
“Jesus Christ… my God!” I walked away shocked but with much more purpose than I’d approached with. The scene had given me a bad smack and I wasn’t up for my daily stroll anymore. “He finally did it!” I laughed. “Self immolation. That son of a bitch.” I pondered catching the next train to Enfield CT and finding comfort in an Olive Garden bar. Just spend the night drinking Lambrusco and talking politics with a terrified Maitre D.
Goddamn nonsense. Why am I saying this kind of stuff? Why is this obscenity in my head? “Bittersweet Symphony” just came on and I’m playing it loud and feeling symbolic… or maybe I just went into a funk. I can’t tell. I started this blog with no real intentions so I’ll let the freak flag fly if I have nothing else to write about. I saw that the other day 140 people read one of my articles and to me that might as well have been 140,000. I get a strange pleasure in the anxious eyes I’ve begun to elicit from my fellow church prayer group members. It makes sense. Even Pastor Gordon-Moore noticeably tenses up when I ask him for private council. Well, that’s the cost of walking your mean and ugly puppy, chin up down the promenade so to speak. As someone once said to me, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
Anyways. I see Meat Puppets are doing two nights at the Mercury Lounge and that makes my week fer sure. April 3rd and 4th. That’s a must go.
Also, Canadian volume demons Metz are at The Bowery Ballroom April 17th. Another show that could be yr last if yr not careful when entering the men’s room. Pure craziness there.
Palma Violets, London’s answer to Richard Hells singing voice are playing the Music Hall of Williamsburg May 9th and The Ballroom on the 10th. Those tix are on sale Friday at noon so set a fucking watch or whatever you do these days.
…And lastly, my band. The Western MA poisoned two-piece Level Anything will be bringing our act to the Grand Victory on Feb 16 at 7:30. More on that later.
I’ll leave you with this.
After witnessing a happening like that in my own backyard I was shaken to my core and needed to talk to someone. I invited ____ (name removed at insistence of the party involved) over to my place to watch RoboCop and cook me real food. I was in desperate need of peace and warmth and finally thought that I had settled in on both when I noticed a disturbing shape scurrying up the exposed brick wall next to my bed and turned to see a rather husky cockroach making a beeline for the ceiling. “Jesus Fuck!” I screamed as I tossed ____ away so I could be allowed to flee the vicinity unfettered. Panicking I grabbed a slipper and pathetically tried to squash the beast only to knock it down the side of my bed. Shit, now it was serious! We looked all over but the intruder appeared to have fled to safer ground but nevertheless I was still uneasy as we attempted to settle in again to the comfort of Paul Verhoeven and his RoboCop. I was right to be apprehensive. 15 minutes later as officer Murphy instinctively pops in on his “pre-robot days” wife at their old home and scares the shit out of her I see this bastard crawling on my pillow. Panicking again I grabbed him and this time, threw the bug to the ground instead of ___.
I never saw him again after that night. All that was left after his violent trip to the floor was a still twitching leg. I suppose that’s never going to sit right with me. The fact that I’ve never seen him or any other insect in here again could be looked at in a positive light but I still feel lousy about it.
So, if you notice a lame cockroach limping towards yr stove please tell him I’m sorry before you kill him. Tell him I was scared.
Take that America.
Feb 6 2:30AM
© 2017 cover my ears