Help Wanted

My wife has pointed out that I need an assistant. So consider this a help wanted ad.

You: must be punctual and detail oriented, as I'm neither. You must have the patience of Job, and a very healthy sense of humor. You will need a thick skin. You ever seen 'Entourage?' Yeah, I make Ari look like the most sensitive, kind man on the face of the planet. I am horribly inappropriate. I am also obsessed with my dog and boobs. I love boobs. Is there anything better than boobs? I think not. So as to clear up any misunderstandings, I'm not obsessed with my dog's boobs, because that would just be creepy.

Oh, and I'm creepy. You can expect at least 15 comments daily regarding your anatomy, if you're a chick. Don't apply if you have a penis. I expect cleavage, and lots of it. I will also try to grab your boobs. Yeah, I'm like that.

You must also have a good working knowledge of classic rock as at least sixteen times a day I will randomly quote some song that no one's heard in the last decade.

You must have access to a working car. You will be driving me places. I will be in control of the stereo, as I'm that type of asshole.

You must understand that the Rolling Stones Tetralogy Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main Street are the four best consecutive albums ever released.

You will be expected to attend all my CLE's and forge my name on the documents. Thanks.

You will be expected to show up for any and all shifts that I may have. You will comport yourself with dignity and grace, which is far better than I do on my own.

You will understand spell check. Grammar as well. Ignore the foregoing sentence.

And what does this pay? Zero. Just the honor of my presence. I will teach you how to be cool. Do as I say, not as I do. Or something like that.

So email me your application, along with a CURRENT photo. I don't want to see what you looked like in 1993. Well, unless you're naked, in which case, send it along, it might help.

What the Hell Are You Doing?

I've received several texts and e-mails regarding my lack of updating this particular site. There is actually a good reason. I'm writing a book. Well, I'm writing two books. I got halfway through one and was taken by a muse to another place. A book that I've had the basic idea for about 5 years. So I started writing that. Anyway, here's the prologue. I think it will be a good story, but who knows, it may suck. The working title is "Fucking Mexicans." Yes, it won't get published under that name, or published at all, but it is a story that drives me. So here you go.

Prologue

Fucking Mexicans.

I can hear them in the next room, watching the Price is Right.

“Ese, you out of your mind? $300 for a washer/dryer? You loco, hombre.”

“Jinga tu madre, that shit is cheap.”

It’s been going on like this for a week, maybe ten days. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been sitting in this cell. Part of the problem is that I just keep replaying the last month to figure out where it all went fucking wrong. Really wrong.

Whenever I would see people on the 6 o’ clock news, I always thought, ‘How can you be so fucking stupid?’ You hire a hit man to off your wife. You embezzle $300,000 from your company. You tee off on the noisy upstairs neighbor with a 5 iron. It’s fucking obvious you’re going to get caught.

Yet, somehow, these people keep doing this obvious shit and actually have the audacity to look fucking surprised when the cops show up and they get tazed on the front lawn in front of their wife and kids.

Now I know.

You want to know the secret?

It’s not sexy, but it’s 100% true. Unfortunately, I know exactly how it happens, because it happened to me. It’s hard to believe that a month ago I was graduating law school, had a job, had a girlfriend, had a whole life.

And now it’s all gone. And why?

Little mistake by little mistake. That guy with the 5 iron? What you don’t see is all the shit that happened before he blew up and broke six of his neighbor’s ribs. The act itself is merely the result of dozens of tiny, incremental mistakes that shift your reality to such a degree that the guy that started out is not the guy swinging away without yelling ‘fore.’ No, he’s a changed man. And the really amazing part is after the act, he’s immediately changed back, staring at his neighbor howling in pain, and the 5 iron in his shaking hand thinking ‘how the fuck did I come to this?’

Little mistake by little mistake. That’s almost always the answer. Most people are rational reasonable actors. They tend to do the right thing. But somewhere in the loop of life, you can get stuck with feedback. The sound hearing itself, amplifying itself, and hearing itself again until it reaches a crescendo of mind splitting proportions. And when it’s all over, all you had to do was shut the amp off. But it never occurs to you once you get stuck.

At least it didn’t occur to me.

No, I listened to that feedback and ignored the consequences. At least I didn’t get tazed. Well, maybe getting tazed would have been better than getting blown to hell and back, but that’s merely a matter of opinion.

And I continue to look back. Where was it that I could have made the decision to avoid sitting in this cell with a bunch of Mexicans laughing at me and saying ‘No Ingles’ motherfucker? Now that I look at it, there were a bunch of exits off of this particular highway. And why didn’t I take them?

Because of a girl. Well, three actually, but as usual I’m getting ahead of myself.

So I’ll go back to the beginning.

Anytime... ...And the Band Played On.

Ohhhhh, anytime you want me,
Ohhhhh, anytime that you need me,
Ohhhhh, anytime that you want me to,
Ohhhhh, anytime that you need me. ~ Journey, 'Anytime.'

It doesn't matter what you like. You like it. That's good enough. And yes, I like Journey. There. I said it.

What it comes down to is music is the glue that sticks the world together. Just look at the people on the streets. Earphones in. Bobbing their heads.

It's pure poetry in motion. Literally.

And how can that be bad?

And for me, well, my musical career was a foregone conclusion when I first heard "Panama." It floored me. It still does. I'm 16 all over again every time that song comes on.

But what sold me was "Mean Streets." Yes, it's more than a Scorcese movie. It's Eddie playing too fast, too long, and too hard on a city block well after dark. And I love it.

"Easy Like Sunday Morning." Also love that. Which kills my wife.

So what's the point? I'll get to it now. We go through this life once. That's it. Once. No rehearsals, no do-overs. You get one shot at it. What you want. What you believe. What you care about.

And what do you care about? I know what I care about. Some silly little riff at 2:44 into a Guns and Roses song. Is it important? Of course not, but I think it is. And that's what gives my life any sort of meaning. So ultimately, what I'm getting at is this:

I'm coming out of retirement.

Yes, me and my '72 Telecaster Custom Reissue are back in the market. I'm looking for something hard-hitting and original. I'm going to play it my way, all the way. I will leave fans (of which I have none) totally disappointed. I had one band that I loved. They're called 'Outasynk' and I love what I did with them.

But this time? Yeah, this boy is going to tame the man.

So if you have a band in the Philly area, and you're looking for a totally egotistical guitar player, e-mail me.

Or I'll just do it myself.

Coming to venue near you in 2011. And I have the place picked out.

More to come. Grab your ear plugs, you'll need them.

I may be old, but I'm just getting started.

A Birthday, Of Sorts

I had actually typed out the eulogy I gave at my father's funeral, as today is six years since he passed.

But then I realized, some things are just for me and my dad. Maybe some day I'll post it, but as ok with everything I am right now, this one is a bit too much for me now.

Strangely enough, in my opinion, today is my birthday. Sure, I was born on another day, but as I described to a friend at the time, 'the day my dad died was the first day I felt like I was working without a net.'

And I still feel that way. That's not a good or bad thing, it just is.

I hope you don't understand.

Thank you, Dad, thinking about you.

Regular posts to follow next week.

NandD

Year Six

Wheels keep a spinning round and round years keep a spinning round and round
With the passing of your time, though you seldom come to mind I remember the day
Sure as winter follows fall, sure as maybe I will call, just remember the day. ~ Robert Plant, "Far Post."

Just remembering the day. Six years ago, and sometimes it seems like a lifetime, other times, the wound is still fresh. I guess ultimately that's what you need to do, stitch it up, lament the pain, and move along.

For the first time in six years, I'm going to celebrate Christmas. It was my father's favorite holiday. I can't say I'm 'over it' per se, but I do know that I finally am feeling out from under. And it's good to feel that way.

It's also nice to feel like there were good times. And there were plenty of those.

So why do we remember our dead? They're no longer with us, obviously, but they take up mental and emotional space far greater than their actual presence ever did.

The conclusion I've come to is we remember for our own sake. Hoping against hope that it all means something, that when our predetermined time arrives, others will keep us alive. So that we can matter. So that we can believe. So that we can live on. If only for a second.

So Dad, you can rest easy, you still live on through me, my sisters, and even my mom. Though you may not have gotten everything you could have hoped for, you did get immortality.

It's the only gift I have left that I can give you.

But what else can a son do? All men are sons, and all of us secretly dread and aspire to the same thing: that we too can play it the way you played it.

You didn't play it perfectly, but you played it well.

A week and a half ago, I had a dream about my dad, and I haven't had one of those in years. I was on a couch, watching tv, and inexplicably I looked over and my dad was on a couch as well. He looked at me and said "Son, you've got to sleep more than four hours a night." He then got up, covered me in a blanket, and said "Son, just relax, it's ok."

You know what Dad? You're right as usual. Everything's ok.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

The Haunting

"Blame me,
Save a prayer for those haunt you.
There now,
I don't mind if you still love me." ~ Jerry Cantrell, "Leave Me Alone."

The world is a lot smaller than I previously thought.

A good friend of mine invited me to a book release party last night. So a hearty 'howdy' to Joe and Brett, who were great company. Oh, and Katie too. I also managed to get talked into cooking again by my boss, but that's another story for another time.

I had a fucking blast. I got to meet the author. I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you how much this meant to me since my one goal in life at this point is to finish my book. I don't even care at this point if it sucks, I just need to get it done. Oh, the book.

"How to Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide." The author's name is Aaron Goldfarb, and I have to tell you, I don't generally like anyone, but this guy was really nice. He took time out to say hello and say a few encouraging words, which is incredibly cool. His blog is funny as hell too. It's located here. Give the guy some love, anyone who's written a book deserves it, because it's fucking hard as hell.

How do I know this? Well, as I said, I've been writing a book which is responsible for my lack of attention to this blog, among other things.

I started out writing a book with the working title "Fucking Mexicans." I actually had 90 pages finished, then in a fit of rage (which when it comes to my writing, is not rare, for instance, I have about 40 posts for this blog in queue that I will never post because I can't stand to read them. That's right, the shit I put up is actually better than the shit I don't put up, so you can thank me for that later.) I deleted it. All of it. Character sketches. Outline. Treatment. Every last fucking word. Enough self loathing for you?

So what have I been writing? You may ask. You may not care. I wouldn't blame you.

The haunting. It never leaves me. There's always a look, a place, a name, a girl. It all factors in.

And with no further ado, or any at all for that matter, the current project is called "Old City Stories." It's a collection of short stories about the places I live and love. A bit of back story is necessary at this point.

As you all know, I used to practice law. "Practice" being the key word. After much soul searching and discussion with my wife, it became apparent that I couldn't do it anymore. I've lived too much of my life for others, and at 38, for the second time, it is time for me to live for me. Typing those words is weird. Anyway, back to the book and my life.

I've been holding out on you all. I'm actually training to be a bartender. And I love it. It's so nice to actually have people come in and be happy to see me. For ten years, I would pick up the phone and the person on the other end of the line was dismayed. Now, when people see me, they're happy. What a change. I'm sure it's the booze, but I'm ok with a little self delusion.

Anyway, one day I was sitting in the bar, waiting for my first customer, and I thought "Hey, fuck it, I should write a story about this." I don't know what inspired me to think that, but there it was. So I started writing notes. A Conflict arose. Characters entered next. The scenery was already there. And so it goes.

It gets really difficult to write. Some days I stare at the computer screen and I want to scream. Nothing comes. It's all around me, the inches I need, but they don't cooperate. Why anyone would choose this life is beyond me, but that's a continuing theme in my life. The choices just seem to happen without any regard for my tastes. So I slog through the best that I can.

That's what haunts me. The knowledge that it's all around me, and I just can't seem to find it. It's like being blind in the spring. The beauty is all around you, but you can't see it. Torture. Degradation. The half an inch you need, just out of reach.

And isn't that really the basis of failure? Reaching for something that is just a half an inch out of reach? You strain, you feel the arm muscles tighten, you look at the raised fingers, but at some point, you just know.

It's not enough. Your best just isn't good enough. And that's what writing is for me every single fucking day. So why do I do it? I don't know. Compulsion? Perhaps. Crashing by design? Most definitely.

So I've promised my wife that I wouldn't delete anything anymore. Hopefully, I'll come out with something cohesive and serviceable, but even if I don't, at least I'm trying.

And isn't that really what you can do? Try? It's all I've got left, and who knows, maybe I'll actually be successful.

More to come.

Oh, why is the world smaller than I previously thought? The editor of the book by Aaron Goldfarb is a girl named Amy whom used to be a waitress at a lunch place I used to go to back when I was an 'important person.' It was good to see her again, and I'm glad she seems to be heading in her dream direction.

3:00 A.M. Redux.

Upon further review, I've decided my opening song in my dream would be:

Can't You Hear Me Knockin' by The Rolling Stones.

Holy Mother of God, this song is unbelievable. I just busted out Sticky Fingers and once again have to bow to the genius that is the guitar playing of Mick Taylor and Keith Richards. They dance around one another like a couple of belly dancers and it's hypnotic and beautiful.

Yup. This is the one.

That's all.