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.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Takin' What They're Givin...
...Because I'm Working for a Living. ~ Huey Lewis and the News, "Working for a Living"
I'm pissed off. Yes, yes, I'm sure you're shocked. So I'm contemplating sending the following e-mail to the City of Philadelphia, budget crises be damned.
Dear City of Philadelphia,
While I'm cognizant that you're currently facing a massive budget shortfall, despite the fact that you manage to tax everything, and I mean everything, to such a draconian amount that Satan wonders how the fuck he can blow all that money on hookers and coke. However, I have enclosed an invoice for services rendered and I do expect that I should get paid. You may be asking yourselves 'who the fuck is this guy?' It's a fair question, so I'll deign to give you as thorough a response as possible.
I'm the guy that stands on Second Street, having a cigarette. Now I understand cigarette breaks are normally noncompensible, however, while I'm taking these breaks, I have to endure the following:
-Someone, usually staying at the Hostel located nearby, will stop and ask me questions. I understand that I'm incredibly sexy and intelligent looking, but despite this, I do not speak Dutch, German, Swahili or whatever the fuck language these people speak from a country I couldn't find on a map with a GPS, both my hands and a fucking flashlight. I do not understand you, this is why I tilt my head to the side like my dog does when I ask her to complete a math problem. No, I don't know why the United States hates you, but I do know why I hate you. While I appreciate the fact that your country's history probably includes goat rape, all we have here in Philadelphia is the birthplace of Democracy. So fucking shove it, and we can even vote on the foregoing should you so choose.
- I don't know if you can park there. I'm sorry, have you ever seen 'Parking Wars?' Yeah, it's about the Philadelphia Parking Authority. From what I can tell, they are the most powerful agency in the city, surpassing even the Mayor's office. Yes, I know parking is a bitch. Yes, I know you're from Jersey. Yes, I may even feel a little (and I do mean little) sympathy for you. That being said, I do not control the parking authority. I've even got tickets from them, and I'm a fucking douchebag when it comes to signs. Let me make this clear, I went down to parking court with my wife (my attorney as well) and yelled at people. This is what I like to do and this is what makes me feel that my life is worthwhile. So while I do commiserate with you, I do not like being yelled at, so fuck yourselves. Your parking, despite your commitment to the contrary ideal, is not my fucking problem. Figure it the fuck out.
- Yes, I did probably hit on you ten years ago. While I understand you're now married, have three kids, and unhappy about it all, it's not my fault. I assure you, you were only one of a million I hit on, and extremely unsuccessfully I might add. Again, it bears repeating, it's not my fault. And to further make you feel shitty about this, I will affirmatively state that when I was younger, I fished in the 'dumb, drunk, and slutty pool.' Of which you were an inhabitant. If you actually did sleep with me (which is highly unlikely) then you have something to bitch about. Just ask my wife.
- Yes, I do understand you're homeless. No, I don't want to buy the shit you just took out of the dumpster behind Pharmacia. While I appreciate a good deal as much as the next guy, a half drank bottle of Miller Lite at $1 seems just a bit too risky, considering the cap is off and the bottle appears to be steaming. While I also appreciate the fact that your urine has a higher alcohol content than Everclear, and it is well known that I'm such a huge risk taker, some risks are just not worth the payoff.
- Do not look so fucking helpless and clueless when you wear a Nazi SS Uniform at the Khyber Pass because 'you're making a statement' and you get your brains beat in on Second Street. I do love the law, and yes, I will agree that assault is illegal, I will also have to state that some people have it coming to them. And you're one of them. Oh, and stop bleeding on the sidewalk, show some fucking courtesy.
- I apologize, I'm not in the business of giving you a credible alibi in case you committed a crime. If you steal a purse, I'm going to yell and point. At you. I once had my wallet stolen, and let me tell you, replacing the money is easy. The ID's and credit cards are hellish. I contemplated changing my name to Juan Valdez so I could get free coffee, but the DMV didn't seem to have a sense of humor. Oh, and fuck them.
- I am not the Cruise Director for Old City. I know, I know, this may come as a shock to many of you. In an effort to continue to be helpful, I've decided I'm going to answer all requests with 'On my cock.' Hopefully this will let the person know just how much contempt I have for them, as I do not like to veil my sarcasm and distaste, as like whiskey, they are much better straight.
"Where can we go dancing?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where can we eat around here?" - 'On my cock.'
"Do you have a cigarette?" - 'On my cock.'
"Do you have any change?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where can I park?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where is Independence Hall?" - 'On my cock.'
So, City of Philadelphia, as you can see, my newest 'On my cock' policy will yield the appropriate response to pretty much any question. If this policy does not meet with your approval, feel free to suck my cock.
Taking all the foregoing into consideration, including time, labor and materials, I estimate the following outstanding balance for services rendered:
$1,432,567.50
I will not accept any checks, especially third party out of state checks as you are hobo ass broke. I prefer cash, although I will accept the deed to City Hall in lieu of cash.
Please deliver to Night and Day, P.O. Box 666, First Bank of America, Philadelphia, PA, 19106.
NOTE: If people comment that they want me to send the above e-mail, and come up with an amusing reason to do so, I will consider creating a new e-mail address and invoice the city for my time. Let me know, it could be funny if they actually respond. It could be even funnier if they actually pay me. Hey, fuck it, if the head of the Philadelphia Housing Authority can get a pension after running up millions in sexual harassment settlements, I can certainly get paid for 'helping tourism flourish.'
I'm pissed off. Yes, yes, I'm sure you're shocked. So I'm contemplating sending the following e-mail to the City of Philadelphia, budget crises be damned.
Dear City of Philadelphia,
While I'm cognizant that you're currently facing a massive budget shortfall, despite the fact that you manage to tax everything, and I mean everything, to such a draconian amount that Satan wonders how the fuck he can blow all that money on hookers and coke. However, I have enclosed an invoice for services rendered and I do expect that I should get paid. You may be asking yourselves 'who the fuck is this guy?' It's a fair question, so I'll deign to give you as thorough a response as possible.
I'm the guy that stands on Second Street, having a cigarette. Now I understand cigarette breaks are normally noncompensible, however, while I'm taking these breaks, I have to endure the following:
-Someone, usually staying at the Hostel located nearby, will stop and ask me questions. I understand that I'm incredibly sexy and intelligent looking, but despite this, I do not speak Dutch, German, Swahili or whatever the fuck language these people speak from a country I couldn't find on a map with a GPS, both my hands and a fucking flashlight. I do not understand you, this is why I tilt my head to the side like my dog does when I ask her to complete a math problem. No, I don't know why the United States hates you, but I do know why I hate you. While I appreciate the fact that your country's history probably includes goat rape, all we have here in Philadelphia is the birthplace of Democracy. So fucking shove it, and we can even vote on the foregoing should you so choose.
- I don't know if you can park there. I'm sorry, have you ever seen 'Parking Wars?' Yeah, it's about the Philadelphia Parking Authority. From what I can tell, they are the most powerful agency in the city, surpassing even the Mayor's office. Yes, I know parking is a bitch. Yes, I know you're from Jersey. Yes, I may even feel a little (and I do mean little) sympathy for you. That being said, I do not control the parking authority. I've even got tickets from them, and I'm a fucking douchebag when it comes to signs. Let me make this clear, I went down to parking court with my wife (my attorney as well) and yelled at people. This is what I like to do and this is what makes me feel that my life is worthwhile. So while I do commiserate with you, I do not like being yelled at, so fuck yourselves. Your parking, despite your commitment to the contrary ideal, is not my fucking problem. Figure it the fuck out.
- Yes, I did probably hit on you ten years ago. While I understand you're now married, have three kids, and unhappy about it all, it's not my fault. I assure you, you were only one of a million I hit on, and extremely unsuccessfully I might add. Again, it bears repeating, it's not my fault. And to further make you feel shitty about this, I will affirmatively state that when I was younger, I fished in the 'dumb, drunk, and slutty pool.' Of which you were an inhabitant. If you actually did sleep with me (which is highly unlikely) then you have something to bitch about. Just ask my wife.
- Yes, I do understand you're homeless. No, I don't want to buy the shit you just took out of the dumpster behind Pharmacia. While I appreciate a good deal as much as the next guy, a half drank bottle of Miller Lite at $1 seems just a bit too risky, considering the cap is off and the bottle appears to be steaming. While I also appreciate the fact that your urine has a higher alcohol content than Everclear, and it is well known that I'm such a huge risk taker, some risks are just not worth the payoff.
- Do not look so fucking helpless and clueless when you wear a Nazi SS Uniform at the Khyber Pass because 'you're making a statement' and you get your brains beat in on Second Street. I do love the law, and yes, I will agree that assault is illegal, I will also have to state that some people have it coming to them. And you're one of them. Oh, and stop bleeding on the sidewalk, show some fucking courtesy.
- I apologize, I'm not in the business of giving you a credible alibi in case you committed a crime. If you steal a purse, I'm going to yell and point. At you. I once had my wallet stolen, and let me tell you, replacing the money is easy. The ID's and credit cards are hellish. I contemplated changing my name to Juan Valdez so I could get free coffee, but the DMV didn't seem to have a sense of humor. Oh, and fuck them.
- I am not the Cruise Director for Old City. I know, I know, this may come as a shock to many of you. In an effort to continue to be helpful, I've decided I'm going to answer all requests with 'On my cock.' Hopefully this will let the person know just how much contempt I have for them, as I do not like to veil my sarcasm and distaste, as like whiskey, they are much better straight.
"Where can we go dancing?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where can we eat around here?" - 'On my cock.'
"Do you have a cigarette?" - 'On my cock.'
"Do you have any change?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where can I park?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where is Independence Hall?" - 'On my cock.'
So, City of Philadelphia, as you can see, my newest 'On my cock' policy will yield the appropriate response to pretty much any question. If this policy does not meet with your approval, feel free to suck my cock.
Taking all the foregoing into consideration, including time, labor and materials, I estimate the following outstanding balance for services rendered:
$1,432,567.50
I will not accept any checks, especially third party out of state checks as you are hobo ass broke. I prefer cash, although I will accept the deed to City Hall in lieu of cash.
Please deliver to Night and Day, P.O. Box 666, First Bank of America, Philadelphia, PA, 19106.
NOTE: If people comment that they want me to send the above e-mail, and come up with an amusing reason to do so, I will consider creating a new e-mail address and invoice the city for my time. Let me know, it could be funny if they actually respond. It could be even funnier if they actually pay me. Hey, fuck it, if the head of the Philadelphia Housing Authority can get a pension after running up millions in sexual harassment settlements, I can certainly get paid for 'helping tourism flourish.'
Friday, October 1, 2010
3:00 A.M.
"Children we have it right here,
It's the light in my eyes,
It's perfection and grace,
It's the smile on my face.
Tonight when I chase the dragon,
The water will change to cherry wine,
And the silver will turn to gold
Time out of mind." ~ Steely Dan, "Time Out of Mind"
I'm in a dressing room. I feel the weight of my 1972 Fender Telecaster Custom Reissue, the first real guitar I ever bought, tugging at my neck. It feels like a comforting hand on my shoulder, letting me know that despite myself, everything's going to be all right. Sometimes, even in my dream, I wonder, 'why this one?' It makes no sense to me, I've always been terrified of the spotlight. Yet, in possibly the most glaringly inconsistent manner, I seek out that which frightens me.
I stare around the dressing room. The other band members are going through their own rituals, facing their own demons, coming to terms with the unreality of it all. I stare straight ahead at the mirror and look at the man-boy staring back at me. Beat up baseball cap, nondescript t-shirt, jeans a couple of sizes too big. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and the eyes narrow. I've never gotten too far beyond that 16 year old self.
This is where things start to get scary. I'm about to go where I never want to go. I don't understand it, I've played hundreds of shows (once in front of 12,000 people) and yet I can't seem to just walk away. It is infuriating in its hypocrisy. Why do it if it drives me this nuts.
The dream continues. At a certain point, I dash to the bathroom and the contents of my stomach end up exiting.
"5 minutes" yells the road manager.
Oh boy, this is the worst. The heightened sense of impending doom. Why on earth would I dream of something so anxiety laden?
In the dream I return to the dressing room. The looks on the faces of my bandmates vary from serene to panic stricken as we make our final peace with our 'before' selves. I take a deep breath and grab Sascha, my '72 Tele, take a drag from my cigarette, and take a swig of Powers.
"Showtime."
I follow behind the band, I'm going to be the last one on stage. Suddenly, I panic. What is the first song? The first chord? Do I start it? Holy fuck, this is bad. Though this part of my dream has always remained constant, the first song changes depending on my mood. It has varied from "Custard Pie," a down and dirty blues romp, to "Running with the Devil," through "Live Wire," the ultimate opener by AC/DC, or sometimes the haunting "Gimme Shelter," a song of doom and post apocalyptic gloom.
We wind through the bowels of the arena, the footsteps of my bandmates echoing back and forth over the halls and floors. In the distance, I hear a storm coming, just on the verge of breaking. I can even smell sulpher, a used match backlights the head of the singer in front of me. It's coming.
We climb a stairwell, ascending to the stage. I can feel the breeze, indiscriminately carrying with it the smells of thousands of people. The storm is growing closer, the temperature is rising right along with my panic. Only an ego such as mine could compare this to the way the Christians must have felt on their last walk to the arena for the amusement of others. I'm sure there's some comment on the human condition here somewhere, about misery providing amusement. I'm just not in a place to make the connection.
We wind around to the main stage, noise growing louder, and I can see the smoke. There are flashes of light through a sliver of curtain. It's time.
In my dream, there is no introduction, no fanfare, no announcer. Just five guys, their instruments and a desire to never lose that fire. The one within, the one that takes sheer unadulterated joy in submitting to the music that is the child of us all. I walk out on the stage, still darkened, waiting for that one perfect chord that will ring out forever.
I am home.
...
It's 3 a.m. and I'm awake. This is not an uncommon thing for me. I sit on my couch and listen to the world in its stillness, and I wish I could join it.
But no rest for the wicked.
They file in, one by one, wordlessly, staring. Every mistake and decision I've ever made. They line up, and their very presence underscores the agenda. Reflection. When Benjamin Franklin and Dr. Rush decided to create a new prison model, they created Eastern State Penitentiary. The idea was to isolate the prisoner, because it would force them to turn inward and reflect, and hopefully become 'penitent.'
At 3:00 a.m., the defenses you need to deal with the day are gone, because there is nothing left to defend against, other than yourself. The parade down the road untaken isn't always painful, and isn't always futile. It just makes you wonder 'what if?'
At 3:00 a.m., whether it be dreaming or reflecting, you are probably as true to yourself as you can ever be.
I don't think it's coincidence that our capacity to dream and regret wreak their havoc upon us at the same time, they are sisters, one the potentiality of us all and the other the reality. The one sister is your companion, and the other is what you want to possess, but never will.
If the last year has taught me anything, it's that you never really know what's around the corner. Obviously, I'm logical enough to know that, but to really feel it and experience a major change in your life is a different thing altogether. For the past ten years, my life was fairly straightforward, I had a career, I got up everyday, went to do my job, went home. Rinse and repeat. It didn't leave too much time to think about shit, and let's face it, you get complacent and don't really have the motivation to think about the bigger things.
Maybe we avoid thinking about the bigger things because of the regrets that we all know lie just beneath the surface. The bitch of it is that's where the dreams are too, so when you dredge those waters you have to accept the fact that you'll end up finding a few bodies in your hunt for buried treasure.
So now what? At 38, I never saw myself in this position, wondering what type of work I would do when I had it figured out cold at 26. But life throws you curves sometimes and you have to adjust.
Ultimately, I guess since I'm here now, maybe I'll go out to the garage, dust off the saddle, and giddy up and just see if I can catch a dragon or two. I'm a bit out of practice, but who knows, I might just catch one. And if you circle around enough, it becomes harder to determine who is chasing whom.
And sometimes the odd number wins.
It's the light in my eyes,
It's perfection and grace,
It's the smile on my face.
Tonight when I chase the dragon,
The water will change to cherry wine,
And the silver will turn to gold
Time out of mind." ~ Steely Dan, "Time Out of Mind"
I'm in a dressing room. I feel the weight of my 1972 Fender Telecaster Custom Reissue, the first real guitar I ever bought, tugging at my neck. It feels like a comforting hand on my shoulder, letting me know that despite myself, everything's going to be all right. Sometimes, even in my dream, I wonder, 'why this one?' It makes no sense to me, I've always been terrified of the spotlight. Yet, in possibly the most glaringly inconsistent manner, I seek out that which frightens me.
I stare around the dressing room. The other band members are going through their own rituals, facing their own demons, coming to terms with the unreality of it all. I stare straight ahead at the mirror and look at the man-boy staring back at me. Beat up baseball cap, nondescript t-shirt, jeans a couple of sizes too big. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and the eyes narrow. I've never gotten too far beyond that 16 year old self.
This is where things start to get scary. I'm about to go where I never want to go. I don't understand it, I've played hundreds of shows (once in front of 12,000 people) and yet I can't seem to just walk away. It is infuriating in its hypocrisy. Why do it if it drives me this nuts.
The dream continues. At a certain point, I dash to the bathroom and the contents of my stomach end up exiting.
"5 minutes" yells the road manager.
Oh boy, this is the worst. The heightened sense of impending doom. Why on earth would I dream of something so anxiety laden?
In the dream I return to the dressing room. The looks on the faces of my bandmates vary from serene to panic stricken as we make our final peace with our 'before' selves. I take a deep breath and grab Sascha, my '72 Tele, take a drag from my cigarette, and take a swig of Powers.
"Showtime."
I follow behind the band, I'm going to be the last one on stage. Suddenly, I panic. What is the first song? The first chord? Do I start it? Holy fuck, this is bad. Though this part of my dream has always remained constant, the first song changes depending on my mood. It has varied from "Custard Pie," a down and dirty blues romp, to "Running with the Devil," through "Live Wire," the ultimate opener by AC/DC, or sometimes the haunting "Gimme Shelter," a song of doom and post apocalyptic gloom.
We wind through the bowels of the arena, the footsteps of my bandmates echoing back and forth over the halls and floors. In the distance, I hear a storm coming, just on the verge of breaking. I can even smell sulpher, a used match backlights the head of the singer in front of me. It's coming.
We climb a stairwell, ascending to the stage. I can feel the breeze, indiscriminately carrying with it the smells of thousands of people. The storm is growing closer, the temperature is rising right along with my panic. Only an ego such as mine could compare this to the way the Christians must have felt on their last walk to the arena for the amusement of others. I'm sure there's some comment on the human condition here somewhere, about misery providing amusement. I'm just not in a place to make the connection.
We wind around to the main stage, noise growing louder, and I can see the smoke. There are flashes of light through a sliver of curtain. It's time.
In my dream, there is no introduction, no fanfare, no announcer. Just five guys, their instruments and a desire to never lose that fire. The one within, the one that takes sheer unadulterated joy in submitting to the music that is the child of us all. I walk out on the stage, still darkened, waiting for that one perfect chord that will ring out forever.
I am home.
...
It's 3 a.m. and I'm awake. This is not an uncommon thing for me. I sit on my couch and listen to the world in its stillness, and I wish I could join it.
But no rest for the wicked.
They file in, one by one, wordlessly, staring. Every mistake and decision I've ever made. They line up, and their very presence underscores the agenda. Reflection. When Benjamin Franklin and Dr. Rush decided to create a new prison model, they created Eastern State Penitentiary. The idea was to isolate the prisoner, because it would force them to turn inward and reflect, and hopefully become 'penitent.'
At 3:00 a.m., the defenses you need to deal with the day are gone, because there is nothing left to defend against, other than yourself. The parade down the road untaken isn't always painful, and isn't always futile. It just makes you wonder 'what if?'
At 3:00 a.m., whether it be dreaming or reflecting, you are probably as true to yourself as you can ever be.
I don't think it's coincidence that our capacity to dream and regret wreak their havoc upon us at the same time, they are sisters, one the potentiality of us all and the other the reality. The one sister is your companion, and the other is what you want to possess, but never will.
If the last year has taught me anything, it's that you never really know what's around the corner. Obviously, I'm logical enough to know that, but to really feel it and experience a major change in your life is a different thing altogether. For the past ten years, my life was fairly straightforward, I had a career, I got up everyday, went to do my job, went home. Rinse and repeat. It didn't leave too much time to think about shit, and let's face it, you get complacent and don't really have the motivation to think about the bigger things.
Maybe we avoid thinking about the bigger things because of the regrets that we all know lie just beneath the surface. The bitch of it is that's where the dreams are too, so when you dredge those waters you have to accept the fact that you'll end up finding a few bodies in your hunt for buried treasure.
So now what? At 38, I never saw myself in this position, wondering what type of work I would do when I had it figured out cold at 26. But life throws you curves sometimes and you have to adjust.
Ultimately, I guess since I'm here now, maybe I'll go out to the garage, dust off the saddle, and giddy up and just see if I can catch a dragon or two. I'm a bit out of practice, but who knows, I might just catch one. And if you circle around enough, it becomes harder to determine who is chasing whom.
And sometimes the odd number wins.
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