I fucking DID IT.

No words to explain how I feel... so I'll give you some ellipses...

I will sleep for about a week for sure! Starting right now..zzz...

Procrastination IV. (Or, Gratitude II.)

Today is my Nana's 93rd birthday. There was a celebration, during which I was called, put on speaker phone, and sang Happy Birthday to You© along with my various immediate family, aunts and cousins. There was additional singing and whoo-hooing, to which I happily contributed, and yes, everyone was laughing. I am so happy that I have her in my life.

A couple of days ago, a friend of mine said he was jealous of the "love connection" (his words) that we all have as a family. He has seen us all together, has been a part of some of the crazy parties we have, and knows how much we all just love being together. Sure, we can't talk politics or babies or religion with any honesty, but we sure have a good time together and genuinely love one another. Mushy mush mush. It's true.

This picture of Nana was just taken last Sunday (Easter, or as my siblings prefer to call it, "Spring Day"), in Point Pleasant, NJ. We make her wear all sorts of ridiculous things on various occasions, and by golly, she does. It's enough to make one's heart swell (or sink, depending on whichever inside joke you were privy to).

Enough about the mushy stuff. I need to put my heart back on ice and get back to work. Sigh.

Procrastination III. (Or, why everyone in town has been sick?)

Ahh Spring, the rebirth of the glorious cycle of life. Feral cats having screaming loud sex in the backyard, birds waking me up at 6:30AM, flowering trees depositing colorful displays on my car. Ahhh. So nice. Breathe that fresh spring urban air. Can't you just smell the piss already?

So, I just had this exterminator in to do some, uh, extermination two days ago. And then yesterday, I saw an ant. I killed it. Today, there was a platoon marching across my wall. I killed them, and before I could mash the last little bugger with my killing stick, a fresh new set of troops were already making their way along the window sill. Damn. I went to the hardware store to get some ant killing stuff. (I can't kill a mouse, but I have NO problem with the indiscriminate execution of insects.)

Here's a conversation I heard today on my way into the store:

Boy: ...so it turns out that when she left, she forgot this one box of random stuff, I mean it was totally random. LPs, Christmas lights, shoes, like that kind of stuff.

Girl: Wow that is totally random.

Boy: Yeah, so she asked me not to touch it, which I didn't for the most part, I mean, I might have gone in there to look for something once, but I left it right where it was. I mean, it's been there in the basement now for months.

Girl: And that's where they were?

Boy: Yeah, it was nuts! Turns out, it was whole nest of roaches, not just a few, like we thought.

Girl: EEEWWWW!

Boy: Totally. So my mom brought over this insecticide stuff; it's totally illegal, like if it gets in the water, all of Hoboken will die. It's from the '70s or something. I forget what it was called. So we dumped this shit in the box, of course all the roaches died, but the smell was awful! And then K______ dropped one of the bottles and it broke on the floor! It was sooo nasty... We had to close off the basement for days.

Girl: Holy shit!

Holy shit, indeed.

Procrastination II. (Or, I was thinking about getting a dog.)

Last week as I was stumbling around town, in desperate need of coffee and trying in vain to rest my brain a little, I took notice of all the cute little friendly pups scuttling about the sidewalks. If you've read any of my past posts, you'd know that what I usually tend to notice, and find irritating, are two things.

One is the dog poo thing, which in my mind is a pretty standard thing to be irritated by. I mean, if you own a dog, you should know that it is, in fact, alive. And as such, will routinely excrete foul substances. The substances of the solid variety are the ones I really don't care to see in my path. If you weren't aware that your cute little pup is a living creature that does this sort of thing, and haven't accepted this as your responsibility to take care of, then you should probably invest in a nice TV for your living room. Sit on your sofa and watch it. And please do us all a favor and just stay there.

The other is the Mommy Mafia. The moms with their $800 strollers, gathering in packs like feral beasts, coagulating at sidewalk corners, making it difficult for people like me, who tend to walk at the standard NYC East Coast pace, to breeze by unhindered.

Well, it seems that as I'm acclimating to my new lifestyle, and finding new things to be irritated by, I've developed an immunity to the peevish quality of these things. Everyday, I walk along the usual routes, lower my subconscious blinders and blissfully tackle the only task that now motivates my daily jaunts: coffee. I notice nothing these days. No Mommy Mafia. No sidewalk dog bombs. No Jersey guido loudmouths in convertibles. No tickets for alternate side of the street parking. No. I am too busy for all that now.

Until last week. A little pup came bouncing along, looked at me and immediately identified me as a sucker, which is pretty funny considering that I am not a fan of dogs. He followed me, tail wagging, tongue hanging out, stupid expression and all. Followed me until I relented and patted him on the head. I swear, in that moment, when I patted his little fuzzy head, I thought I saw him smile. I'm not kidding. His tail swung back and forth and he ran a couple of little circles, looked at me and then was pulled away by his owner. And I was left thinking: "hmmmmm... Dog?"

And then I noticed all the dogs. All the bonds they share with their people. How they wait patiently outside stores for their people to come out. How they play like children in the park a few blocks down from my apartment. (OK, ok. I've been to this park to watch the dogs more than once. You got me. Hey, it's a party over there!) And I really started to think about the idea of having a dog. It's not a bad idea, I thought. Go to the pound, adopt a cute little guy who's already housebroken... and go to the dog park.

And then today, as I wandered about, I saw a beautiful dog sitting beneath one of those flowering trees. I'm guessing his person was inside the store just across the street. He was sitting there in the sunlight, soft golden coat all shiny and stuff, covered with floating tree-flower petals, and ...... he was eating his own poop.

So uh, nevermind.

Procrastination. (Or, why we all suck really bad.)

This is a post about procrastination. Actually, it isn't. It's about a deer. A dead deer. And a live one. But less about the deer, it's more about the duality of humankind. You know, some light fare to start your week off right.

I'm watching the news this morning, procrastinating, and I see this segment about how rescuers saved a buck that was stuck in a drain in California. After they tranquilized it, the lucky buck was air-lifted to solid ground, and then ultimately to a protected forest.

Sometimes, I really have to laugh. I mean, this buck got national news coverage. NATIONAL. And think of all the hours and tax dollars put into the rescue! Whew!

Let's cut to maybe, oh, six months from now, where we find our lucky buck, let's call him Buckaroo Bonzai, in some forest. He's just standing there, minding his own business, eating some bark.. you know, the usual, and suddenly, he's caught between the eyes with buckshot. Dies instantly. Buckaroo Bonzai. DEAD.

We save. We kill. We mercifully save the things that are helpless, and then when they're all nice and healthy we destroy them. There's probably an analogy in there, like to relationships and whatnot, but fuck it. I can't think straight. What are the rules of this then? We save the things that need saving? And kill the things that need killin'?

I'm confused.

We are savage bastards.

And now I have to stop procrastinating and get my ass back to work.

Spring time is the right time for bad poetry.

Apologies to any viewers who have seen the poems I have posted over the past day or two and now find them missing. I realize after having read them in context that they are way to personal for this forum. Truly.

As a former English major (turned-painting major-turned-communications major-turned-college dropout-turned-graphic design major) who originally went to a school reknowned for its jazz studies program and subsequently befriending many of these musician-types, I have come to a unique understanding about the relationship of jazz and poetry.

As said English major, I was trying to relate to the passion that these guys experienced when they played. Every Thursday, we would all go down to Casa Montego in Paterson ("The Casa," we called it) where they would play host to spontaneous student performances. The rickety chairs we sat in, the sticky floor, the skunked beer... all faded when those boys started to play. They would start with the bebop standards, such as So What, Caravan, Take Five. Some raspy voiced dark man in the corner making a request: "Play Misty for me." And they would.

These were magical times for us; when these guys got going, all we would know at that moment in time was the music. We would sit in the dim smoke of the bar and watch, mesmerized, as Music danced all around us. I could imagine it being a sort of possesion, as one would be possessed and require an exorcism. Only here, at this bar, these cats were simulteously being possessed and exorcising themselves all at once.

What I understood in those moments was that this was the purest form of music, not like our modern rock, where songs are thoughtfully laid out and constructed into a cohesive commercial constraint of time. No. This was Music, a being that exploded from these young bodies and instruments, a being that desired, no, compelled us to listen to it. It was a direct intangible expression from one heart to another. Truly beautiful.

Poetry, at least for me, was much like this phenomenon. A direct communication from my heart to a written form. The words I wrote would come fluidly, like a wandering stream. No rhyme, meter, or any of that other bullshit. It was pure and, as most would have been happy to say, bad. This is why I am not a poet. But sometimes, I will write. Just not here.

I love trouble.

Actually, I don't. However, I always seem to be getting into something. Maybe I do like it? That'll be one for my therapist.

This is why everyone should get renter's insurance asap: stuff happens. And before you know it, your place is burning down.

So here's what happened to me.

In the interest of making my new pad more 'visitor-friendly,' I splurged on some wine and a nice bourbon. I rarely drink the stuff myself (bourbon), but a lot of folks here in town do, and I always like to be the enabling friend. Enablers are way more fun.

In addition, I went to Ikea (again) and got a cute little one-person sized wine rack. I placed this rack on the wall on the only available spot in my kitchen, which happens to be above the stove (not directly, of course). I also placed the bourbon up there, since the bourbon bottle happened to be delightfully wine bottle-shaped, and since keeping a nice bottle of bourbon under the sink seemed a little... I don't know.. trashy.

So it's been up there for a few days now, and I must say, my pad is looking really cute. I'm pretty happy about everything.

So I'm sitting at my computer today, working and blissfully unaware of my surroundings, when I suddenly hear a POP and then something sounding like crinkling cellophane. This sound didn't sound like a sound that was a good sound. I jumped from my computer and ran toward it. In the kitchen. First I see a cascade of water? Coming from the ceiling? Did a pipe break? Then: NO. The bourbon bottle (107 proof, thank you) popped open, just like that, and was now spilling about $40 worth of liquid all over my... SHIT! All over the stove!

I've been to Nashville Pussy shows, so I am very aware of what happens when you mix 100+ proof with fire. I shut off the gas (was baking a cake, because apparently I now bake things in my downtime.)... . Oh but it was too late! The bourbon caught and went up with a whooff.

Suddenly, my kitchen is on fire! The flames spread quickly to the counter and any place the bourbon had spilled. They were blue and hot and licked the walls and ceiling. Big fire. I did what any normal, rational human being would do: I screamed and called my best friend. Her phone was out. SHIT.

The things going through my head:
My landlord is sure going to be sorry she rented this out to me.
Do I put salt on a stove fire? (Tried it: answer is NO)
I can't believe this is happening to me.
Can I work it so I die in this blaze too?
Don't call fire department yet. It's not THAT bad.
Boy it sure reeks in here. But still better than the sewage.
Really, I can't use salt?
Can I blow on it?
Water?
How can I possible save my computer and my farfisa and my organ and my art?

As I'm contemplating all of this and calling 911, the fire just died. Just like that. And it was over. The only damage was to an extension cord I use for the coffee maker. Counter: fine. Walls: fine. Stove: fine. Ceiling: fine. Me: not fine. Shaking. Nerves shot. I'm going to throw up. No I'm not. Holy shit.

A: Life is amazing; one never knows what it will bring from day to day. And gosh darn it, live it. I am trying.

B: Get renter's insurance asap.

C: Keeping the bourbon under the sink.