Forward forever

Man, what crazy action there is in here. Grand Central Station during the holiday rush. People stacked upon people. Faces become faceless. Rushing past. A few dozen 'shoulder checks' and nobody seems to care. For every one beating heart there are 1000 more to take its place. Walk into the magazine shop and and spot the old business men over in the porn section. Buy yer porn with pride. Everybody can see what you're doing. It takes a lot to shock people these days. A shop called Leper Kids, oh wait, that actually reads "Leeper Kids". No secrets are kept here--open for all to see, all the time, 24hrs. Even over in the Whispering Gallery, nobody is getting it right. The folks talk on cell phones instead of into the wall like they are supposed to. The fun little trick is lost to them, maybe forever. Glad I saw it when I could. Holiday laser light show in the Main Concourse minus the Floyd and weed. Families gaze up to see the kaleidoscopic walls moving in colorful patterns. Meanwhile, the operator actually is listening to Floyd through his headphones and just blazing away up there safe in his little heaven. Old men with disheveled comb-overs flapping off the sides of their heads. Nothing is gonna save you now, just cut that old clingy spider web off. Hundreds of voices converge in the echoing atmosphere and form some sort of incongruous language. Only the ghosts will understand/can interpret. Flanked on all sides are portals, portals leading to tracks leading to trains. These trains will transport these people to far away places. A quiet town, a small village, or another city. A place not here, but will make some sense to them nonetheless.

The Magic Magician

Another day on the subway. Another 30 minute rumble on out to Forest Hills. This time listening to music with eyes closed. At around the Roosevelt stop I glance up and see a little Hispanic man get on the train toting what appears to be a modified shopping cart of some sort. Draped over the cart is a velvety red blanket with gold trim. I wonder what this guy is up to. He suddenly reaches into his cart and pulls out something that looks like a shoebox. This contraption he's holding has two open ends. He puts his hand through the whole thing showing that it is empty. He shakes it around a bit then taps it with his finger. He reaches in the box and pulls out a live rabbit. Hey, that was pretty good. I guess, once again, but not exactly like before, I've encountered another subway magician.

Unlike the Unmagic Magician, who was an intolerable asshole, this little guy seems rather pleasant and genuine. I like how he is not saying much, actually, he is not speaking at all. He puts his little rabbit away and reaches back into the cart. This time he performs a silly handkerchief trick. Each time he performs a trick he presents it to each side of the train, letting everyone see the outcome. I like the way he goes about his business. He stands in between the doors and does not rudely approach people. If you don't like what he has to offer you don't have to pay attention. But I was actually watching this guy because there was something kind of endearing about his whole act. Once again my stop is approaching and the Magic Magician appears to have one last trick in his cart of magic. He pulls out another handkerchief, this time wielding it around in the air. He snaps the handkerchief over his empty left hand and suddenly a small white bird appears there. Could've been a dove for all I know. He bows to the train audience and reveals a little sign that reads "Thank you". This guy was great and when he humbly walks around to collect money I give him all the change in my pockets. My stop approaches and I lift myself out of my seat to exit. I look around to see where the little man has gone. He is nowhere to be seen. Damn, real magic.

This half wrought thought

My art gone like it never even began. Sorry not an artist, but liked the colors anyway. On a wall for a while. I miss the warm days rolling around. Quick up a curb and two wheels balanced across. Like nobody else. Too hard to find the similarities now. Behind a desk in a vacuum. Switched off and dormant until I'm triggered again. I can't speak what I want anymore. I can't express my expressions. Some friends made it better, always. I trust the past to know the future. Another job. Tuck in that shirt. Play nice to everyone I hate. Hate what I see coming. Love the fact that this is not permanent. Hopelessly unhip to the hip and much better now. Tape to dead wood. Dead wood to dead skin. Thwack! I loved the sound and feeling. Something I could do, a talent perhaps. Dead wood to metal to urethane to dirty concrete. Something I could do, a talent perhaps. Used to could. Dizzy and falling down sometimes. Getting thinner when I should be getting fatter. Maybe have some disease. I dunno, not crippled yet but a glance in reflective material casts back a weird visage that I do not recognize sometimes. Where'd that hair go? Why the long face? Getting old is strange. I know I can do what I did. No chances given here. Not the right look. The right voice. The right posture. The right sideways and multiple upsidedown perspective. Shadow cast on a windy street. What'd it say back to me? Maybe hid this winter somewhere in the recesses of a restless mind. Knowing it was going to be cold. Very cold.

Let the night roll in

So I'm sitting here, in my truck, on a dark quiet street in Williamsburg. My wife was supposed to be here with me, but she opted to go to this sea shanties singalong gig in another part of town. We were supposed to both go and see this band called Maserati play tonight. I've seen Maserati once before in San Francisco and am familiar with their records. They are a very talented band in the post-rock, instrumental genre. I figure one of the few things keeping me alive out here is going to see some of my favorite bands play live when they come into town. Otherwise, it's usually just me, or me and Sara, or just me working at my boring law firm job with no friends and nothing to do every night of the week. I used to do all sorts of things back in California. I used to play drums in a band, I used to go skateboarding every day, I used to make art in our garage, I used to hang out with good friends during the week, I used to, I used to...

So for now I'm here, alone. I have a 32 oz. of Red Stripe between my legs and two cigarettes left. The Red Stripe was only $3 at the corner bodega, which is much better than paying $6 for a small plastic cup of it at the club. New York night clubs and bars charge exorbitant amounts for beer and liquor. I'm always perplexed by how these seemingly normal people, with normal jobs afford to eat, sleep, shit, and entertain themselves in this city. Everything is very unreasonably priced. On the average, I'd say that most of the food and drink is at least $2-$5 more than in California.

I drink most of the Red Stripe and have a smoke with the window down. I like this street right now. It is quiet and dark. A slight breeze pulses down the lane and rattles the naked branches of a tree nearby. I feel stealthy in a lame way. People walk by and I imitate them, mock their hipster flair. But look at me; I'm just some lonely guy sitting in his truck alone secretly smoking and drinking. I have to take a piss so I get out and go around to the back of the truck. Nobody is around and I lean up against a small tree to relieve myself. It is cold so I hurry and zip up then rush back to the warm interior of my truck. I figure now might be a good time to call some friends. The show doesn't start til 9:00 and it is only 8:00. I call Schuyler first and he doesn't answer. I leave a goofy message for him. It would have been nice to speak with him. I know if he were in New York right now he and I would be in my truck smoking and drinking and waiting to go to the show. We did this often back in California. Neither of us ever had much money to spend drinking all night at a show, so a cheap way to get a nice buzz would be to drink a few beers or whatever in my car before going in.

I call Yoni as well, he is not there so I leave a message for him too. Yoni is getting married next week in Chicago and Sara and I are very excited to witness this event and see all of our friends again. It seems so long since I've seen their faces, much too long. I have to piss again and get out to repeat the whole procedure. Come back in the truck and suck down the remaining Red Stripe. I look at my watch and think now is probably a good time to head down the street to the show. It is windy and cold as I walk down the sidewalk. Williamsburg is like something out of a 1920s depression era film, although every now and again I see little hipster boutiques, art galleries, and swanky little restaurants. If an area was ever gentrified to the maximum it is this place. I've been told that nobody set foot in Williamsburg 10 years ago, aside from bums and homeless squatters. Now, however, every dyed black hair listening Interpol fan from California to Ohio wants to live here.

I walk along with a strange little buzz in my head. I figure I might get one cheap-ish drink at the club and then I'll be set. I'm excited to see Maserati play, even though I know there will be tons of annoying hipsters present. I find the club down by the water. It is even colder down here. I look out across the water and see Manhattan glistening there in the stark night. I wonder for a second how this huge city can exist without falling apart on a daily basis. So many people crammed in there. Such little space and too many things in it. What is the attraction? Where is the payoff? I try not to let these things bother me as I walk into the club. While in there I enter the main room and it kind of reminds of Slim's in SF; big, open floor, long stage, warehouse style atmosphere, spacious. Not too bad, kind of how I envisioned this place might look like. I get a beer ($5 plastic cup of Stella Artois). I look around and notice people filing in, several. I wonder if they are here to see Maserati or the headlining band Zombi?

I find a litte area to sit at and warm up when all of a sudden my phone rings, I had forgotten it was in my pocket. It is Schuyler calling me back. Good to hear him. We talk for a bit and I tell him of my current whereabouts and what I've been up to all night. He laughs and tells me that if he were here he would probably be doing the same exact thing--drinking in the car and peeing on the sidewalk. We laugh and catch up on each other's lives. I notice battery power getting low so I cut conversation short, I also notice that the opening one man band is about to play. I say goodbye to Schuyler and tell him he should visit this strange city that I'm in someday.
One man band (can't recall name?) plays. Some dude with a cap pulled down low on his head. He is playing a looped/sequenced beat on a keyboard and layering guitar parts on top of it. Kind of cool sounding. At some point he starts shredding over all the layering and it sounds a little wanky to me. But the best thing about it is that he diffuses each layer on his way back down. By the time he gets past the last (or first) layer there is just a lone programmed beat playing. He presses a button and that's that...it all shuts down. I liked it. I go to the bathroom during the intermission and notice my phone ringing again. It's Yoni this time. I try to answer but notice the power very low and can't speak to him. I feel a sense of happiness that my good friends are returning my calls. Feel less alone in this city. Some ugly guy with long hair bursts into the bathroom because I didn't lock the door. "Oh sorry bro, didn't mean bust in on you!" I say it's no big deal and exit quickly.

I walk back to the stage area and see Maserati getting ready to play. I look around and notice even more people crowded into the club. Wow, I think to myself, maybe this band is more popular than I thought. Maserati set up with the drummer front and center. This is odd, but I remember them doing that before. I've seen A Minor Forest play and their drummer sets up right in front, but faces away from the audience. You get an interesting perspective from this viewpoint; all back, asscrack, and arms flailing about. The Maserati drummer disappears leaving the two guitarists and bassist on stage only. The guitars come to life and an interesting, building, echoing/delayed pattern is emerging. This goes on for a while as it gets louder and more intoxicating sounding. I'm really digging what is happening right now, just with the guitars. The drummer re-appears and takes his place behind his blue Ludwig see-through Vistalite kit. He starts with 16th notes on the hi-hat, keeps it steady, tapping away, building with the guitars. Suddenly, he snaps into a beat and the sound of snare, kick drum, and bass guitar fill the air. It was awesome. A perfect beginning to a set. They are much louder than I had remembered, but just as good, maybe even better now. The whole thing was mesmerizing. No silly vocals to get in the way, just pure instrumental bliss. Delay pedal fueled guitars head for the ceiling and bounce around up there echoing off all the walls of the club. Something about this is reminding me of early U2 songs, but much more dynamic and without Bono crooning over it all (nothing against early U2--they were good back then). The show was great, it was just what I needed at this time.

I walk out of the club and back into the cold, didn't even stick around for Zombi. It is only 11:00 pm when Sara calls me. I tell her that she missed a really good show, but was happy to know she was having fun with her friends. She asks what I'm going to do next, I say I don't know, maybe go home and eat some cereal and watch a recent Netflix arrival. And this is what I did, this is how I ended my night. The show was good, the cereal tasty, and the Netflix film very shitty. Goodnight.