So, no sooner did I post that old piece of writing below, than I found myself afflicted with the worse case of insomnia I have ever had in my life over the past few days – kinda ironic given the opening few lines of that old piece and the title I gave it. I’m working on getting over it still, but man, the sleep deprived brain brings one to weird places sometimes. One upside of it all is I have finished the first short story I have written in ages and I’m thinking of posting it here after I have a couple peeps do a read through. The first draft wasn’t quite right, and this new draft might have fixed the probs, but I don’t want to reveal it for public consumption until I’m sure it has enough kick.
More soon…
7.31.2006
7.25.2006
The more things change...
So when Ashley and I exchanged things a week or so back, one of the most important items I needed to retrieve was a collection of early writing from way back in the day when I wrote for the Noise ‘zine. I only have a hardcopy of these writings, the big ass 5.25” disk that had the text files on them has long since been lost and I don’t even know where I would find a 5” disk drive even if I had the disk. While thumbing through these writings, I found one particularly disjointed piece that I msut have written for my monthly column, “Infinity Plus One.” It is hardly a literary masterpiece, but in it’s own awkward clunky way it described what my life was like some 14 years ago, mostly unemployed and a local rock vagabond perpetually in search of the next wonderful party, amazing band, beautiful woman, and free beer.
A couple of things strike me about this piece and may also bear some explanation, particularly for blog readers who are not familiar with the last 20 years of Boston rock history. I wrote this in October of 1992 (at least I think it was ’92). And one of my escapades described below is an evening at an open bar shmoozefest celebrating the opening of the new Middle East Downstairs club. Not only was this a nostalgic moment, to reread about the opening, but it also answered a burning question I’ve had for years. I’ve always known that I have only vomited as a result of excessive drinking on three occasions in my life. Problem is, I cold never remember the three occasions. I know that I puked on my 21st birthday. I know I puked on my wedding day (and what a day that was). But I have not been able to remember what the third occasion was, only that I have always been quite sure there were three times when drinking led me to pray to the porcelain altar. Well, after re-reading this piece, the question has been finally answered. I puked at the open bar, and, if I am to believe what friends told me that night, I was the first person to ever puke in the Middle East Downstairs. Now there’s something that deserves a gold star.
Most important though is the very last line of the piece. It still resonates with me today, particularly as I wrestle with the sadness of losing what I’ve had with Ash, but truth be told, I don’t have as much fun as I use to. I’m not suggesting I need to drink like a fish again, but with the move to Chicago, I feel the need to make a serious effort to live, and enjoy life more than I have the last few years. While grad school will no doubt be as demanding as pursuing my undergrad was, I won’t be overloading courses every semester, and perhaps I can allow myself to get an A- in trade for a night out now and then. I use to have so little free time, and what little I had, I tried to always offer to Ash. Not a bad thing mind you, but a limiting thing, and I think she too was suffocated as a result.
In addition to retyping this piece (I only fixed minor typos and punctuation and did not change a word otherwise - there are a few notes in carats "<>" to explain some obscure shit), I also finished a draft of a short story that I might post here soon enough (I also still need to upload photos – yikes). A buddy of mine wrote to me a few days ago and suggested that I immerse myself in projects to keep the sadness at bay. I’ve always written and it’s often been cathartic. I think I found my project – make words…
********
Mindfuck (written October 28, 1992)
Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls welcome to the latest installment of the workings of my mind. I sit here today on October 28th at 6am – sunrise. I have not slept tonight but this is nothing new for me; sleep is for the weak I say and perhaps it is the lack of dreams that I suffer that keeps me on a fine line between sanity and insanity. Today is the rapture, have you seen the flyers allover town proclaiming October 28th to be the rapture, the second coming of Christ? How about the ads in the papers? Even more bizarre was a conversation I overheard at the Middle East earlier tonight, where someone tried to explain – seriously – that it would probably be aliens beaming us up and not holy intervention. And I wonder, if I slept more and drank less, would I still over hear these conversations? Not to worry, neither habit will be altered in the near future.
I want to make love to you dear readers. To all of you. I want to share myself with each and every one of you but time will not allow it and some of you have better taste anyway. However, I’ve always felt the pen to be an instrument of foreplay and a damn obvious phallic symbol as well. So instead I shall take you to all the beautiful places I’ve been to in the last couple of weeks and hopefully you will share in the goodtime and mutual enjoyment and fulfillment will be had by reader and writer alike.
It all began two weeks ago when I was mindfucked in the front seat of a friend’s car. Some people have purely physical relationships, I have a purely cerebral one and this particular mindfuck was so intense that I woke to finally realize that the chains of obsession were holding me down and only when I found love of myself would I find the key to release this trap. So to Bunratty’s I flew to witness a stunning, breathtaking band from Chicago called Big Hat. Words and music swoop and dive and spun me in a surreal world of chimes and windy notes and a beautiful violin player with golden hair and a smile that would light the darkest pits of hell came to me and thanked me for dancing and told me stories of sea creatures and their teeth that she had in her possession. She flew away to Maine, angel that she was, and I partook of more ale and Orangutang'smusic and danced with Mikey Dee as I heard the O’boys scream that they’d be whatever I wanted them to be.
I received a letter a day or two following; a man told me he may vote for my dad after last month’s column. I smile and while driving home from FNX after spending a few pleasant moments with Duane and Juanita, I watch the clouds blanket the moon and for some reason feel a little more secure than usual that the sun will rise again in the morning.
I meet Jeff, my bass player, after he finishes work and we grab a few beers and play pinball at the Bow and Arrow pub in Harvard Square. Two girls approach us, Heather and Michelle - I remember their name because their faces were so alive. They wore “Seattle” shirts and baseball caps backwards and boots from LL Bean. They are from the University of new Hampshire here in town for the weekend. They play Jane’s Addiction on the Jukebox and dance. Jeff and I fail at pinball. It is not the beer breaking our concentration. Their ride is about to leave. They ask us if we are going to the “Head of the Charles” the next day. Jeff works - I won’t get up til at least four that afternoon. I watch faces clean with country air, not weathered by 2am closings like Jeff and myself, walk out through the door. An hour later I am at the Rat and discover Dave the doorman went to the same Catholic High School I went to. My reunion is coming – he talks about his, we drink and smoke and I wander back to my loft. As I take a seat and glance at the time, 1am, the phone rings. A friend, who I will be angry with in a few days asks if I still have half a keg left. I say yes. She comes over, we take it to Allston and are heroes at a party til the wee hours of the morning. I watch a video; cheap effects make a kitten’s face multiply and bleed away into a Technicolor puddle. I’m drunk and I laugh and hurt my arm carrying the keg into my loft at the end of the night.
The Middle East now, back to back, upstairs one night, downstairs the next. Gothic hell with Shadow Project from somewhere west and Holy Cow from Providence – scene gossip – who did what to whom – don’t tell him but so and so is here with so and so – hey wait, this ain’t Man Ray – great pot. Earlier at the Bradford Jeff and I with three beautiful women drinking Long island Iced Teas and White Russians – being frowned at by a huge barmaid. The World Series blares, Canada will win America’s favorite pastime and I score a 215 on a bowling arcade game in the back of the bar. The walls are so thin I can hear women peeing.
Next night Middle East underground – open bar sort of. Schmoozin’ with Mikey Dee and T-Maxx himself. Kay from Letters to Cleo in a translucent shirt talks about various pop-grunge-industrial cliques with me. It’s all music to me but she’s right, the cliques exist and they sick. I meet a guy from Tribe and we talk about growing up in the suburbs. He leaves and Kay and her beautiful shirt are also gone. All alone now – time to vomit – I throw up free beer, first puke in the new Middle East Club, a dubious honor. Stumble around the corner to Brookline Ave, fall down. Kris, my savior. Kris, she gives me gum and a cigarette and a ride home. I want to fall alseep in her hair, I owe her multiple orgasms. Best part – no hangover.
I’m in drag at a Halloween party and I like it and Garry my drummer spends most of the night puking out a window. I walk him around the block in the rain. His speech becomes coherent again and I take hi home and get angry at a friend whom I care about greatly. I’m an egotistical bastard and no one will ever be good enough for her in my eyes, which makes me, admittedly, an asshole in this friendship. I have spoke barely a word to her in five days since.
A Bentman bought me a shot of Jack last night at Bill’s bar and I heard a chain snap somewhere and I wondered if handcuffs should be sued instead of wedding rings.
Life offers so much that I will not duck out of the way of pain because I might miss catching something beautiful as well.
A couple of things strike me about this piece and may also bear some explanation, particularly for blog readers who are not familiar with the last 20 years of Boston rock history. I wrote this in October of 1992 (at least I think it was ’92). And one of my escapades described below is an evening at an open bar shmoozefest celebrating the opening of the new Middle East Downstairs club. Not only was this a nostalgic moment, to reread about the opening, but it also answered a burning question I’ve had for years. I’ve always known that I have only vomited as a result of excessive drinking on three occasions in my life. Problem is, I cold never remember the three occasions. I know that I puked on my 21st birthday. I know I puked on my wedding day (and what a day that was). But I have not been able to remember what the third occasion was, only that I have always been quite sure there were three times when drinking led me to pray to the porcelain altar. Well, after re-reading this piece, the question has been finally answered. I puked at the open bar, and, if I am to believe what friends told me that night, I was the first person to ever puke in the Middle East Downstairs. Now there’s something that deserves a gold star.
Most important though is the very last line of the piece. It still resonates with me today, particularly as I wrestle with the sadness of losing what I’ve had with Ash, but truth be told, I don’t have as much fun as I use to. I’m not suggesting I need to drink like a fish again, but with the move to Chicago, I feel the need to make a serious effort to live, and enjoy life more than I have the last few years. While grad school will no doubt be as demanding as pursuing my undergrad was, I won’t be overloading courses every semester, and perhaps I can allow myself to get an A- in trade for a night out now and then. I use to have so little free time, and what little I had, I tried to always offer to Ash. Not a bad thing mind you, but a limiting thing, and I think she too was suffocated as a result.
In addition to retyping this piece (I only fixed minor typos and punctuation and did not change a word otherwise - there are a few notes in carats "<>" to explain some obscure shit), I also finished a draft of a short story that I might post here soon enough (I also still need to upload photos – yikes). A buddy of mine wrote to me a few days ago and suggested that I immerse myself in projects to keep the sadness at bay. I’ve always written and it’s often been cathartic. I think I found my project – make words…
********
Mindfuck (written October 28, 1992)
Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls welcome to the latest installment of the workings of my mind. I sit here today on October 28th at 6am – sunrise. I have not slept tonight but this is nothing new for me; sleep is for the weak I say and perhaps it is the lack of dreams that I suffer that keeps me on a fine line between sanity and insanity. Today is the rapture, have you seen the flyers allover town proclaiming October 28th to be the rapture, the second coming of Christ? How about the ads in the papers? Even more bizarre was a conversation I overheard at the Middle East earlier tonight, where someone tried to explain – seriously – that it would probably be aliens beaming us up and not holy intervention. And I wonder, if I slept more and drank less, would I still over hear these conversations? Not to worry, neither habit will be altered in the near future.
I want to make love to you dear readers. To all of you. I want to share myself with each and every one of you but time will not allow it and some of you have better taste anyway. However, I’ve always felt the pen to be an instrument of foreplay and a damn obvious phallic symbol as well. So instead I shall take you to all the beautiful places I’ve been to in the last couple of weeks and hopefully you will share in the goodtime and mutual enjoyment and fulfillment will be had by reader and writer alike.
It all began two weeks ago when I was mindfucked in the front seat of a friend’s car. Some people have purely physical relationships, I have a purely cerebral one and this particular mindfuck was so intense that I woke to finally realize that the chains of obsession were holding me down and only when I found love of myself would I find the key to release this trap. So to Bunratty’s I flew to witness a stunning, breathtaking band from Chicago called Big Hat. Words and music swoop and dive and spun me in a surreal world of chimes and windy notes and a beautiful violin player with golden hair and a smile that would light the darkest pits of hell came to me and thanked me for dancing and told me stories of sea creatures and their teeth that she had in her possession. She flew away to Maine, angel that she was, and I partook of more ale and Orangutang'smusic and danced with Mikey Dee
I received a letter a day or two following; a man told me he may vote for my dad after last month’s column. I smile and while driving home from FNX after spending a few pleasant moments with Duane and Juanita, I watch the clouds blanket the moon and for some reason feel a little more secure than usual that the sun will rise again in the morning.
I meet Jeff, my bass player, after he finishes work and we grab a few beers and play pinball at the Bow and Arrow pub in Harvard Square. Two girls approach us, Heather and Michelle - I remember their name because their faces were so alive. They wore “Seattle” shirts and baseball caps backwards and boots from LL Bean. They are from the University of new Hampshire here in town for the weekend. They play Jane’s Addiction on the Jukebox and dance. Jeff and I fail at pinball. It is not the beer breaking our concentration. Their ride is about to leave. They ask us if we are going to the “Head of the Charles” the next day. Jeff works - I won’t get up til at least four that afternoon. I watch faces clean with country air, not weathered by 2am closings like Jeff and myself, walk out through the door. An hour later I am at the Rat
The Middle East now, back to back, upstairs one night, downstairs the next. Gothic hell with Shadow Project from somewhere west and Holy Cow from Providence – scene gossip – who did what to whom – don’t tell him but so and so is here with so and so – hey wait, this ain’t Man Ray
Next night Middle East underground – open bar sort of. Schmoozin’ with Mikey Dee and T-Maxx himself. Kay from Letters to Cleo in a translucent shirt talks about various pop-grunge-industrial cliques with me. It’s all music to me but she’s right, the cliques exist and they sick. I meet a guy from Tribe and we talk about growing up in the suburbs. He leaves and Kay and her beautiful shirt are also gone. All alone now – time to vomit – I throw up free beer, first puke in the new Middle East Club, a dubious honor. Stumble around the corner to Brookline Ave, fall down. Kris, my savior. Kris, she gives me gum and a cigarette and a ride home. I want to fall alseep in her hair, I owe her multiple orgasms. Best part – no hangover.
I’m in drag at a Halloween party and I like it and Garry my drummer spends most of the night puking out a window. I walk him around the block in the rain. His speech becomes coherent again and I take hi home and get angry at a friend whom I care about greatly. I’m an egotistical bastard and no one will ever be good enough for her in my eyes, which makes me, admittedly, an asshole in this friendship. I have spoke barely a word to her in five days since.
A Bentman bought me a shot of Jack last night at Bill’s bar and I heard a chain snap somewhere and I wondered if handcuffs should be sued instead of wedding rings.
Life offers so much that I will not duck out of the way of pain because I might miss catching something beautiful as well.
7.24.2006
Dear Leader's Daily Thought
Check it out - is good for a few luaghs indeed: Dear Leader's Daily Thought
7.20.2006
So it looks like this is where I'll be living in Chicago...
I just got my apartment assignement in the mail. I'm also looking at a co-op where 15 grad studetns live together, but the only rooms they have open are either in the basement or rooms where you have to go through someone else's room to get to your room (or vice versa, someone has to go through your room to get to their room). And I think I may be past those days. I wish I could meet the folks who live there and check it out, but no go, I'm stayin' put in Boston for the rest of the summer.
Plus, the aprtment they have assigned looks pretty cool. It's #510, so if you click on the floorplan and look at the specs for room #10, that's what i got. An 11' x 16' living space and a 5 x 16' dining area. Looks pretty good - but no pix of the actual rooms and layout of the kitchen/bathroom. If I get any, I'll post.
And hey - how about this crazy war in the Middle East, huh?
Oy vey. So self-absorbed I am these days.
Plus, the aprtment they have assigned looks pretty cool. It's #510, so if you click on the floorplan and look at the specs for room #10, that's what i got. An 11' x 16' living space and a 5 x 16' dining area. Looks pretty good - but no pix of the actual rooms and layout of the kitchen/bathroom. If I get any, I'll post.
And hey - how about this crazy war in the Middle East, huh?
Oy vey. So self-absorbed I am these days.
7.18.2006
Italy did not go as planned...
For those of you following this here blog (and I know there are a few), I am saddened to say, that I had to cut my trip in Italy short. In a nutshell, I was too heartbroken and homesick to travel around Italy all by myself for two weeks, and just a few days after getting there I knew I wasn't in the right place to deal with the depression I have been feeling over the breakup with Ashley. The hotel I was at had no internet, no phones, no TV (except one in the lobby) and I had way too much time to just sit around and get sadder and sadder and lonelier. A very good friend of mine said that sometimes when you are sad, being alone in a beautiful place doesn't really help, and just amplifies the loneliness, and indeed that's what happened. Worse part is, I feel more depressed now than before I left. On the plus-side, I had an excellent time in NYC before I left for Europe with my old friend Nina, I did see Herculaneum (I still need to dump photos to some photo hosting website and link to it) which was amazing and I was in Italy when Italy won the World cup last Sunday night - the partying was amazing - even in a smaller city like Pompei. I didn't have my camera that night when I went out on the town, but I'll never forget the fireworks: not only did the city and the citizens of Pompei each have a variety of fireworks displays, but the whole valley at the foot of Vesuvius, each little village/town, seemed to compete with one another with fireworks displays. In the Pompei town square, cars, trailing Italian flags, ceaselessly paraded through throngs of people, horns blasting, music playing, people shouting, "Italia" or "Azurri!" ("Blue!" The name for the Italian National Soccer team). The partying went on for hours. And it was a family affair. Parents and their children milled through the square with couples, shirtless young men and groups of old men nodding in approval. From the balconies, old women, who were obviously not going to get any sleep due to the noise, looked down on the madness in the streets with more of an air of memory than resentment, as if they remembered a time decades back where they might have (or did) join in such festivities. The drunken jock mentality that seems to manifest itself at similar events in the US and the heavy police presence that also seems to come with such celebrations in the US (consider that when the Patriot won the Superbowl and the Red Sox beat the Yankees to advance to the World Series, the partying was so insane that on both occasions, someone died) seemed mostly absent at the celebration in Pompei. The police were very laid back, and parents felt completely comfortable taking even infants out into the madness. It was a remarkable night.
But, unfortunately, despite moments like these, insomnia, sadness and loneliness overtook me and by Wednesday, I decided that spending another week alone in a country where I knew no one and could barely speak the language, while having no way to just call a friend while I was feeling down, was too much to bear. I exchanged my ticket and flew home. I have been home a few days now, and I am feeling a bit better. I did finally see Ashley this past weekend so we could exchange some things we still had of each other's - it's the first time she and i have seen each other in months and that was tough - lots and lots of mixed emotions. And that's what I'm dealing with - so many emotions right now. My time in Boston is coming to an end, my relationship with Ashley will never be the same again, and I need to get my shit together to embark on the next part of this journey called life.
Hopefully in the next few days, I'll post a link to some photos of Herculaneum and Pompeii and start filling people in on things not pertaining to sadness.
But, unfortunately, despite moments like these, insomnia, sadness and loneliness overtook me and by Wednesday, I decided that spending another week alone in a country where I knew no one and could barely speak the language, while having no way to just call a friend while I was feeling down, was too much to bear. I exchanged my ticket and flew home. I have been home a few days now, and I am feeling a bit better. I did finally see Ashley this past weekend so we could exchange some things we still had of each other's - it's the first time she and i have seen each other in months and that was tough - lots and lots of mixed emotions. And that's what I'm dealing with - so many emotions right now. My time in Boston is coming to an end, my relationship with Ashley will never be the same again, and I need to get my shit together to embark on the next part of this journey called life.
Hopefully in the next few days, I'll post a link to some photos of Herculaneum and Pompeii and start filling people in on things not pertaining to sadness.
7.10.2006
Alive and almost well in Italy...
MADE I TO \pOMPEII / WAS THERE TODAYA ND TOOK LOADS OF PIX, UNFORTUNATELY, INTENET ACCESS IS A JOKE IN THIS AREA which baffles me cuz when I was in Europe a few years ago I ha dno troubol finding places to ge tonline. BUT AT THE MOMENT, i'M SUFFERING SERIOUS jetlag and insomnia and won-t likley post much til Saturday when \I get to Benevento where I know that hotel has internet access. So, pix and prose in a few days - promise. sorry about the typos but thsi \european keyboard is a pain in the ass. Oh yeah, whoever sucked at the sex test below posted anonymously - we can only help you if we know who you are.
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