I’ve divorced myself from David Dedeaux. Friendship does not equate to drugs. 

I gave him 10 years to prove his point, that “he cares for me.”  Well, if caring means throwing in one bag of coke for every two that I bought over the past 10 years, then yeah – he’s a real caring individual.

I hate having to outline the reasons why I’m angry.  But in this case, I think it’s important I outline them.  Because eventually there will be a bunch of enablers taking his side – virtually attacking me for having seen the light.

First off, and most off: The man has never done me any favor that didn’t involve a drink, drugs, or some act of kindness that ultimately didn’t serve his purpose.  10 years ago, when we had our first fight, he insisted that he “cared for me,” and that I was being cynical when I claimed the friendship was nothing more than a party-buddy relationship.  This was after I’d called him, when I had friends in town, looking for coke.  

“I’m not stupid,” he kept repeating, no matter what I said back.  And you know what?  He was right. I was calling him only because he was my only connection to coke at the time.  He called me the next morning, after our argument had gone ‘round and ‘round, and demanded an apology.  “I’m not stupid,” he repeated.

I saw what he meant, and I apologized.

And so the past 10+ years went along.  With my having the job that paid 100K+.  During that time, anytime I showed up at his place, I was able to place $120 or more worth of coke – and beer and booze to boot – on his table. Sure, he might have occasionally pitched in $60 toward my $120 – but the fact remained that my contribution was always more significant.

I still understood.  And so I continued to maintain the party relationship with David Dedeaux.  It didseem like he was there whenever significant things happened.  But in hindsight, they were all his significant things.  

His mother died, so we had what I called a “White Trash Sitting Shiva.”  Even though they had long since broken up, Jay was there to laugh at this description. 

There was a Christmas party soon after.  Other than that, I can’t recall any parties that included people other than myself, Jay and some bags of cocaine.

At this point I had left my FT job and was exploring real estate, which is a self employed situation.  All of my cash had been re-directed toward the business, and I was just plain getting by.  I explained my situation to David in the winter of 2016 (when he called around collecting for the yearly deposit), and he said, “Don’t worry about it.”  It was at this point when I began to truly consider him a friend.  As it turned out, I didn’t have to pay my annual $300 that year.  As a result of his having broken up with Jay, he didn’t actually have someone to share his bed in the master bedroom.  It was kind of ironic.  Both of our losses were my gain – ostensibly.

That year (2017) went well, I guess.  Even though I hadn’t had to pay my annual bed share, I did wind up spending close to that much with David back in Sayville on groceries and liquor.  

The next year, in July of 2018, David intercepted me when I’d gone to our local dealers’ – in NY – in order in order to stack up for the annual occasion.  But as fate would have it, I had the wrong debit card on me, so I wasn’t able to get the cash I needed.  I showed up at the dealer’s apartment, telling her what had happened.  I wasn’t looking for a credit, and she certainly wasn’t offering one.

But she did say that she was meeting David in a half hour at the local bar, and that I should go and see him.  Well, see him I did, and when she showed up 30 minutes later with his stash in hand, he immediately offered to “front me” a bag, as long as I paid him back that weekend.

I accepted.  And we proceeded to go to his apartment, which is across the street from this bar, and snort all of this bag.  And drink all the beer I bought.  

David’s lines are double the length of mine.  Which means we went through all of my stuff in half the time it would have taken me – even if I was at home, entertaining.  We got so high that I had to leave, because the room was spinning and I simply couldn’t do anything other than walk.

But I still considered this bag to be one that I owed David.  

That Friday, I loaded up my car for the trip to Sayville. I prefer to drive rather than take the train because of street parking rules in Brooklyn.  If I miss a day of street cleaning, it’s a $45 ticket.  If I miss two days… Well, the math speaks for itself.  So I choose to drive, and pay about the same amount over four days – except we have the luxury of being able to drive into Sayville and buy groceries and liquor if we need to, because I have a car.

Here’s the thing:  I get so paranoid when I drive with coke that I find a secret place for it. A place that I wouldn’t ordinarily check when I’m on my way out of the car.  Much less think about when I’m rushing to catch a ferry.  That’s where I stashed the one bag that I owed David and the two bags that I’d brought along for the ride.  

I was on the ferry when I realized I’d forgotten the drugs. “Oh, well,” I told myself, “I’ll pick them up when I go back for the inevitable grocery run in Sayville.”  

When I got to the house, I told David what had happened. BIG MISTAKE.  He didn’t acknowledge the $75 in liquor that I’d schlepped.  All he could say was, “How could you DO that???”

I assured him that I’d pay him back (the bag we’d done together the previous Tuesday).  Our dealer was scheduled to come out that Sunday, and he obviously had enough to last until then.  I say “obviously” because I saw him sharing bumps with the other folks there, all night long.    

And so, after two days of witnessing David do his own stash, and hearing him constantly ask me, “Are you going to your car?  When are you going to your car?”  I became pissed at David Dedeaux.  

Because in between the incessant requests for when I’d be going back to my car, he was also asking me to clean up the household for the next guests, who “had never seen it before.”  He was asking me to clean up and prepare for people I’d never met. 

There was one person I had met, however, and it was our dealer.  When she showed up, I immediately bought a bag and gave it to David Dedeaux – thereby wiping clean the slate of what I owed him.  

It wasn’t enough.  He went through that bag before that night even hit midnight.  

The next day, Saturday, I was given some pot cookies which rendered me delightfully useless, so any trip on the ferry was out of the question.  At the time, David Dedeaux thought this was funny – although he did emphasize that the next day I should go back to my car and retrieve what technically wasn’t his at all.

During my high, I realized I’d paid David Dedeaux back all the yay-yay I owed him, and that all these demands he was placing on me were just a teensy bit superfluous -- and reeked of entitlement.

******************

                                                                                                      

On Sunday, I decided to take the ferry back to Sayville. Not only to get the drugs, but also to buy some ribs and burgers for the night when I’d pitch in to feed everyone. I went to the local Stop’n’Shop.  Said ribs and meat came to $100.  I schlepped them back to the house from the ferry, prepped them, and cooked them.  And because of the mindset where I was while got this meal together and to the ferry – I once again forgot to retrieve the drugs from my car.

I know how lame that must sound to most people who are used to doing drugs.  And it’s ridiculous for me to even have to appeal to anyone on that level. But both times, it was an honest mistake.  I was worried about catching the ferry.  The first time I was carrying booze, and the second time, a meal for everyone.

My meal of ribs went over amazingly.  I’ve never seen such clean bones.  People sucked all the fat and char off everything they’d been given.

After dinner, David and his entourage went off to drink and dance in Cherry Grove.  I stayed behind, longing for some quiet.

David had access to plenty of yay-yay this whole time. And yet, all through dinner he asked, “Are you going back to your car tomorrow?”

It was at this point when I had a melt-down.  

************

When I get pissed off, I usually bury it – in the form of drinking and/or getting high. This time, I did both, and I wandered around the house.  I sat on the porch, and I watched the sunrise, and I walked from room to room and saw just who was sleeping where.  

What I was doing, in my solitude, was noting who was staying where.  It might sound creepy at first, until you realize that I was taking a head count of who had paid for their night on Fire Island – and who hadn’t.

And I got even more pissed at David Dedeaux than I had been before.  

What I realized, in taking my head count, was that there were a few of us who had paid for their beds – back in February – surrounded by people who had been invited out for an overnight only, without charge. 

David had complained to me on Friday that he was short on the bill for the week, and he asked me to “Do my thing” as a salesman and ask for contributions.  When I suggested that he should ask for $25 per day for overnight visitors, he said, “I can’t do that.  It would be rude!”

It was at this point when I realized that David Dedeaux valued the opinions of his overnight friends over that of the friends who put up money and labor in order to make his whole annual Fire Island “share” happen.  

I became furious.  

The next morning, David Dedeaux asked me to “Do my magic” in the kitchen and living room, because “______” was coming that day, and he didn’t want “________” to get the wrong impression.

Well, I don’t know “_____”, and I don’t think I ever will.

I announced that I was leaving.  To which David Dedeaux asked, “But what about the drugs in your car?”

He asked if he could come back with me and retrieve them, and pay me back later.

I said no, if he wanted them, he would have to pay for them them.  

David Dedeaux became furious with me.

Furious because I wouldn’t give him $120 worth of drugs. 

Ever since then, David Dedeaux and I have been fighting because, in my opinion, he did to me exactly what I did to him 10 years ago – and for which he demanded an apology. I gave it.

I’m now demanding the same apology.  David Dedeaux “Jonesed” for my drugs and won’t admit it.

I’m not stupid.

Pity.

G

Welp, there's been no change in my relationship to the people who valued my coke over my humanity.

Just thought I'd check in.

The Thing about Intentional Community

The Thing about Intentional Community is that everyone in that community has a different idea of exactly what that means.

The first term they must come to agreement on is "Community."  The second term they must come to is "Intentional."

They can spend an eternity debating these two terms.

During this time, there will be inevitable fights between people who claim to be striving toward the mission of the Intentional Community.

In other words, Intentional Communities do the same thing that every other group, regardless of their titles, do.

So:

I spent the last long weekend on Fire Island with a bunch of queens who did nothing but obsess about where I'd hidden my coke.  It led to an argument that I think ended our relationship.  Regardless of how much I spent on groceries, and how hard I labored on grilling ribs, there remained only one thing that mattered to them: the coke in my car.

You see, I didn't want any coke I had on me to be apparent to any cop who might have pulled me over for any insignificant reason.  So I hid it in a place that I didn't think any cop would check.  And which, ironically, I, too, wasn't typically about to check.

So I forgot to check my coke and bring it to Fire Island.

I was in such a hurry, according to the ferry schedule, to get to Fire Island, that I only focused on the booze that I'd brought -- which I'd packed in my bags.

A hurry, mind you, that brought $100 worth of booze with me.

As soon as I arrived I was asked, "Where is your coke?"  When I told them that I'd forgotten it, I was immediately met with looks and comments that conveyed disappointment and downright accusations of lying about even having it on me.

Now, at this point I have to say, these looks and accusations did not come from everybody.  In fact, there were several people who seemed to understand where I was coming from. Especially when I refused to partake in the coke they were offering.  I was laying on the bed, watching them partake in it, refusing to take a sniff.

I thought that was the first, strongest indicator that I had none on me, and that I didn't want to do any.

The second indicator was when the dealer showed up.  I immediately bought a bag from her and gave it to the host.  At that point, I thought the host and I were square.

No.

Even after my having bought a bag for the host, and his having done it all, he proceeded to ask me, "When are you going back to your car?"

All weekend long.

Not to mention, he also consistently asked me to clean up the kitchen, "Because so-and-so was coming that day, and I don't want them to see it this way."

It should be mentioned here that his day-guests were not asked to pay anything toward the weekly rental.  In fact, whenever I suggested they might be responsible for a day fare, the host responded with, "I can't ask them for anything.  That would be impolite."

Hmm.  Impolite to ask an acquaintance or a stranger for a day fare -- but not impolite to impose upon a guest who had paid his/her way back in February in order to secure the place.  Impolite, as the coke dealer was actually there, on Fire Island, to ask the crowd, "Who wants some now that [s/he's] here to provide it?"

But it's completely polite to Jones upon the guest who's paid in advance, cooked for everyone, and cleaned up after everyone -- repeating over and over, "When are you gong back to your car?"

I'm having trouble deciphering exactly what it polite at this point.

Just what did I do wrong?

I have a friend who refers to this blog as a stage in my life.

She's an artist's marketer.  It's her business to recognize and promote artists of varying genres.  She specializes in the performing arts.  She focuses on dancers, singers and writers who pronounce their own words.

I'm the latter, and she's been without anything to say about me for a while now.

I can't blame her.  I haven't officially said anything for a long time.  Except on Facebook.  There, I proclaim such expressions as to potentially earn a Masters Degree.  In Bullshit.

So I won't bother anyone who's watching now with any bullshit.

What I will say is:

I'm lonely.
I'm sore.
I'm not in the mood to entertain your ego.

I've got one, too, and I learned long ago that it's not worth shit.
So neither is yours.

You wanna connect?
So do I.

Please.

And so we're left to see who's still out there.

So many years later.

My Mom's dead; my Dad's dead, and I've collected all the cash I could've from the estate.

I was working like a dog the last time I posted.  Working for someone else's profit.  That company now earns as much in the profits that I sold for them as it takes me to survive.  More, even.

Now, I'm over 50, and I'm setting out for myself.

Same home, same budget.  It's amazing a guy could make a living so possible in NYC for so little.  But I remain a Bohemian at heart.  I did this in San Francisco and LA.  And I did it again in NYC.

And I'm still doing it.

This time with meaning.

So who's out there?

Is there anybody out there?

I see that Blogs have changed.  They're no longer about personal opinion, unless personal opinion helps an audience reinforce its own.

There are still a lot of blogs.  But they contain recipes and instructions and political stances.

I'm willing to overlook all that.

If there's anybody out there.

Coming Up for Air

I'm re-surfasing. I can't believe it's been almost two years since I've posted. Wow.

Everything you saw (or will see, if you scroll down into the history) is true. The past two years have been filled with nothing but my capabilities to cope with my life in NY, and "The Estate." My NY friends think I'm defecting to MA; my MA friends assure me that's not an option. Meanwhile, it's nothing but business, business trips, and trips up to MA two weekends a month in order to keep it all together.

More later, I promise.

(I've always promised, it's just a matter of when "later" is...)

Love,

G

So How Am I?

Yo:

I've been asked a lot, of late, "So, how ARE you?"

I appreciate the interest. I appreciate the inquiry. But, my friends, you'll have to excuse me if I don't respond with an answer that is anything within the realm of "typical."

For you, of all people, as my friends, must understand that -- despite my having appeared, of late, to have assumed a lifestyle that might be construed as "typical" -- I remain a soul that is anything less than (more than?) typical.

So how AM I?

I am fine. I am functioning. I am addressing all of the needs (and confronting all of the demons) that my New English, Lace-Curtian Irish upbringing might have led us all to expect me to eventually have had to deal with.

There. There was no other way to end that sentence than with a preposition. I suppose that says it all. How am I? "Well, I'm fine, thank you very much -- but, of late, I've been ending my sentences with prepositions. Do you suppose that means anything?"

Do you suppose? Do you suppose anything? Well, then, good for you. Because I, of late, have not been able to suppose anything. Anything at all. For, you see, being confronted with grief the likes of which relates to the loss of a parent -- I dare say -- renders one incapable of being able to suppose anything whatsoever. Oh, one might suppose this and that, but eventually (and quite suddenly), one must admit that one's parent is gone.

Gone.

Forever.

And because one's parent is gone, then the rest of how one related to the world (most often based within how one related to one's parent) is gone.

Regardless of what kind of relationship there was, and regardless of which expectations might have been raised and then realized, or (more often than not), not realized -- the eventual and sudden realization that the relationship between one and one's parent has ended emerges.

So, in case you're still wondering, that's "how I AM."

I'm still reeling in the shock that is having lost the 2nd of both my parents, within 2 years. I'm deep within the depths of discovering what life with real estate, property taxes, attorneys and financial planners is like.

I know that ultimately it doesn't sound like much. But when you factor in the fact that I never intended for this kind of thing to happen (e.g.: I perceived "their" mistrust of me as a reason to cut me out of the will), then it takes on a whole different meaning.

I'm a bourgeois kid from the suburbs of Massachusetts who was raised to be one thing, then rebelled against it (all the while still acting like it) -- who then finally wound up doing exactly what he was raised to do. I was raised to market myself. And that, my friends, of all things, is one thing that you can always count on me to do.

So how am I?

I'm fine.

I'm coping as best I can, and I'm continuing to market myself.

What else is new?

It Finally Came to This

It finally came to this, where "my" tenants here at 92 Moore St. are concerned. After several of the semi-privileged idiots called 311 in order to file complaints against the landlord, several City Inspectors have since shown up. And that is NOT a good thing. To learn why, read on. This is the pseudo-anonymous letter I just left under their doors:

The Thing About Calling the City

The thing about calling the city, here where you live, is that: Even though it might appease your feelings of frustration about the circumstances under which all of this building’s tenants live, it ultimately threatens everyone’s ability to live here.

Each time a complaint about the building is called in, and subsequently filed, the city builds a case against having ANY tenants live in the dwelling.

That means, every time you call the city in order to fix whatever your apartment’s current problem is, the Landlord gets hit with a fine AND the city becomes more and more curious as to exactly what is going on here, as far as dwellings go.

You were all informed, at the time of your lease signings, that this building is in transition as far as city codes go – and that the only reasons you were allowed to rent here were because: a) you acknowledged that fact, and b) you had less than the standard personal/professional backgrounds that would have been necessary to rent any of the majority of other New York City apartments. (E.g.: There was no credit check, no background check, no calling of your previous Landlords, and no Guarantor required.)

Yes, this is written evidence that you could possibly use against the Landlord if you really want to choose the legal route to getting your immediate needs met while you live here. But lawsuits take years to process. The odds are you will be far gone from here by the time any lawsuit you file meets its docket date. That means it will be years from now before any Judge will listen to your complaints.

So you options are:

Either keep calling the city every time something goes wrong with your apartment, thereby eventually having everybody in the building evicted; or, cooperate with the Landlord in finding more immediate solutions to your problems.

If you want all the tenants in this building to wind up on the street, keep calling the city.

If you are truly unhappy with your living situation, the Landlord will let you out of your lease at any time without incurring any penalty. Please don’t make your problem every other tenant’s problem.

And that's how I left it. We'll see what results from it...

[Ed's Note:]

The Editors of Moore and More would like to apologize for the printing of the mere first draft poem in the last post's poem. Somewhere between when Suzy, our Summer Intern, dropped off the submission and when she finally left, there was a mix-up ... G&Sp

The Father, Son an' The Music's Ghost

OMG...

You: You who've been readin'
Thus far;
Thus far int'a' m'readin'
Of matters thus far

You: Who've b'een a'long w'ith me
Ever s'much;
S'much as s'much's might'a 'been
A'llowed as t'come
Along jus' s'far.

S'far as s'far's been allowed
T'be...
S'far's 'been allow'd t'be's
'Been allowed t'be.
S'far.

You: who doesn't know much
About m' journeys
B'fore here;
M'journeys heretofore,
Or 'm'journeys here t'date..

You' jus' don't know..
Y'don't KNOW;
An' f'er that,
I can't help but f'er ya,
I can't help f'er ya

Not hate.

F'er t'hate ya'd
T'mean...
Mean 't'meant ya'd,
Quite mean.
An' I can't yet quite
T'mean ya...

'T mean ya
So mean.

And Now, for the Next Step

"You only call me when you're high," a friend of mine just told me over the phone. And he was right. I've taken to Drinking and Dialing. You've all been on the receiving end of it, if you're on my celly's call list.

Sorry.

I've taken to drinkin', snortin' and dialin'. Sorry. But it's how I line up all the personal calls I want to return. As the weeks progress, and as I work (and work and work), and as the personal calls that need to be returned pile up, I wind up scheduling time on the days when I "partake" to return those calls. See, I want to enjoy them. I want them to not feel like the kind of calls I have to make 5 days a week at work. I want the calls that I make when I call my friends to not feel at all like the calls that I make when I'm calling on prospects for business.

That's why you don't hear from me until late at nite. When I've been drinkin', smokin' and snortin'. I know I must not come across at that time as altogether together. I know I must sound fucked up. Well, that's because I am.

Friends: I'm fucked up. I'm riddled with fear. I've allowed myself to slip back into the bourgeois sensibility I was raised to have. I've let myself go back to the pseudo upper-middle class consciousness that I was bred to live and replicate. In a nutshell (and wouldn't it be great if I could indeed harbor myself in such a place -- in such a safety cone as a nutshell), I've regressed from a consciousness-raising self-employed San Franciscan to a Live-by-the-Clock, "Attend Multiple Meetings and Schedule Yet Even More" New Yorker.

Thing is, I don't think this transition is all that bad.

I don't think it's all that bad, although it is defintiely scary to me. That's why I drink and dial. You see, when I drink and dial, that's when I'm most vulnerable. As much as it must suck to be on the receiving end of those drunken calls, I beg you to understand how lonely a place I'm coming from when I make them.

I'm lonely. I'm alone, with the exception of having a loving dog, and I'm scared. True, I've managed to carve out a domicile in the curious up-and-coming roughneck neighborhood of Bushwick, Brooklyn. I'm doing the best I can, and indeed, some certain forces can be said to have been working in my favor. I can't ignore that. In a lot of ways, things have gone very well for me since I moved here 6 years ago carrying a suitcase and a bunch of unfinished business from L.A.

But now I'm plateau-ing. All the emergencies have faded into just plain middle class responsibilities. I don't know how most folks do it. I don't know how you guys with middle-class lives -- replete with middle-class kids -- do it. I was raised middle class. I always thought I'd escape it. For a while, I did. But lately I haven't been able to.

I'm relatively content in the life that I've worked so hard over the past 6 years to create. Even if it does involve living in a ghetto with a live chicken store in my back yard and crack heads and junkies smoking and shooting up in my hall. It's not at all the middle-class existence I was raised to have. But I've managed to make it as middle-class as possible.

There's no mistaking it. I'm a Bohemian. No matter how much or how little money I bring in per year, I'm still a Bohemian. My goal, socio-economically speaking, is to earn middle-class earnings whilst retaining a Bohemian lifestyle. So far I'm doing that. And that's why I'm so depressed.

I'm getting what I wanted, and realizing I need to want a heck of a lot more in order to get more of what I need. I need to raise the stakes, even though my middle-class job leaves me exhausted each week. I hate -- I simply hate -- that the answer for us working-class folks always seems to be, "Work harder."

Well, I'm going to work harder. I'm woring hard right now, and it sucks, and it's depressing me, but I'm going to work harder nonetheless. Until or unless somebody presents me with something more worthwhile, that's all I can do. So if you're worried that I'm too busy right now, working, you can be assured it's only going to get worse.

And so, the drinking and dialing might continue. I'll stop it at your request, but in the meantime, it'll go on. It's all I've got to connect with you. If you want to arrange some other way to connect, by all means, let me know and we'll arrange it. All I want is to connect.

I'm staring down the barrel of 45. My stage and writing career snuffed themselves out when I hit my mid-30s and settled down in Los Angeles with a man who would prove himself to be emotionally abusive. Yes, of course, I let him be so. I know. I know. But knowing so doesn't bring back all that lost time...

All this moving about. All this relocating. It has to stop. I have to put down some roots. And so I have. In an up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn called Bushwick. But it's come with a price tag. A hefty price tag. 6 years, from age 39 to 45, have been sacrificed in order for me to merely start pushing out some roots.

I don't know how many of you have had to "go it alone" the way I have. It's not easy. I do my best to refrain from becoming a burden on my friends and family. I grew up young. At 19 I was working 3 part-time jobs and going to college full time. Despite the slacker days in San Francisco (during which I still maintained my own lifestyle), and despite a few slacking months here in Brooklyn, I've always worked. I've always, with a few exceptions, been my own man. And the time whe I wasn't were miserable for me. Absolutely miserable.

All I'm asking for is some understanding. It I call you late at night, drunk or buzzed or high, well -- can ya just cut me some slack? You don't have to pick up. And you can tell me how fucked up I sounded on your voice mail. That's all part of the deal.

But the deal is, I gotta hear your voice. Even if it's your voice mail.

I've Lost My Voice

OK, Truth be told? I've lost my voice.

I've lost the voice that was once the source of my musings. See, once upon a time, I used my voice to articulate all that was on my mind -- and in my heart. But somewhere along the line, I lost touch with my voice -- because I lost touch with my ability to articulate it.

Once upon a time, I was a brave young man, fearless and unconcerned with how my words and actions might affect those around me. Once upon a time, I was obsessed with truth -- and how it must be spoken.

And so I spoke the truth. And I made for myself a name that became associated with speaking the truth. But the truth of which I spoke back then was entirely personal. Such was the luxury of being a young man. To be able to speak of truths entirely personal.

You see, for the young man, the truths that are entirely personal are exactly that: entirely personal. But as that young man grows (if the fates would have it) into an older man -- well, then, all bets are off.

All bets are off, you see, as a young man grows into an older man. Because, as a young man grows into an older man, he accumulates relationships. He accumulates relationships that define the transition of his growing from young man into an older man. He accumulates relationships that define what separates his youth from his adulthood. He accumulates relationships that, at first, defined who he was, but then eventually came to define who he was to become.

And it is within this accumulation -- this accumulation of relationships -- that it becomes more difficult for the Romantic young man to continue to articulate his true feelings.

For if this once-young, now older, man were to articulate his feelings in a manner just as he'd articulated his heretofore youthful articulations... Why, then, he'd proceed to offend many, if not most, of the persons who now constitute his heretofore recently acquired adulthood.

In short, it gets harder to remain honest as one gets older.

At least, publicly.

So if you're wondering why you haven't heard my voice lately, it's because I've realized I've lost it. I hope not to have lost it forever, but for the time being -- well, I don't know which of you to praise and which of you to bash.

At least, publicly.

And so for now,


Ta,

I'm a Bit Concerned

I won't lie t'ya... I'm a bit concerned.

I'm a bit concerned about this Generation Y (and beyond). On the one hand, they have the world at their fingertips (or, at least, the world according to Google) -- yet on the other hand, that's all they rely upon. Google, Yahoo, and Wiki.

Don't make me say it. Please, don't make me say it. I won't say it. Oh, Christ, it would apear as though I have to say it:

Google, Yahoo, and Wiki -- OH MY.

Did you know that the number of Google, Yahoo and Wiki (to say the least) searches are contributing to our present-day unnaturally excesssive additions to the Carbon Dioxide levels in Earth's atmosphere? Well, they are.

Exactly what was it you thought they meant when you first read, at the bottom of their emails, "Powered By..."???

Power takes money. And money takes power.

But most often, not for long.

I hope I won't have to continue to kill Polar Bears just to be able to put food on my table.


Signed,
Conspiracy-Theorist Greg

Here's the Thing (Or, at Least, One of 'em)

OK, so my last post was maudlin.

Know what Webster has to say about that term? Well, here it is:

"Alteration of Mary Magdalene; from her depiction as a weeping penitent.
Date:
1509
1 : drunk enough to be emotionally silly
2 : weakly and effusively sentimental"



Gads. I didn't even know I meant that. But apparently I did. See, that's one of the things my mind does. It refers to references far tucked into the dictionary -- or into the encyclopedia -- of "Modern Man [sic]." Believe me, when my mind talks to itself, it uses all vocabulary: All tenses; all prepositional phrases; and all potential grammatical potentialities, including the past, past-participle, conditional past-participle, conditional past-past participle, and so on. Indeed, my mind utilizes all the potentialities of the English language (or so it hopes), be it scholastic or vernacular, whenever it thinks.

But it isn't always sure of what it speaks. That's how my mind works. It speaks first, somewhat linguistically, or scholastically, or within the parameters of the vernacular -- and then it goes backwards. It re-traces. It, after having spoken, re-traces its steps. My mind, after having spoken, re-traces its linguistic steps -- to make sure it has meant, or at least meant what it's meant, what it's said.

In this case, as I've already said, my said linguistics said exactly that which I intended them to have already said.

So what have I said? Simply this: Once Upon a Time, when I lived and produced writing whilst living in San Francisco, I had given myself the liberty to speak. I'd granted myself the honor of writing honorably. I'd allowed myself the occasion to be -- totally -- myself.

But since I've come to New York, all I've allowed myself are limitations.

I can't (/don't) write about my life as it actually is. Why? Because, as much as I'd lke to think my currrent cohorts would be able to digest where I've come from and where, as a result, I'm going... I know they can't. They simply can't.

How do I know? I know because, as a result of having spent 7 years in LA before I ventured into New York, I've recognized a rather simple formula: Material acquitisition = lack of Spiritual education. And yes, you Angelinos and New Yorkers can argue: Lack of material acquisitition most often = excessive, or at the very least, imbalanced, Pursuit of spiritual enlightenment.

I made my mark (if even it might be said that I even had) in San Francisco by being utterly blunt, and honest with myself. I haven't found the place in New York to be able to be so. I've come close, and I'm coming closer -- but the idea of being really real with East-Coasters has proven to be a scary concept.

And being really real with West-Coasters has proven to be tedious. Sorry to you all. But ultimately, everybody wants validation of their sensibility, don't they? Well, I'm sorry. I can't validate West Coast sensibility whilst travailing amidst the turmoil of East Coast sensibility in efforts to merely stay alive.

To hear it put like that, one might think nobody wins. But I'm here to tell you all, this is duality we're deling with. This is the physical realm. Comprised through the tension of opposites. An entire realm. The physical realm. Comprised of the tension of opposites.

So deal with it, my friends. Just live with it. Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you -- whether you're coming from the perspective of materialism or spiritualism -- eventually get to this point?

I'm there. I'm at that point. I'm at the point where I'm no longer going to value any material advice/perspective any more than I'm going to value any spiritual advice/perspective any more than either perspective/argument applies to my current situation.

Because, in the end, that's exactly what both persepctives are concerned with. My situation. Go figure.



You didn't think you were off the hook in this bi-argumentative, doubly-intended argument, did you?

So that leaves me with two options: Either shut up, or keep trudging along. But trudging along means maintaining integrity in what I'm saying.

I'm on the brink. I'm on the brink of falling forever away from the scene, or of falling into the realm of pissing you off.

History will tell.

Heya...

Heya, Hi-ya, Ho-ya:

I know it's been an awful long time since I posted. Forgive me. It hasn't been for lack of wanting to. It's just that it's been... Well, it's been pretty awful of late.

Sorry to start off with such a dreadful ("dreadful" -- don't you just love that word, in an Emily Dickenson-esque sort of way?) tone, but, if truth be known, then the truth is, things around here have been pretty dreadful for quite a while now. (Well, if you define "dreadful" as "lacking the means to do anything other than that which has been established as that which one must do in order to maintain one's status in life," then yes, absolutely, things around here have been rather dreadful lately.)

Could it be worse? Hell, yeah. Just ask Sarah McLaughlin, or the guy who pleads on behalf of the Polar Bears, or even Laurie Metcalf, who pleads on behalf of the children of Darfur...

Could it be worse? Hell, yeah. It could be way worse. That's what makes it so painful.

If I'm not gonna help out one of them -- If I'm not gonna be able t'make any sort of difference in my life -- then why the fuck am I getting up every day, tryin' t'do anything???

Someone please, answer me.

It's all so overwhelming. So "bigger than thou..."

So what do I do? And exactly how?


Signed,
Deserately Curious

In a Nutshell

In the past 5 years I’ve:

Moved to NYC with only $3,000
and a suitcase Relocated
and re-acclimated
a 50-pound dog

Renovated
a sub-standard apartment
in a sub-standard neighborhood
Just to be dumped by a Partner of 12 years
for no reason

Worked
a “Devil Wears Prada” job
In order to qualify
for higher-level positions
Obtained said
higher-level positions, and

Worked said higher-level positions
until I b'come numb

Lost my mother
(however unpleasant that relationship might've been)

Then
after all that,

Started t'realize
m'work's
Just b'gun…


G

Bushwick Life

It's occured to me on more than several occasions that I haven't let any of you in on the visual aspects of life in Bushwick.

Well, that was partially because I hadn't collected any photos and mostly because I couldn't deal with learning how to upload them... But praise be, the folks at Blogger have made it easier.

So here we go, on a virtual tour of the 'hood as Spooge and I now know it.

Here we are at dawn, last April, tripping on ecstacy and making sure our bladders have been emptied before we crash.

Bushwick's aesthetic is as close to LA's as any New York neighborhood can get. This isn't the Upper West Side. This isn't "the village" (either one). Nor is it any part of Brooklyn where you'll find blocks of brownstones. No, Bushwick is something else. Something different. It's a collage. The landscape turns from industrial to quaint row-houses within the space of a football field. There are recently renovated loft spaces next to empty lots, which are next to stray Edwardians and Victorians, which are next to bodegas and L-train subway stops.

We used to be the beer capitol of the country. Hence the reason there is so much industry and why we have "Knickerbocker Avenue."

Last summer, of '07, we celebrated the 30th anniversary of the Blackout of '77:

The subsequent riots affected this area and the Bronx the hardest. That's part of why we have so many empty lots...

What's happening now is, the real estate whoremongers are building ugly contemporary apartment buildings in many of those lots, some right next to the projects, filling the neighborhood with a visual mixture of past and present -- but not in any historically conscious sort of way. The result is slapdash; happenstance. Very much like Los Angeles. Except here very few of us have the privilege of being able to drive past any of it. The "collage" effect that makes LA tolerable by virtue of its being a car town is lost, unless, ironically, one is capable of standing still and taking it all in.

Believe it or not, this is the view from outside my front door...

And this is the infamous live poultry store next door, featuring "Live Poultry and Polio!"

Blogger is being a pain in the ass, so I'll end this here. But I'll perfect the image skill and keep 'em coming...

I know it looks ugly, but there is such beauty in its cracks.

G

(My) Life (Or Something Like It)

Hey.

Just because you haven't heard from me lately doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about what to say next. Indeed, I've been thinking about saying alot of things. I just haven't gotten around to saying them. But rest assured (if there's one amongst you who's even capable of such an act), I've been thinking.

I've been thinking about karma and dhamra and life on this pesky little blue planet in general. I've been wondering exactly what it is I'm supposed to be doing with this thing they call "life."

"Life."

My "life."

What am I supposed to do with it?

Sound like an adolescent inquiry? Sound like the kind of thing most folks resolve in their 20s? Yeah -- I don't think so. I think this kind of question pops up again and again in life. And midlife is an especially opportune time for it to resurface. Hence the reason for the popular notion of the "midlife crisis."

Am I having a midlife crisis? Hard to say. So much of my life has been a crisis, how would I begin to distinguish one type from another? No, as a matter of fact, I'd say that at this particular moment in my life, the crises have -- at least momentarily -- subsided. That's what's given me the opportunity to reconsider who I am and what I'm supposed to be doing.

"May you get what you wish for," as the eternal blessing/curse says...

What have I gotten recently? Well, I'm at the 4-year mark here in NYC. I came here in the summer of '03 with a suitcase and $3,000 in an IRA generated from the mother-ship corporation that prints Better Homes and Gardens. Talk about a crisis. The "economy," as we Americans love to refer to it, wasn't doing well. Friends on both coasts considered my move to be "high risk," at best. But I went ahead with it anyway. I went ahead with it because my choices were: Stay miserable in LA, with connections and a home firmly in place; or, Move to NY (where I'd always dreamt I'd eventually live), "upping" the risk factor by only a few notches, when one really analyzed it enough...

I took a huge risk, and it paid off. It took a long time to do so, and in doing so, I had some tremendous support from several of the people whom I love most dearly. Erik (though he is no longer a part of my life) picked up the pieces that I'd left behind as I made my mad dash away from what had been my life. That included a dog, a cat, a car and a motorcycle. Ray helped him do so, AND he threw me one month's rent when I was renting a room in Park Slope and just beginning to figure out how to proceed. Ditto for Susan. I'll never forget how much their gestures -- and their checks! -- meant to my mere survival at the time. It took me over a year to pay them both back. They each get a kidney if they ever need it!

But soon after landing here and boarding with the ex-lesbian in Park Slope, I found my niche. Once I'd secured a "Devil Wears Prada" sort of job (much like I'd had in LA before moving), I made my way to the Williamsburg/Bushwick border. I must've had angels guiding me (cliche as that sounds), because it landed me here, at The Naughty Pine, where I not only enjoy reasonable rent (by NY standards), but I also frequently don't have to pay that rent. I get a month's rent credit for every apartment I lease out for my Hassidic landlord who doesn't own a computer or know how to log onto Craigslist. Talk about a golden goose...

But the golden goose requires feeding. She requires feeding, grooming, health care and exercise. So she's no golden ticket -- please don't confuse the two.

See, I have to feed, groom, take care of and exercise that golden goose in addition to working my full-time sales position in an internet software company. The job should be enough. Lord knows my boss thinks so. But if he were to really think about it, he'd realize he'd have to pay me quite a bit more before I could ever consider leaving the golden goose to her own devices...

All of which is to say, I work all the time. I've become the stereotypical New Yorker who thinks and talks of nothing but work. I sell for the boss and I sell for the landlord. And when I'm not selling for either of them, I'm selling myself and those around me on the notion that I'm here to get something more done than all this peddling.

Nevertheless, I feel as though I've accomplished something. I've accomplished more than just something, and I feel a few more "something's" on the horizon about to be accomplished, too. That's the blessing of subduing a crisis or two. You get to sit back, if only momentarily, and reflect upon what you've just accomplished -- and what you'd like to accomplish next.

Hence my reason for this midlife inquiry. It could've happened sooner; it could've happened later. For that reason I don't think it's a crisis. As I said, the crises have already presented themselves.

But it's an inquiry nonetheless. Once again, I'm forced to ask myself, "Who am I?," and "What am I supposed to be doing with my life?" Trite, I know. Questions so trite as to recently having been reduced to subway poster status. And yet...

In case you're expecting a revelation, or any sort of epiphany, I'll let you down as gently as I can right here and now... There isn't any. But there is -- finally -- a re-examination of what might lead to one.

Fair enough?

Hey -- it'll have to do for now.