New York Scribbles

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Lunalee want to go for a drink?

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I can't face this but I will explain it. Last night at the cyber cafe I got into a typing contest with the fellow next to me, no words were exchanged but he kept giving me side glances that meant, 'Bring it on Bitch!' So I did and I typed away into New York Scribbles. I was going as fast as I could with my two finger poke, but I met my match this guy was two hands good, and beat my ass, he is probably still typing today. You gotta watch yourself at these internet cafes, it'a all caffiene and attitude.

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I'm in New York City. At a bar in Manhattan. I'm 34 years old. A little more than a month away from my 35th birthday. Sometimes I don't feel my age. Today I do. I just got off work conducting movie interviews in the concession stand lobby of the Union Sq theatre.

I'm now drinking Guinness, writing this on the back of an incomplete survey for the Market Research I'm doing. I've finished my first novel but haven't tried to get it published yet. I'm almost 35 years old and haven't yet started living. Some people never get to make a living doing what they love. Maybe I'm one of those people.

A girl walks into the bar with her boyfriend. He disappears and stays gone. Could he be in the john this long? Maybe he is outside chain smoking. Bars in New York no longer allow smoking. I only smoke when I'm in bars drinking. Not anymore. I catch the girls' glance. She has sad eyes. Deep bruised sunken eye sockets from Brazil or the Bronx. I imagine tonight my eyes look sad as well. We stare at each other- locked in gaze, but we don't smile. The boyfriend comes back breaking the moment. I turn back to my writing. I sneak sideways peeks of the couple. She is either dying of cancer and they have endless love or they are about to split up.

At the other end of the bar sits the most beautiful fag hag I've ever seen. She has blonde hair, straight and long, it frames her perfect face. She is almost as gorgeous as the two gay models she is drinking with. Straight boys will never be pretty enough. I once used to be as good looking but at the age of almost 35 and two decades of manic drinking have left me well past my prime.

In Manhattan every bar that isn't ‘cool' ‘hip' or whatnot seems to be an Irish bar. This is okay of course, usually they have pictures of dead white literary types like Joyce on the walls and pour a good pint of Guinness. Though the ‘craic' ain't much. But it does prove the maxim that right behind Guinness Ireland's biggest export is the Irish people. They can all get jobs in bars like this. All the bar backs are wet backs and it hardly seems fair. I've never gone into a Cantina for a shot of Tequila and a taco and seen a pasty faced Paddy wiping up spilled Coronas.

A new bartender has just come on his shift. He stands erect behind the bar, flexing his butt cheeks and checking out his reflection in the rear view mirror. Time to go, but then Oasis comes on the jukebox and I have another pint.

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When I drove into this city and braved the Lincoln tunnel with a Uhaul I tuned the radio to 91.1 and was greeted by a show playing ESG type funk and Strokes like punk, it was 5am and I was happy. 9-1-1, see now I've just read the Davinci Code so I might think there was something to it, but no. It was just the local radio station playing music I liked. And the Uhaul fit.

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A Second Hand Rose Is Better Than A Lion

The first record store I went into in Manhattan was Second Hand Rose. This was not on purpose. This is not a lie. It might not be a big thing to you either, if you don't know it's the place where Lester Bangs brought his shit albums to sell that he had received and couldn't be bothered to review, and it is also the place where he bought his last album Human League's Dare. Only a few hours later Lester was found dead in his apartment, the needle still rotating in the run off groove of Don't You Want Me. When I entered I the store I quickly got reprimanded for grabbing a rare Smiths album from the window display. I should have known better but adrenaline got the better of me. I'm stupid that way.

See I didn't know what store I was going into. I had imagined that Second hand Rose was on St. Mark's were Robert Quine, the guitarist for Richard Hell, and on occasion even Lester, used to live.

I felt bad for being a jerk. And I didn't even buy the record because it was way over priced. But I think I'm going back there today to see if they have a copy of Dare. I'm a morbid little fuck, but I doubt hardly the first. Anyway this place is overpriced.

Primal Screaming in the East Village

So the other day I went searching for the new Primal Scream 12� Some Velvet Morning. It features Kate Moss and was written by Lee Hazelwood. The Scream team had done it again. I was willing to pay up to $15 for this slab of electro retro, which is too much, but I'm stupid that way. I never found the 12� but hundreds of dollars later I had found a lot of other great stores and records.

First I went to Kim's Underground on St. Mark's, their upstairs collection is great. They even have a whole section of Serge Gainsbourg records. I bought a lot of records and the whole experience was a good one until I was in the checkout line and the guy behind the counter went ape shit on me for not paying fast enough. There was no one else in line, and I was just looking through this book that was sitting next to the cash register, called Waiting For My Man, it's got a picture of Shaun Ryder on the cover –so it must have been British, and so it must have been pretty good, but the guy snarled at me so I put it down and didn't buy it. I would have succumbed to the impulse purchase if this tweaked up gorilla had given me time. The book was all about drugs and Pop Culture. In the end I didn't have to read the book. I got a first hand experience; that amphetamine-fried monkey gave me empirical knowledge.

I went down the street and got a Killing Joke 12� with an Orb 17 minute remix for $1.99. Score.

Then I meet Richard from Etherea on Avenue A. One of the nicest guys I've ever met in a record store. I bought some albums, we chatted about music, he said he would look for selections I wanted and gave me a free 45. Etherea will be the place I will be going to the most.

Still I hadn't found the Primal Scream record. On 1st Ave. is a giant store selling all dance records. I thought I reached my destination. But no, the laid back British bloke behind the counter told me they don't do dance/rock crossovers, so I left with some slabs of far left of the dial leftfield choices.

And Gimme Gimme on 5th between 1st and 2nd has a great selection and the lowest prices in town. I blew $300 there.

By this time I had too many records to carry so I needed to find a café to sit down and chill with all my new music. One look around and all I saw were Starbucks. That aint rock-n-roll. Actually, if I would have looked more than only ONCE around I could have found a cool place to go, instead I opted for a pint(s).

Sumday People Will Appreciate Dumptruck

I walked into a bar. I took a seat, and slumped down in a both and ordered a Guinness. I got out my records and looked through them. As the bartender brought over my drink he made a comment on a Serge record. He had good taste in music. The bar was playing his I-pod selections. And then I heard it, the song on the latest Granddaddy album Sumday. I'm not sure which song it is but hip place I go they are playing it. When I hear that song though, I always know what band I think it is. At first I'm always astonished to be sitting in a trendy bar in St. Marks and they are playing Dumptruck. Now St. Mark's might not be that high up on the game board Monopoly, but that's because you are playing the old fashioned one, not the new hipster edition they came out with.

Of course, the song in the bar isn't Dumptruck. It's that song off the latest Granddaddy album Sumday. That said, anyone who likes Granddaddy's new direction should check out bands like Dumptruck, Green On Red, Plimsouls and numerous others. These bands were new at the time, making indie records in the late eighties, when current radio was turning into MTV and all the past masters like Alex Chilton were releasing shit like High Priest. On the same Big Time label no doubt. Supported by RCA records- ‘indie that you fuck', you are probably thinking. And what did you say about Alex Chilton?

I can only say that about Sir Alex because I love most of his music dearly, from the beginning with The Box Tops to the sublime Big Star to the bottom of the bottle drunken ramblings form Tennessee basements when he was mumbling Beatles covers and swearing he would take you home and make you like it. By the way, when Chilton sang ‘I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink' you tended to believe it. John and Paul never sounded that drugged out.

Bands like Dumptruck stayed on the road, when music was truly underground during the 80's. It was a decade when everyone was rich and flying above it all with bad taste. These bands stayed on the road and paved the way, where the roads lead to Seattle and Pavement.

Now Dumptruck is defunct, to the best of my knowledge, Kurt is dead and corporate rock still sucks. The revolution was televised but everyone missed it because they were tuned to MTV instead of sweating it out in the clubs. They couldn't see it because instead of closing their eyes tight and listening with headphones on and heart they grew up and out of what was supposed to important to them. Too bad they didn't have Tevo.

It's not your fault of course, don't feel bad, and it's still not too late to make amends. Go look for some Dumptruck albums; I'm sure you can find them in some dusty record shop crammed at the back. They should be cheap. It's time they are rediscovered, the way Richard Yates's novel Revolutionary Road should be. But hey, that's literary, and this is rock-roll.

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Today I was on east Canal and it started to drizzle, you know March mist brings April showers which brings May mud. And as I was walking down the street full of bling bling I had to keep dodging umbrellas, to be stereotypical Asians don't like to get wet, and since we've all seen the Lost In Translation scene where Bill Murry's in the elevator with the short Japanese people we know that Asians are short, at least shorter than me who is 6' when I stand on my tippy toes. I swear about three times I almost got my eye poked out. Next time I see Yao Ming I'm gonna punch him in the balls.

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I only look good in winter now. I go running with no shirt on and all the Latino girls yell 'Hey sexy man keep on running and come back when you lose some jiggle' I say 'Okay JLos shake that booty thang. And I will make YOU jiggle'

Then we giggle and they dance and I run to the bar.


Today I ran from my apartment on east 18th between 2nd and 1st down to pier 17. I ran along the East River Park that is currently under construction. The path is pretty well paved, with only a few potential spots of ankle twisting concrete. There is also a soccer field and tennis courts. Which is great, I just have to find someone to play with.

Getting down to the pier was no problem, I had a quick pace set and passed four people and was passed once. One the way back my knee gave out. It started to throb in places my knee has never hurt before, places where I didn't think it could hurt. By the time I was back under the Williamsburg Bridge I had to walk, hobble home.

I was really pissed because my body is starting to turn against me after I have treated it poorly my whole life. I've always been mean to myself with little regard to outcome, and I'm not talking about drinks and drugs, but exercising. Playing hockey and soccer I've always gone in full force, enjoying the contact. In a friendly match of tennis on the local public parks I'll dive for a ball scraping my skin off when I land on the hard surface. I don't do it on purpose. It's the way I react; it's a natural instinct. Not a very good one.

I've been suffering knee and foot injuries for the last year and I'm sick of it. So the last thing I was thinking as I gingerly walked home in a funk was a blessing in disguise. I was limping up Avenue A toward the top where it ends and joins the old folks home Stuevysant, when I spotted a young girl hanging on the street. She was twisted in a supermodel pose, her legs were spread and she was looking back over her shoulder. She had on tight jeans and her butt fit in them better than I've ever seen a behind fit into clothing before. The girl also had a cute face and long flowing black locks. An old lady was also passing on the street at that moment, probably going home to Stuevysant. It was the three of us connecting at one time on Avenue A. “You have nice hair,� the geriatric said. The girl smiled and winked at me. I had to agree with grandma. “Yes, you do have nice hair,' I said. The girl said, “Thanks.� I kept walking, even though I wanted to add, “And a great ass.�

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the other day I ran into Rachal Wiez on the street, I bumped into her on the street corner. Today I see that she is nakled on the cover of Esquire. Hmmm. Maybe meeting me made her want to take her clothes off. Maybe not. So far 4 NYU students have jumped to thier deaths this year. Already 4 have committed suicide and it's only March. I don't think I've met any of them, so I can't get blamed for that.

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They recently found the body of Spalding Gray floating listless in the East River. Who is the ‘who' that found him? When I run along the river, in East River Park, from East 18th to Pier 17, I usually see police boats patrolling the dark waters, looking for dead bodies. This isn't the most pleasant of sights while running in a park, but in New York you get what you can take.

The coppers found him. Guys with beer bellies and mustaches and people I think have probably never been to the theatre, off Broadway or on it. But I don't know. I'm prejudice against Pigs. The men who pulled Spalding from his last swim to put him in his final resting place might have known they were dealing with a talented and very troubled man.

Who knew Spalding's mindset at the end? Maybe Spalding thought he could make it back to Cambodia. I wasn't there to ask him and neither were you. I know, and you probably do too, that he was on anti-kill yourself meds and dealt with depression most of his life and that his mother killed her self as well. It was public knowledge, made mostly by Spalding with his brilliant monologues. Armed with just a table, notebook and bottle of water, Spalding was superlative at telling heartbreaking and funny tales. His approach opened the way for experimental theatre, one-person performances and David Sedaris.

So far this year, only three months in, four NYC students have swan dived to their suicidal deaths. What can be so bad? These students are supposed to be in the prime of their lives, living in the city that can make all their dreams come true. See, these kids are still supposed to believe in dreams. They are not supposed to be beaten down by life yet. Especially in post 9/11 modern New York. And that's the rub.


If we are to believe the national media, New Yorkers are transfixed. No longer allowed to yell at each other, honk their horns, smoke in bars or to feel depressed. They are certainly not supposed to kill themselves while we are at war against terrorism. We need all the able bodies we can muster to take down Al Quida! I mean that's the whole idea of the smoking ban, to make New Yorkers live a longer healthier life. The cynic in me wonders what the real estate will be like with all these people living so long. How will the future new wave aspiring actors, artists and perverts find a place to live when there are still these sixty-year-old failures tending bar and living with rent control?

Doesn't survival of the fittest in the entertainment industry mean that the superstars like J. Lo can rub million dollars an ounce sperm whale beauty cream over their whole bodies while all other girls from the Bronx can't even afford to get their facial hair waxed properly? The ones who make it can bathe in pristine bathtubs of bottled Volvic water while the ones who don't die off poor and alone, opening space for the next hot thing. The realist in me tells me that I probably won't be around that long to find out.

Today I went running. Still trying to cheat death one step at a time. Except that I keep having these premonitions that I will be hit by a car which is disconcerting. It snowed the last few days, and wasn't that cold and New York looked very picturesque covered in a thick blanket of white as I ran through it. Then I got to the East River and as I admired the view I saw another police boat. There must be another body out there.

While I was running a car came up from behind and almost rammed into an old man who must have been in his late sixties. I was running along side and the car nearly missed flattening me as well. The old guy had a pretty good pace going; I knew he was a fighter. He looked ex military with a gray white crew cut. Probably didn't smoke. As I was passing him, the car tried to pass us. The fucker in the car didn't even slowdown on the pedestrian park path and swerved to avoid hitting us at the last minute. I don't know where the car was going.

Well, when you get into one of those situations where you think your life is threatened, even if you are having a bad day thinking of dead bodies floating in the East River and students jumping off buildings, your ire goes up. You get red under the collar. I was pissed.

The grizzled jogger banged on the hood of the car. The man behind the wheel rolled down his window and started yelling every obscenity I've ever heard and some that I hadn't. His loutish enunciation alerting me that he was more action than words. It was about to get ugly. The old-timer tough son of a bitch went right up and punched the driver in the face, which caused the ominous offender to drop the cigarette that was dangling from his bottom lip. I kept running as gunshots rang out behind me. The police boat turned on its siren and rushed ashore. The more things change, sometimes, they stay the same. Like I've always been a coward and I always will be.

I don't know why these people kill themselves. I myself have made three attempts to end my life, but it was when I was young and on drugs- a four year post ecstasy binge and put on Prozac to level off my total painful despair, and I know now these attempts happened when I was in a chemical imbalance, and besides they were quite dramatic but really only cries for help, to show in a physical way the hurt I felt inside and I thought no one else could see or understand. I mean I wouldn't have drank a bottle of Jack Daniel's and hung myself with my Doc Martin shoelace if I really wanted to die. I would have blown my head of with a gun. It worked for Kurt Cobain, who killed himself around the same time I was going through my ‘troubles' to put it an in understated Irish way.

But hey, that's when the writing started. While looking into the past in as different of places as the novels of Richard Yates, films of Woody Allen and Curtis Mayfield's The Other Side of Town- it helped me understand how little my own worth is. As unlikely as it was, I could relate, in a way that I learned people throughout history, from all walks of life, had gone through exactly what I had. I was no different, maybe a little unique like a snowflake, but really all snowflakes are cold and fall to earth. People have been sad for ages before me, yeah come on you fancy Greek tragedies, and unfortunately people will be down way after I'm gone. So I told myself, “hey fuck wad you ain't ever gonna get laid crying your eyes out in bed all day.� You know, don't take it all so seriously.

I had to hang in there. Life is shit and then you die. But sometimes shit can be a good thing, as in, “That's some good shit.� Besides I'll always have Paris. C'est la vie, C'est la merde.

I have defenses against ever again hopefully coming so unraveled. I still drink way too much, but I keep the drugs under control. I run. And I write. My dreams are gone but I still have goals, things I want to achieve, and as long as you stay hungry for accomplishments it keeps the spirit resolved. And these have worked for me mostly. Until now. I've recently encountered something so bad, so evil that once again the thoughts of ending my life have been darkly creeping back into my conscious. What is this thing that is once again making me think of suicide? I'll tell you. It's trying to get an Internet connection in New York City.

So sick am I of having to constantly visit on line cafes and the like. I can't afford to read the latest musical obsession by Mark or Tommy's rant against all good will. Besides they don't allow open containers of booze at Kinko's. I found this out the hard way, as I was acrimoniously escorted out and thrown on my ass with a, “Get out and stay out, and no, you can't put PaxAcidus.com flyers in here. And no, you can't have your 40 ouncer back. Now leave.�

Here's the deal. Verizon is the devil. I never thought it could get worse than Qwest, but oh was I wrong. I had my phone hooked up February 27th, with my DSL line being connected by March 1st. My modem arrived in the mail and I received an email confirmation from them saying all things are good to go. That was a tedious twenty days ago. Since then, I've been through the ringer, literally, on the phone for seven hours to their hot line, most of that time being put on hold and forced to listen to Sting songs. I was almost tempted to call Mav and have him try to hook up the installation for me. I mean he likes Sting. Me? I had better things to do with my time. But I couldn't just give up. I needed to try. Over 100 times I've followed the CD instructions with that fake voice telling me to go through all the steps of 1.Install Filters, 2.Install Modem and 3.Set up Account. And once the filters and modem are in place and the only thing wrong is the setting up of the account, you would think that I'd be able to bypass the first two steps, but no. I had to endure over and over again, day after day that annoying voice, those annoying good- natured instructions. But hell, if it doesn't get hooked up today I might as well slit my wrists. Here is maybe hearing from you all again. And if you don't? It's Murder, murder I tell you. You can all call up to complain. Verizon Preferred Support. 1.888.649.9500.

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Somebody said truth is stranger than fiction. I don't know who said it but that anonymous asshole sure knew what he/she spoke. The other day, about three days ago Amanda and I got deathly sick from food poisoning. Now I've had it before, and it sucks, and I've also traveled the world eating my way around the globe and have suffered an upset tummy from some of the more exotic countries' delicacies- like swallowing the tequila worm in Tijuana and chopping into a still squiggling animal in Taiwan.

But man this took the arsenic cake. It took so much out of me; like ten pounds of puke and shit. Close to the worst I've ever felt. Worse than when Sloth and I OD'd once on time released ephedrine pills and had to get our stomachs pumped at the American Hospital in Paris. Worse than the time I went on a three-day drinking binge and ended up in the drunk tank in Alabama. And yes, especially worse than the last time I had food poisoning, when Slothie's wife fed me bad chicken.

I was really pissed off because Burnt Face Jake was in town and we had spent a great night out drinking on Ave. B and were going to continue the debauchery the next day, but I was laid out of commission. What bad timing. I only see Burnt Face about once every three years.

After two days of not even being able to keep a sip of water down, after the fever broke and I was able to tell hallucination from hell and I was able to stand upright for more than fifteen seconds, I decided to have a talk with the people who sold me my last meal, (which at one point at three o'clock in the morning when I had my hand on the phone receiver and was attempting to dial 9-1-1- I passed out before I could punch in the last digit and only called 9-1, which did no good) I really did think it was my last meal.

I went down the block on wobbly legs and the deli was closed. I thought, hmm, they poisoned so many people the health inspectors shut them down. I felt triumphant and a smile broke on my face for the first time in seventy-two hours. Then the next day as I was making my way to a new deli to get my new diet, saltine crackers and 7 Up, I saw they were shooting a fucking film in the deli that had almost taken my life. What the fuck? I ain't shitin' or pukin' ya'. I had already done too much of that.

My street was blocked off for two blocks, there were cops everywhere, and there were cranes in the middle of 1st Avenue. The crane was spraying fake rain down on the actors as they ran, you guessed it, into the deli! The film is called Dark Water and they have been filming for the last couple days.

Unfortunately, I had already thrown out the offending food that almost killed me so I couldn't sneak it to the catering tables. Why do I want to attack the movie people who as far as I know are completely innocent, simply because it will give me better revenge satisfaction. You can bet I'll be waiting for the première and I'll be putting laxative in the popcorn butter.

Holly shit! The movie stars Jennifer Connelly and Tim Roth. They are right outside my window. I'm gonna go get an autograph. Sorry Burnt Face but I am a star fucker. Like wow, who wouldn't want to fuck Jennifer? (I say this in jest because she is married to my second favorite actor right now, Paul Bettany, the guy in Knight's Tale who walks around naked because he has a gambling problem and got his clothes stole from some ruffians, right behind Mark Ruffalo, who was in XX/YX with a Lester Bangs' 'stach.

Mmmm Jennifer you taste good. Lick, lick, I know she can't be bad for me.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0382628/

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This past weekend I went to the Small Press Book Fair at the Small Press Center at 20 West 44th Street, New York, New York 10036. In my carry bag, man's purse if you wanna be perverse, I had five copies of a cover letter for my novel Burnt and the first chapter, plus five copies of my short story Little Blue Bunnies. I didn't know what to except, but I thought what the hell. This was New York and I should try to get into the literary scene. Make some personal contacts.

The Small Press Center is in a large impressive building. I walked around to all the booths and grabbed a catalogue from Turtle Point Press; they published Stuart David's Nalda Said. David is a founding member Belle and Sebastian and now does Looper with Karn. Stuart and Karn are mentioned in my poem Pony Express. I didn't tell the guy who handed me the catalogue this.

http://www.paxacidus.com/pai/poetry164. ... 100977785a

I attended a panel discussion entitled, Beyond Multinationals: Independent Publishing and the Future of Literary Fiction. Johnny Temple moderated it. Temple is an unassuming rock star in the band Girls Against Boys and also is the publisher of Akashic Books. Sitting in was Kaylie Jones, a real literary stooge who is on the academic side and who would hate everything I write. I liked her immediately. Mrs. Jones is half French and half American, with more French frustration than American apathy in her. She is the author of A Soldier's Daughter Never Cries; her father was the author of From Here To Eternity. And then there was Matthew Sharpe, who wrote The Sleeping Father. Father was his third book, and was turned down by all twenty of the big publishing houses. Soft Skull Press then published his novel. Matthew recently was on the Today Show, the first author of a small press to be on. The Today's Show book segment is a pretty big deal, right behind Oprah's.

I learned many things, like ‘literary fiction' is described as non-genre writing, Johnny likes to laugh and that Kaylie is pissed off and for good reason. She is appalled that no one in America was interested in what American writers had to say about 9/11. She worked with a French film crew that documented what American writers had to say. I didn't tell her about my story Sex Starts In the Mind.

http://www.paxacidus.com/read/sexstarts.html

The film crew interviewed Norman Mailer, and he said that no one in America cares. Mailer claimed that he never thought that in his lifetime writers would become socially and politically dispensable. The documentary was shown on prime time TV in France, it was never shown in America.

The tendency of the panel was that books used to mean something and they don't anymore. No one reads. Not really. And I agree. I don't know if, in the future there will be books like John Sinclair's The Jungle or George Orwell's 1984, that will change the way people actually think. Kaylie argued that no one has twenty hours to invest in a book anymore. I do, but I'm a lazy shit. This all makes me sad. We are losing artistic mediums, like novels and albums. People go to movies to be entertained, and they want it light and fluffy. It's the same with music, with all this iPod shit and down loading; we are losing the concept of the ‘record.'

The whole ordeal left me scared honestly. My enthusiasm was shattered. I never like to get too close to the harsh reality of the publishing world, and with PaxAcidus.com I hadn't had to. This past weekend was my baby steps into that world. I was once interviewed and asked questions on my views of online publishing and the Internet Underground and if I thought that it would someday replace books. And I said no way. I love books. People like the physicality of books. Sites like Pax Acidus are great steppingstones for writers but books, books, books, are what we need. I want my novel to be published in hard copy. Here I was, on the fringe trying to feel my way around and what I learned was, what a fucking mess.

I'm not a doomsayer but it is all fucked up. The way the conglomerate publishers use writers; the unrealistic expectations they put on books and then turn against the writer if a book isn't selling. The behind the back tricks of pulling publicity, or giving an advance and then if a book doesn't live up to projected profits, demanding the money back. Major publishing houses will no longer nurture writers. It's like the NFL. It's all win, win, win, right now baby! Even great writers can't make a living from their work. And America's total indifference to literature is sick. Oh what to do. What I did was thought of Allen Ginsberg, who walked around Manhattan with early drafts of Burrough's Junky and Kerouac's On the Road in his pockets (they didn't have man purses back then- but if they did I'm sure Allen would have had one) and how he was continually turned down. Sometimes today is only as good as the bad old days.

There was a meet and greet afterwards but I didn't stay. I went home with all fives copies of everything still tucked away in my bag. I can write with macho enthusiasm, but when it comes to things I really care about, face-to-face, sober, I freeze up, terrified and imprisoned by my shyness. I went and had a Guinness.

‘Shyness is nice, but shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you want to'- The Smiths.

The next day I walked up to the book fair with determination. I keep playing in my head a way I could approach Johnny from Girls Against Boys (besides the point) and Akashic Books (the point exactly) and ask politely if I could give him Burnt. I wanted to get it right, it's like when you meet a beautiful girl in a club or bar that you fancy and you want to keep her engaged in the conversation, so you try to keep the small talk funny and flowing. You both know what you want but it has to been done with some tact. As we all know, “So you wanna go home and let me screw your brains out?� only works 50% of the time. It was kinda like that in a way, I knew I would have a small window of opportunity-and didn't want to fuck it up.

During the panel discussion Kaylie had mentioned how no one can be bothered to read anymore. I was going to say I agree with this and that in fact I know writers who don't even bother to read anymore. And I was going to avoid the whole cliché of being proud of a book that could define young society and dissociated youth without being compared to Catcher In the Rye by saying it might not have the impact of Salinger but it could be as explosive as Generation X. And I'd preface this with a little witticism on how I had more staying power than Dougie, who seems to be a one hit wonder. The last book I read by Mr. Coupland was about a plane crash, I read it while on a plane, but thought it was so stale I couldn't finish it. But then I had to rethink this, is making fun of Coupland's lack luster writing a cliché in it's own right? I cursed myself for being so simple.

Johnny was standing behind the Akashic table and I went up and looked through the books he had on sale. I was going to buy one because I was curious and it's good to support whatever team you are willing to bat for. Besides, the whole reason for this was because I want to support small presses. So much so that I'd give up the chance of paying my rent to keep artistic control. This is why I spent money I couldn't really afford, even though I wasn't as bad as the lady next to me, who said she had spent all her money on books and wouldn't be able to get home, I offered her my Metro Card. I like to walk.

And that's the thing. Johnny was there to sell Akashic books. His company can turn a profit and publish more books and have the resources to support their writers. By talking to Johnny about myself, I'm only taking away from these resources, and besides it might have been inappropriate to bring it up. But when you are desperate, right. I thought meeting in person might give me an edge. I'm sure I wasn't the only one either. I'm sure he was wary of all the people asking what he can give them. When it fact this was his book fair. Not ours.

Yet, what if?

I was nice and generous and then I opened my mouth and blurted a few sentences about Burnt to Johnny and asked it he would be interested in taking my query and first chapter and all that and I fumbled and mumbled and couldn't have been more incoherent and lame. Johnny said, politely, that they aren't taking anything at the moment, so I said, oh, you want me to mail it in, and he said no, that they are not taking anything at all right now. He told me to email him in a month. I said, thanks. Bought Some of the Parts by T Cooper and walked away—triumphant!

No, I didn't get my lucky break, more of a brush off, and no it doesn't seem like Akashic will be the new home for Burnt, but I went up face to face and asked, and even though it turned out the way I always thought it would, the way it always turns out in reality, at least I won't go to my grave with the regret of not asking. I approached, was rebuffed, and lived to type about it. Maybe next time when dealing with an agent or publisher I might even offer a lucid sentence to my cause in the conversation. There is hope for me yet.

The books I bought at the fair:

Nalda Said by Stuart David, (I already read it and own it but bought it as a gift for someone else) Turtle Point Press, 1 Christopher Street, New York, NY 10014

Some of the Parts by T Cooper, Akashic Books, 130 Fifth Avenue 7th Floor, New York, NY 10011

Scorch by A. D. Nauman, Soft Skull Press, 107 Norfolk Street, New York, NY 10002

I wanted to buy The Sleeping Father by Matthew Sharpe, Soft Skull, but they were sold out.

Wet Work by Jay Brida and Down Girl by Jess Dukes, Contemporary Press, 175 St. Marks Avenue #2, Brooklyn, NY 11217

[mccutcheon]

I've been getting a lot of exercise lately. My local bar has banned me for life and now I'm forced to walk further to get a drink. In New York I've met my match. His name is Johnny Boilermaker, and like a true drinking buddy I don't know his real name. Johnny drinks a beer and a shot every round. And the round is over in four gulps. 1- the shitty shot of whiskey. 2,3,4 the pint of Rheingold is gone. Then it's time to get the next round. I usually forget to eat and I can't keep up the pace.

As I've gotten older I've tried to start drinking better booze. And even though I usually end up quaffing more quantity than quality, my intentions are good. My favorite combination of a beer and a shot is a frosted bottle of Pilsner Urquell and an icy shot of Jager. Those cold beverages give me the warm fuzzies.

Johnny is a machine; The Terminator of drinking. He methodically keeps coming at ya. Hell be damned. I thought he was drinking himself to death until he pointed out that I always ended up more wasted than him. After that I kept my Kerouac excess comments to myself.

“I'm catholic, so I can't kill myself. It's a sin. So I'm going to drink myself to death.â€?– Jackie K.

And that is what Jack did. Thank Buddha, whatever happens to me, they'll never say I peaked too soon. Today I'm 35 and every day is a struggle to get a grip on my art. Yes, I'm a pesky pretentious prick that way, who thinks his alliteration means something.

While drinking with Johnny I've gotten myself into trouble. I told a bartender that since the smoking ban, it is great that she can work in a bar while pregnant. She wasn't with child and she wasn't amused, even though it was an honest mistake.

But it actually went down far worse than that. It went more like this:

“Quit staring at my tits,� said the bartender.

“Sorry,� I said. “I was just thinking about how much your breasts must have grown since you've become pregnant. I mean, since the smoking ban I think it's great that you can be so pregnant and still work here. What is it, eight months?�

She asked me to leave and never come back. Johnny got to stay. The last thing I heard him say was, “another boilermaker, please.� And he sounded as stoic and sober as ever. There goes another friend.

It was shameful behavior. The morning after I woke up with one of the worst hangovers. I felt bad about what I'd done, my psyche was self-defeating; a broken kneecap of the soul. I went on the wagon for a couple of days, until life got too boring and I finished the book I was reading, A Tragic Honesty: The Life and Work of Richard Yates.

That's how I ended up in a trendy bar, sipping poorly poured and over priced Guinness talking to a NYC genetic milkshake beauty- the antipodal generic Wonder Bread girl. She was Caucasian, she was Africa American, she was Middle-Eastern, she was Asian, she was Latino, she was all probably, and physically perfect for it. She was bronzed brown sugar with eyes the color of a bruise. We slow danced to Madonna's Borderline.

I never slow danced with Johnny. Things happen for a reason.

And if it wasn't my birthday today I'd go into the new vouge fad of ‘tanics', people addicted to tanning themselves to look more like J. Lo and the woman currently licking my ear. Well, it's time to go make beautiful mutt babies. Happy birthday to me.

[Sloth]

Sorry to interrupt the megolomania...

but...

Birthday kisses from the west coast.

Some Pax trivia.... McCutcheon was born on the same day that Kurt Cobain killed himself. When I look out my office window I can see Linda's, the pub where he had his last drink before he killed himself.

[mccutcheon]

And Sloth's wife is named Linda, what does it all mean?

[mccutcheon]

i've just been to a bar with Sean Lennon, which is weird because he is sorta in a way in my novel- though i didn't tell him this, of course, he was buying the drinks. His two dates were beautiful blondes who were no more beautiful than the girls I date, except that they were no way as smart, or funny, unless you count their dumb comments, which I don't, but hell he is famous and I get better girls than Sean Lennon being a nobody, but so does Sarah's husband and the Sloth, so I guess all it takes is a big cock or a big heart. Not saying that Sean has neither. Ya know, I think Sean, who I greatly liked- even if he wan't buying the drinks, would get better girls himself if he wasn't famous, and gave an effort or gave a shit who he fucked. When we were outside sharing a smoke one of the girls said to me, you are kinda cute, what do you do? I said, go home alone.