New York Scribbles

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Tom is brilliant. Now all we need is Pepe and we would have a gang.

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Today I found Tom Waits' The Early Years Volume Two on vinyl at Generation Records- 210 Thompson Street. It was a great find and made my day.

Then I went back to my apartment, after a (quick) stop at the bar for five pints. I got home and sat naked and alone, drinking wine, listening to the first track Hope I Don't Fall In Love With You; then I listed to the rest of the album. I thought of Maggie May, of course, but then remembered she just got married.

Maggie May and I made love to this album every night in Paris for three months in a row. We really went at it for a while there. Sometimes stumbling home from a café we didn't even make it back to the record and wound up and having sex on the grassy lawns of Invalid. There is something majestic about having an orgasm in the proximity Napoleon's tomb. I yearn for the nostalgic Paris life.

I don't know if this post is in past or present because as I wrote it, it was kinda present but if you are reading it, it is sorta past-----and now the record needs to be flipped- but please- keep reading- for my sake.

As I walked toward my apartment I saw two girls sitting on the steps. I have seen them before and they always ignore me. Tonight I had five pints of courage in me so I said hello. Their bitter faces and didn't reply when I nodded and said ‘hi'. Because you know, normally when people don't know you from Adam, they don't want to know you.

I walked up the stairs. As I fumbled for my keys, from the apartment next to mine the neighbors were well into orgasm mode. She was screaming moans of scratching back hysteria and he was huh-huh-huhing all the way to some sort of profound gluttony sex castle.

There is so much I want to say. I am lonely and loneliness surrounds me. But it is an affliction like being bored; it is my own fault. Besides I know there are worse things than being alone.

I'm new to this New Jackass city. Just out of a relationship. I met the beautiful Elisabeth and was too incompetent to program her number right into my cell phone. So no one can say I didn't have my chance. Before I went record shopping I passed the New School University at 13th and 5th Ave.

The few people I know in NYC are too busy to see me. Or they have moved away and left me alone. And then I met Tom (not Waits) who is so cool I can't justify how worthy he is. We met at a Smith's website and he quickly took a shine to Pax Acidus. We share a love of music, great conversations, drinking with a style- with me elegantly wasted and Tom with a smooth reserve. And most important we have the same outlook on life.

I wish he was my new girlfriend or I wish I were his new boyfriend. But he is gay and I'm sorta straight and things don't happen that way.

We feel asleep (for 30 minutes) or passed out, holding hands listening to music. And then I woke Tom up and took him to my bed were we started watching 24 Hour Party People and we bickered over who loved Ian Curtis more. (Ian is my BOY)

I continued to drink beers at 7 in the morning and then Tom had to leave around 9. Did I mention Tom paid for all my drinks --- a line from Galaxie 500- and an inside joke for Tom.

What is it about human sexuality that makes it so unfair? It breaks my heart about sex and love and life…..

I would give a shit but today is the first preseason game of Monday Night Football and the old Queen Madden is still alive. I'll see you tender souls after the season. Go Pack!!!

By the way- for those who think I have lost it I just want to say I'm working on a NYC Scribbles post called Sex On The Subway. So I'm not totally off my tether quiet yet. Check this space for more loving.

And love to Emily- who might or might not deserve it.

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I have never seen a Volume 1

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hm

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Sloth what is happening?

[Sloth]

Mc, when you made all those x's and ?'s it pushed things off the edge of the screen. Either erase them or wait until tue next page and things will return to normal (normal in reagards to sideways scrolling anyway).

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yeah but it is weird. it fucked up the words and para structure as well. I'll have to go back to edit everything when I can be bothered. that's what is nice about the disposable, though, I guess.

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It took out every tenth word or letter or something. weird. I need to go back to bed.

Today it is hot and I just don't know if I can handle the lukewrm brown air coming out of my air conditioner. I hop in the shower and lay naked with the fan on me and then I start to sweat again. Plus my ass slides all around the chair as I type and I slip off and land on the floor.

At least I got good summer tunes on the turntables and the second novel is coming along nicely. I'm writing a sex bit and it turns me on.

I wish I was skinny dipping in the sea with someone. Who doesn't?

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so one way to get me out of my funk is to write my way out. my second novel is about three friends who travel Europe stopping at ever beach and bar along the way. it is set in post America takes over the world so they are having a hard time getting laid, being from America the Empire the Strikes first and doesn't bother to ask questions second. But there are lots of nude breasts, and sand in the butt cracks. and beer spills and slippery when intoxicated and buying Isreli wine in Rome for $100 because they don't know Chianti or lire from a sandy butt crack.

I got to get to Coney Island.

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This gonna be short because I just got back from Djing, and I can't see straight. What's new?

Today I took a bike ride before the storm hit. The plan was to go around the whole island. I took 20th street to the East River- usually I cut through Styvensant Town but it is blocked off by cops because of the terror alert- why they think this place is a target is beyond me. I'm sure homeland security knows best and who am I to question- but if you go to Avenue C you can sneak in the back way. I learned this from my mornings running and it is kinda common knowledge, so I don't think me posting this information is treason.

I only got to 37th street before I had to cut in because there was no thruway. If want excitement and danger, then try riding a bike with no hands, no helmet and arms in the air like you just don't care, between lanes rushing up 1st Avenue. And if you believe I did that I have a townhouse you can afford and I can sell it to you in Tribeca. I made my way between buses and New Jersey drivers who feel so inferior about living in the Garden Sate that they make up for it with forceful use of the horn. Then I cut over to Central Park…. And this post will have to be postponed due to the first sentence.

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When I got near the snobby civilized Upper East Side I cut across and took my time in Central Park. I went by the field I used to kick the soccer ball with my friend Jesus. We used to see the young Kennedy playing Frisbee. Too bad he is dead, he would have loved Paris Hilton (that gentleman preferred blondes). That would have had the tabloids a rockin'.

Can you imagine a ticket of Kennedy and Obama running for Pres. Obama could be Pres and Kennedy could be his running mate. Young, sexy articulate men running for the highest office. Good looks and good ideas combined with youth and inspiration. That would be a convention I would attend. Instead we get movies like Head of State with Chris Rock. That's reality for you.

And then I went up and down Riverside Park- then down along the Hudson—yeah I was humming Billy Joel. I rode past Chelsea Pier and The Intrepid Air Force carrier that still has planes on it and then I'm counting down the streets- Houston, Delancey, Canal- then bam before I know it the bike path goes right past Ground Zero. I mean it was right there and I have visited before but it was still a stunning shock to realize where my little fun bike ride had taken me. I got a little teary eyed until I got to Battery Park and ran over a kids plastic I Heart NY sunglasses and he started to cry and his dad started chasing me.

I peddled as fast as I could to Pier 17, my old stopping ground; it's where I run most mornings- except on days after DJing when mornings are taken up with fights with Tom about Ian Curtis, or if I'm alone, my keyboard and turntables and records and Mike's Hard Lemonade, Big bottles of Beck's and normal bottles of Italian Pinot Grigio do the trick nicely.

Pier 17 is a fish place and looks just like the market in Seattle, except instead of The Sound in the background you have the Brooklyn Bridge. Last Exit and all. Somewhere over that bridge lives a girl I will never see again.

I was gonna check out the Paris café – established 1867- but as I went down the cobbled path I ended up on a film set- I swear to Allah. I stole a bottle of water from catering and headed home. The sky above was going black so I had to get back. I made it just before the egg sized raindrops started to fall like a Fall song.

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I have forced upon myself another reason to get out of bed. I started a new novel today. I hope it doesn't turn out shit. I know it is way too early to get excited about the quality of the words but there is an energy renewed in me. It is coming quick and I have lots of notes I have saved up and the ending is already plotted out. I have to connect the start to the finish. And make the middle worthy.

The novel is a simple idea, maybe too simple, but I am writing what I sorta know. It's about a washed up rock and roll star who goes on an acoustic tour of the States. I guess if I had to sum it up in a sentence to the business of the business I would admit it might be Spinal Tap meets Bridget Jones Diary. But that is business and I am sick of it.

This novel, working title Tour, might never make me money but it has already done one thing, one thing already today. Tour gives me a reason to get out of bed. You take away monetary betterment and fame and what is left? Doing it because you have to do it. It's pure and way too simple of an exclamation. But that's the way it goes.

Chapter One so unedited it is almost not written, the ink dried five seconds ago. I know I will be tempted to put first drafts of this thing up when I get giddy, but when that fit hits I'll stick to NYC Scribbles because I want Tour to be done well. That said here I go breaking my promise on the first fucking day.


Tour Chapter 1

The only food I've had in the last two days is spoiled macaroni salad. Oh yeah, and the lime wedges in my 47 Coronas. It is a hot humid day as I sit on my New York apartment rooftop. Lucky for me I'm in my skivvies and have Hank Williams on the radio.

I watch the Manhattan women walking through the sidewalk heat waves. With my binoculars I get a bird's eye view of the beads of sweat trickling down their cleavage. As I grab another beer from the ice bucket my cell phone rings.

“Hellloo,� I drawl trying to act like I'm from Nashville, Tennessee instead of Queens.

“Brady?� Asks my manager Shannon.

“Yeassum.�

“Why are you talking like that?�

“I'm practicing my southern drawl.�

“Why?�

“Well if I'm doing this acoustic tour and all I thought I might as well brush up on my country. I will probably do a few tunes, you know, for encores. Like the White Stripes did Jolene. Shannon?�

“Yeah?�

“There will be encores, right?�

“I hope so, I mean of course there will be encores. People still love you. Brady?�

“Yessum?�

“Are you sober?'

“Yes ma'am I'm sober as a judge. I haven't drunk anything but beer all day.�

“Good, that's good Brady. And did you get in shape, lose those thirty pounds?�

I pat my protruding belly. The soft flesh jiggles from my touch. I squeeze the cellulite in my fist. I pinch well more than an inch.

“Not exactly ma'am.�

“Will you cut out the country bullshit and talk like a real person.�

“Sorry.�

“So how much?� Shannon asks.

I look at my sagging chest. I got tits like a twelve-year-old girl. I make myself sick. I drink a big gulp of the beer and try to convince myself I don't care.

“Brady?�

“Yes ma'am, I mean what?�

“So how much?�

“How much what?�

“How much weight did you lose?�

I think back to the last time I was on the scale. It was twenty minutes ago. Since then I had two beers. I probably haven't lost any weight since then.

“Not too much really.�

“Does that mean none?�

“Yeah.�

“Well I hope you have the stamina to play the shows. You know when Bruce Springsteen used to put on a show he lost five pounds a night.�

“Yeah, well I'm not The Boss. I would never write a fucking song as shit as Born in the USA.�

“Whatever, see you tomorrow.�

She hangs up. Bitch. It's just a one-man show. All I have to do is sit on a stool and strum the guitar. Hell, even David Crosby could do it.

I was lying to Shannon. I don't really hate Springsteen. I was planning on covering Johnny 99 from Nebraska on this acoustic tour. But that's not the only lie either. Since the last time we met three weeks ago to finalize plans and sign the contracts I have gained five pounds. But I'm sure as shit not going to tell her that.

At that meeting Shannon was appalled by my appearance. And she didn't mind letting me know exactly what she thought. As my manager Shannon has always dealt out the tough love. I respect and hate her for it. When I haven't slept in a few days and I'm wasted I want my soul to be cuddled and I want her to tell me I'm a genius so I can justify drink and drugging myself to death. Shannon doesn't ever do that. She is straight up with me. She thinks my death wish emulation of people like ole Hank Williams, Jim Morrison, Ian Curtis and Elliot Smith is pretty silly since I'm thirty-six years old.

On the other hand she has kept me financially stable through the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the tours and the rehabs. Shannon didn't let me spend all the income from the platinum records on cocaine. She used a majority of those royalty checks and hired reputable accountants and stockbrokers to invest intelligently. I got a bit of Mircosoft if you can believe that shit. It was a joke. Hate being labeled grunge so why not invest in a Seattle computer company.

And that money she put away for a rainy day. Since the mid-nineties, and the MTV phony shit and the grunge bullshit, and the death of Kurt there have been many days that have rained, like a non-stop Seattle drizzle for seven years. But I have never had a real job.

My band the Safety Pins were lumped into the grunge hype by the media. Even though we never had that Middle of the Road sound to our tunes like those North West bands. We were from New York City where one genre never dominates. We grew up with Lou Reed, Run DMC, the Ramones, ESG, the New York Dolls, Television and Arthur Russell. The Safety Pins were never just rock. We had the dance element before techno and the James Brown funky drummer sample ever existed. It is the reason I respect bands like Primal Scream and the Mekons Their back catalogues have the whole spectrum of rock to funk, disco to punk, country to soul. Bands that just keep on keeping on with vision and attitude; despite not having the evil major labels support, corporate sponsorship or record sales.

Back in the day our biggest influence was a band that was already mixing up all the elements that came ready made to blast from a Boom Box. The day the Clash played Broadway was the day I woke up and started dancing.

I drain the beer and grab another from the ice bucket. I put down the phone and pick up the binoculars. I eye another girl coming my way. She is wearing a mini skirt and T-shirt that is cut into a V-neck. She isn't wearing a bra and the light cotton fabric is sticking to her loosely bouncing breasts.

I sit down without ever loosing sight of her. I put my hand in my underwear and start playing with my limp dick. I tug on it trying to make my penis grow to a respectable length to get the pleasure started. I'm getting hard and start to pull longer and harder.

“Hey ya fuckin' pervert get off dat roof before I call da fuckin' cops. Asshole.�

I drop the binoculars, and look around startled. There are three construction workers fixing a drainpipe on the next roof. I grab the beers and cell phone and run inside.