Funny People

This movie looks great. I can't get enough of the Judd Apatow crowd.
(Thanks, Rachel!)

Animal postcards

Loving the animal stationery by Brooklyn designer Alana Davis.

(Via Simple + Pretty)

It's Almost Over Now

Go on a tear.

I highly recommend it. It's spiritual, medicinal, but only sparingly. It reconnects you with the universe, and you realize that you are just one single organism on the back of a huge organism spinning around the sun.

Go on a mother- fucking tear, and see if I'm telling you the truth. Take your time. Plan on it. Set aside the time, clean the apartment because it'll get dirty when done. Stock up on some hooch. Some good hooch. Depending on how sociable you want to be, chose your drink carefully. Too strong, and you'll spend much of your time unconscious. Too weak and you'll just end up miserable. You've got to hit it just right, and in the proper proportions. Be smart...stay healthy...stay young.

Go on a goddamn tear.

Sunday I stayed home. Stayed in doors. Stayed out of sight. Except for one thing. I went out for Chinese food and a bottle of wine. A big fucking bottle of wine, and lots and lots of Chinese food. I piled the shit on. I was a smart creature, a cautious creature. I got egg rolls, and pork and shrimp fried rice. I got chicken and a nice red Cabernet Sauvignon. Dark red, dark. I got a huge bottle. I was going on vacation.

I listened to Sade and Steely Dan and surfed topics that I never surfed, finding myself lost in places on the Internet that I've never traversed. I'm doing good as the chicken worked its way into my system and the wine my mind. The night melted and I poured myself into my writing and e-mailing, and even phone calls. I reconnected with everyone. I would find myself sleeping fitfully. The hours moved past slowly, deliberately. I was happy to have the time to turn time into a string of hours having no day or night, just a long tunnel through which is passed through largely, like prey down the stomach of a snake.

I wrote poetry and found poetry and became poetry and felt sorry for all the souls crying out in Hell and laughed with all of the angels in heaven. I reveled in the silence of clashing cymbals, and rejoiced in the noise of one hand clapping. Life blurred, time dragged, pen to paper made strange noises. I was at the sincerest form of peace with myself and the myriad screaming voices in my head.

I awoke days later, naked on my bed, the sun not yet up. There was a level of forensic work that needed to be done. I needed to piece together the days, I needed to find things, I needed to let things go. I was back in the real world again. My vacation now over. Wine leaves no traces, no hangover, no shitty feeling, no bad taste in your mouth. Wine can fuck you up cleanly, leaving no marks, a gracious lover in the dark, giving as much as it takes. I was ready for a new world. I was back in charge. Clearly this was a vacation long in coming, and a pleasure denied only makes it a guilty pleasure in the long run.

Pleasure
keeping it
taking it
forsaking it
it bursts on the rocks bloodily
it coils from the light and into the dark
it seeks no creation
because it has no creator
it rests in our bosoms
it is in itself unique
nothing to be foresaken

I receive an email from the e-magazine that I write for.

Hey Hobo,

I hope everything is good. I know Frank already sent you a email to inform you we are going live soon but i wanted to email you personally. I enjoy your writing and had a idea i wanted your opinion on. We created a section called "CITY LIFE". It's a section were i envision stories about particular topics going on in the city written from a New Yorkers point of view, or even places to go or lost city places. let me know what you think?

Am I ready for this or what I ask you???

It's a new day folks. Go on a fucking tear.

Hobobob

Wedding hair inspiration

She's so pretty. What do you think of the hair style?

P.S. Photos from my bridal shower, which was such an amazing afternoon. xo

(Photo from The Girls in the Beauty Department)

DUAL DYLAN

Dylan has a warm and fuzzy side to his purrsonality, which you can see in the pictures where he is posing by the car. He can also be furry intense, and intent, sometimes.

COONTEMPLATION

Here is Dante first coontemplating his lot in life and then what he might find for a snack!

DANTE LEASHED!

Poor Dante! He's the only one of my 3-Ds that must be leashed. However, his leash is 40 ft. long and allows him almost full reign of the front yard domain. It doesn't stop him from his explorations, though he expurriences the odd entanglement from which I must extricate him.

DOMINO UNLEASHED!

Here are a few shots of little Domino exploring her territory which includes our neighbour's purropurrty. Of course, being the dominatrix that she is, she owns just about efurrything in the neighbourhood, including the street! Domino has been known to sit smack in the middle of the road when she sees a car coming, forcing the car to carefully steer around her. She doesn't give an inch!
If I see her doing this, I try to get her out of the way as quickly as possible, of course.

DYLAN UNLEASHED!

I like to take shots of my cats interacting with nature. Here is Dylan in the "wilds" of our front yard. Spring brings all sorts of different smells and efurrything must be explored anew.

Running Uphill Motherfucker

Saturday Morning.

I hate it. I really hate Saturday Morning. I rise, move about my morning. I try to get ready. I really do. It's a fucking chore, because I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE SHOUT OUT. Alright, I said it. Fuck me if you'd like. I just don't want to do it. I'm stressed out. I don't know how the audience will take it, take me. I want to run, but the show must go on. I get ready early today, very early, pack all of my gear and get the fuck out. Because I'm ready to face the day. I'm a pussy, what can I say. I'll catastrophize and whine and moan, but I got to go.

I get to the 96 street station, only to learn that there are no downtown trains. Everything is uptown to 110th street. I do that. I do what I'm told, because, as usual, I have no choice. Fuck me sideways. I ride a fucking local train down to 14th street and then the L over to Ottos. Needless to say, I am there early, thank God. I hang out with the poets and comedians gathering out in front of the building. Soon, a new bartender opens the door. I thank her and get to work setting up the stage. I am all electric. I don't think of a drink at the bar. I'm going to do this myself. MYSELF...ha ha ha ha ha ha

I work hard, getting everything together and then I start the SHOUT OUT. There is no OBSIDIAN. I understand the difference between my hosting and OBSIDIAN's. He socializes. I do not. I'm not welcomed like he is. So, that's the breaks. I go from reader to reader, pushing as many through before the break as possible to give room to the people coming in late. I try my best to do a good job, because the poets deserve NO FUCKING LESS.

Everyone gets a chance to read. OBSIDIAN shows and he takes the second half. Super. I was getting tired. HE whips the audience up into a frenzy and the acts are on target. The close out is a bang. It was incredible. Even OBSIDIAN's love poem knocks the house down. Stupendous. I ask the be at the very end. The very end. D-lite goes up and reads a powerful poem about 118th street and it goes over excellently. Then, my brother, OBSIDIAN, calls me to the stage. I'm the bozo to give the last poem.

I'm the fucking bozo. But I have to tell you....I was not afraid. I read my two measley poems from my new book, RESTING THE CHEMISTRY and got the fuck off the stage. Afterward, I broke down the stage...because, that's what I do. I manage the SHOUT OUT. And then someone caught my shoulder. It was Arlene, a fellow poet. What? "I just want to tell you that you need to read more of your poems. I come here to hear you." Wha??? "There is a need for strong poets, and you are one of them. A venue can take a few weak poets...but it needs a strong one, if you understand me."

I was taken aback. Someone thinks that....

The Feature comes up to me. So does OBSIDIAN. John, the Feature, THE FEATURE says: "I love your work. I heard you last week and I want some of your poems. Last week, I was really moved. I love your work." Wha??

I walked out of Otto's with my brother, bewildered. I never thought anyone gave a shit about my poems. No one. I was tired. We went to Kennedy's Fried Chicken, where my brother and I always go. I did the usual. I got pies. Yeah, fuck my diet....no, that's a lie. I calculated the caloric budget of the pies. And more....

My brother and I rode the Way to Madison Starbucks, but on the way, my brother wanted to go to a liquor store. I thought about it, I really fucking thought about it, but the draw was too much. I am longing for my old self. There is a faint memory of a man that used to live life. A ghost image of some smoke, some mirrors. There is nothing there of course, but there really is. There is something there that's not tangible, I can feel it as if it was really there. As if was me. It is me.

Oh you heard all this fucking shit before. You heard all the excuses. I can't lie to you. But I was lying to myself. I can't deal with this world without tons of drugs in my system. I can take that or liquor. I chose to fall off for tonight. Just tonight.

I buy a pint of Stoli and we go to Starbucks. I make Irish coffee and write the shit out of my novel. The more I drink, the more I write. I am focused, I am rare. I am once again in the zone. The barriers fell down then. It was as if I got a goddamn epiphany. The fucking building opened up, and I jumped to my feet, and all the power, and all the glory rested upon me. Son of a bitch.

Fuck me.

It was time to leave. And my brother and I take the way uptown and get off at 96th street and bullshit. We bullshit for an hour. In my bag, I had my pint, and from time to time I would lift it out for a swig. I was ready for the world. I bullshitted until tired. Tired of the planet, tired of the cells in my body, tired of the blood flowing in my veins. Tired of all the shit that I've been spooned. Tired, of being afraid, tired of catastrophizing.

God help me. But, as I walked home, I made the mistake of listening to the Aja album by Steely Dan, and in it, I heard a song that I dubbed my theme song for my life WHEN I WAS EIGHTEEN. And there, right there I realized something. STEELY DAN SAID IT BE FORE ME.

"I'll make it this time I'm ready to cross that fine line."

I'm ready to make my decision. Dr. L said that I would get here and GODDAMN, SHE WAS RIGHT. I have finally took the pebble from the master's hand. It is time to move on. I've done this. I've been there. The MAN must emerge. Good, bad, ugly, whatever. You be the judge.

There is a freedom in this. There is a freedom in being where I am right now.

I can't fight my nature any longer.

I finish my pint. It's time for bed

Hobobob

I'm Sorry, You Trusted Me

DEACON BLUES


This is the day of the expanding man
that shape is my shade, there where I used to stand
it seems like only yesterday
I gazed through the glass
at ramblers, wild gamblers, that's all in the past
You call me a fool
you say its a crazy scheme
this one's for real
I already bought the dream
so useless to ask me why
throw a kiss and say goodbye
I'll make it this time
I'm ready to cross that fine line

learn to work the saxophone
I'll play just what I feel
drink scotch whiskey
all night long
and die behind the wheel

They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the crimson tide
Call me Deacon Blues

My back to the wall
a victim of laughing chance
this is for me
the essence of true romance
sharing the things we know and love
with those of my kind
Libations, sensations, that stagger the mind
I crawl like a viper
through these suburban streets
make love to these women
languid and bittersweet
I'll rise when the sun goes down
cover every game in town
A world of my own
I'll make it my home sweet home

learn to work the saxophone
I'll play just what I feel
drink scotch whiskey
all night long
and die behind the wheel

They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the crimson tide
Call me Deacon Blues

This is the night
of the expanding man
I take one last drag
as I approach the stand
I cried when I wrote this song
sue me if I played too long
this brother is free

I'll be what I want to be
learn to work the saxophone
I'll play just what I feel
drink scotch whiskey
all night long
and die behind the wheel

They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the crimson tide
Call me Deacon Blues

- Steely Dan

CATS WANT IN!

Here are the 3-Ds at the back door. Can you tell they want in?

IT'S A CONSPURRACY!

Dante and Dylan are conspiring togefur when they first spot some prey. Then Dante turns on Dylan instead -- he's a real backbiter!

DYLAN'S DILATION!

This is Dylan opening his gullet so wide we can see his esophagus! This boy is a champion yawner.