ones and zeroes

Better living through modern chemistry.


last night's drunken scribbles

written under the poor light of the dylan prime bar between the slurping of gin and beer

we raise our babies in a state of aspiration,
upward facing

On our backs they put us, and
there we feel both helpless
and hopeful. Our mental
disposition aligns itself
to our body's center of gravity
and up is heaven and down is hell.

Does this mean we're all born suckers?
Or that, if we do not
achieve some pre-determined concept
of greatness, that we are failed


God. I'll write anything if
it means something. What the hell
am I doing w/my time? I feel
like a drooling fuse, dripping
everywhere but where there's one tiny
spark ready to light the whole
fucker up. This feels foreign to
me, even. This pen. Writing. Why do
I do it?

Ha! Why don't I do it?

And then I stop . . .


It was a good day.

We watched the Yankees, ever valiant, even in defeat. It's so strange to me to love a sport so much. I wasn't raised that way, surely. Sports were never mentioned or discussed, perhaps they were even discouraged. My mother wanted me to play them at school, but never assumed I would be interested in them as a spectator, and neither did I. But now I get a rush from it.

It's like watching a metaphor for the human drama unfold itself, every game a showcase for the forces of duality, two sides of one coin clashing head-on. And the goal, of course, is domination. And I'm not sure what I think about that - on the one hand, sports offer a healthy alternative to social combat, or nationalistic combat, or any sort of violent/unhealthy conflict in our lives. And on the other hand, it also possibly embraces and encourages the one-sidedness that is the trend in human thought, that need to have a side, a team, Your Side, Your Team.

My team lost in extra innings and then I showered, meeting up with Lucy afterwards to take a trek down to South Street Seaport. A beautiful walk on a beautiful day, Lucy sipping a margarita all the way, barely any food in our stomachs, hungry for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. We watched the water be for just a bit, and like usual with water I felt the cares the worries the ego the everything drifting with the shifting currents, it's easy to be what you see sometimes.

We made it over to the stage in time to hear Sam Champion's "Company Dance" rocking out of the speakers and found Noah on the other side of the soundboard as flabberghasted as we were. Some indie rocker crooned some tunes, his name was What It Is and then Lucy and I went to restock on beer before Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. On the way back from the beer stand, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and there was David Byrne standing, waiting for the rock to start. I felt my knees get shaky, and I could feel Lucy trembling even though we weren't even touching. We walked past him and a smile crept across my face that I could barely control. It was one of those ultra loose smiles that only come at the choicest of moments or through the relaxing of the mind via drugs. David Byrne is my drug of choice.

Lucy and I split our attention 3 ways - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on stage, a dancing drunken fool up on a balcony, and David Byrne to our left. I felt that his very presence was beneficent, like a fountain of youth made flesh, I was lucky to be so close to him. My mind felt clear and elated at the mere confirmation that he existed.

The show ended, and we trekked our way up to the Brooklyn Bridge. There we sparked two joints, one for each of us, and puffed our way across the river, our sense of space and time distorting with each passing step, each pulsating inhalation. The bridge dropped off behind us and we wandered through a foreign land to a destination called Grimaldi's.

pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni

One long trip home later it was time to watch The Hand That Rocks the Cradle.

It was a good day.




Today is a good day to move.