Saturday, 5 December 2009

From Austin to New York - Home

Austin, Texas

We're in Austin for Thanksgiving with my family.

Something feels off.

It's not that Marie's here - it feels natural that she's here with me. Things have been good with us of late. I don't feel like danger is lurking around the corner with us anymore. Things are good. Maybe it's the fact that neither of us have had anything to drink in over a month? Or maybe it's that we're finally beginning to settle in with each other and trust this thing after a turbulent and challenging year for both of us? Whatever it is, it feels more natural to be with her than it does to be back in Austin.

Austin feels a little bit like a dream, like a dream that will always be here if I decide that I want to fall back to sleep and get lost again in its easy rhythms...

It's a cool bright afternoon on 6th Street. We go to a film at the Alamo Drafthouse. The theater's been converted from the bar and music venue where I used to spend a lot of my time drinking and drifting.

We step out into the fading rays of the day after the show. The three or four blocks of bars is empty as we walk towards one of my old haunts. I spent ten years in and out of the vibrancy and commotion of this stretch of bars, tattoo shops and music venues. I search for the connection with my former self in the memories as I scan the street. Marie senses my digging through the past. She puts her arm around my waist to comfort me as Jay-Z's New York Anthem spills out of the open door of a bar knocking my thoughts from my past life to the present and future one.

Marie turns to look at me.

New York is calling out to me letting me know it's where I need to be.

A few days later I'm driving through the cloudy damp Austin day, passing buildings and streets that trigger flashbacks... reflecting... searching again for who I am through the past landscape unraveling in my mind. There's a disconnect between the reminiscence and gray scenery that spreads out towards the downtown skyline - unattached - as Jay-Z's New York anthem comes on again snapping me out of the dissolution:
"In New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
There's nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
These streets will make you feel brand new,
Big lights will inspire you,
Lets hear it for New York, New York, New York"

I smile as the past fades away.
The universe is trying to tell me something.
I'm listening.

Now I'm New York...


Wednesday, 11 November 2009

I Went To Couples Therapy Alone

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

My best friend was in town. He was staying less than 10 minutes away on Meeker at an old girlfriends house. He'd initially intended to stay with me and Marie, but when I called him a week before he was coming out and told him that I was sleeping on the floor at work, he made other plans.

We met up the first day he was in town, went and got coffee and breakfast at The Rabbit Hole on Bedford Ave and caught up. He told me that he'd applied to join a monastery back in Oregon where he's living now, and that there's a monastery up in the Bronx that he wanted to check out as well while he was here. Things change. This from the only guy that I ever tried to keep out of my cab when I was driving in Austin. He looked scary at the time. I didn't want trouble. He looked like a lot trouble - turned out he was, just never with me. Instead of hitting the lock button that night on my cab, I hit the window button. Ten years later I'm living in Brooklyn trying to become a writer and he's looking to become a monk.

When we met in Austin we were both going through a divorce and I ended up moving into an apartment down the hall from him, taking the lease over for the girl that owned the tattoo shop where he was working - True Blue Tattoo. He did most of my tattoos. We were drinking buddies. We spent a good year drinking our sorrows away after our divorces, and another year after that just drinkin'. And we talked. We talked a lot, trying to make sense out of life. He was a good friend and we had a lot of fun together. Eventually he sobered up, moving away a year or so later, trying to piece his life together. And I got married again, then divorced again. But we've kept in touch and remained good friends since. He probably knows me better than anyone.

It was good to see him and catch up.

The next day I went up to the Bronx with him to visit the monastery up around 142nd St on the West side. The monks were young, younger than us, late twenties. We sat and talked to one of them in the front room under a painting of the prodigal son. After my friend and the young monk talked for a minute the monk asked me to tell him about myself. I told him the short version of the last year, then had to excuse myself to make it to me and Marie's couples therapy appointment. I left my friend there and raced out the door, catching the B express train down to 34th, switching to the F, barely making to the office on time.

Marie text me saying that she would be late. She was stuck in her tax attorney's office trying to put some order to the last five years of her life. The therapist called me back and I started in on what was going on with me and Marie. I told her we were struggling, how I'd nearly moved out, and that I knew we loved each other but that sometimes I just didn't understand where Marie was coming from. She told me Marie was a wild card, but that she genuinely seemed willing to work on herself and the relationship. And that this was the first time that Marie was willing to listen to someone challenging her on some of her behavior. She seemed invested. That was a good sign. She was willing to look at herself. If she was not, then the answer of what to do would be simple. The door for growth for both of us was open, as long as were each open as too.

I felt better after the session, more secure in staying.

Marie didn't make it to the session, showing up just as I was walking out. That was fine with me. I sometimes feel that I can use as many therapists as possible to talk about Marie.

The day before my friend left, over coffee at The Roebling Tea House - the place where the blog got its title nearly a year ago (see first blog post) - he told me that the monk who we'd visited a few days before wanted him to pass on a message to me - that he felt it would be easier to clarify things with my relationship and in my life if I moved out.

My friend told me that whatever I decided to do, I should write the truth about what I was going through and not try to be salacious or pandering - just speak the truth - as I was just a guy trying to do the right thing. And wasn't that novel enough?


Friday, 6 November 2009

It Was a Good Night

Willliamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Marie texts from work around 4 in the afternoon asking if I want to catch a movie at 5. Of course. I'm on Bedford getting a bagel. Cold and hungry, running errands (deodorant, hair gel, socks, laundry) but not tired, feelin' slightly rested from last few days off. Eat most of bagel on way back to the apartment. Stop to pick up brown leather jacket (Andrew Marc for NYC - nice) from dry cleaner, that I got at the thrift store the other night for $40 that needed buttons fixed, along with Armani shirt for $6 that needed dry cleaning. Found brand new jeans $25 (tags still on them, list price $75) cost of new outfit = $71 + cost of buttons being sewn back on and shirt being dry cleaned = $80. Going out on the town with woman, lookin' fuckin' good man = priceless.

By the time I get home, jump into new outfit, google train route to Anjelika on Houston and finish bagel I'm running late according to google estimated time of travel. Rush out the door towards the JMZ on Marcey around the corner from the apartment. Cold out. Very cold out. Very badly want warm clothes that are in boxes in Utah UPS office (note to self to figure that fucking situation out tomorrow). Realize I'm not gonna make it in time on the train. Walk back towards on ramp to Williamsburg bridge. Hop cab. Cruising in the backseat of the cab across the bridge, staring out over the darkening panorama of the city skyline. Euphoria overcomes me. I feel electric. I love this fuckin' city.

Cab ride = $13. Worth every fucking cent.

Make it to Angelika right on time. Marie is reading the Times inside waiting for me. Her friend Jen is parking the car. Jen shows up and we go to see "Capitalism: A Love Story."

We all feel like peasants after the show.

Afterward we go to pick up Yoko. We find her standing on the corner in SOHO. We pull up next to her. She's shocked to see me - thought Marie and I'd broken up.

While we wait for a table at the small Italian place in Greenwhich I browse the bookstore next door, buy "Bright Lights Big City" off the sale rack outside = $6.

I find Yoko and Marie at the jewelry store one door down. Jen is nowhere around. Marie and Yoko try on rings while I read in a rocking chair towards the back. Marie finds a ring she likes. Yoko calls my name hinting to get my wallet out. They laugh. I pretend not to notice. Marie tells Yoko that I'm upset that she doesn't have the first ring that I bought her. She left it Upstate the weekend she kissed that guy. She still doesn't have it. It does hurt my feelings.

Our table should be ready.

We leave the store. Marie shows me a children's book about Texas on the rack outside the bookstore as we pass by. Jen reappears. Yoko and Jen go into the restaurant as Marie tells me that there are ranches in Texas bigger than Belgium. I think how nice it would be to go home for Thanksgiving. I tell Marie that I'm going to buy her the book so that she can learn about Texas in case we go home for the holidays. She laughs. I tell her I'll meet her at the restaurant.

I go back to the jewelry store and buy her the ring, despite my hurt feelings about other ring.

When I get to the restaurant she wants to know where the book is. I pull the ring box out my pocket, set it on the table. "What is this," she wants to know? I tell her to open it. Yoko gives me a high five.

Over dinner Yoko tells me that she's read a few posts from the blog and that I got something wrong on the post about when I missed her birthday dinner. Her uncle did not kill her bird and that I need to change that, as she felt bad for the reputation of her uncle when she read it (he recently passed on, and she does not want his memory tarnished - I understand and tell her that I will correct the error). In fact, nobody killed bird. When she was one she says she remembers (yes one - she has a very good memory) her brother eating a chicken wing. She wanted to know what it was that he was eating. He didn't have the words for it, so he pointed to the birds they had in the cage as pets. She was traumatized.

Dinner is amazing. I have the best dish - Tortellini special of the night. We all eat off each others plates. I take all their leftovers home. I have chocolate mouse for desert. Marie has tiramisu. I eat half of it.

After dinner I drive Jen's car as her and Yoko shared a bottle of wine. Tea for me and Marie - no more drinking. Jay-Z's new song Empire State Of Mind plays on the radio. It's the New York anthem. I turn it up. We cruise the streets that he sings about, the city that will make you feel brand new, under the lights that will inspire you. The city that never sleeps. The city that will make you feel famous. No place in the world can compare. Put your lighters in the air. Everybody say yeah. There's nothing you can't do, now you're in New York. Let's hear it for New York... as Yoko says from the backseat, "I never would have imagined this scenario a week ago."

Let's hear it for New York...


Back From The Brink

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I'm cleaning the apartment. Marie is following me around biting me on the arm, the ribs, my stomach. I laugh, tell her to stop. She bites me once more on the shoulder.

Things are back to normal.

Domestic bliss has been restored.

I crawled back from the edge of the cliff like a repentant jumper - someone who doesn't really want to die, but doesn't really know how to live anymore.

Not before staring blankly into nothingness.

I went to look at apartments out in the no mans lands of Brooklyn on the far reaches of the subway lines. Small, dark and cold spaces, each one more depressing than the next. Each one more expensive than our sad little love nest. I dragged myself around day after day through the gray and cold searching for a place. Sitting across from girl at one of the better places, comfortable, clean, cared for and loved I started to feel sick to my stomach. Anxiety and sadness welled up inside of me as I pictured living with a girl that wasn't Marie in such a tight and intimate space. I couldn't see myself doing it. I just wanted to go back home. I just wanted us to be okay.

I left the place as quickly as I could. My head was spinning. I thought I was going to throw up. I stepped out onto the street as the orange glow of the sun faded over the darkening silhouettes of the industrial warehouses that surrounded me. The wind began to blow the leaves around the barren streets reflecting the disorder of my thoughts. My clothes couldn't keep the stinging cold out. Regret rose, choking. How come we couldn't make it work?

I went to the restaurant where I was taking her for dinner. Warm. Silent. Waiting. Making order of my thoughts. She'd stopped drinking. She was willing to look at my concern. She said that she wanted to change. She said she didn't mean to dismiss me. She said she cared. She said she didn't want me to give up on her just yet. She said she loved me. I didn't want to run again. I didn't want to run again. Searching for the words to work it all out. The words are wrong. She is upset again. Wrong. The words come out wrong. I'm coming undone.

We lay together on the couch that night. Home. We apologize. Warm. We can work it out. Safe. We don't want to hurt each other. Love. We love one another.

Why is this so difficult?
She hears my words.
She doesn't want to hurt me anymore.
I believe her.
I hear her struggle.
I let my struggle go.

An old friend comes to town, tells me that this is my pattern - I run when I'm hurt. He says that he thinks that I would regret it if I gave up her now. He says I have an opportunity to grow, as does she. Don't give up on love just yet, he says, you'll regret it. She seems like she's willing to work with you. Don't give up on her just yet.

I walk down the street. I see the signs. Love spray painted under the overpass. Love scribbled into the sidewalk. Love conquers all on a poster posted on the building. A car passes playing, ALL WE NEED IS LOVE!...


Sunday, 1 November 2009

I Used To Think I Was Cool Until I Met Keanu Reeves

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I was standing in Spoonbill & Sugartown on Bedford Ave looking for a book with Marie when I saw him. He was standing to my right. I recognized him immediately. I did a double take to make sure. He looked dapper, yeah, dapper’s the word, understated, yet dapper. Faded blue jeans. Worn boots. Blue velvety looking jacket. Beard. Fedora. Dapper, man.

Nine months before I’d read an interview with him in some men’s magazine that'd taken place in a bookstore in LA. In the article he’d recommended a book, THE ELEMENTARY PARTICLES by Michel Houellebecq, which I'd picked up and read. It was amazing. It was crushing. It was fucking brutal.

I told him that I’d read the book because he’d recommended it. “Brutal” he said, “right?” Brutal, that was my word. That’s when things went weird for me. I don’t know what happened. I think I got star struck - yeah, fucking star struck. It’s never happened to me before. I’ve met a few celebrities, male and female, but most of them seemed to be full of themselves, seeming to want people to notice them. Maybe that’s what fucked me up about him – he didn’t seem to want to be noticed at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he used the word brutal. That made him seem like me, only better dressed, better looking, and as I found out, better read. I couldn’t come up with anything to say in response to his “brutal” and I started to sweat a little. He had a smooth voice - like whiskey and smoke. Damn if it wasn't sexy. And I was suddenly speechless. That rarely ever happens to me. I can talk to anyone about anything, anytime. What the fuck was wrong with me? My mind started racing as he recommended another book that was sitting there in front of us on the shelf, and started giving me a synopsis as I stood there with pings going off in the inner space of my mind, trying to figure out something to say. I started to think how strange it was that the last book that I’d read was recommended by him in an interview in a bookstore, and that we were now standing together in a bookstore, and that I was taking an interviewing class at NYU, and that if I were going to be a fucking interviewer I should be able to hold a conversation with an actor whom I had something in common with – reading. Instead I stood there like a jackass, silently nodding. And as he walked away it felt like my future was on the line. I HAD to be able to make conversation. My ability to become a writer seemed to depend on it. I picked up the book that he'd just recommended and scanned the back cover then walked over to where he was and made some inane comment that left him no room for a response. I walked off, embarrassed and humbled, exiled to the other corner of the store. But the store is small, and not long after he was browsing at the table near where I stood. I made another attempt. I wouldn’t go down without a fight. I could be a writer. I could be interesting. I could rise above my grueling manual labor lifestyle. I could make fucking conversation – like an interviewer. He hadn’t read the book I recommended. He was gracious. He allowed me to ramble on for ten to fifteen seconds trying to put words together that formed coherent thoughts. But it was hopeless. I couldn’t do it. Then he recommended another book. I’d heard of it, read a few articles about it and the author and I made another fearless attempt to use words. But it was useless. I was sweating, blushing, and cursing my life. Just then, sensing my distress from across the store, my girlfriend came to my rescue. She asked me if I was ready to go. He wandered off. When he was out of earshot, Marie said in her sweet French accent, “You know, I think he was someone. Wow, what a voice he had. Right? And you followed him around the store like a little bunny rabbit. Didn’t you?”


Friday, 30 October 2009

Sending You My Love

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Slept late. Couldn't get out of bed. Tired. Depressed. Sad. Went to therapist appointment. Got there early. Half an hour to kill. Cold out. Walked Flatbush Ave. looking for something to eat. Stopped in diner. Place empty. Felt empty inside of me. Didn't like idea of eating alone, being single. Remembered solitary feeling, eating alone in Austin, before I met Marie.

In therapy talked about discrepancy between girls I choose and the girl that I really want. Want a girl who respects herself, respects me. Choose girls who seem to do the opposite. Try to figure out why. I connect with a sadness that I see in the girls I choose, feel empathy for them, as I understand the sadness. The women I choose seem to be wounded in some way. I empathize with that. I want to show them love. I want them to love themselves again. I choose women who in some way have given up on themselves or life. They want to die, that is why they abuse themselves with alcohol or drugs. At a certain point I get tired of being a casualty of their carelessness towards themselves and the people around them - me. I realize I have to choose women who respect themselves, who are trying to better themselves, who want to live. I am trying to live. I used to thrive on self destruction. I realize that it serves me no more. I feel boring... that is why I choose women who are chaotic - to make me feel that I am not. I need to be okay with taking care of myself and let the self destruction go...

Walk through the cold to subway, wishing that I had my warm clothes - they're in two boxes in Utah. Picture my clothes at home (at the apartment - it's not home anymore) in bags, ready to go. Thought of clothes in boxes and bags weighs me down as I walk through cold, drifting...

Get on wrong train. Have to back track.

Didn't want to go home. Didn't know what to expect from Marie. Drunk? Upset? Icy? Apartment feels like morgue to me. Stop at coffee shop around the corner from apartment. Don't want to go home.

Go to yoga. Teacher has us meditate on someone in our life who is in pain. We are comforting them. Think of Marie. I picture her in pain.

I Take away the thing that is causing her pain, coursing through her body like a black liquid disease - me. I see the pain etched on her face. I sit across from her in the room, sending her love. I breath the blackness out of her into me, through me, into my heart, a red rose holding a diamond of light, radiant, all encompassing, brilliant. I breath out the blackness, sending it away into a wisp of vapors, taking away her pain, returning her to self love, able to move on...


Thursday, 29 October 2009

Are You Okay?

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I'm not okay.
If you have to ask if I'm okay it probably means that I'm not okay.
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that you care enough to ask whether or not I'm okay, it's just that usually, if you have to ask whether or not I'm okay, you've done something that makes me feel not so okay.
And more than not, when you ask if I'm okay, that means that you're not okay, which means that I've most likely done something that makes you feel like I'm going away. Which is not okay. Because I don't want to go away, but at the same time I don't want to be in a relationship where things seem to often be not okay.
And the problem is, is that I don't seem to know how to make things okay. Because if I have a problem with something, that's not okay with you.
But if I don't say something when I have a problem, that's not okay with me.
So, you see, it seems to me that we're constantly having to ask each other whether or not the other is okay because we know that whatever it is that we're doing by being who we are is just not okay with the other.
It just feels like we're not okay.
And that makes me sad for both of us.
I don't want to break up, but I don't see how we're going to stop this dysfunctional dance that we're doing with each other, stepping on each others toes, constantly hurting each other, making each other feel like we're not okay.


Sunday, 25 October 2009

I Don't Know How To Do This Anymore

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Sitting in the coffee shop after work looking for rooms to rent on Craigslist.
Boss at work advanced me some money on next check.

Hadn't slept much the night before.
She called twenty seven times the night before.
Ringer was off.
She'd left eight messages, crying.
Said she didn't know I was planning on leaving that day.
I hadn't.
There was no talking it out.

It was dark, getting late out, wind was blowing, cold, starting to rain.
Worked all day.
Drinking coffee.
She text asking if I wanted food.
Said I didn't think that it was a good idea.
Boss had taken keys to office.
Was waiting for friend to get off of work to stay at his place.
I waited.
She text again, saying she wanted to talk, would buy food.
I waited.
I told her to come to where I was.

She walked in looking like a mourner with her shawl wrapped around her head.
She was fragile.
We talked and ate.
I tried to explain everything to her.
I needed her to hear.
She said that she got it, that she was willing to stop drinking, get help, to give the relationship a chance.
I said that I would do it with her.
She told me to come home.

In the black cab she said that she didn't feel supported.
That hurt.
We argued.
When we got to the apartment I felt like I was going crazy, couldn't breath.
Head and body ached.
Just wanted to sleep.
She held me as we lay in bed...


Where Do We Go From Here?

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I came home from work to find her drinking wine and eating dumplings down the street from our apartment with a friend of hers at the Chinese restaurant - our restaurant. She looked as though she'd been crying. I felt horrible when I saw her. She looked a mess. I'd told her on the phone earlier while I was working that I couldn't do it anymore. I'd tried to bring it up with her a few nights before. She said she couldn't hear it. She didn't want to hear it. She said that she couldn't handle it.

When I sat down at the bar she started crying and started to walk outside as the guy behind the bar watched her with concern. I tried to grab her arm as she passed by. She pulled away and I followed her out. On the bench out front she pulled away from me as I tried to hold her, give her comfort. It hurt me to see her that way. I care about her whether she believes it or not.

She said that I wasn't leaving her with next months rent to pay by herself, that even a roommate would have more decency than me. I asked her if that's what it was about to her - money. She told me that she felt used.

I went back inside and sat at the bar. She came back in and said that she felt taken advantage of. We argued. Her friend intervened. I asked Marie if she truly felt like I'd used her somehow. She rolled her eyes in her signature fashion when she wanted to dismiss something that I'd said. I told her she could fuck off, that I'd been decent to her, and got up and left.

I started packing when I got to the apartment. I wasn't going to stay around for more abuse.

She came in, saw my bags on the floor by the door and began crying. As I packed the rest of my things she got a beer out of the fridge, turned the music up loud to drown out the world, and began to storm around the apartment trying to avoid me. I asked her to talk to me. She sat on the couch and stared at me coldly. I asked her what we should do. She got up and walked to the other room.

There was no talking it out.

I put my bags in the hallway as she followed me to the door and asked me where I was going. I didn't know. I had nowhere to go. I handed her the keys to the apartment. She kissed me on the cheek, wished me luck and shut the door.

I had the keys to the shop at work and spent the night on the cold concrete floor.


Wednesday, 21 October 2009

It Takes Its Toll

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Life. It exacts its toll. It wants its fee. Nothing is for free. It literally sucks the life out of you, that's its job. What are we to do. I used to want to Rage Against The Machine. Then I burned out on the anger. The anger started to destroy me. I tried Peace Love and Understanding, but that was just annoying. Somewhere in the middle perhaps lies the truth. Then, Love. Love as Truth. Love, I wanna say is an illusion. But I don't think that's entirely true. But Love is illusive. What the fuck does it mean to Love someone anyhow? Does it mean that you accept someone just as they are? That would be an illusion. If you truly Love someone, you tell them the truth. And sometimes the truth is ugly, like baby: sometimes you drink too much, and when you do you go to a place that hurts me to see. I don't like to see you in that state as it makes me feel as though you don't appreciate yourself, and that makes me sad, because if you saw yourself the way I saw you, then you wouldn't feel the need to destroy something as beautiful as you. Or, baby: when you're in that state and you're playin' your music loud cuz you wanna drown out the world and you wanna keep it on til 4 in the mornin' when you know I've got to get up at 7, that just feels disrespectful. And when you start responding to emails from that guy who's married to your friend who you kissed just after I met you, who came calling drunkenly at your door like a fucking Tom cat at five in the morning looking for pussy (just after we'd split up when I went to Utah) not knowing that I was back in town (you giving me the phone to let him know to go the fuck home), giving him feedback on his writing (just like you do with me baby - I thought you did that just for me boo?), don't you realize that it hurts me and only makes you seem cheap. And I go around for a week after that working 67.5 fucking horrible hrs. with no one to talk to about this stuff, lifting heavy steel, driving around Manhattan in a giant fucking truck through rush hour after hour of endless traffic, flipping people off, with a knot in my stomach wanting to throw up because I don't quite know how to process it all. And God knows that I can't talk to you about it because it will just turn into an argument. All the while trying to figure it out, and make it seem rational, but, the problem is, is that it's not. None of this is rational. And when I finally decide that I want to try to talk to you about how it makes me feel when you're in that state (leaving out of the equation, out of respect for decorum of course, the whole part about that fucking overly literary little creepy fucking jerk with the panzy ass fucking outdated prose, who's out chasing pussy while his woman's at home with the little one) you turn it on me. And instead of trying to take it in that I'm actually offering you some sort of olive branch of hope for the both of us, you get all defensive and tell me that I have a fucking perception problem about your drinking. Well then, I think we've got some serious fucking problems, coming not to fucking long after I felt like we'd cleared the air about our perception problem with that fucking Jamaican motherfucker kissing you Upstate. So it seems like I've held my tongue long enough on this one. It sounds like I have a problem. And I guess that's why out of the blue, last night I told you that I'm through. And that's why I'm movin' out... because I'm tired of holding it in, because I'm tired of going to my fucking therapist's office each week feeling sick to my fucking stomach about something that you've said or done that I can't figure out (my perception problem, right?), feeling like there's something wrong with me because I can't quite accept whatever the fuck is going on. And each week the therapist tells me the same thing - that my feelings are valid, and that I should respect them, and that you just might have a drinking problem (and that if you indeed do, then there's really no way that we can deal with our issues, until you deal with yours). I'm sorry if that hurts boo, because I love, I really do, but it's the truth.


Monday, 5 October 2009

King Of Pain

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

In my utter confusion over the past week since me Marie told me some Jamaican motherfucker kissed her I've searched high and low for an answer, as to (1): what it meant?; (2): what I should do about it? As at this point in my life, considering my track record with women (two divorces; two cheaters) I simply don't trust myself to know what the fuck to do - fuck me for being a decent guy wanting to give people the benefit of the doubt. So before I hopped a Greyhound bus again to the middle of nowhere, and said FUCK THIS, I decided to sit tight, hear the little woman out and invoke the guidance and wisdom of anyone who would listen. I asked friends, co-workers, long lost acquaintances, bosses, family members, bar tenders, anyone really who would listen, including one certified genius and member of MENSA, as well as random people on the street as I vented my frustration throughout the city. Some declined to respond (literally didn't pick up the phone or respond via text - like old friends who've already been through two divorces with me (I think they're tired of hearing it and I can't blame 'em really as I'm tired of saying it)), some were equitable in their responses, some charitable, while others were harsh and condemning. I guess it's all relative. So maybe the only problem that Marie and I have is just getting on relatively the same wave length about these things with each other. Or maybe we just need to find someone else who's already there on that wave length and save each other the grief?

Here are the responses in no particular order:

- Shame on her for playing dumb. He didn't kiss her. She let him. Every woman knows when a man wants to fuck her. She could have cut it off. And giving him her number just leaves the door open. It's disrespectful to you and the relationship. If the guy ever met you he'd have no respect for you. He doesn't have any respect for her either if she told him she had a boyfriend. He was just trying to fuck her. She may have done it because she's not sure about the relationship, or simply not sure about being monogamous. Either way, she's questioning.

- Hang with the little sis.

- I don't think it's a big deal. She seems to be into you.

- You should crack that motherfucker with that headthumper of a ring of yours!

- Dump the bitch. She cheated. And even if you don't call it cheating, it's close enough to let you know that eventually she'll cheat. Get rid of her and save yourself the grief. You've already done your time with untrustworthy women. It's harder to cheat than it is not cheat. She doesn't seem to be able to act with integrity in regards to you and the relationship. You can find a woman, easily, who will. Let her go.

- Well, if she's the one, it won't happen again. If she's not the one, at least you know now.

- I don't usually give advice on relationships. But my feeling is, if she kisses someone, let her go.

- It's not a big deal that she didn't tell you. Little things like that happen all the time in relationships. And if they really don't mean anything, there's no reason to bother your partner with them. It's one of those things. Sounds like he caught her off guard with a kiss. But, since you did find out, you've got to be able to express how you feel about it without being attacked. That's fair.

- Good luck bud.


Friday, 2 October 2009


Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I need help.

The other night Marie was on the phone talking to a friend of hers. She was going on and on about a guy from a few weekends ago from a party at The Waterfall House Upstate that she'd done the cooking for. I wasn't there, and I hadn't heard about this guy before. So when she got off the phone I asked her who this guy was, and more pointedly, if there was something that I needed to know about this guy.

She said that he'd kissed her.

I wasn't expecting to hear that.

What transpired after that turned into the same old thing with us: me asking for clarification or explanation; her telling me that there was nothing to talk about; me getting upset that she considered what she'd just told me to be nothing; she then got upset that I had a problem with what she'd told me and her refusal to acknowledge it as "something". I felt dismissed. I felt angry. She felt accused. She felt attacked. She said she was scared. I felt betrayed. I felt disrespected. She felt criticized.

And we fought.

We said awful things to each other.

We tore each other and the relationship down.

At one point I said we should stop and talk about it at our therapist's office. She said that she didn't even consider "it" a subject worth mentioning.

Exhausted I let it go for the night.

Another stalemate of silence.

I had a feeling when she came back from Upstate. I'd had a feeling that there was another guy. I'd almost asked her two or three times over the past two weeks out of the blue, but I didn't want to come across as jealous or possessive. And I let it go...

I didn't want to get up the next morning. I didn't want to go to work. I didn't want to go to therapy. But I did.

When we got home from work I brought it up again, as we'd each seen our respective therapists and thought we could come at it with some insight and less hostility. She said she hadn't brought it up with her therapist. I told her that I felt she treated me with disrespect in regards to the whole thing. And we fought again.

She broke down, fragile, angry, on the verge of tears. She wanted to know what I wanted her to do. Acknowledge. Accept. Understand. Empathize. Anything but stonewall me and try to sweep it under the rug. She didn't get it. She wanted me not to have a problem with any of it. I had a problem with all of it.

Awful things were said.

I wanted to leave.

She told me not to go.

I wanted to get as far as way as fucking possible - Texas; Utah; Alaska... numb... dead again.

I told her to leave.

She packed her bag and left, giving me a forlorn look, and sad goodbye as she walked out the door.

I couldn't respond.

The next day she text me, telling me that she'd made an appointment with our therapist.

We met at five the next day at the therapists' office. Nothing was resolved. She tried to defend herself. She said that she knew she wasn't going to win this one. The therapist wanted to know what she what she wanted to win. That's what it was about to her - winning. She said that she was scared of me, and that my anger reminded her of her mother - irrational. I said I was done. It was somehow being turned on me. I said it was too much. I couldn't do it anymore. Marie said that she didn't want to give up.

And our time was up.

I was just as confused as before we went in. She'd done something hurtful. Then she'd lied to me - or withheld information from me. Then she'd refused to acknowledge or even admit that any of it was wrong. She didn't want anything to change between us. Yet she hadn't even said that she was sorry, or accepted any responsibility. She showed no remorse. I felt I couldn't trust her.

On the way out she said that we could work it out, that it meant nothing, that I shouldn't go. She said that I was like a child, running, always running.

She was right.

I didn't want to run anymore.

But I didn't know if I could trust her either.

And she came home.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know if I know what love is anymore.

Should I stay or should I go?


Sunday, 20 September 2009

Tarp Day

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

We are fast approaching the one year anniversary of consummating our relationship in a tarp, i.e. Tarp Day.

Marie figured this out the other day while looking at her calendar of work events from last year, and deduced that since the big Jewish wedding reception that we were both working on in Helotes, TX last year took place on the 11th of Oct., and didn't end until around midnight. It must have been in the early morning hours of the 12th that we stumbled drunkenly into that fateful little blue tarp next to the dumpster under the bright stars of Texas and consummated our relationship.

What does this mean?

Well, I think it means that on Oct 12th we will officially be a "couple" and that the name of the blog may have to be changed to: The Girl I'm "with" in New York.

As the dust is settling on our whirlwind romance, routine seems to be settling in, along with a few other things from the kingdom of coupledom, like a little more patience and understanding with each other. It almost feels like we are starting to "get" each other a little bit here. In fact, Marie commented today while we were walking to the bar to watch the Sunday football games (a very coupley thing to do), including the Jets game - as the Jets are our team (we have a team - also very coupley) - that it was nice not to be fighting with each other. In fact, just now while writing this I stopped for a moment to adjust my chair as it was too high, and Marie said that she was just thinking the same thing not twenty minutes ago (that my chair was too high), then commented that we were thinking alike and winked at me (very, very coupley).

What does all this mean?

I think it means that we're becoming a couple. And that I'm going to have to plan something nice for Tarp Day.


Sunday, 13 September 2009


Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Las Vegas 12/30/08

Sign came - still letting the events settle, filter...

Sister called morning after argument with Marie and thoughts of going to Salt Lake City to see old friends.

Prayed to God to show me what to do.

Knelt down before the grand window framing the snow capped mountains in the distance with Utah on the other side after Marie left the room for work. A couple of hours later sister called with news of old friend shooting himself a few days before Christmas.

He was born on the same day as me. Lived down the street in High School. Had wondered weeks before when I was in New York with Marie for Thanksgiving whether he was still in Brooklyn - the last place I remembered hearing he was. Had hoped for a reunion of random chance in a bar in New York. Not to be. He'd moved to Santa Cruz. He had trouble with alcohol and cocaine. He'd lost job and girlfriend recently. He sat on a bridge for 12hrs. in the rain, then shot himself in the head. He left a note saying - I will no longer be a loser.

I know the feeling.

Got ticket to Salt Lake for the next day to be there for the memorial at a bar with old friends.

Made love that night to Marie. Beautiful, amazing, tender and sweet.

Seeing old friends felt like I'd been gone only five minutes. It had been ten years. Lots of love and old stories. Felt great to be home...

Missed Marie a lot. Thought about our argument nights before and what the fuck she meant for me to take from her statements - that I was nothing more than a concession? - that if I weren't there she'd probably be sleeping with the boy on the job from L.A.

Thought about infidelity and my past relationships. Both wives cheated. I'd thought about it, had opportunities, never followed through. Was cheating inevitable?

Thought about what I told Marie from the beginning - that I loved her, and that she could do what she wanted.

Does the truth lie somewhere between old insecurities of faithfulness and statement of love to Marie?

Marie said she could be faithful to me if that's what I needed, but that she thought infidelity could work if it was open, and not hidden. I don't know what I need. But I know that I don't need unnecessary pain from selfish acts with disregard to love... I've had enough of that.

Thought about not going back to Las Vegas but know I have to finish whatever has been started with Marie, as it is the most amazing, mysterious thing that's happened to me.

Let's just do this.

I will always have a home in Salt Lake City with people who love me. I can always go back if needed.

Marie and I, I believe, have something truly special.

Does truth about infidelity make it okay, or hurt less?

Does truth equal freedom or fear?

Can love conquer all?

Or is it simply crushed by selfishness and desire?

I don't know. But it feels like the only place I could be right now is with Marie.

I'm going to see this thing through no matter what it brings.

I hope she meets me halfway - she's fucking great.

Can we be true?


Wednesday, 9 September 2009


Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Las Vegas, 12/25/09

Christmas Day. Gray and still. Marie gave me journal as gift.

Conversation with Marie at restaurant on the outskirts of town over bottle of wine brings up old unsettled wounds. She realizes that she has struck a nerve as she goes outside for a smoke. When she comes back in she stops behind my chair, shakes my head back and forth, and says, "that's what you need, isn't it? To be shaken up. Someone needs to shake you up." She leans in and kisses me in a conciliatory fashion and I tell her that she already has.

I try to let it go, as I love her.

But the wounds run deep.

I decide that I have to write something - finish my book - to shut everyone up. I tell her this as we walk into the movie and she gives me a wary glance.

I love her.


Tuesday, 1 September 2009

The Other Girl - Therapy

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Our therapist said today that I left the door open for the other girl to step in. That I invited the attention and that I had to make it clear with women that I I'm in a relationship - Black and White. There's no gray area.

She's right.

There's no room for gray area in this city. It's one giant meat market out there.

And didn't I think that it was ironic, the therapist asked, that I was the one flirting with disaster, when I'm the one so concerned about that happening to me?

I do think that it's ironic. I also said that I think it's ironic that Marie was now the one waving the monogamy flag after making me feel somewhat prude and conventional in the beginning of the relationship with my antiquated ideas of fidelity.

Oh, the irony of it all!

We're both learning from, and teaching each other so much... She's teaching me how to love. And I'm teaching her how to be a fucking hypocrite - but I did nip it in the bud (now I simply have to be clear with all the women of New York: I'm a taken man... sound of hearts breaking and tears in the background).

I have to admit that it was nice to see Marie squirm a little on the couch (yeah, I'm an asshole, but sometimes it's nice to know that the other person really cares - she's not always a gusher with her feelings). There's probably a psychiatric term for all of this (and it's probably not a nice term for me), and seemingly boils down to this: flirt, or lead someone on to let mate know that you're a valuable commodity, only to leave door open too long causing uncomfortable awkwardness for all involved, having door swing back and smack you in the face. I think "dickhead" is the psychiatric term I'm looking for. Yeah, I think that fits.

But seriously, you've really got to be on your game up here in New York. This city seems like one big bar set up to help facilitate the tryst, whatever that tryst may be.

In all sincerity, it all just makes me appreciate Marie even more for her magnanimous understanding and undeterred devotion. I don't know if I'd be so gracious. She's quite something.

And I feel lame.


Monday, 31 August 2009

Journal - Day I left Austin to New York

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York


Going to NYC.

Sitting in Chicago airport.

Laid in bed last night - worries, fears, doubts. Apartment empty, possessions in bags. Prayed to God for sign. Looked under bed. Found missing documents for car that I needed in order to sell - GO! No fears, worries or doubts - if they come up, deal with them. I love her. Love being with her. She's sweet to me. Says the most amazing things (and some of the most fucked up bizarre). Will give it what I've got, do the best I can do. Won't hold back. Will trust her implicitly. If she breaks or abuses my heart, deal with it. If I have to leave, will go - stay in Brooklyn. Ecuador will be amazing - finish book. Thank God for that crazy fucking woman. May never have gotten out of Austin without her. The cord has been cut. Here we go. Delirium... feels great. Threw away extra clothes in Austin airport from bags that couldn't be checked. Needed that.

Prayed to God.

He said I was on the right track.


Sunday, 30 August 2009

Another Girl

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

This one will come off the top of my drunken head. Usually I edit a post two or three times. This one I'm simply gonna let rip, for better, or most likely worse. I used to do this when I was in College way back in the day (yes I went to College ((for a little while) you fucking assholes)). I would be really drunk thinking that I was writing the most amazing heartfelt thing that the world had ever heard or known, only to wake up hungover, read it, and want to vomit. Let's do it again. I only seem to learn the hard way.

I lost my place there for a second because I'm drunk, and I was eating Migas that I made myself. The Migas need more cheese I think, or something.

10 reasons that Marie may not want to come home from Upstate:

1- Because I told her last week at the yoga retreat Upstate that I had feelings for a girl that I worked with. There, I said it. Not as bad as it sounds - I'll explain later (and I think that I can justify this one - if I can hold the thought).

2- Because she's mad at me for having feelings for a girl that I work with (not as bad as it sounds, I swear to God, and plan to plead my case later on).

3- Because it's boring here. That's true. I've been here the whole time that she hasn't, and it's pretty boring here without her. The most exciting thing that I've done since she's been gone nearly a week is get drunk - which I did without premeditation or determination (maybe I'll tell you about that later too if I remember, but frankly, I'm not that concerned about telling you stuff right now.)

4- Because if she comes back she has to deal with us. And really, I think we can all agree, that's boring.

5- It's hot here.

6- Possibly some asshole like Tucker (Tucker, I don't meant that in a personal way, as I like you, really, but I mean it in more of a way that my girlfriend may rather have your company than mine, type of way, and I don't like that.) Or maybe there's some other douschebag up there that holds her interest more than mine right now - I get it, I'm not always so fucking fascinating.

7- I'm broke, depressive and lazy, and sometimes insecure. Who wants to hang out with a guy like that?

8- It's boring here with me. Did I say this already? Well, whatever, trust me, it's true. I've been here all week with me, and I'm pretty bored.

9- There's nothing to do when your broke.

10- Doing the same boring shit over and over again with the same person can get fucking boring.

So to explain any of the above aforementioned statements: the girl that I had "feelings" for was something that seemed to me natural and organic, and I felt like I did the right thing, by telling Marie. I told her last week at the yoga retreat that she was cooking at. Or more precisely, just before the retreat started. Maybe I told her because I found out when we got there that her past infatuation Tucker was going to be there, or maybe I just wanted to clear my conscience? Either way, I told her that I had feelings for a girl that I worked with who was smart, pretty, interesting, fun, and either attentive at times, or simply available. I wanted to tell Marie as it seemed like I was entering a gray area with the girl where the relationship wasn't defined (she and I would talk about relationships, problems and life) and I felt that I was developing feelings for her beyond the friendship level of connection. And I thought that I should tell Marie this, as I felt that, one: it would help to nip things in the bud; and two: I just wanted to let Marie know that she was the one I wanted to be with, and I wanted to give us the best chance possible. Maybe it's a bad sign that I had feelings for someone else? Maybe I shouldn't have said anything? Maybe I don't know what the fuck I'm doing? I've never had this happen before in a relationship. I tried to do the right thing. When I got back from Upstate I told the girl at a party for work that I had feelings for her, but that I loved Marie, and I that I wanted to be respectful of that.

Maybe Marie just needs some time away from us? Maybe I need some time away from us too (she's calling on Skype as I type - not answering).

Maybe I just needed to get drunk and write? I wasn't going to get drunk. But I've got justifications that I don't really want to get into right now... I'm tired. Good night.

* Or maybe she's mad because I wanted to go to Burning Man with my friends from Utah and didn't have any money and was going to use the voucher airline ticket that I gave her from when I got bumped coming back to New York from Utah last time?


Saturday, 29 August 2009

Please, Please, Baby, Baby, Come Back Home

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

"Please, please baby, baby, come back home. It's so cold and dark here all alone. If you come back, I promise I'll be good. If you come home baby, I'll act like I should." Dwight Yokam

To paraphrase Hank Williams the III: I don't need nobody to call me on the phone. I don't need no one to come by the home. Thinkin' of you is all I do. People can call or come by, I don't care what they do. I'm not payin' attention to what the hell they do, cuz baby, I'm only thinkin' of you. I'm not lonely, I'm just lonesome for you. I'm not blue, I'm just lonesome for you.

Marie, I miss you.
I need you.
New York City feels empty without you.
No one asks me how I'm doing but you.
No one asks me about my day but you.
No one touches my face but you.
No one runs their fingers through my hair but you.
This place doesn't feel like a home without you.
Marie, I love you.
There's no one to hold my hand without you.
There's no one to hold me at night without you.
There's no one who makes me feel the way you do.
I walk the streets alone without you, wondering what I'd do without you.
I lose my reference point without you.
There's no one waiting at home without you.
It's still life without you.
It's just not as full a life without you.
I love you.


Friday, 28 August 2009

Where's My Baby?

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Before I go to bed at night I wonder where she is.
I restlessly search for her in my sleep.
When I wake I wonder where she's gone.
It seems as though the lights have been turned out in the City when she's not around.
She says she'll be back on Monday.
Then I'll see the light...


Monday, 24 August 2009

Welcome Back to New York City

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Got off Trailways Bus at Port Authority after long weekend Upstate.
Got onto subway.
Smelled something strange.
Looked around.
Nobody else seemed to notice.
Saw giant shit on floor.

Welcome back to New York City...


Saturday, 22 August 2009

Tarot Reading: Waterfall House (Upstate)

Waterfall House, Middleburgh, New York

Tarot Reading

I’ve been through a whirlwind of emotion moving to New York.
Letting go of the past has opened up space for a new life to take root.
I have consciously been abstaining from different things in my life in order to gain clarity on what is important.
There are large reservoirs of emotion within me that are very powerful, that I have been keeping at bay, in part by my abstinence.
Once in a while I dip my finger into the emotion to taste it, allow it to circulate through me, and try to find a balance with it within me.
I am vulnerable, opening myself up to change.
I am attempting to redeem myself and reset my life through this process of change and through my writing.
I have to remember to stay humble in this process. I must be conscious of trying to be closer to GOD, not wanting something from GOD.
Part of this change is healing through sexuality; healing the pain of past sexual relationships, and some of the ways that I have explored sexuality that are not in line with my truth.
I am finding my truth.
My current relationship with Marie is part of finding that truth.
But I have to open up, trust, and be vulnerable with her.
I can channel the power of my sexuality and my desire for true intimacy with Marie to create magic between us.
I am finding a place of balance within me that recognizes and honors who I truly am.
It will manifest itself through my writing.
Others around me will recognize this and help to foster it.
I am grounded in all of this, but my feet are not yet on the ground.
I am protected in this process of reflection, change, and growth by the gatekeepers – the sentinels – of the underworld, my path lit by the moon, in my search through the darkness of self.
I need not fear, as only those who are true of heart and spirit can go with me on this journey.
I need not associate with those who will distract me from my truth.
I should associate with those who are ambitious, but not greedy, feed off of and emulate their drive.
I have fire and drive, but I need to see it done by someone else, then I can feed my work and keep the wheel of writing turning, manifesting.
The future is a house that is sturdy and well kept settling into place.
I must continue to keep, and tend to the house until it settles.

Marie and I have a powerful union.
I am resistant to the change that is taking place in the new design of our relationship, as its makeup is unfamiliar to me.
But I must remain open and vulnerable to the experience of the new with Marie, as we have something very strong together.
I simply have to LOVE Marie and honor her for who she is.
Others will see what we have and appreciate it.
I need alone time away from the relationship to gather my strength – 3 to 5 days at a time. At first Marie will not understand it and it will be painful for her.
But when I return, and she sees me, and when she sees what I bring back to her and the relationship, she will trust my leaving and see my beauty.


Sunday, 16 August 2009

Birthday Party - Couple Therpay

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

The party was at six. Sharp.

It was around noon when we finally got going. We had to pick up the air conditioner at Vincent's - Marie's friend - apartment near Chinatown, take the air conditioner back to our apartment back across the Williamsburg bridge, drive the car that we had (Molly and Marc's) to the Upper East side to drop with some friend of Molly's, then find Yoko - who's birthday it was - a present.



It can be done.

No problem.


On the way to get the air conditioner from Vincent Marie decides that she wants to get Yoko some oysters for lunch and drop them off at her work near Union Sq. She asks me what I think. I say that we have enough to do already. She says to drive faster.

We pick up the air conditioner then stop at a place near Chinatown to get the oysters. I wait in the car in a commercial zone while Marie runs in.


Then - of course - we need an oyster shucker to go with the oysters. Drop Marie on the sidewalk around the corner from Crate n' Barrel on Houston st. Then drive around the necessary one way blocks to be able to pull up across the street and wait for Marie, illegally parked in front of a hot dog vendor as the rain begins to come down. Crate n' Barrel didn't have the shucker. But thank the Lord above the sales clerk inside told Marie of an even more exclusive kitchen wares place in SOHO that most certainly would have a shucker.

Traffic stifling.

Horns blaring.

Rain pouring.

Marie says drive faster.


Drop oysters off at Fleurs Bella store on 11th where Yoko works - me too sometimes.




Rain coming down in sheets.

Make it to 97th and drop the car.


Want beer.

Find only 'real' looking bar in Upper East Side. Walk in. Mahogany. Brass. Guinness on tap. Good. No food. Okay. Tell bartender Guinness is close enough to food. We sit down and begin to read the Times that Marie somehow always has on her, each day, every day, everywhere. How decadent.

We have time.

It's only three.

A few minutes later the older Italian looking guy sitting next to us at the bar comes back in with an authentic Italian sub from a deli around the corner and presents it to me and Marie. Amazing. One of the best moments since I've been to New York. Genuine. Kind. Authentic. Strike up conversation with said older gentlemen. Turns out he's an actor. Thought he looked vaguely familiar. Had a feeling. Asked him if he was in The Sopranos. No. He was Louie in Ghostdog. God. Awesome. He was Ghostdog's retainer. Louie. He was in Ghostdog, the Jim Jarmusch film with the sifu in Chinatown that I want to train with. Since I've been in New York I've met Jim Jarmusch. Now Louie. The signs are all there: I need to study Shaolin Kung Fu with sifu in Chinatown.

We leave bar elated around 4.

We stop in oldtime drugstore / perfumery to look for gift.

Marie finds soaps and things.

I think we can do better.

We leave.

Walking, Marie decides that we need to get Yoko a bird. GREAT! Marie tells me tragic story of Yoko's Uncle killing her bird when she was a child. Yoko needs a bird.

Walk to subway on 69th and Lexington. Pee at Hunter College. Hop 6 train to Union Sq. Marie fondles my crotch under my shorts unbeknownst to other riders as I stand and she sits. Great.

At Union Square find Petco.


Marie looks at all the birds, asks me what I think and what the Petco bird helper employee thinks. Looks at all the birds again. Petco bird helper tells Marie bird should not come out of cage for at least three months until comfortable in new home. Marie disconcerted. I tell her we should get one, and if Yoko doesn't want it, we'll keep it.

She looks some more.


She looks some more.

She likes the Parakeets the best. Me too. I pick out one I like the best. Petco guy gets paperwork and net. We have to be at restaurant near Greewhich Village no later than 6:15. It's 5:30. Marie asks me what I think. I tell her we should get the bird. Am getting ansty. Girl from office has already sent two messages saying to PLEASE be on time in order to hold table (place takes no reservation - party must be present to keep table - no later than 6:15 to surprise Yoko). Told Marie earlier of time constraints. Marie hates constraints. Don't want to upset Marie, nor be task minder. Hate being in the middle. Marie asks me what I think of bird. I tell her to get the bird. She stares at birds trying to read their thoughts. Am getting frustrated. Tell her so and go outside. Five minutes later she blows by me in a huff on the sidewalk saying that we're not getting a bird, that she's getting a book, that we're not going to the party and that we'll meet up with Yoko later. She goes into bookstore. I wait outside. Confused. It's 5 to 6. Calls start coming from restaurant. Where are we? I say we're not coming. Don't know what is happening. Go inside bookstore to look for Marie. She's nowhere to be found. I go back outside. Get a call from girl five minutes later from restaurant saying Marie is on her way with Yoko. I'm furious. She left me. Fuck her. Fuck the party. Fuck this.

I go to bar where friend works near Union Sq. Sit down and get a beer. Am pissed. Friend's not there. Yoko texts. Where are you? Don't respond. Marie calls twice. Don't respond. Get another beer. Friend from work texts. Tells me to come. I tell him: Fuck Marie. I walk to corner store to get cigarettes. I just want a cigarette. Fuck that woman. She tells me: You can never leave me. That is the worst thing you can do to someone, is leave them. You can never do that to me. You can never do that to me no matter what. And what does she do? She leaves me standing on the corner with my fucking dick in the wind. Fuck her.

I go to Mars bar. Shit hole. Vomit on toilet in bathroom nearly makes me puke. Sit in corner looking out at the cars passing by. Wonder why put up with this shit. Think maybe I should go back to Texas. Texas feels lonely. Can't make it in New York right now without Marie's help. Can't stand the thought of her right now.

Go to bar where friend from Texas used to work. Girl behind bars knows him and gives me the second beer free. Guy at the end of the bar is from Austin and knows my dog that I left with my friend. He's seen the puppies that my dog and friends dog had together. Miss my dog.

Walk across Williamsburg bridge talking to friend on the phone from Texas. Don't think I can go back there. Want to jump off bridge.

Marie comes home. Doesn't say a word. Goes to bed.

In the morning she doesn't know what the problem is.

Makes me angrier.

We have to talk about it in therapy.

Therapist says that we have to "over" communicate with each other as we have an "assumption" problem and "communication" problem in the relationship. Marie figured I would show at the restaurant. Still doesn't see big deal. I figured Marie knew the time constraints, don't see big deal with getting frustrated and walking out of store. Each of assumes the other will respond how we would. Marie says she's committed to relationship. I say I'm not so sure. Therapist says I don't have all the facts to make a decision yet and have to give the relationship a set amount of time with no talk of leaving until then. Then evaluate. Okay - January. Therapist says I can't have one foot out the door and expect relationship to work. I think if she met my ex-wives she'd understand. Therapist tells Marie I am gift sent to work on communication, or something like that - good.


Both feet in.


Saturday, 1 August 2009


Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

We drove into the night out of the dreary rain soaked streets of Manhattan looking for a little peace and quiet, a little relaxation, and a little time alone. The house Upstate was three and half uncomfortable hours away in the car on wet moonlit roads winding through the dark forest. Every bone in my body ached. Every muscle screamed with each fidgeting adjustment in the seat as I tried to stay awake and keep my eyes on the road, Marie with her hand on my leg as the radio played to our thoughts. A half an hour to the house and I couldn't go anymore. I had to pull over. Marie drove. My body unwound.

It was around midnight as we dropped our bags on the floor of the empty house. Marc and Molly were out of the country. The house was ours alone. Marie put some water on for tea as I put a movie in and threw some blankets on the couch to cuddle up under.

Under the blankets nestled in together we held our cups of tea on our laps as the movie started. This was quality time. Just me and her. Precious. Rare. Simple. Beautiful. Warm and safe with my baby.

I was the first to go, the warm water spilling in my lap as the cup tipped over, jolting me up as Marie laughed and I tried to keep my eyes open. Just a little more quality time. A few minutes later Marie's cupped tipped over as she nodded off, me laughing as she woke to the water that covered us both. It was time for bed.

Quality time...


Steam Shower - Couple Therapy

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I was at a birthday party Upstate for my boss at her house from the event company where I sometimes work wondering whether Marie was going to come and get me to spend the weekend with her at Bethany and Sebastian's house a few hours away where she was doing another cooking job, or whether I'd be going back to Manhattan the next day.

She showed.

For some reason I'd had the feeling that she wasn't going to - I think it was the tone of her voice on the phone when I'd called that morning - and felt that perhaps she was already tired of me.

Issues of fidelity began to float through my head.

When she showed up she lit me up from the inside.

And when everyone went to sleep we lay down with one another in the bedroom in the basement, reassuring each other of our love.

It was on her mind as well, infidelity.

But we were each others.



The words conjure up intense feelings and some dark memories for me. My wives, their infidelities; anger, resentment, hurt, pain and lies.

Fuck, I don't even know if it's possible to remain faithful to someone. But I know it hurts when someone's not.

Are open relationships better?

I don't know.

I know it's hard for me to transcend jealousy and possessiveness.

Is transcending these feelings a worthy goal? Does that make one an evolved person, or simply detached?

Or do jealousy and possessiveness exist for sound reasons? Like to protect something valued from being lost?

I don't know the answers to these things. I'm no fucking psychologist or evolutionary biologist.

I'm simply trying to figure it out as I go.

It's all a work in progress.

And sometimes it's difficult.

Maybe that's why guides to these things like, The Bible, stick around after all these years.



All I know is what experience has taught me: sex with love is better than without; and when someone you love has sex with someone else, it hurts.




I'm no saint. I'm human too. I've chased these things. And the only thing that I've learned is that reality is a lot more complicated than fantasy. Nothing is what it seems. And nothing comes for free... the devil always exacts his fee.

Fuck it man, the devil ain't got shit on me.

I'm in therapy...

The next day we went to Bethany and Sebastian's place and went straight to work cooking for a job that Marie'd taken catering a birthday party in Woodstock. Yoko came with us from the birthday party to help out. They were cooking. I was helping. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing in the kitchen and it all looked like geometry to me - I suck at geometry. But the gist of what I could figure out was that somehow the giant mountain of food that crushed the light out of the kitchen was going to be magically transformed into magnificent, alluring and appetizing dishes that would be shoveled down the throats of hungry party goers the next evening.

We were up til four in the morning trying to transform that mountain of stuff.

Up at seven in the morning we were on the road to Woodstock, where, once we arrived, we cooked for another seven hours or so with the help of Marie's French friend named Vincent, who happened to be in Woodstock over the weekend, who I went and picked up once the car was relieved of its burdensome load of food at the party.

By ten that night the party was over and we were heading for the night to a friend of Yoko's from the city who had a house in the woods just outside of Woodstock.

The whole fucking event had been a bit tense and slightly unpleasant, me feeling unappreciated by Marie and her often condescending tone. And Marie feeling like I didn't give a shit about any of it.

The guy wasn't there when we got to the house and Marie and I passed out from pure exhaustion, but not before Marie apologized for being coarse that day, explaining that she felt me create a distance from her and the whole event, and that it'd upset her, with me explaining that it was simple self protection (me pulling away and acting like I didn't give a shit) trying to avoid being cut by her lacerating tone.

In the morning the owner of the house, an older man from Luxembourg, and his young Japanese girl companion, Yoko, Marie and I had coffee and breakfast and read the paper before Marie, Yoko and I had to go back to the party house from the night before and pickup all the fucking dishes. As we sat reading the paper, somehow the idea of a steam shower was presented for me and Marie. I thought only for me and Marie. But twenty minutes later as Marie took off her clothes in the bathroom and stripped down to the nude, and I went to shut the door, Marie said to leave it open as the owner of the house was coming too.

Something inside of me froze as I watched Marie unclothe. The decision'd been made without my opinion. I felt slightly unnerved. I wasn't there. I wasn't important. I was secondary to the wishes of some man I'd known for less than a fucking hour. I opened the door a little bit shocked.

And we all took a steam shower.

Later when I broached the subject, Marie contended that it was nothing out of the norm, that is all above board, that it was simply "European" and that there was nothing to be concerned about. I contended that I'd been part of a voyeuristic peep show where my girlfriend was the main attraction.

I was upset and she was defensive.

And I let it go.

The next morning I left Upstate for work leaving Marie behind for a few days. And as I mulled over the steam shower and differing perspectives of what'd occurred an anger began to well up inside of me from deep down.

I had to get away.

I didn't want to get hurt again.

If I stayed, I would surely be hurt again. Marie would do what she wanted, regardless of me. And I would get hurt.

I was hurt.

I was angry and confused.

I didn't answer the phone when she called.

I didn't want to argue.

I needed to talk to someone.

I needed therapy.

My appointment with my therapist was the next day, and the day after that Marie and I would have our second couples session that she would be coming back to town for.

Somehow with the help of professionals we'd figure it all out.

The next day my therapist illuminated for me that I simply felt that Marie was inconsiderate towards me by not appreciating my effort to help her, culminating with, instead of a show of appreciation for my efforts, a shower with some naked old guy and his dong.

My therapist asked me not to make any big decisions for three weeks - while she was out of town - as I was obviously upset and not of clear mind.

I agreed, although I felt a strong urge to bolt.

The next day in our couples session I tried to explain all of this to Marie and her therapist, becoming quite fucking upset and animated at points, but not making much headway with my points. The therapist asked for me to consider (now I've got to consider shit, I thought!) that Marie was at least willing to engage in the process of change and self examination through therapy in an attempt to understand and better our relationship, and that even if we didn't see eye to eye on things right now, the door was open for change and adjustments. And that it could happen, we could get to a place of understanding, as after all, we both wanted the same thing: to be together. It just might take some time.

Duly noted, considered and appreciated.

Fine. Let's fucking move on.

We fought and argued after appointment about the exact nature of the steam shower - harmless or pornographic? - and she stated that she was no one's object (particularly not mine) and that she could do what she wanted with her body, including, I responded, allowing some old guy to objectify her. Brilliant.

Fuck it, women of the world. In the name of feminism allow yourselves to be objectified by random strangers, while decrying the "objectification" of a guy who loves you, not wanting strange men to view you as a sexual object.

What the fuck do I care?

I'll work it out.

I'm in therapy...


Monday, 20 July 2009

Hey New York!

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

A shout out (or at - whatever the fuck ya wanna call it) to New York City after a long day of hard work lifting heavy steel objects, sweating, throwing my back out, smashing my fingers, toes and shins and driving from Brooklyn to Jersey and back again in a 20' truck...

First off, the shittiest drivers on the planet are all here in this fuckin' city. I take that back, I had that one amazing cab driver of unknown Persian persuasion on one of my initial trips up here to visit my lady who got me from Midtown Manhattan to JFK in like five minutes flat in complete and utter control of the road and his piece of shit car the whole goddamned way as we blew threw traffic. That guy was fucking amazing! I hope he wins the Daytona 500. EVERYONE ELSE SUCKS. You all suck! You stop in the intersection! You stop in the middle of the road! You stop when you're supposed to go and you go when you're supposed to stop! You cut people off! You don't use your blinkers when you're supposed to, and you leave them on when you're not supposed to. You move to the right lane, then to the left lane again, then back to the right again, then to the left lane again, then you slow down to a crawl, then you speed up with no rhyme or reason. You have no fucking clue what the fuck you are doing or where you are going! You put on your left blinker, then you turn right! Amazing... You sit at green lights waiting for Jesus to come, then blow through red lights like you're running from the Devil! And you honk! You honk and you honk and you honk! Unfuckingbelievable - you're still not going anywhere! No one is! We're all stuck in this fucking nightmare quagmire together! Get over it!

I wish that the city would put me in charge of enforcing the no honking law. I would speed through New York City traffic all day and all night long in a turbocharged traffic scooter thingymabob slapping tickets on the windshields of jackhole motorists with a reckless fucking abandon and glee. That would make me happy. It would make me very happy.

It seems that every shithead on the planet that either couldn't, or never attempted to drive in their home country migrated here and immediately got behind the fucking wheel of an automobile. A thought to all of you immigrants behind the wheel: GO TO FUCKING DRIVING SCHOOL!!!! In fact, in order for anyone to get a green card anymore in this country they should have to pass a driving test rather than an English aptitude test. I would much rather have all you newbies from all over the globe be able to drive as opposed to speak, because I can't understand what the fuck you're trying to say anyway. Just shut it and learn how to drive.

Also, on the topic of people from other countries, just because you came from a different country or culture doesn't mean that you are interesting or unique. In fact, it seems to be the opposite. It seems that all the dickheads, shitfaces, and fuckups from all over the world came here in droves. Oh yeah, and you're country's not that fucking great - if it was, you would have stayed there. So get over yourself your homeland. It sucks just as much as you do. Just because you were big shit Kurdistan doesn't mean dick here. Get over it.

Don't get me wrong, there are some pretty cool foreigners here, but at about the same ratio of cool people to shitheads as in High School - about 1 cool person to every 100 or so intolerable fucking assholes.

So here's to those 99 assholes that seem to make up the populace of every group on the planet...

To the Puerto Ricans: Nobody gives a shit about Puerto Rico but you. And your music sucks.

To Puerto Rican women in particular: That shrieking noise you make when you yell at someone is one of the most ball shriveling noises on the planet.

To older Puerto Rican men: Once you're over forty, you are not a thug - you're just old.

To the Russian mobsters: Listening to Hip Hop does not make you look more intimidating, in fact it makes you look like a 15 year old white kid from Iowa.

To the preppy yuppies: My boxers hung out the bottom of my shorts when I was 16 - you're still doing it you fuck tool.

To the Hassidic Jews: You remind me of the Amish - Fucking Boring.

To the Williamsburg hipsters: Just because you dress like a fucking jackass doesn't make you either interesting or cool. In fact, odds are, you're just a total fucking jackass who dresses shitty, you tool.

To all you young chicks: Your style makes you look like a totally unfuckable pilled out middle aged loser of a mom from the seventies - what a waste. There's no future for you. You're already played out.

To all the young fags: Just because you dress like a total fucking jackass doesn't mean you aren't still just a fucking fag.

To all the black guys: Hip Hop is dead... it died with Ol' Dirty Bastard in the studio with those hookers and all that blow (RIP Little Baby Jesus).

To all the fucking places that don't take credit cards: It's the Twenty First fucking century, or some shit like that. What's the fucking problem?

To all you rich fucking cunts out there: Guess what? I go as fast in my behemoth 20' truck as you'll ever go in this fucking city in your fucking Ferrari or Lamborghini - you asshole. I hope you all crash into telephone polls.

To all the Union workers: You work like a bunch of peg legged homeless women in skirts. Grow a pair of nuts!

To all you agents out there who won't represent my book: I hope the publishing industry crumbles around your ears! I don't fucking need you. I'll represent myself. Kiss my ass.

To all you New Agers with feathers in your head: If the Indians were so fucking smart they wouldn't be relegated to Reservations swillin' Thunderbird.

To all the kid bands from Brooklyn: You've got no balls.

To all the queers and women who seem to run this city: You've got no soul.

To all you big business tycoons: I never see you. Let's keep it that way. You seem like assholes too.

To all the women of New York: You all obviously need a good hard fucking! That's okay. In fact, I like that about you!

To all of you who I forgot on this one: I'll getchya on the next one... much love.

To my woman: I love ya... you're the best one in this fucking cultural miss mashed mess of over urbanization, sprawling egos, raging insecurities and complete dumbfuckery.

And to any of you who took any offense to any of this: Suck me off you cockblown fuckfaces. Like Joan Jett said, "I don't give a damn about my reputation! I never said I wanted to improve my station."

Fuck off...


Wednesday, 8 July 2009

You Smell Difficult

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Fourth of July weekend. Birthday party. Upstate New York. Marie's husband. Mushrooms.

It was Marie's long time friend, Sebastian's birthday party at his house Upstate where we'd been the week before for the yoga retreat. And it just happens that Sebastian is good friends with Marie's "husband" (She calls him the guy she used to live with as it's been years since they've been together, so it's just a "term" to her, she says). The weekend was planned.

It wasn't for sure, or written in stone, that Marie's "husband" would be there, and it never really came up in conversation that it was a possibility that he would be there, but I felt it. I knew he'd be there. And I resigned myself to the thought.

It felt like destiny somehow.

Sure enough, when we walked into the vast old house I saw a guy with a pony tail and some sort of Indian arm band scamper through a doorway that looked to me like he was probably the "one". Several minutes later on the back lawn with the roar of the waterfall in the background Marie introduced to me her "husband".
"My condolences" he said with his affected, condescending South African accent. "I'm only kidding" he restated as he tried to gauge my eyes.
"Only half kidding, I'm know" I told him. What the fuck did I care? I already had a beer, and I'd been living with the fucking woman for nearly six months. Like I needed him to remind me or let me in on the secret that she was a difficult woman. Fuckin' snobbish asshole.

People showed up and began filling the house with noise and booze, and by midnight, after dinner, everyone was getting to know each other out on the front porch, smoking and drinking and getting high as the large iridescent moon hung nearly full with anticipation of the weekend in the clear sky.

It was going to be a good weekend.

The next day was spent in preparation in the kitchen for the evenings festivities of fireworks and birthday cake. By four o'clock I was ready to start drinking. There twenty or more people to feed and the food preparation seemed like an endless chore. But I was done and ready to have fun when one of the locals who works odd jobs on the house offered me some mushrooms. I took em' figurin' it was as good a way as any to handle being around your lovers "husband" in a strange environment with strange people on the Fourth of July.

A few hours later I was swallowing the mushrooms down with a beer as I thought about the last time that I'd taken them ten years earlier in Amsterdam and how I'd ended up hiding in a port a john in the center of town for the good share of an afternoon, and thought, 'what could go wrong?' as I went up to our room to get my jacket. I saw her "husband" coming out of his room that was next to ours with some Indian war paint on his face. 'Fine', I thought, as I walked into our room, 'that's the way you want it?' I looked into the mirror in and ate some more mushrooms. I wasn't sure what he was up to, but I was on to'em. 'I can play that game too' I thought, as I went back down to the party with a little buzz starting in the back of my brain. There were people eating and laughing and drinking and I started smiling from the essence of my being realizing that I had nothing to worry about, that I was okay, that everything was okay and that the world was all right as wandered the party in and out of conversations.

A little while later I went back up to the room to get another shirt as it was getting cold out when I saw Marie's "husband" coming out of his room again, this time with a feather in the back of his pony tail. 'What was this guy up to?' I wondered. 'Well, if that's the way he wants it' I thought, 'I'll show him. I'll show him.' And I went into the room and ate the rest of the mushrooms.

Something was on the line.

Something was going to be determined.

Something was happening.

I went out back to the lawn where the party was in full swing and ended up next to the "husband" sharing his glass of whiskey and talking about something or other or nothing at all, and determined that he wasn't such a bad guy after all. We even laughed about a couple of things - I don't know what. And as I left him standing there I felt that bygones were bygones, and they weren't even my bygones...

Something was happening.

The night rolled along with long talks on art, the nature of art, the essence of people, capturing people in art. Toy guns were waved, declarations made and drinks drunk.

Later, closing in on two or so in the morning I found myself cornered, being interrogated by a curious woman about my tattoos. I felt like I was being interviewed by Rolling Stone magazine, in a movie about my life that I was starring in, and I was helpless to form a coherent thought or statement about anything as the woman snapped a photograph of one of my tattoos, and Marie saved me from the bad interview out of nowhere and took me outside to make out under the stars and I tried to figure out how in the hell I'd ended up "there", with her, in that moment, in that rapture, in that love.

Afterward in bed she willed herself on me, literally infusing herself into me, letting me know that I was "hers" as she spoke to me with her energy the story of her soul as I tried to make love to her, speak to her with my body and my soul, naked and exposed, vulnerable, as her "husband" lay in the other room, his presence trying to keep me from entwining with Marie, her asking me with her body to erase the thought of "him" forever as I entered her and drove the thoughts of "them" and what once was away for good. We were together.

I lay there holding her lost in the union of our energy, a field of color and warmth and love enmeshed. And as I held her close I could smell the essence of her being, and I told her: "You smell difficult."


Thursday, 2 July 2009

Article I Wrote That Was Deleted By Online Marketplace

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I entered this article into a writing contest on Helium titled: How to build muscle by manipulating hormones.

It was deleted by the site.

I liked it.

They didn't.

Oh well...

The article we have deleted (Helium):


A couple of years ago I worked a short stint in a vitamin store.
After a couple of weeks of working and stocking the locked display case full of bottles with names like TORQUED, TESTOSTERONE BOMB and JACKED UP that all had extraordinary claims of rock hard muscles and sexual prowess I decided that I wanted to become a rippling, glistening Adonis who wielded a sexual sledgehammer!
The lab results for one of the products said that it gave castrated rats boners! Shit. That’s all the information I needed. I’d done my research before I started my regimen. How could I’ve known I’d grow bitch tits like Bob in FIGHT CLUB?
I began taking handfuls of pills daily. I was eating everything in the store: Testosterone boosters, growth hormone supplements, protein bars and shakes! I was gonna be Paul Bunyon huge with a giant hard on all day long!
Soon I started looking bigger. But I didn't look shredded like the guys in the pictures on the bottles. I was just lookin’ kinda fat. I wasn’t getting diesel. And I wasn’t any hornier. Then I started noticing a tingling behind my nipples. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. But I wasn’t worried - as I thought I was just becoming sexually charged - until one day in the shower the sensation became almost painful as the water pelted my chest. It felt almost like I had small rocks lodged behind my nipples. Fuck. And when I got out and looked in the mirror I thought that it looked like I had supple baby breast forming. But I was too shocked to believe it. My mind couldn’t handle the truth and I convinced myself that I was just getting buff, not becoming a woman, and kept on taking the pills determined to become a Fabio like sex God.
Soon after at the beach though, as I came running out of the water towards my towel for another beer, my worst fears were confirmed as one of my buddies yelled to everyone, “LOOK! HE’S GOT MOOBS!”
“What the fuck are moobs?” I asked as everyone laughed and I went for the cooler.
“Man boobs – moobs! And you’ve gottem. You’re gonna need a bro for those buddy!”
"A bro?” I said, as the sun seemed to wilt me.
"Yeah. A bra for guys. You need one."
Jesus, life’s fucking brutal. Instead of looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger working out at Venice Beach I looked like Brooke Shields in BLUE LAGOON.
Later on, drunk and stoned, I tried to flex for everyone to prove it was all muscle, but they just kept on laughing until they were crying and I passed out.
After that I went straight to the doctor to find out what the fuck was going on. They took a blood test to measure my hormone levels and said that my estrogen levels were higher than Anna Nicole Smith’s. I was immediately put on an estrogen blocker and told to stop my regimen.
I wanted to sue, as none of the labels on any of the bottles said anything about the lab rats growing boobs.
And they wouldn’t go away.
Whenever I was out drinking with my friends they’d try to feel me up. It was fucking humiliating.
I felt like a woman.
I wanted to be a man again.
I wanted my dignity back. I’d had enough and started to look into other alternatives, like surgery.
Traditional surgery seemed invasive, risky and costly. So I kept on searching the internet, eventually coming across a new laser surgery that could melt moobs like butter. That was the ticket, I thought.
There was only one location where I was living and I swallowed the last of my pride by making an appointment.
The office was a modern glass and steel dermatology clinic full of mirrors and beautiful blonde, tanned women.
I was the only guy in the place and the only one with tattoos. I sat down on the slick leather Bauhaus couch and picked up an Elle magazine as all the girls turned to look. I hated myself and was thinking about leaving, backing my car into oncoming traffic, when the tall swimsuit model looking assistant came out smiling calling my name.
My humiliation seemed endless and I cursed my life under my breath as I followed her back down a fluorescent hallway of doors.
She motioned for me to take a seat across the desk from her as she asked me to take off my shirt.
“Huhh?” I said.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said smiling, almost as though she was fucking with me.
I turned crimson as I took my off shirt and became shamefully aroused as she came around the desk and sat next to me and gently felt me up, her blushing as well in the process. I was all hot and bothered after she fondled me, and slightly confused as to what was going as she said that underneath the flab I was hard as a rock – she had no idea, I thought. She said that she would give me a discount on the price if I really wanted to have the laser procedure done, but that I’d probably just be better off doing some serious cardio. I didn’t have enough money anyway.
“You mean work out?”
She smiled.
And I wasn’t sure if she was coming on to me or what after what’d just happened?
So I asked her out.
She looked at me stunned and laughed to herself and said that I had some balls.
Like a castrated rat.
She gave me her number, but never picked up when I called. She wouldn’t even come out when I drunk text her from the bar asking her if she wanted to fuck. It’s my breasts, I thought, I gotta get rid of em’. And from that point on, just like Forrest Gump, I was running man.


Book Review I Wrote That Was Deleted By Online Writing Marketplace

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I wrote this review for Helium on a book called: "Melrose & Croc Beside the Sea".

They didn't like it...

The article we have deleted (Helium):

I have to admit that I haven't actually read this book. But with a title like, "Melrose & Croc BESIDE THE SEA", why the hell would I want to? I mean really, come on. I'm in my thirties and ashamed of myself that I still haven't finished my High School Senior English list of required reading. In the study alone that I am currently sitting in there are hundreds and hundreds of books with fascinating titles staring me intently in the face, crying out to be read, such as: "The Book of Disquiet"; "Lord of the Barnyard"; "Death on the Installment Plan" (probably the best title ever), and on and on and on. All of which I desperately want to read. But between work, feeding my gob, doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, exercising, making intimate time for my girlfriend and me, working on the query letter for my book, trying to find that special agent for my book, trying to figure out how to become a journalist, skimming the paper in a half hearted attempt to stay current with the circumstances of the world beyond my apartment, grocery shopping, taking the subway, watching a movie now and again, and dropping my Netflix at the mailbox around the corner, I often find that I simply don't have the time sit down and read a damned book, let alone a book titled, "Melrose & Croc" whatever whatever. And I mean no disrespect to the author (it's simply not my cup of tea), for it is a great feat of talent and know how in this day and age to get published by a traditional publishing house (I'm assuming these fellows Melrose & Croc have found a comforting home securely nestled in the milk giving bosom of a publishing house - God knows I'd like to suck on that fat nourishing tit). And I mean no disrespect to those of the reading public who have the time to read this book or other books of the whimsical nature that the title suggests. In fact, I am jealous of both the author and her readers, as I would love to have the seemingly care free existence that allows someone to write and or read a work thus titled. I, unfortunately, seem to be doomed to toil and struggle in the murky swamp of life attempting to keep my head above the dirty water, ever on the lookout for an opportunity to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, like the ancient crocodile of the title. If I were however to actually review this book I would tell the reading public to read it only if they had read everything else on the planet that they had ever wanted to read to satisfy their particular intellectual bent. Or read it if they didn't have to worry about money at all and therefore had no need for any sort of intellectual bent. Or read it if they had kids that they needed to read to at night. Or maybe buy it if they had nieces or nephews that they saw on the holidays and wanted to spend some quality time with reading to them or some shit like that. Or, read it I suppose if they just wanted to be be whimsical and spend their precious reading time in an act of defiance. Then and only then would I suggest that they should possibly pick this book up. Otherwise, I'd suggest tackling another one of those 100 classics from High School English before they were dead.