The Existential Hangover

I’m still reeling from the 2016 presidential results. Part of me still can’t believe that Donald Trump was elected president, and part of me hopes that some how, some way these results will be reversed. A bigger part of me is not surprised and understands that this is irreversible, that our broken democracy has declared Trump the winner despite the fact that he did not win the popular vote. 

The thing that does not surprise me about these results is that a racist, misogynist, xenophobic, capitalist masquerading as a populist was elected president. I do not believe that every person who voted for trump is racist, sexist, and xenophobic, but those who do not personally hold those views and yet still voted for him are enablers. They are enablers of inequality. These kinds of enablers have existed throughout history: the people who knew slavery was wrong and yet did nothing to fight it, the people in Germany who knew that the jews were not really to blame for their nations problems and yet still allowed Hitler to rise to power, the people who knew separate was not equal and still allowed segregation to persist.  The fucked up thing is that most of these people don’t realize they’re enablers, many of them are in denial that racism exists, they’re in denial that rape culture exists, they’re in denial that blaming muslims for the attacks on 9/11 and the rise of ISIS is hateful and inaccurate. 

Words pass through it like clouds of smoke,

 and thoughts like fog. 

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I was recently in an accident so I’ve been stuck at home for the past two weeks, four more weeks to go. 

I was riding my bike down Morgan Ave in Brooklyn and I was at the intersection where Morgan goes under the BQE. There was construction on the road, so the street was made narrower than normal. I rode my bike down that street fairly often, because it’s the only direct route from my apartment to the coffee roastery. I work as a barista for a cafe in manhattan and I frequently go to their roastery in Brooklyn for coffee cuppings (a way of tasting coffee for quality control, that is done daily at most coffee roasters), I’m not required to go to cuppings, but I try to go fairly often for the following reasons:

1. I love coffee, and tasting different coffees side by side helps you notice what’s special about each individual coffee. 

2. I like the people who work in the roastery and so it’s cool to hang out with them and talk coffee for a while. 

3. I’m trying to develop my palate for coffee, because you appreciate coffee a lot more when you can taste all the subtle flavors that are naturally present, and palate development is necessary if I hope to one day move up in the coffee world. 

4. For the past 3 years, almost since the beginning of my barista career, I’ve been interested in coffee roasting. From what I can tell there is no clear way to become a coffee roaster, it’s not something you can go to school for, and roasting positions are very limited, so it seems like the only thing I can do to try to become a roaster is to hang around the roastery and ask lots of questions, so that maybe someday if a position opens up, maybe, just maybe they’ll notice me and consider me for the job. 

Morgan Ave is not the safest street for cyclists. There’s no bike lane, and there are a lot of warehouses and stuff so there are always lots of large trucks driving by. There’s at least one of those white washed old bicycles with fake flowers attached to it chained to a sign post on Morgan ave, memorializing a cyclist who was killed, most likely hit by a passing motorist. 

So I was at the intersection of Morgan Ave and Meeker (I have to consult the accident report given to me by a police officer to remember the cross-street), and it’s a green light, and so I’m riding my bicycle trying to cross the street, when a large black truck passes me from behind, one of those dump trucks that are used at construction sites, the kind of truck that my cousins have tiny plastic versions of and play with in their sandbox, and the truck is way to close to me and so it side swipes me and knocks me off my bicycle so that I fall to my right on top of my bike, and then the truck runs over my left leg with its back wheels, and at first it doesn’t really hurt, but the shock wears off quickly and I start screaming. My bike is fine, it has avoided the crush of the truck, but I am not. The construction workers yell at the driver to stop, but she does not, and one of them claims that she swore at him and made lewd gestures in response to his plea. I never saw the driver, so I can’t say with any certainty that they knew they had hit someone. It all seemed so loud and fast that I suppose it’s possible that she didn’t realize that she had just run someone over and that’s why she kept going, but I think that she did realize what happened, and she was scared of what would happen to her when the police came, so she didn’t stop. No one got a license plate number. The NYPD only solves about 8% of the hit and run cases that happen in New York City. 

A woman who was walking by at the time of the accident helps me get out of the middle of the street and on to the side walk where I pull off the lime green high top on my left foot. A construction worker calls 911. I make a series of phone calls and send out several text messages, because I quickly realize that I will not be walking this off. I will not be able to go to my shift at the coffee shop, and so my boss must know that he needs to find someone else to cover it. The police arrive first and ask all sorts of questions, and take my drivers license and jot down my personal details. They tell me that they have to take my bicycle because it’s evidence in a crime, but that I will be able to retrieve it later at the precinct that’s listed on the accident report. An ambulance comes and a trio of 2 women and 1 man help me onto a stretcher and put me into the ambulance. They cut open my jeans and put my left leg in a splint. Paramedics can’t give you pain medication, so this, my first ambulance ride, will be the worst physical pain I have ever experienced. I try to go to the same place in my mind that I’ve gone to when I’ve gotten tattoos, I try to think about ice and cold things, but that doesn’t work so well. I remind myself that although this is painful, this is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Eventually I try making small talk with the EMT who is sitting in the back of the ambulance with me, because talking is at least a slight distraction from the pain. I ask her if she’s from New York, I ask her how long she’s worked as an EMT, and I wonder but do not ask how hard it is to detach yourself from others pain so that you can do that job. 

We arrive at the hospital and I almost instantly feel a sense of relief, the pain seems to dissipate slightly, even though I haven’t been given any medication yet. I thank the paramedic and EMTs who brought me in. I hear them allude to picking up another woman in a similar accident in the same area, who was the same age as me. I wonder if that woman is dead or alive. 

I spend approximately 5 hours in the emergency room at Bellevue hospital. I have to repeat the summary version of what happened to me too many times to count. I am approached by a group of psychiatrists who ask me to participate in a research study on stress and trauma. I agree to be in their study, but decline their offer to participate in a parallel study involving medication. I answer their long series of survey questions with a numbered scale that they give me, I secretly believe as I answer these questions that they’re doing it all wrong and this cannot possibly be of any service to science. Then they ask me to spit into a tube. It takes a long time to fill the tube to the designated level because I have received morphine for the first time and apparently one of the side effects is dry mouth. I get many x-rays. A doctor puts my leg in a splint and tells me I can’t put any weight on it for 6 weeks. A different doctor gives me crutches and shows me how to use them. A follow up appointment is scheduled and I am given a prescription for pain killers. I spend my last hour in the hospital just sitting on a gurney and waiting for someone to bring me a pair of pants because the jeans I came in with have been cut into shreds. 

I text a friend who lives in the same neighborhood as me and ask her if she can meet me at the pharmacy near my apartment and help me up the stairs to my apartment. My boyfriend has to work and although he insists that he can leave early and come meet me, I tell him not to. 

I take a cab home from the hospital. The driver asks me what happened, and I tell him. He asks me how long I will have a caste on, and I tell him. He tells me that six weeks isn’t bad, that when he broke his ankle it took several months to heal. He tells me that he threw away his bicycle because biking in New York City is too dangerous. This kind of thing makes me angry, yes biking is dangerous, but it’s only dangerous because people driving cars and trucks are careless assholes. (I’m going to get a little self-righteous now) Biking has a way lower environmental impact than driving a car and it’s better for your overall health, I’m not going to stop doing something that’s better for the planet and better for me because there are a lot of self-centered pieces of shit out there who might ruin it for me. I don’t say any of that to the cab driver though, he’s just a guy trying to make a living. 

I meet my friend at the pharmacy and I tell her what happened, she is shocked that the truck driver didn’t stop. I will come to realize that this is a common reaction, but to me it’s not surprising. Humans are ruled by fear. A man at the pharmacy helps me adjust my crutches. I leave my water bottle there and my boyfriend has to retrieve it for me the next day. 

Walking to my apartment from the pharmacy is the longest 2 blocks of my life. Getting up the stairs to my second floor of my apartment leaning on my friend is the longest climb of my life. Everything has just become much more difficult, and I realize that the next six weeks will creep by at an excruciatingly slow pace. 

I spend my days trying to fill an endless void of free time. I start doing things that I never thought I would do, like entering online sweepstakes and trying to get a job doing data entry. I eat whatever is placed in front of me. I watch a lot of shitty movies on Netflix and I re-watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer (the TV series) for like the fifth time. I feel a deep sense of shame after sitting in bed for several hours watching TV, I feel like I should spend that time writing or trying to learn Spanish, but I don’t feel inspired to do those things, I just feel depressed. I learn to go up and down the stairs of my apartment building by myself, but I never go out without my boyfriend because I’m afraid of falling down the stairs and not being found for several hours. Anxiety and stress weighs on me. I had a trip to Amsterdam and Berlin planned for October 24th to November 2nd, I won’t get my caste off until November 15th. At first I’m in denial, I think that I’ll still be able to go, I think so what if I’m on crutches, I can still have a good time, but even walking around the block is exhausting and my friend who I was supposed to go with keeps asking “are you sure you’re feeling up to Europe?” Eventually I must admit that I do not feel up to it, that crutching my way around cities where I don’t speak the primary language does not sound like a good time. After I make the decision to post-pone my trip it takes almost  a week for me to get up the courage to call customer service and rebook. When I do call them, they’re not interested in my injury and they tell me that since I bought the cheapest tickets possible and did not purchase insurance, I can reschedule the trip but it will be subject to a fee. It’s ends up costing me over $200 to change my tickets to March. 

Mac Demarco is almost exactly 1 year younger than me and he has already likely accomplished more in his life than I ever will. It is therefore not surprising that his was the second consecutive concert that I've been to in the past few weeks where I felt like the oldest person in the room [although I was not truly, this became clear when Mac Demarco greeted his mother and several other family members stationed on the balcony during the show]. I felt like I was surrounded with kids with sharpie on the backs of their hands [Bs instead of the characteristic Xs] indicating that they were under 21, my friend Jesse also remarked on this, and I told her that we should get used to it because we are going to keep getting older, but the kids are going to stay the same age. 

The Mac Demarco concert seemed weirdly connected to the last show I wrote about [Elvis Depressedly], before the show started and during the breaks between the 3 [which seemed excessive] opening bands, the DJ [or the guy in charge of the Webster Hall playlist] kept playing songs by Elvis Depressedly and Coma Cinema, this is not music I ever expected to hear outside my own headphones [but hey that's probably just because I'm a narcissistic hipster who doesn't think anyone could possibly be listening to the same music as she is, despite all evidence to the contrary]. Further connection to Elvis Depressedly occurred when a girl in front of me in the crowd yelled back to me "Hey weren't you at the Orchid Tapes Show?", Me: "Yeah", Her: "I think you were standing behind me at that show too!"

Despite the fact that my friend and I got to the venue early and waited in line for the doors to open, and disregarded the warnings of the ticket takers that Mac Demarco wouldn't be going on until 11pm [the doors opened at 7:30], we kept getting pushed farther back in the crowd the closer it got to Demarco's set. This was entirely our fault, every concert-goer knows that you have to be willing to fight for a spot near the front, and Jesse and I with our mutual springtime cold, just weren't up to the challenge. 

The opening acts for Mac Demarco, were decent, but nothing I was compelled to look into after the show. The most interesting part was a dizzying light show from a  mostly acoustic band from Queens whose name I can't recall. 

By the time Mac Demarco went on, the main floor of Webster Hall was packed to the point of claustrophobia, and the crowd was impatient, so much so that some of them started smoking cigarettes. As every resident of New York City knows, the Clean Indoor Air Act prohibits smoking pretty much anywhere that isn't a private residence or outside [and a few places that are outside], and as every frequenter of the NYC DIY music scene knows this rule is frequently disregarded in DIY music venues, because they are magical wonderlands where many laws are completely ignored. To further exasperate the situation, many legit venues like Webster Hall, do not allow re-entry at their shows, so if you want to leave the show to smoke a cancer stick, they will not let you back in afterwards. As a former smoker, I do feel sympathy for the nicotine addicted in this situation, but as  someone with a sore throat and a cold in a packed concert, I was enraged by their complete disregard for other people and the law [another sign that I'm getting old, soon I will be shaking my cane at teenagers on their skateboards].

It is the eve of my 25th birthday. The list of my accomplishments is sadly sparse: 

I escaped the small town in Michigan where I grew up. The circumstances of my departure are the most troubling part of my history, but I believe that if I had not gotten out I would be dead or worse. 

I have a degree from a somewhat prestigious university. Whether or not my BA in Cinema Studies will ever be useful to me, professionally or otherwise, still remains to be seen. 

I have a job that I mostly like. It's not what I expected to be doing at this point in my life, but it pays the rent and doesn't make me want to shoot myself in the head rather than getting out of bed in the morning. It even leaves me with an occasional feeling of satisfaction, and I've come to realize that this is all that most people can ask for. 

I guess I've written a few things that aren't totally terrible. [This might not be an actual accomplishment.] 

I have one all consuming musical obsession, which reflects my state of mind as I pass a quarter century [and perhaps the state of mind of the nation]-- the numerous musical projects of a native of South Carolina [a place where I have also lived, but try to forget] named Mat Lee Cothran. Cothran creates music under several names: Coma Cinema, Elvis Depressedly, Gremlins, and occasionally under his given name. Each project has it's own distinct qualities, but it all has the same overall style, the same lo-fi noisy sound. 

My discovery of Cothran's music was typical: a friend recently told me to listen to the album Holo Pleasures by Elvis Depressedly-- it hooked me instantly in that way that so magically and rarely happens with music [or any kind of art]. The album feels intimate, like it's speaking directly to me. 

It's unlike anything that I've heard before, but without undermining the originality of it, a comparison to Elliott Smith comes immediately to mind, especially his early solo recordings like Roman Candle which much like Holo Pleasures were recorded not in a studio, but in a home. Elliott Smith's vocals on Roman Candle have this whispery quality, which make the listener feel like he's speaking directly into their ear, like he's right next to you sharing a secret. Holo Pleasures has a similar quality, as does all of Cothran's music, especially what he's recorded under the name Elvis Depressedly,  

Cothran's music has a gritty torn-up beauty like the kind that can be found in street art collage, decaying buildings covered in ivy, and pretty girls with resourceful and creative thrift store fashion sense. It's the kind of beauty that is enhanced by a lack of resources and a touch of ugliness. Depression and the destructive power of drugs are [perhaps predictably] the most frequent themes in the music that Cothran makes under the moniker of Elvis Depressedly. This music simply gushes with pain, so much so that it often seems to parody sadness [the name Elvis Depressedly itself is parodic in it's ridiculousness], one of the finest examples of this is on the 2012 LP "Mickey's Dead" specifically the song, "Roadside Memorial (repeat)", the entire album is, "dedicated to jessica oliver, page chilton, my mother, my father, and the ill will of the world.":

drying blood between my teeth  soul on fire fever speaks  hotter water endless thoughts  getting sick and weak and getting off  all these so called friends  who sell me out  to meet their ends  yr pathetic, judge yrself  i don't want or need yr fucking help  dying as the summer leaks  drown myself in the kitchen sink  i can't sleep cause the shakes won't quit  a self portrait painted in vomit  burn my wrists with cigarettes  wash the blood out of my dress  feeling cheap feeling dull  burn a road side memorial 

The first few times I heard this song I laughed out loud, I thought it was so over the top that it verged on hilarity. It's the line "a self portrait painted in vomit" that really gets me, it just sounds so mockingly self-effacing. 

Yet despite the self-mocking tone that Cothran's lyrics often take, at other times they are almost transcendent. On the same LP, there's a song called "Warm Wolves" that begins with the verse:

warm wolves milking mary  in the skull of a girl made of flowers  my angels gone crazy  as her heart is being devoured 

There are a lot of lyrics like this in Cothran's oeuvre, words that are basically nonsensical but which take on their own meaning within the song, and come out being beautiful. Cothran's lyrics often verge on being poetic, and because of that quality, I reject certain statement's that he has made on his personal blog that he doesn't care about lyrics in music, that he is not concerned with lyrics at all, even his own--because if this were true then why create music with lyrics at all? I would argue that Cothran's music would be severely lacking without the lyrics, and that even though most of his lyrics do not have overtly profound meaning, they take on new meaning within a musical context.

After months of obsessing about Elvis Depressedly and the rest of Cothran's music, I finally had the opportunity to see him live a couple weeks ago at Shea Stadium in Brooklyn. It was an Orchid Tapes showcase [the label that has released much of Cothran's work], and all of the acts that played that night, including Ricky Eat Acid and R.L. Kelly were very tight. It was one of the more crowded shows that I've been to at that venue and I felt old [if not in actual years, than in exhaustion]. It seemed like I was surrounded by kids who had come in for the show from Long Island or NYU and SVA dorm rooms in Manhattan. The Girl standing in front of me for a good amount of the show had a large backpack with not one, but three bottles of hand sanitizer attached to it. For some reason I found this profoundly annoying. Her and her friends all had cameras [35mm] and were attempting to take photos of the performers, but it was hard to get good shots through the crowd. I was slightly drunk and so at an opportune moment when everyone was good and engulfed by music I unscrewed the caps of all of her bottles of hand sanitizer and took them so that they would leak out.  

I'm in North Carolina visiting my dad, I browse missed connections in every place I go, here's one I read for Asheville: 

 Woman who bought the last eight boxes of 22LR bullets - m4w (Franklin's Outdoor Sports)

The giant rabid bananas are stalking the streets for human prey.

It isn’t safe to go outside at night.

It’s Christmas and my dog Dracula and I are safe inside watching It’s A Wonderful Life on television, doors bolted, windows locked, shades down. 

They started out as baby bananas, with little hands, and little fingers, that they wiggled around. They had come from parts unknown in an unmarked wooden crate, shipped to Felpausch, our local grocery store, with their regular deliveries. Mr. Carter the grocery store manager refused to put them out for sale with the rest of the produce, he feared that they had been contaminated with something. But word soon spread around town about the new bananas and people started coming into Felpausch demanding to see them, and once they saw them they demanded to buy them. For a while they were the exciting new novelty that every kid wanted their parents to buy. Some parents probably thought it was a good thing, at least it was getting the children interested in fruit. The kids who did manage to take one of the bananas home as a pet became very popular in school, their friends all wanted to go over to their houses to play with the bananas (the principal wisely put a ban on bringing bananas to school). Everyone thought they were adorable. No one thought about eating them, or killing them. In retrospect that was a terrible mistake. 

The trouble started about a week after the arrival of the strange fruit: the bananas sprouted legs, and that’s when they started to cause mayhem. That was when their true nature began to emerge. Still most people thought they were cute, if strange, little critters. When they came home to find their homes had been trashed by the mischievous bananas it was equated with the mess made by a new puppy before it’s house broken. But the bananas continued to grow, and as they grew bigger and stronger they began to attack their human caretakers. One astute mother, Mrs. Marsellas, killed her’s with a steak knife after it bit her on the ankle. A few others were exterminated when they turned violent, but most were simply turned out of houses still alive, and others escaped through windows and heating ducts. 

The bananas were not seen for a while, and many believed (or hoped) that they had been killed off by the first fall frost. 

When they were seen again they had grown substantially in size, they were approximately the height of an average 8-year-old child. They devoured the Thompson’s  cat in front of their daughter Anna, who since then has refused to leave her room. 

The bananas are now pushing 6 ft. tall. During the day they rest on the tops of the tallest trees in the forest on the edge of town, they get strength from soaking up vitamin D from the sun. At night they hunt. 

Dracula has found some of the trees where they nest during our daily walks. He wants to rip them apart with his sharp canine teeth, he believes it is his mission to stop them and save the town, but I tell him that we must formulate a plan, that they have become too powerful to destroy with our own, normally adequate, muscles, we must use our wits to defeat them. 

We’re watching the part in It’s A Wonderful Life  when George Bailey tells Mary he will lasso the moon and pull it down for her if she wants him too. It’s my favorite part in the movie, I love moments in movies when characters almost kiss, but then don’t. I tell Drac this, he tilts his head skeptically. Then we hear the thumping footfalls of a gang of giant rabid bananas coming down our street. Dracula jumps up in excited fury and starts barking.

“What exactly do you expect to happen if I let you out there?” I ask him. 

“I will stop them. I will not let them hunt another night.” he says. 

“Drac, they will eat you. One of them could probably eat you by itself. They’re big enough to be on the varsity basketball team, and you’re what 3 feet and 1 inch when you’re standing on your hind legs. Plus we don’t know how many of them are out there, and there’s only one of you.” I tell him. 

“So you’re saying you don’t got my back? You watch this damn movie every Christmas, which is all about the importance of friendship, and you don’t have my back in a fight against some lousy overgrown fruit?” 

This gets me a little mad, Drac lecturing me about the moral message in It’s A Wonderful Life. 

“Drac, friendship does not mean blindly following someone you care about on a suicide mission, that is not the point of It’s A Wonderful Life.” 

“Clarence jumps off the bridge to save George Bailey.” He says. 

“Clarence is an angel! He knows that the freezing water in the river isn’t going to hurt him!” 

“George Bailey always puts other people first, not just his friends, but his community, he saves Bedford Falls from becoming Pottersville. Now is our chance to save Marston from becoming bananaville.” Dracula insists. 

“That sounds like a second-rate rip off of a Jimmy Buffett song, but it might actually be an improvement on this hell hole.” I take a sip of my heavily spiked eggnog. 

“This is our home. It might be sort of crappy, but it’s ours. We have to protect it. Those banana freaks have already killed people, and they’re out their looking for more people to eat.” 

I think about the banana’s victims: Mitch, who had gotten increasingly skeezy over the years, but was the first boy I ever let get to second base; Laura-Beth, mother of 2 of the brattiest kids to ever pass through the Firehouse Grill where I waited tables, who would most likely just get brattier now that they didn’t have a mom; Terry, the town bum who always called me sweet chick-a-dee every time I gave him leftovers from the restaurant, and slept under the bridge over Sycamore Creek; Fuzzy, the Thompson’s cat. 

Cousins-led New York quartet covers a lot of ground cohesively

If more than 2 people read my blog, this would make me a taste maker. 

The more I feel connected to the physical world, the less I feel connected to other people. This may seem like a paradox, since people are technically part of the physical world, but the thing about people is that it is impossible to fully grasp who they are by simply touching them, tasting them, looking at them, or even listening to them, because a person exists on a spiritual and mental plane that is almost totally inaccessible to other people. Each individual person lives in their own micro-universe, making even a city of 8.2 million people a lonely place.  When I ride my bike, especially at night, I feel connected to that brilliant machine, and to the pavement, and the air, and it is exhilarating to sense how I am only one small part of an intricate world. I feel that way when I drink coffee too, and smoke cigarettes, and touch the leaves of trees early in the morning, and when I read a really good book.  But with other people I often find it difficult to communicate in any real way, I feel invisible, I feel alone. 

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Posting ID: 3895345556      Posted: 2013-06-25, 10:08PM EDT

Response A: Bonjour, Sounds good! I like your spirituality but don't forget one thing, we are all connected. NYC Classy Frenchman, 6'1, athletic, fun, well traveled,outgoing and was told to be attractive. Parlez-vous Francais? :) Talk to you soon.

Response B: Hello, Saw your post and there are others that feel the same as yourself...More conneceted we are more alone I feel....

Response C: Yes, tonight I am feeling so lonely that I was considering contacting a former love in my life.  Yes, her name was Sara.  Instead, I decided to give CL a try.  A lot less dangerous, HAHA.

BTW, I'm a guy.  The email was a desperate attempt at grabbing on to the past.

Response D: They call my name too. Keep looking up at them. Try to figure out a way to get closer to them. Help to answer the ultimate question. Get closer to our ultimate dream. I feel the same as you, and am starting to give up trying to figure out people. I'd rather try to figure out how to touch the stars.

Response E: the stars tell me to do evil things :/ they are evil!!!  lol 

Response F: You are made of star dust, that's why. 

Response G: Hi  my name is ---,  Im offering  a great full body rub at no cost.   I come to you so you can enjoy the sensual pleasure in the comfortable atmosphere of your own home....  I have body lotions and oils that will sooth you into complete enjoyment..  A session usually lasts from 1 to 2 hours  and theres never any rushing..   you've probably thought about getting a nice relaxing massage.  Why not give it a try.  You'll  be glad you did.    The massage is very erotic with an oral release  that will leave you relaxed and satisfied ....  email me for details or to make an appt......

Response H: Fear not darling. You are certainly not alone. You are just a highly functioning and highly intelligent individual. It's the gift and the curse. I struggled with depression and all sorts of other things most of my life. I reached a point somewhere along the journey where I came to terms with everything. Life truly is all about perspective. I know rich people who are sad and I know poor people who are happy. There is no method to the madness which is why you must create your own existence and become master of your own universe. I don't want to ramble on too much but I believe your problem stems from the fact that most of the time you're the smartest person in the room. Steel sharpens steel and you need to surround yourself with people who are more intelligent than you. People that will challenge you to think and observe and evolve. I'd love to hear more about you and exchange ideas. Write me back if you're interested in talking.

Response I: Good evening, its a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering if you were still available to chat? I'm ---. I'm very friendly, easy going and respectful. I enjoy reading, traveling, staying healthy, film, music, going to sporting events, museums, restaurants and spending time with friends and family. It would be nice to meet someone new and enjoy each other's company. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Hope you are enjoying the beginning of summer.

Response J: I hear your words echoing my daily internal diary. I currently live alone and when I lived with my family I was alone as well. It has always seemed to me that people are repositories of ever changing thoughts and emotions am I avoided them for that very fickle and useless characteristic. I ride at night on country roads am I feel apart of the meadows, of the drifting fog, of the hungry rabbits' hallows. I am at home in the woods, on the empty road, underneath the blue ocean with sparkling sand above. I do not hear a human voice intruding on my mesmerized communique with the teaming wood and creatures inside. You are not alone in this empty, earthly stadium. The voices of people chattering are more irritating than the Mosquitos biting my skin. You are not alone with this affinity of things we love and that loves and accepts us without human condition

Response K: You seem to have divorced people the world you feel so tuned into.

Response L: Being a separate little entity all to yourself, and a humming cog in the great machine that is New York.  Especially riding around the city at night...something about the emptier streets, the movement, but still the everpresent buzz of life here.

We differ only in that I don't feel invisible...I feel lonely and alone, but can connect to others -- when I find them.  It's finding them that's so hard.

Response M: I think connection with people comes with time. You have to go deeper than the outer shell of skin color, face and go down to the soul to see the real person and that takes time. 

Response N: Hello I'm black and white 21 and I think we are looking for the same thing I'm 21 live alone and I enjoy conversations that start randomly..I like to make people feel a lil uncomfortable not to much but just to take off the edge.and break the ice..uhm I like long walks I'm a cook on wall st..and I don't know what I want but I wood like to start by having new cool friends to just hang out with and be myself no pressure. I'm new to this and font know if its real.. I'm sure we can click thought I'm well rounded I like to think.

Response O: why do you feel alone. everything has a soul. The everyday distraction of the human world makes us miss the truth of who we really are. You may feel alone now but im sure there is another out in life dyeing to connect. 

Response P: The definition of insane is, one who acts out the same behavior over and over again expecting different results  To live a life where one obliviously knows one isn't alone is, insane.  Don't ever feel alone... One doesn't need to feel or care about others to know they exist.  Not sure what else to write here but you seem smart and you seem like you could use a talk or a write... Message me back or text me ----

Response Q: I can relate. I often have that feeling and yet I continue to wish for the connection to another person. I sometimes worry its because I'm too self-absorbed, narcissistic, an only child....I don't know but I often feel more if a connection to the wind, the night sky, the leaves than others. Want to see if we can connect? Call it an experiment. I liked your post...found it beautiful btw. To put my cards on the table and not lead you on...I'm married, I'm 43, I'm Caucasian, and I would consider myself an intelligent, artsy, neurotic.

Response R: The inhabitants of this physical world is merely an illusion created by the effect of evolution.  Touching them, tasting them, looking at them, are all just mere figments of our imagination. Now nature, becoming one with the world in it's very essence - its an addiction I refuse to seek help for - for peace, happiness and love, lies within us - through the very foundation of the wind, water, trees, the air, etc - and even if this was a figment of my imagination, it's an illusion that I seek no end too - for this is my reality.  

Response S: The stars are within us, as all the heavier elements of the body came from the fiery cores of the stars eons ago, and the sea is in our blood. We are matter made conscious of itself. Yet there is the world of the physical universe and there is the world of people. From a distance, humanity is but a nebula of stars; up close, each person a microcosm insular like an island, inaccessible not only to others but also to the self not knowing what to look for. But there are always moments of grace like rhapsodic beams of light, leaving us awestruck, spellbound, transcended, at home with the spiritual, the holy, the numinous. 

Today my neighbors from the house next to my building invited people over for a BBQ party. There is music with dance beats, laughter in the yard of swaying leaves (and one squirrel in the branches inviting itself to the festivity), food, and happiness. I wish I knew my neighbors or that I could introduce myself to them, if just to defy the reality of people living for years in the city without ever speaking to their neighbors. We are alone, even in the presence of people, anonymity brought on by the multitude. But it doesn't have to be that way. To know people is to enlarge our being, to expand our consciousness and self-knowledge. Each instance holds the seed to epiphany, and if we allow ourselves to be fiercely open to whatever unfolds, saying yes to the instance, then to the next, and to the one after that, a complete simplicity "costing not less than everything," then we may just be able to radiate as the stars.

You write eloquently, with profound truth.  

Response T: Of course they call your name, stars, life or anything all around us is a creation just as we are, and as humans we like or appreciate those who like us/ respect us. So in other words, your appreciation towards life all around has a mutual respect/love/ understanding. So yeah they're stairing and calling and I'm sure if they can be heard clearly and loudly they simply show there appreciation by saying..."hey!" That's just a mocking word said and abused randomly by people in everyday life ... The fact knowing your surrounding likes or appreciates you is something better than nothing. A tree can't act stuck up only stubborn, the ocean can swing both ways depending on convo, everything has its cork ( if I used the word rite) in other words I know how loneliness feels, and it sucks. Its not easy finding someone who know how to appreciate life or themselves let alone know how to appreciate others.

Response U: Your not alone sister. I've been studying buddhism for a few years now. Early last year I had my moment. Pure awareness, no self-interconnectivity. I was on a spiritual high for weeks. However with this insight came something very unsettling. The love I had for my friends and family somehow changed over night. It left me somewhat depressed as I couldn't pinpoint why. It took me a couple of days of contemplation to realize I was feeling my mammalian attachment to those people fade. What was left was a love that was non bias and universal. I had no parents, friends and siblings as I knew them. All those were relative labels. They were overnight reduced to convention. Don't get me wrong I still love them unconditionally. I'm just more aware of love as a whole now. This was very new to me at the time and I still have trouble coping day in and out with the regulating and understanding of these emotions. The path isn't an easy one.

I find the whole life thing amazingly funny. Plop and there we are. No guide book. Just "go figure it out" lucky for us we came to being on a planet with numerous beings before us that can educate us. A plethora of great thinkers, mystics, yogins etc. and of course the occasional running into old souls, even on craigslist lol. It brings me joy to know someone is on the path with me and maybe just as confused lol.

I'm less lonely today for it. I'm 27, male and open to exchange. Feel free, I'm alive too : )

Sleeping passengers will be awoken and ticketed, 

arrested in cases of extreme restfulness.

Subway comas will be punished by death.

This is the city that never sleeps,

never rests, 

never stops.

There is talk in the legislature of making sleep altogether illegal,

then there will be midnight raids of apartment houses

with little more probable cause than an unlit window, 

and at that point everyone will have to leave the lights on

I am electrified, and my heart feels like it's about to explode out of my chest like a firework

with blood spraying out in streams across the subway car.

I can feel the sparks crackling behind my eyes. 

I want to pour my thoughts into you like a pitcher, 

Lunchbox at Big Snow Buffalo Lodge 2/1/2013

Lunchbox define themselves as shit punk. A shit punk band from Brooklyn, New York. The band is comprised of two guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and a singer/front man. The most pressing issue with Lunchbox is one of their guitarists, the shorter one with longish hair (I don't know any of their names), it's not his playing, his playing is great. It's that he looks like he lives on cigarettes alone. I've seen him around at other shows at Big Snow and he chain smokes constantly, he has a deathlike pallor, and dark circles under his eyes. I'm sincerely concerned about his health. I'm worried that he's malnourished or something. I feel like I should offer to cook him a healthy meal... or maybe just give him a box of Nicorette gum and a bottle of vitamins. 

Lunchbox is a band for people who already like punk, if you don't like punk they're probably not going to convert you, because although they do what they do well, they're not doing anything new or different. A friend of mine who went to the show with me described the singer's voice as "flawless," he does have a solid rock n' roll voice.  I was just distracted by how moist he was. I'm assuming the droplets of liquid around his mouth were from the can of beer that he had in his hand and sipped from periodically throughout the entire set. I guess the wetness on his forehead and his hair was sweat, but that's shocking to me because it was quite cold in their and Big Snow doesn't have very strong stage lights. Before one of their songs he burped into the microphone, which I found repulsive, but others may have found funny or amusing. 

Bueno at Cake Shop 1/30/2013

Bueno, formerly known as In Buenos Aires, is a band from Staten Island. The fact that they're from Staten Island is noteworthy because I don't know of any other bands from that particular burrough, so they sort of make me question everything (I think) I know about the New York City indie music scene. Are there actually a lot of awesome bands in Staten Island that I don't know about because I never go to Staten Island? Is there in fact a Staten Island music scene that is weirder and more interesting than any that I've found in Brooklyn or Manhattan? My mind reels at the possibilities (especially since everytime I've been to Staten Island it's seemed pretty boring/crappy). I ask myself these questions because Bueno is good, very good. I don't like to compare bands to other bands, but in this case the comparison has to be made-- Bueno sounds sort of like Talking Heads, except noisier.

The guys in Bueno all have pretty unusual last names, which almost makes me question if the names on their bandcamp page are actually their real names (let us not forget that unfortunate incident with Hani Zahra), but these are just too strange for anyone to have made up: Luke Chiaruttini-vocals, synth, and guitar; AJ Pantaleo- drums; Mike Dibenedetto-guitar; Imburgio (first name unknown)- bass; Gagliardi (first name unknown)- saxophone. OK actually, no, I really have to call bullshit here, those can't be their real names. 

Chiaruttini doesn't really sing the lyrics to his songs, he just sort of speaks them to the rhythm of the music (which is one of the main reasons that Bueno bears such a striking resemblence to Talking Heads). As I've mentioned in previous posts, this is a technique that is way over used among NYC bands, but Chiaruttini does it so well, and his voice is so distinct, that he manages to sound unique. Last night at Cake Shop Chiaruttini wore a red baseball cap (which I believe he also wore the first time I saw them play a couple months back), a black leather motorcycle jacket, and a white staten island t-shirt tucked into blue jeans, accentuating his skinny frame. His choice of clothing is so nerdy and outdated that it's endearing. He's fucking adorable. Gagliardi on saxophone is largely responsible for Bueno's noise components, he adds extra flavor to what would otherwise be a fairly standard rock foursome. AJ Pantaleo, Mike Dibenedetto, and Imburgio are all extremely tight, they carry the rhythm in Bueno's songs, creating a sound that is both sophisticated and hypnotic. Bueno is only subtly different from many other bands, but those subtleties take them a long way and create an interesting dirty sexy sound. 

But why did they go from In Buenos Aires to Bueno? Many bands go through multiple names in the beginning, Electric Six was once called The Wildbunch, Nirvana started out as Pen Cap Chew, and even The Beatles changed their name from Johnny and the Moondogs. It can take a while to find a name that's the perfect fit. While In Buenos Aires may not have been the perfect name for this band, I think Bueno is worse. On one hand it's more minimalist, one word names seem to work for a lot of bands, perhaps because they're easier for people to remember, but on the other hand it doesn't adequately prepare you for the way they sound, and as Chiaruttini said at their show last night, it's un-googleable. What do they want to do, die in indie rock obscurity? That's pretentious as hell. 

Check out Bueno/In Buenos Aires on one of their bandcamp or facebook pages:

https://www.facebook.com/buenonyc

http://bueno.bandcamp.com/

http://inbuenosaires.bandcamp.com/

Iceage at Home Sweet Home 1/26/2013 (Continued)

I love punk music, but I hate mosh pits. I understand the urge to mosh, we all have anger and aggression, and I can understand the urge to get that out by slamming into other people while loud music plays, but I hate mosh pits because I'm too small to defend myself in one. 

Home Sweet Home is a small venue, and it's probably at capacity. We're crammed in around the stage like commuters on the L train at rush hour (or at midnight). For the first few songs people are relatively civil, I'm pretty sure this is because of Iceage's personal photographer, who's set up next to me at the peak corner of the stage. He's a huge burly fellow, with a bushy grey beard, he looks like he would be better suited for a career as a fisherman or a lumberjack than a photographer-- but then again maybe not, you gotta be able to hold your own if you're going to stand in the crowd at punk shows night after night. This guy holds his own and then some, there's no way anyone is going to fuck with him, he's probably the biggest person in the room, if not in actual size than in attitude. 

Disappointingly Iceage's live performance does not live up to their album New Brigade, maybe we can blame it on the sound equipment, maybe they're not having the best night, or maybe the new songs just aren't as good-- but the Pitchfork review of their album stated that what really sets Iceage apart is their energy, and they do have that, maybe even enough to make up for what they lost. The lead singer is Elias Bender Ronnenfelt, a pretty boy who has managed to affect a punk attitude-- his performance style is all affectation, in my opinion he's trying too hard to emulate Mick Jagger. He knocks the iPhone out of some guy's hand with his guitar when he tries to take a picture of him, I find this absurdly funny.  To me the most interesting member of the band is the guitarist Johan Surrballe Wieth, he has sickly circles under his eyes, and in one of the band's press photos he glares, his fists clenched tightly, like he's really angry about becoming famous. He plays most of the show facing the drummer instead of the audience, typical of someone with stage fright. The drummer Dan Kjaer Nielsen and the bass player Jakob Tvilling Pless are both adorable (let's face it Iceage is practically a boy band) and they hold their own as the rhythm section, but behind Elias they go unnoticed, blending into the background.

There's a turning point, I don't know what it is, the crowd just starts to get more into the music, like the band has infected us with their adrenaline. Then the moshing really begins. At first it's not so bad, like being tossed around by waves in the ocean, but it escalates, gets more intense, more violent. I somehow get stuck in the middle, and there's no way out, it's impossible to push out of it, there are too many people, too tightly wedged together. I get pushed forward and fall down onto the stage, I pick myself up, but I'm disoriented and I quickly fall down again. I fall on broken glass, and because of the mass moshing above me I can't get up again. I think for a second that people occasionally die this way, I think for a second that I will die this way-- but a hand reaches out and pulls me up (I would have thanked you, but I did not see your face)-- I live to fight another day.